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1,232 | false | sparknotes | all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/05.txt | finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Prince/section_2_part_1.txt | The Prince.chapter v | chapter v | null | {"name": "Chapter V", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210303115306/https://www.sparknotes.com/philosophy/prince/section3/", "summary": "How to Govern Cities and Principalities That, Prior to Being Occupied, Lived Under Their Own Laws Machiavelli describes three ways to hold states that have been accustomed to living freely under their own laws. The first is to devastate them. The second is for the conqueror to occupy them. The third is to allow the state to maintain its own laws, but to charge taxes and establish an oligarchy to keep the state friendly. The third option is advantageous because the newly imposed oligarchy will work hard to secure the authority of the conquering prince within the conquered state because it owes its existence to the prince and cannot survive without his support. Thus, as long as the goal is not to devastate the other state, it is easiest to rule it through the use of its own citizens. Complete destruction is the most certain way of securing a state that has been free in the past. A prince who does not take this route places himself in a position to be destroyed himself. No matter how long it has been since the state was acquired, rebellions will always revive the legacy of ancient institutions and notions of former liberty, even if the state has benefited from the prince's rule. This sense of tradition will unify the people against the prince. On the other hand, cities or provinces that are accustomed to being ruled by a prince are easy to take over once the ruling family has been destroyed. People in such states are accustomed to obedience and do not know how to live in freedom without having someone to rule over them. Therefore, the new prince can win the province and hold onto it more easily. In republics , sentiments of hatred and revenge against the conquering prince will run strong. The memories of ancient liberty never die, so a prince will be better off destroying the republic or personally occupying the conquered state", "analysis": ""} | Whenever those states which have been acquired as stated have been
accustomed to live under their own laws and in freedom, there are three
courses for those who wish to hold them: the first is to ruin them, the
next is to reside there in person, the third is to permit them to live
under their own laws, drawing a tribute, and establishing within it an
oligarchy which will keep it friendly to you. Because such a government,
being created by the prince, knows that it cannot stand without
his friendship and interest, and does it utmost to support him; and
therefore he who would keep a city accustomed to freedom will hold it
more easily by the means of its own citizens than in any other way.
There are, for example, the Spartans and the Romans. The Spartans held
Athens and Thebes, establishing there an oligarchy; nevertheless they
lost them. The Romans, in order to hold Capua, Carthage, and Numantia,
dismantled them, and did not lose them. They wished to hold Greece as
the Spartans held it, making it free and permitting its laws, and did
not succeed. So to hold it they were compelled to dismantle many
cities in the country, for in truth there is no safe way to retain them
otherwise than by ruining them. And he who becomes master of a city
accustomed to freedom and does not destroy it, may expect to be
destroyed by it, for in rebellion it has always the watchword of liberty
and its ancient privileges as a rallying point, which neither time
nor benefits will ever cause it to forget. And whatever you may do or
provide against, they never forget that name or their privileges unless
they are disunited or dispersed, but at every chance they immediately
rally to them, as Pisa after the hundred years she had been held in
bondage by the Florentines.
But when cities or countries are accustomed to live under a prince, and
his family is exterminated, they, being on the one hand accustomed to
obey and on the other hand not having the old prince, cannot agree in
making one from amongst themselves, and they do not know how to govern
themselves. For this reason they are very slow to take up arms, and a
prince can gain them to himself and secure them much more easily. But
in republics there is more vitality, greater hatred, and more desire
for vengeance, which will never permit them to allow the memory of their
former liberty to rest; so that the safest way is to destroy them or to
reside there.
| 402 | Chapter V | https://web.archive.org/web/20210303115306/https://www.sparknotes.com/philosophy/prince/section3/ | How to Govern Cities and Principalities That, Prior to Being Occupied, Lived Under Their Own Laws Machiavelli describes three ways to hold states that have been accustomed to living freely under their own laws. The first is to devastate them. The second is for the conqueror to occupy them. The third is to allow the state to maintain its own laws, but to charge taxes and establish an oligarchy to keep the state friendly. The third option is advantageous because the newly imposed oligarchy will work hard to secure the authority of the conquering prince within the conquered state because it owes its existence to the prince and cannot survive without his support. Thus, as long as the goal is not to devastate the other state, it is easiest to rule it through the use of its own citizens. Complete destruction is the most certain way of securing a state that has been free in the past. A prince who does not take this route places himself in a position to be destroyed himself. No matter how long it has been since the state was acquired, rebellions will always revive the legacy of ancient institutions and notions of former liberty, even if the state has benefited from the prince's rule. This sense of tradition will unify the people against the prince. On the other hand, cities or provinces that are accustomed to being ruled by a prince are easy to take over once the ruling family has been destroyed. People in such states are accustomed to obedience and do not know how to live in freedom without having someone to rule over them. Therefore, the new prince can win the province and hold onto it more easily. In republics , sentiments of hatred and revenge against the conquering prince will run strong. The memories of ancient liberty never die, so a prince will be better off destroying the republic or personally occupying the conquered state | null | 325 | 1 | [
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5,658 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/26.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Lord Jim/section_25_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapter 26 | chapter 26 | null | {"name": "Chapter 26", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim35.asp", "summary": "Doramin is an impressive character with proud, intent eyes. He is also a fat man who is unable to walk alone. Two men are required to assist him when he wants to raise or lower himself. His wife, on the other hand, is a thin, delicate woman who fusses over her husband. She serves as his adviser. Their only son, Dain Waris, is twenty-five, and Doramin wants to insure a safe place for him after his death. Dain Waris becomes Jim's best friend, and the two respect each other greatly. Doramin sought Jim's help in fighting Raja Allang and Sherif Ali. Jim accepted the challenge, and establishing peace on the island became his purpose for existence. He knew that he would have to do something dramatic in order to beat the enemy and suggested openly attacking Sherif Ali. Dain Waris was the first to accept Jim's plan; soon all of Doramin's people became his allies, offering assistance.", "analysis": "Notes Doramin and his family are developed in this chapter. Dain Waris, who later becomes a key figure in the novel, is introduced for the first time. Conrad is careful to explain that Dain Waris and Jim are best friends. In fact, Dain Waris is the first to side with Jim on his plan to attach Sherif Ali and he also saves Jim's life. This chapter gives hints of the impending tragedy that is to occur later in the novel. Conrad emphasizes Doramin's two pistols, which Stein had given him. These pistols will be used to kill Jim. Conrad also emphasizes the close relationship between Doramin and his son Dain Waris. It is because of his son that Doramin wants Jim to help in making Patusan a peaceful island. When Dain Waris is killed, Conrad has prepared the reader for the chief turning against Jim. In his description of Jim's swift rise to the top of the Malay society, Conrad shows his ethnocentrism. Jim's whiteness is often emphasized in his description. He is the great white hope of European fantasy. The people are chaotic and warring before he arrives and upon his arrival, they become peaceful and orderly. Since Britain was still heavily invested in imperialism at the time Conrad wrote, he made imperialism, with its basis in white supremacy, seem altruistic."} |
'Doramin was one of the most remarkable men of his race I had ever seen.
His bulk for a Malay was immense, but he did not look merely fat; he
looked imposing, monumental. This motionless body, clad in rich stuffs,
coloured silks, gold embroideries; this huge head, enfolded in a
red-and-gold headkerchief; the flat, big, round face, wrinkled,
furrowed, with two semicircular heavy folds starting on each side of
wide, fierce nostrils, and enclosing a thick-lipped mouth; the throat
like a bull; the vast corrugated brow overhanging the staring proud
eyes--made a whole that, once seen, can never be forgotten. His
impassive repose (he seldom stirred a limb when once he sat down) was
like a display of dignity. He was never known to raise his voice. It
was a hoarse and powerful murmur, slightly veiled as if heard from a
distance. When he walked, two short, sturdy young fellows, naked to the
waist, in white sarongs and with black skull-caps on the backs of their
heads, sustained his elbows; they would ease him down and stand behind
his chair till he wanted to rise, when he would turn his head slowly,
as if with difficulty, to the right and to the left, and then they would
catch him under his armpits and help him up. For all that, there was
nothing of a cripple about him: on the contrary, all his ponderous
movements were like manifestations of a mighty deliberate force. It
was generally believed he consulted his wife as to public affairs; but
nobody, as far as I know, had ever heard them exchange a single word.
When they sat in state by the wide opening it was in silence. They could
see below them in the declining light the vast expanse of the forest
country, a dark sleeping sea of sombre green undulating as far as the
violet and purple range of mountains; the shining sinuosity of the river
like an immense letter S of beaten silver; the brown ribbon of houses
following the sweep of both banks, overtopped by the twin hills uprising
above the nearer tree-tops. They were wonderfully contrasted: she,
light, delicate, spare, quick, a little witch-like, with a touch of
motherly fussiness in her repose; he, facing her, immense and heavy,
like a figure of a man roughly fashioned of stone, with something
magnanimous and ruthless in his immobility. The son of these old people
was a most distinguished youth.
'They had him late in life. Perhaps he was not really so young as he
looked. Four- or five-and-twenty is not so young when a man is already
father of a family at eighteen. When he entered the large room, lined
and carpeted with fine mats, and with a high ceiling of white sheeting,
where the couple sat in state surrounded by a most deferential retinue,
he would make his way straight to Doramin, to kiss his hand--which the
other abandoned to him, majestically--and then would step across to
stand by his mother's chair. I suppose I may say they idolised him, but
I never caught them giving him an overt glance. Those, it is true, were
public functions. The room was generally thronged. The solemn formality
of greetings and leave-takings, the profound respect expressed in
gestures, on the faces, in the low whispers, is simply indescribable.
"It's well worth seeing," Jim had assured me while we were crossing the
river, on our way back. "They are like people in a book, aren't they?"
he said triumphantly. "And Dain Waris--their son--is the best
friend (barring you) I ever had. What Mr. Stein would call a good
'war-comrade.' I was in luck. Jove! I was in luck when I tumbled amongst
them at my last gasp." He meditated with bowed head, then rousing
himself he added--'"Of course I didn't go to sleep over it, but . . ."
He paused again. "It seemed to come to me," he murmured. "All at once I
saw what I had to do . . ."
'There was no doubt that it had come to him; and it had come through
war, too, as is natural, since this power that came to him was the power
to make peace. It is in this sense alone that might so often is right.
You must not think he had seen his way at once. When he arrived the
Bugis community was in a most critical position. "They were all afraid,"
he said to me--"each man afraid for himself; while I could see as plain
as possible that they must do something at once, if they did not want
to go under one after another, what between the Rajah and that vagabond
Sherif." But to see that was nothing. When he got his idea he had
to drive it into reluctant minds, through the bulwarks of fear, of
selfishness. He drove it in at last. And that was nothing. He had to
devise the means. He devised them--an audacious plan; and his task
was only half done. He had to inspire with his own confidence a lot
of people who had hidden and absurd reasons to hang back; he had to
conciliate imbecile jealousies, and argue away all sorts of senseless
mistrusts. Without the weight of Doramin's authority, and his son's
fiery enthusiasm, he would have failed. Dain Waris, the distinguished
youth, was the first to believe in him; theirs was one of those strange,
profound, rare friendships between brown and white, in which the very
difference of race seems to draw two human beings closer by some mystic
element of sympathy. Of Dain Waris, his own people said with pride that
he knew how to fight like a white man. This was true; he had that
sort of courage--the courage in the open, I may say--but he had also a
European mind. You meet them sometimes like that, and are surprised to
discover unexpectedly a familiar turn of thought, an unobscured vision,
a tenacity of purpose, a touch of altruism. Of small stature, but
admirably well proportioned, Dain Waris had a proud carriage, a
polished, easy bearing, a temperament like a clear flame. His dusky
face, with big black eyes, was in action expressive, and in repose
thoughtful. He was of a silent disposition; a firm glance, an ironic
smile, a courteous deliberation of manner seemed to hint at great
reserves of intelligence and power. Such beings open to the Western eye,
so often concerned with mere surfaces, the hidden possibilities of races
and lands over which hangs the mystery of unrecorded ages. He not only
trusted Jim, he understood him, I firmly believe. I speak of him because
he had captivated me. His--if I may say so--his caustic placidity,
and, at the same time, his intelligent sympathy with Jim's aspirations,
appealed to me. I seemed to behold the very origin of friendship. If
Jim took the lead, the other had captivated his leader. In fact, Jim
the leader was a captive in every sense. The land, the people, the
friendship, the love, were like the jealous guardians of his body.
Every day added a link to the fetters of that strange freedom. I felt
convinced of it, as from day to day I learned more of the story.
'The story! Haven't I heard the story? I've heard it on the march, in
camp (he made me scour the country after invisible game); I've listened
to a good part of it on one of the twin summits, after climbing the last
hundred feet or so on my hands and knees. Our escort (we had volunteer
followers from village to village) had camped meantime on a bit of level
ground half-way up the slope, and in the still breathless evening the
smell of wood-smoke reached our nostrils from below with the penetrating
delicacy of some choice scent. Voices also ascended, wonderful in their
distinct and immaterial clearness. Jim sat on the trunk of a felled
tree, and pulling out his pipe began to smoke. A new growth of grass and
bushes was springing up; there were traces of an earthwork under a mass
of thorny twigs. "It all started from here," he said, after a long and
meditative silence. On the other hill, two hundred yards across a sombre
precipice, I saw a line of high blackened stakes, showing here and there
ruinously--the remnants of Sherif Ali's impregnable camp.
'But it had been taken, though. That had been his idea. He had
mounted Doramin's old ordnance on the top of that hill; two rusty iron
7-pounders, a lot of small brass cannon--currency cannon. But if the
brass guns represent wealth, they can also, when crammed recklessly to
the muzzle, send a solid shot to some little distance. The thing was
to get them up there. He showed me where he had fastened the cables,
explained how he had improvised a rude capstan out of a hollowed log
turning upon a pointed stake, indicated with the bowl of his pipe the
outline of the earthwork. The last hundred feet of the ascent had been
the most difficult. He had made himself responsible for success on his
own head. He had induced the war party to work hard all night. Big
fires lighted at intervals blazed all down the slope, "but up here," he
explained, "the hoisting gang had to fly around in the dark." From the
top he saw men moving on the hillside like ants at work. He himself on
that night had kept on rushing down and climbing up like a squirrel,
directing, encouraging, watching all along the line. Old Doramin had
himself carried up the hill in his arm-chair. They put him down on the
level place upon the slope, and he sat there in the light of one of the
big fires--"amazing old chap--real old chieftain," said Jim, "with his
little fierce eyes--a pair of immense flintlock pistols on his knees.
Magnificent things, ebony, silver-mounted, with beautiful locks and
a calibre like an old blunderbuss. A present from Stein, it seems--in
exchange for that ring, you know. Used to belong to good old McNeil. God
only knows how _he_ came by them. There he sat, moving neither hand nor
foot, a flame of dry brushwood behind him, and lots of people rushing
about, shouting and pulling round him--the most solemn, imposing old
chap you can imagine. He wouldn't have had much chance if Sherif Ali had
let his infernal crew loose at us and stampeded my lot. Eh? Anyhow, he
had come up there to die if anything went wrong. No mistake! Jove! It
thrilled me to see him there--like a rock. But the Sherif must have
thought us mad, and never troubled to come and see how we got on. Nobody
believed it could be done. Why! I think the very chaps who pulled and
shoved and sweated over it did not believe it could be done! Upon my
word I don't think they did. . . ."
'He stood erect, the smouldering brier-wood in his clutch, with a smile
on his lips and a sparkle in his boyish eyes. I sat on the stump of a
tree at his feet, and below us stretched the land, the great expanse of
the forests, sombre under the sunshine, rolling like a sea, with glints
of winding rivers, the grey spots of villages, and here and there a
clearing, like an islet of light amongst the dark waves of continuous
tree-tops. A brooding gloom lay over this vast and monotonous landscape;
the light fell on it as if into an abyss. The land devoured the
sunshine; only far off, along the coast, the empty ocean, smooth and
polished within the faint haze, seemed to rise up to the sky in a wall
of steel.
'And there I was with him, high in the sunshine on the top of that
historic hill of his. He dominated the forest, the secular gloom, the
old mankind. He was like a figure set up on a pedestal, to represent in
his persistent youth the power, and perhaps the virtues, of races that
never grow old, that have emerged from the gloom. I don't know why he
should always have appeared to me symbolic. Perhaps this is the real
cause of my interest in his fate. I don't know whether it was exactly
fair to him to remember the incident which had given a new direction to
his life, but at that very moment I remembered very distinctly. It was
like a shadow in the light.'
| 1,925 | Chapter 26 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim35.asp | Doramin is an impressive character with proud, intent eyes. He is also a fat man who is unable to walk alone. Two men are required to assist him when he wants to raise or lower himself. His wife, on the other hand, is a thin, delicate woman who fusses over her husband. She serves as his adviser. Their only son, Dain Waris, is twenty-five, and Doramin wants to insure a safe place for him after his death. Dain Waris becomes Jim's best friend, and the two respect each other greatly. Doramin sought Jim's help in fighting Raja Allang and Sherif Ali. Jim accepted the challenge, and establishing peace on the island became his purpose for existence. He knew that he would have to do something dramatic in order to beat the enemy and suggested openly attacking Sherif Ali. Dain Waris was the first to accept Jim's plan; soon all of Doramin's people became his allies, offering assistance. | Notes Doramin and his family are developed in this chapter. Dain Waris, who later becomes a key figure in the novel, is introduced for the first time. Conrad is careful to explain that Dain Waris and Jim are best friends. In fact, Dain Waris is the first to side with Jim on his plan to attach Sherif Ali and he also saves Jim's life. This chapter gives hints of the impending tragedy that is to occur later in the novel. Conrad emphasizes Doramin's two pistols, which Stein had given him. These pistols will be used to kill Jim. Conrad also emphasizes the close relationship between Doramin and his son Dain Waris. It is because of his son that Doramin wants Jim to help in making Patusan a peaceful island. When Dain Waris is killed, Conrad has prepared the reader for the chief turning against Jim. In his description of Jim's swift rise to the top of the Malay society, Conrad shows his ethnocentrism. Jim's whiteness is often emphasized in his description. He is the great white hope of European fantasy. The people are chaotic and warring before he arrives and upon his arrival, they become peaceful and orderly. Since Britain was still heavily invested in imperialism at the time Conrad wrote, he made imperialism, with its basis in white supremacy, seem altruistic. | 157 | 222 | [
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5,658 | true | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_23_to_27.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/Lord Jim/section_7_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapters 23-27 | chapters 23-27 | null | {"name": "Chapters 23-27", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-23-27", "summary": "On his way to Patusan, Jim carries a letter from Mr. Stein to Cornelius, together with a silver ring common among natives as his introduction to Doramin, Mr. Stein's \"war-comrades\" friend. Doramin gave him the ring as a parting gift and promise of eternal friendship. Stein had saved Doramin's life at one point. Now Jim keeps the ring around his neck. Set to leave, Marlow notices three books tumble out of Jim's valise: the complete Shakespeare. Marlow is struck by this choice of Jim's. He is also struck when Jim, taking the revolver Marlow has offered him, forgets the two small boxes of cartridges. Jim calls to Marlow: \"You - shall - hear - of - me\" . Marlow visits Patusan two years later, and at the mouth of the river, the elderly headman of the fisher-folk village comes to board Stein's schooner and tells Marlow about a certain \"Tuan Jim,\" the first white man he ever saw. As he goes down the river, he can see Jim going down the river for the first time, and the narrative subtly shifts to Jim's perspective: Jim is describing how he felt seeing the first houses, how the boat came onto the bank. A boat full of armed men behind him, people coming out of the gate straight at him, his revolver empty, he just stood there. He asked them what was the matter, and it stunned them. Kassim, the Rajah's counselor, announced that the Rajah wanted to see him. The Rajah kept him prisoner for three days. He was a fearful soul who hated Doramin and was deeply afraid of Jim. Jim was held by the north front of the stockade which, on his third day in Patusan, he leaped over. His leap of escape was a flying one over the mouth of a muddy creek. Traveling by foot, he reached Doramin, as the women screamed and children cried. He produced the ring. Doramin and his motherly wife were of the merchant class and were viewed with great respect and dignity. They were involved in a deep, factional fight regarding trade, since the Rajah had been pretending he was the only trader in the country. Doramin, fat, imposing, monumental, and motionless, was growing old, and the area was fraught with insecurity. The couple had had a son late in life, named Dain Waris. Dain Waris was very distinguished and about twenty-four or twenty-five. He was adored by his parents, and he would become Jim's best friend. Dain Waris understands Jim very well. Jim next describes to Marlow the extent to which he has become a legend. Like a judge, he feels a keen responsibility for the social order. Many believe he has supernatural powers. An old man from a faraway village even came to ask Jim if he should divorce his wife. A key victory in war settled his stature and respect, having concluded a quarrel with the Rajah. A stockade that had already been knocked to pieces caused the story to circulate that Jim had thrown it down with the touch of a finger. Dain Waris had saved Jim's life at that time. There had been a hot five minutes in the stockade, and then all was clear. Jim cries that it was \"Immense!\" . As a result of the battle, Tamb' Itam, a stranger to Patusan who had been detained by the Rajah, bolted from him in order to become Jim's devoted servant. He was inseparable from Jim, like a \"morose shadow\" .", "analysis": "The narrative scatters chronologically. The reader gets a brief view of Jim's success in Patusan, and we learn that Marlow visits him there. The narrative then returns to Jim's perspective, as he first learns about the opportunity Stein is giving him. The silver ring is a traditional symbol of the romantic quest, of which Jim's journey is an example: it takes him into the heart of an unknown place, where the ring will help him inherit the cultural and other ties that Stein made in those parts long ago. He has the opportunity to prove himself, while Stein plays the part of providing luck or chance. From then on, Jim is on his own. The prospect of anonymity is, for Jim, a possible freedom. He discovers that he is not so bad after all, something Marlow had sensed from the beginning. Thrown into a whirlwind of self-confusion, Jim now proves his worth. It is not certain, however, that this success will help him reconcile with his previous failure, since his personality remains obsessed with a particular, fixed aspect of the past. While people can change generally, the past cannot. Hence, the question of Jim's fate ultimately turns on how he learns to live with his past. When Marlow notes Jim's copy of Shakespeare, the scene resonates against the recent scene with Stein, who made reference to the poet's Hamlet. This detail provides a further sense of connection between the romantics, Jim and Stein, regarding the question of how one is to live. The search into literature for answers is Conrad's subtle hint, being an author himself, that his literary work endeavors to answer the complex questions of how to be and how to live. From the moment Jim arrives in Patusan, he exhibits courage. His judgment is flawless, and he makes the correct leap from his imprisonment when he needs to. This contrasts with his leap from the Patna and with his earlier failure to leap at the best time. These successful leaps in Patusan, moreover, provide the seeds of the mythmaking that envelops Jim, who comes to be known as \"Tuan Jim\" or \"Lord Jim.\" This romanticized \"Jim\" can fly. He cannot die. The story even trickles down to a faraway place where Marlow will hear that the legend has discovered a giant emerald. When Marlow once again encounters Jim, he feels the pride of a father. He is glad that Jim has successfully made use of the opportunity he received. Something of the stammering, young, ineloquent man remains, but Marlow notes: \"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\" . While Jim looks upon the land with one eye on possession, Marlow still concludes that \"all his conquests, the trust, the fame, the friendships, the love--all these things that made him master had made him captive, too\" . Marlow is coming to understand Jim very well. This understanding is reiterated: \"Jim the leader was a captive in every sense. The land, the people, the friendship, the love, were like the jealous guardians of his body. Every day added a link to the fetters of that strange freedom\" . In other words, the freedom he had sought, the freedom that comes with honor and power generally, must be held accountable to others. Binding oneself to others is constraining: you can't leap or run away. The responsibility is severe. Jim has inserted himself as a necessary and important part of the social fabric in Patusan, and, in this way, the community is not unlike that of a ship on the sea. Thus while Jim is exiled from the sea, this new oceanic wilderness is isolating in a new way. He has assumed a position not unlike the one he had held on board the Patna as first mate. In Patusan, a name that resonates with the sound of \"Patna,\" Jim is isolated even while he is in position to guide the community. An important point to keep in mind in thinking about the communities on board the Patna and in Patusan is their \"otherness\"; both sets of people for whom Jim is responsible differ considerably from the Western figures who dominate the novel. The ship had been filled with Muslim pilgrims heading for Mecca, and Patusan is filled with a community of Southeast Asian islanders. Stein, also, had been intimately involved with a Malay community. In all these cases, though Jim and Stein had been relatively isolated insofar as they were white men, the white men achieved dominance and held a high stature among the population. This white ascendancy has been critiqued as problematic in much of Conrad's work, gaining some energy from being set in \"exotic\" locations. Note that Dain Waris \"knew how to fight like a white man ... he had also a European mind\"--which, from the perspective of the speaker, suggests the superiority of the Western presence in that part of the world, as well as the superiority of a native man who is like a white man . Though colonialism was a fact of the time, critics have argued that Conrad fails to render the native characters in his work with the subtlety and generosity he affords his white characters."} |
'He did not return till next morning. He had been kept to dinner and for
the night. There never had been such a wonderful man as Mr. Stein. He
had in his pocket a letter for Cornelius ("the Johnnie who's going to
get the sack," he explained, with a momentary drop in his elation), and
he exhibited with glee a silver ring, such as natives use, worn down
very thin and showing faint traces of chasing.
'This was his introduction to an old chap called Doramin--one of the
principal men out there--a big pot--who had been Mr. Stein's friend in
that country where he had all these adventures. Mr. Stein called him
"war-comrade." War-comrade was good. Wasn't it? And didn't Mr. Stein
speak English wonderfully well? Said he had learned it in Celebes--of
all places! That was awfully funny. Was it not? He did speak with an
accent--a twang--did I notice? That chap Doramin had given him the ring.
They had exchanged presents when they parted for the last time. Sort of
promising eternal friendship. He called it fine--did I not? They had
to make a dash for dear life out of the country when that
Mohammed--Mohammed--What's-his-name had been killed. I knew the story,
of course. Seemed a beastly shame, didn't it? . . .
'He ran on like this, forgetting his plate, with a knife and fork in
hand (he had found me at tiffin), slightly flushed, and with his eyes
darkened many shades, which was with him a sign of excitement. The ring
was a sort of credential--("It's like something you read of in books,"
he threw in appreciatively)--and Doramin would do his best for him. Mr.
Stein had been the means of saving that chap's life on some occasion;
purely by accident, Mr. Stein had said, but he--Jim--had his own opinion
about that. Mr. Stein was just the man to look out for such accidents.
No matter. Accident or purpose, this would serve his turn immensely.
Hoped to goodness the jolly old beggar had not gone off the hooks
meantime. Mr. Stein could not tell. There had been no news for more
than a year; they were kicking up no end of an all-fired row amongst
themselves, and the river was closed. Jolly awkward, this; but, no fear;
he would manage to find a crack to get in.
'He impressed, almost frightened, me with his elated rattle. He was
voluble like a youngster on the eve of a long holiday with a prospect of
delightful scrapes, and such an attitude of mind in a grown man and in
this connection had in it something phenomenal, a little mad, dangerous,
unsafe. I was on the point of entreating him to take things seriously
when he dropped his knife and fork (he had begun eating, or rather
swallowing food, as it were, unconsciously), and began a search all
round his plate. The ring! The ring! Where the devil . . . Ah! Here it
was . . . He closed his big hand on it, and tried all his pockets one
after another. Jove! wouldn't do to lose the thing. He meditated gravely
over his fist. Had it? Would hang the bally affair round his neck! And
he proceeded to do this immediately, producing a string (which looked
like a bit of a cotton shoe-lace) for the purpose. There! That would do
the trick! It would be the deuce if . . . He seemed to catch sight of my
face for the first time, and it steadied him a little. I probably didn't
realise, he said with a naive gravity, how much importance he attached
to that token. It meant a friend; and it is a good thing to have a
friend. He knew something about that. He nodded at me expressively, but
before my disclaiming gesture he leaned his head on his hand and for
a while sat silent, playing thoughtfully with the bread-crumbs on the
cloth . . . "Slam the door--that was jolly well put," he cried, and
jumping up, began to pace the room, reminding me by the set of the
shoulders, the turn of his head, the headlong and uneven stride, of
that night when he had paced thus, confessing, explaining--what you
will--but, in the last instance, living--living before me, under his
own little cloud, with all his unconscious subtlety which could draw
consolation from the very source of sorrow. It was the same mood, the
same and different, like a fickle companion that to-day guiding you
on the true path, with the same eyes, the same step, the same impulse,
to-morrow will lead you hopelessly astray. His tread was assured, his
straying, darkened eyes seemed to search the room for something. One of
his footfalls somehow sounded louder than the other--the fault of his
boots probably--and gave a curious impression of an invisible halt in
his gait. One of his hands was rammed deep into his trousers' pocket,
the other waved suddenly above his head. "Slam the door!" he shouted.
"I've been waiting for that. I'll show yet . . . I'll . . . I'm ready
for any confounded thing . . . I've been dreaming of it . . . Jove! Get
out of this. Jove! This is luck at last . . . You wait. I'll . . ."
'He tossed his head fearlessly, and I confess that for the first and
last time in our acquaintance I perceived myself unexpectedly to be
thoroughly sick of him. Why these vapourings? He was stumping about
the room flourishing his arm absurdly, and now and then feeling on
his breast for the ring under his clothes. Where was the sense of such
exaltation in a man appointed to be a trading-clerk, and in a place
where there was no trade--at that? Why hurl defiance at the universe?
This was not a proper frame of mind to approach any undertaking; an
improper frame of mind not only for him, I said, but for any man. He
stood still over me. Did I think so? he asked, by no means subdued, and
with a smile in which I seemed to detect suddenly something insolent.
But then I am twenty years his senior. Youth is insolent; it is its
right--its necessity; it has got to assert itself, and all assertion in
this world of doubts is a defiance, is an insolence. He went off into a
far corner, and coming back, he, figuratively speaking, turned to rend
me. I spoke like that because I--even I, who had been no end kind
to him--even I remembered--remembered--against him--what--what had
happened. And what about others--the--the--world? Where's the wonder he
wanted to get out, meant to get out, meant to stay out--by heavens! And
I talked about proper frames of mind!
'"It is not I or the world who remember," I shouted. "It is you--you,
who remember."
'He did not flinch, and went on with heat, "Forget everything,
everybody, everybody." . . . His voice fell. . . "But you," he added.
'"Yes--me too--if it would help," I said, also in a low tone. After this
we remained silent and languid for a time as if exhausted. Then he began
again, composedly, and told me that Mr. Stein had instructed him to wait
for a month or so, to see whether it was possible for him to remain,
before he began building a new house for himself, so as to avoid
"vain expense." He did make use of funny expressions--Stein did. "Vain
expense" was good. . . . Remain? Why! of course. He would hang on. Let
him only get in--that's all; he would answer for it he would remain.
Never get out. It was easy enough to remain.
'"Don't be foolhardy," I said, rendered uneasy by his threatening tone.
"If you only live long enough you will want to come back."
'"Come back to what?" he asked absently, with his eyes fixed upon the
face of a clock on the wall.
'I was silent for a while. "Is it to be never, then?" I said. "Never,"
he repeated dreamily without looking at me, and then flew into sudden
activity. "Jove! Two o'clock, and I sail at four!"
'It was true. A brigantine of Stein's was leaving for the westward that
afternoon, and he had been instructed to take his passage in her, only
no orders to delay the sailing had been given. I suppose Stein forgot.
He made a rush to get his things while I went aboard my ship, where
he promised to call on his way to the outer roadstead. He turned up
accordingly in a great hurry and with a small leather valise in his
hand. This wouldn't do, and I offered him an old tin trunk of mine
supposed to be water-tight, or at least damp-tight. He effected the
transfer by the simple process of shooting out the contents of his
valise as you would empty a sack of wheat. I saw three books in the
tumble; two small, in dark covers, and a thick green-and-gold volume--a
half-crown complete Shakespeare. "You read this?" I asked. "Yes. Best
thing to cheer up a fellow," he said hastily. I was struck by this
appreciation, but there was no time for Shakespearian talk. A
heavy revolver and two small boxes of cartridges were lying on the
cuddy-table. "Pray take this," I said. "It may help you to remain."
No sooner were these words out of my mouth than I perceived what grim
meaning they could bear. "May help you to get in," I corrected myself
remorsefully. He however was not troubled by obscure meanings; he
thanked me effusively and bolted out, calling Good-bye over his
shoulder. I heard his voice through the ship's side urging his boatmen
to give way, and looking out of the stern-port I saw the boat rounding
under the counter. He sat in her leaning forward, exciting his men with
voice and gestures; and as he had kept the revolver in his hand and
seemed to be presenting it at their heads, I shall never forget the
scared faces of the four Javanese, and the frantic swing of their stroke
which snatched that vision from under my eyes. Then turning away, the
first thing I saw were the two boxes of cartridges on the cuddy-table.
He had forgotten to take them.
'I ordered my gig manned at once; but Jim's rowers, under the impression
that their lives hung on a thread while they had that madman in the
boat, made such excellent time that before I had traversed half the
distance between the two vessels I caught sight of him clambering over
the rail, and of his box being passed up. All the brigantine's canvas
was loose, her mainsail was set, and the windlass was just beginning to
clink as I stepped upon her deck: her master, a dapper little half-caste
of forty or so, in a blue flannel suit, with lively eyes, his round
face the colour of lemon-peel, and with a thin little black moustache
drooping on each side of his thick, dark lips, came forward smirking. He
turned out, notwithstanding his self-satisfied and cheery exterior, to
be of a careworn temperament. In answer to a remark of mine (while Jim
had gone below for a moment) he said, "Oh yes. Patusan." He was going to
carry the gentleman to the mouth of the river, but would "never ascend."
His flowing English seemed to be derived from a dictionary compiled by
a lunatic. Had Mr. Stein desired him to "ascend," he would have
"reverentially"--(I think he wanted to say respectfully--but devil only
knows)--"reverentially made objects for the safety of properties."
If disregarded, he would have presented "resignation to quit." Twelve
months ago he had made his last voyage there, and though Mr. Cornelius
"propitiated many offertories" to Mr. Rajah Allang and the "principal
populations," on conditions which made the trade "a snare and ashes
in the mouth," yet his ship had been fired upon from the woods by
"irresponsive parties" all the way down the river; which causing his
crew "from exposure to limb to remain silent in hidings," the brigantine
was nearly stranded on a sandbank at the bar, where she "would have
been perishable beyond the act of man." The angry disgust at the
recollection, the pride of his fluency, to which he turned an attentive
ear, struggled for the possession of his broad simple face. He scowled
and beamed at me, and watched with satisfaction the undeniable effect
of his phraseology. Dark frowns ran swiftly over the placid sea, and
the brigantine, with her fore-topsail to the mast and her main-boom
amidships, seemed bewildered amongst the cat's-paws. He told me further,
gnashing his teeth, that the Rajah was a "laughable hyaena" (can't
imagine how he got hold of hyaenas); while somebody else was many
times falser than the "weapons of a crocodile." Keeping one eye on the
movements of his crew forward, he let loose his volubility--comparing
the place to a "cage of beasts made ravenous by long impenitence." I
fancy he meant impunity. He had no intention, he cried, to "exhibit
himself to be made attached purposefully to robbery." The long-drawn
wails, giving the time for the pull of the men catting the anchor,
came to an end, and he lowered his voice. "Plenty too much enough of
Patusan," he concluded, with energy.
'I heard afterwards he had been so indiscreet as to get himself tied up
by the neck with a rattan halter to a post planted in the middle of a
mud-hole before the Rajah's house. He spent the best part of a day and a
whole night in that unwholesome situation, but there is every reason
to believe the thing had been meant as a sort of joke. He brooded for
a while over that horrid memory, I suppose, and then addressed in a
quarrelsome tone the man coming aft to the helm. When he turned to me
again it was to speak judicially, without passion. He would take the
gentleman to the mouth of the river at Batu Kring (Patusan town "being
situated internally," he remarked, "thirty miles"). But in his eyes,
he continued--a tone of bored, weary conviction replacing his previous
voluble delivery--the gentleman was already "in the similitude of a
corpse." "What? What do you say?" I asked. He assumed a startlingly
ferocious demeanour, and imitated to perfection the act of stabbing from
behind. "Already like the body of one deported," he explained, with the
insufferably conceited air of his kind after what they imagine a display
of cleverness. Behind him I perceived Jim smiling silently at me, and
with a raised hand checking the exclamation on my lips.
'Then, while the half-caste, bursting with importance, shouted his
orders, while the yards swung creaking and the heavy boom came surging
over, Jim and I, alone as it were, to leeward of the mainsail, clasped
each other's hands and exchanged the last hurried words. My heart was
freed from that dull resentment which had existed side by side with
interest in his fate. The absurd chatter of the half-caste had given
more reality to the miserable dangers of his path than Stein's careful
statements. On that occasion the sort of formality that had been always
present in our intercourse vanished from our speech; I believe I
called him "dear boy," and he tacked on the words "old man" to some
half-uttered expression of gratitude, as though his risk set off against
my years had made us more equal in age and in feeling. There was a
moment of real and profound intimacy, unexpected and short-lived like a
glimpse of some everlasting, of some saving truth. He exerted himself to
soothe me as though he had been the more mature of the two. "All right,
all right," he said, rapidly, and with feeling. "I promise to take care
of myself. Yes; I won't take any risks. Not a single blessed risk. Of
course not. I mean to hang out. Don't you worry. Jove! I feel as if
nothing could touch me. Why! this is luck from the word Go. I wouldn't
spoil such a magnificent chance!" . . . A magnificent chance! Well, it
_was_ magnificent, but chances are what men make them, and how was I
to know? As he had said, even I--even I remembered--his--his misfortune
against him. It was true. And the best thing for him was to go.
'My gig had dropped in the wake of the brigantine, and I saw him aft
detached upon the light of the westering sun, raising his cap high above
his head. I heard an indistinct shout, "You--shall--hear--of--me." Of
me, or from me, I don't know which. I think it must have been of me. My
eyes were too dazzled by the glitter of the sea below his feet to see
him clearly; I am fated never to see him clearly; but I can assure you
no man could have appeared less "in the similitude of a corpse," as that
half-caste croaker had put it. I could see the little wretch's face,
the shape and colour of a ripe pumpkin, poked out somewhere under Jim's
elbow. He, too, raised his arm as if for a downward thrust. Absit omen!'
'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.'
'"This is where I was prisoner for three days," he murmured to me (it
was on the occasion of our visit to the Rajah), while we were making our
way slowly through a kind of awestruck riot of dependants across Tunku
Allang's courtyard. "Filthy place, isn't it? And I couldn't get anything
to eat either, unless I made a row about it, and then it was only
a small plate of rice and a fried fish not much bigger than a
stickleback--confound them! Jove! I've been hungry prowling inside this
stinking enclosure with some of these vagabonds shoving their mugs right
under my nose. I had given up that famous revolver of yours at the first
demand. Glad to get rid of the bally thing. Look like a fool walking
about with an empty shooting-iron in my hand." At that moment we came
into the presence, and he became unflinchingly grave and complimentary
with his late captor. Oh! magnificent! I want to laugh when I think of
it. But I was impressed, too. The old disreputable Tunku Allang could
not help showing his fear (he was no hero, for all the tales of his hot
youth he was fond of telling); and at the same time there was a wistful
confidence in his manner towards his late prisoner. Note! Even where he
would be most hated he was still trusted. Jim--as far as I could follow
the conversation--was improving the occasion by the delivery of a
lecture. Some poor villagers had been waylaid and robbed while on their
way to Doramin's house with a few pieces of gum or beeswax which they
wished to exchange for rice. "It was Doramin who was a thief," burst
out the Rajah. A shaking fury seemed to enter that old frail body.
He writhed weirdly on his mat, gesticulating with his hands and feet,
tossing the tangled strings of his mop--an impotent incarnation of rage.
There were staring eyes and dropping jaws all around us. Jim began to
speak. Resolutely, coolly, and for some time he enlarged upon the text
that no man should be prevented from getting his food and his children's
food honestly. The other sat like a tailor at his board, one palm on
each knee, his head low, and fixing Jim through the grey hair that
fell over his very eyes. When Jim had done there was a great stillness.
Nobody seemed to breathe even; no one made a sound till the old Rajah
sighed faintly, and looking up, with a toss of his head, said quickly,
"You hear, my people! No more of these little games." This decree
was received in profound silence. A rather heavy man, evidently in a
position of confidence, with intelligent eyes, a bony, broad, very dark
face, and a cheerily of officious manner (I learned later on he was the
executioner), presented to us two cups of coffee on a brass tray, which
he took from the hands of an inferior attendant. "You needn't drink,"
muttered Jim very rapidly. I didn't perceive the meaning at first, and
only looked at him. He took a good sip and sat composedly, holding the
saucer in his left hand. In a moment I felt excessively annoyed. "Why
the devil," I whispered, smiling at him amiably, "do you expose me to
such a stupid risk?" I drank, of course, there was nothing for it, while
he gave no sign, and almost immediately afterwards we took our leave.
While we were going down the courtyard to our boat, escorted by the
intelligent and cheery executioner, Jim said he was very sorry. It was
the barest chance, of course. Personally he thought nothing of poison.
The remotest chance. He was--he assured me--considered to be infinitely
more useful than dangerous, and so . . . "But the Rajah is afraid of
you abominably. Anybody can see that," I argued with, I own, a certain
peevishness, and all the time watching anxiously for the first twist of
some sort of ghastly colic. I was awfully disgusted. "If I am to do any
good here and preserve my position," he said, taking his seat by my
side in the boat, "I must stand the risk: I take it once every month, at
least. Many people trust me to do that--for them. Afraid of me! That's
just it. Most likely he is afraid of me because I am not afraid of his
coffee." Then showing me a place on the north front of the stockade
where the pointed tops of several stakes were broken, "This is where
I leaped over on my third day in Patusan. They haven't put new stakes
there yet. Good leap, eh?" A moment later we passed the mouth of a muddy
creek. "This is my second leap. I had a bit of a run and took this one
flying, but fell short. Thought I would leave my skin there. Lost my
shoes struggling. And all the time I was thinking to myself how beastly
it would be to get a jab with a bally long spear while sticking in the
mud like this. I remember how sick I felt wriggling in that slime. I
mean really sick--as if I had bitten something rotten."
'That's how it was--and the opportunity ran by his side, leaped over the
gap, floundered in the mud . . . still veiled. The unexpectedness of his
coming was the only thing, you understand, that saved him from being at
once dispatched with krisses and flung into the river. They had him, but
it was like getting hold of an apparition, a wraith, a portent. What did
it mean? What to do with it? Was it too late to conciliate him? Hadn't
he better be killed without more delay? But what would happen then?
Wretched old Allang went nearly mad with apprehension and through the
difficulty of making up his mind. Several times the council was broken
up, and the advisers made a break helter-skelter for the door and out
on to the verandah. One--it is said--even jumped down to the
ground--fifteen feet, I should judge--and broke his leg. The royal
governor of Patusan had bizarre mannerisms, and one of them was to
introduce boastful rhapsodies into every arduous discussion, when,
getting gradually excited, he would end by flying off his perch with a
kriss in his hand. But, barring such interruptions, the deliberations
upon Jim's fate went on night and day.
'Meanwhile he wandered about the courtyard, shunned by some, glared at
by others, but watched by all, and practically at the mercy of the first
casual ragamuffin with a chopper, in there. He took possession of a
small tumble-down shed to sleep in; the effluvia of filth and rotten
matter incommoded him greatly: it seems he had not lost his appetite
though, because--he told me--he had been hungry all the blessed time.
Now and again "some fussy ass" deputed from the council-room would
come out running to him, and in honeyed tones would administer amazing
interrogatories: "Were the Dutch coming to take the country? Would the
white man like to go back down the river? What was the object of coming
to such a miserable country? The Rajah wanted to know whether the white
man could repair a watch?" They did actually bring out to him a nickel
clock of New England make, and out of sheer unbearable boredom he busied
himself in trying to get the alarum to work. It was apparently when
thus occupied in his shed that the true perception of his extreme peril
dawned upon him. He dropped the thing--he says--"like a hot potato,"
and walked out hastily, without the slightest idea of what he would,
or indeed could, do. He only knew that the position was intolerable. He
strolled aimlessly beyond a sort of ramshackle little granary on posts,
and his eyes fell on the broken stakes of the palisade; and then--he
says--at once, without any mental process as it were, without any stir
of emotion, he set about his escape as if executing a plan matured for a
month. He walked off carelessly to give himself a good run, and when he
faced about there was some dignitary, with two spearmen in attendance,
close at his elbow ready with a question. He started off "from under his
very nose," went over "like a bird," and landed on the other side with
a fall that jarred all his bones and seemed to split his head. He picked
himself up instantly. He never thought of anything at the time; all he
could remember--he said--was a great yell; the first houses of Patusan
were before him four hundred yards away; he saw the creek, and as it
were mechanically put on more pace. The earth seemed fairly to fly
backwards under his feet. He took off from the last dry spot, felt
himself flying through the air, felt himself, without any shock, planted
upright in an extremely soft and sticky mudbank. It was only when he
tried to move his legs and found he couldn't that, in his own words,
"he came to himself." He began to think of the "bally long spears." As
a matter of fact, considering that the people inside the stockade had to
run to the gate, then get down to the landing-place, get into boats,
and pull round a point of land, he had more advance than he imagined.
Besides, it being low water, the creek was without water--you couldn't
call it dry--and practically he was safe for a time from everything but
a very long shot perhaps. The higher firm ground was about six feet in
front of him. "I thought I would have to die there all the same,"
he said. He reached and grabbed desperately with his hands, and only
succeeded in gathering a horrible cold shiny heap of slime against his
breast--up to his very chin. It seemed to him he was burying himself
alive, and then he struck out madly, scattering the mud with his fists.
It fell on his head, on his face, over his eyes, into his mouth. He told
me that he remembered suddenly the courtyard, as you remember a place
where you had been very happy years ago. He longed--so he said--to be
back there again, mending the clock. Mending the clock--that was the
idea. He made efforts, tremendous sobbing, gasping efforts, efforts that
seemed to burst his eyeballs in their sockets and make him blind, and
culminating into one mighty supreme effort in the darkness to crack the
earth asunder, to throw it off his limbs--and he felt himself creeping
feebly up the bank. He lay full length on the firm ground and saw the
light, the sky. Then as a sort of happy thought the notion came to him
that he would go to sleep. He will have it that he _did_ actually go to
sleep; that he slept--perhaps for a minute, perhaps for twenty seconds,
or only for one second, but he recollects distinctly the violent
convulsive start of awakening. He remained lying still for a while, and
then he arose muddy from head to foot and stood there, thinking he
was alone of his kind for hundreds of miles, alone, with no help, no
sympathy, no pity to expect from any one, like a hunted animal. The
first houses were not more than twenty yards from him; and it was the
desperate screaming of a frightened woman trying to carry off a child
that started him again. He pelted straight on in his socks, beplastered
with filth out of all semblance to a human being. He traversed more
than half the length of the settlement. The nimbler women fled right and
left, the slower men just dropped whatever they had in their hands, and
remained petrified with dropping jaws. He was a flying terror. He says
he noticed the little children trying to run for life, falling on their
little stomachs and kicking. He swerved between two houses up a slope,
clambered in desperation over a barricade of felled trees (there wasn't
a week without some fight in Patusan at that time), burst through a
fence into a maize-patch, where a scared boy flung a stick at him,
blundered upon a path, and ran all at once into the arms of several
startled men. He just had breath enough to gasp out, "Doramin! Doramin!"
He remembers being half-carried, half-rushed to the top of the slope,
and in a vast enclosure with palms and fruit trees being run up to a
large man sitting massively in a chair in the midst of the greatest
possible commotion and excitement. He fumbled in mud and clothes to
produce the ring, and, finding himself suddenly on his back, wondered
who had knocked him down. They had simply let him go--don't you
know?--but he couldn't stand. At the foot of the slope random shots were
fired, and above the roofs of the settlement there rose a dull roar of
amazement. But he was safe. Doramin's people were barricading the gate
and pouring water down his throat; Doramin's old wife, full of business
and commiseration, was issuing shrill orders to her girls. "The old
woman," he said softly, "made a to-do over me as if I had been her own
son. They put me into an immense bed--her state bed--and she ran in
and out wiping her eyes to give me pats on the back. I must have been a
pitiful object. I just lay there like a log for I don't know how long."
'He seemed to have a great liking for Doramin's old wife. She on her
side had taken a motherly fancy to him. She had a round, nut-brown,
soft face, all fine wrinkles, large, bright red lips (she chewed
betel assiduously), and screwed up, winking, benevolent eyes. She was
constantly in movement, scolding busily and ordering unceasingly a troop
of young women with clear brown faces and big grave eyes, her daughters,
her servants, her slave-girls. You know how it is in these households:
it's generally impossible to tell the difference. She was very spare,
and even her ample outer garment, fastened in front with jewelled
clasps, had somehow a skimpy effect. Her dark bare feet were thrust into
yellow straw slippers of Chinese make. I have seen her myself flitting
about with her extremely thick, long, grey hair falling about her
shoulders. She uttered homely shrewd sayings, was of noble birth, and
was eccentric and arbitrary. In the afternoon she would sit in a very
roomy arm-chair, opposite her husband, gazing steadily through a wide
opening in the wall which gave an extensive view of the settlement and
the river.
'She invariably tucked up her feet under her, but old Doramin sat
squarely, sat imposingly as a mountain sits on a plain. He was only
of the nakhoda or merchant class, but the respect shown to him and
the dignity of his bearing were very striking. He was the chief of
the second power in Patusan. The immigrants from Celebes (about sixty
families that, with dependants and so on, could muster some two hundred
men "wearing the kriss") had elected him years ago for their head. The
men of that race are intelligent, enterprising, revengeful, but with a
more frank courage than the other Malays, and restless under oppression.
They formed the party opposed to the Rajah. Of course the quarrels were
for trade. This was the primary cause of faction fights, of the sudden
outbreaks that would fill this or that part of the settlement with
smoke, flame, the noise of shots and shrieks. Villages were burnt, men
were dragged into the Rajah's stockade to be killed or tortured for the
crime of trading with anybody else but himself. Only a day or two before
Jim's arrival several heads of households in the very fishing village
that was afterwards taken under his especial protection had been driven
over the cliffs by a party of the Rajah's spearmen, on suspicion of
having been collecting edible birds' nests for a Celebes trader. Rajah
Allang pretended to be the only trader in his country, and the penalty
for the breach of the monopoly was death; but his idea of trading was
indistinguishable from the commonest forms of robbery. His cruelty and
rapacity had no other bounds than his cowardice, and he was afraid of
the organised power of the Celebes men, only--till Jim came--he was not
afraid enough to keep quiet. He struck at them through his subjects, and
thought himself pathetically in the right. The situation was complicated
by a wandering stranger, an Arab half-breed, who, I believe, on
purely religious grounds, had incited the tribes in the interior (the
bush-folk, as Jim himself called them) to rise, and had established
himself in a fortified camp on the summit of one of the twin hills. He
hung over the town of Patusan like a hawk over a poultry-yard, but he
devastated the open country. Whole villages, deserted, rotted on their
blackened posts over the banks of clear streams, dropping piecemeal into
the water the grass of their walls, the leaves of their roofs, with a
curious effect of natural decay as if they had been a form of vegetation
stricken by a blight at its very root. The two parties in Patusan were
not sure which one this partisan most desired to plunder. The Rajah
intrigued with him feebly. Some of the Bugis settlers, weary with
endless insecurity, were half inclined to call him in. The younger
spirits amongst them, chaffing, advised to "get Sherif Ali with his wild
men and drive the Rajah Allang out of the country." Doramin restrained
them with difficulty. He was growing old, and, though his influence had
not diminished, the situation was getting beyond him. This was the state
of affairs when Jim, bolting from the Rajah's stockade, appeared before
the chief of the Bugis, produced the ring, and was received, in a manner
of speaking, into the heart of the community.'
'Doramin was one of the most remarkable men of his race I had ever seen.
His bulk for a Malay was immense, but he did not look merely fat; he
looked imposing, monumental. This motionless body, clad in rich stuffs,
coloured silks, gold embroideries; this huge head, enfolded in a
red-and-gold headkerchief; the flat, big, round face, wrinkled,
furrowed, with two semicircular heavy folds starting on each side of
wide, fierce nostrils, and enclosing a thick-lipped mouth; the throat
like a bull; the vast corrugated brow overhanging the staring proud
eyes--made a whole that, once seen, can never be forgotten. His
impassive repose (he seldom stirred a limb when once he sat down) was
like a display of dignity. He was never known to raise his voice. It
was a hoarse and powerful murmur, slightly veiled as if heard from a
distance. When he walked, two short, sturdy young fellows, naked to the
waist, in white sarongs and with black skull-caps on the backs of their
heads, sustained his elbows; they would ease him down and stand behind
his chair till he wanted to rise, when he would turn his head slowly,
as if with difficulty, to the right and to the left, and then they would
catch him under his armpits and help him up. For all that, there was
nothing of a cripple about him: on the contrary, all his ponderous
movements were like manifestations of a mighty deliberate force. It
was generally believed he consulted his wife as to public affairs; but
nobody, as far as I know, had ever heard them exchange a single word.
When they sat in state by the wide opening it was in silence. They could
see below them in the declining light the vast expanse of the forest
country, a dark sleeping sea of sombre green undulating as far as the
violet and purple range of mountains; the shining sinuosity of the river
like an immense letter S of beaten silver; the brown ribbon of houses
following the sweep of both banks, overtopped by the twin hills uprising
above the nearer tree-tops. They were wonderfully contrasted: she,
light, delicate, spare, quick, a little witch-like, with a touch of
motherly fussiness in her repose; he, facing her, immense and heavy,
like a figure of a man roughly fashioned of stone, with something
magnanimous and ruthless in his immobility. The son of these old people
was a most distinguished youth.
'They had him late in life. Perhaps he was not really so young as he
looked. Four- or five-and-twenty is not so young when a man is already
father of a family at eighteen. When he entered the large room, lined
and carpeted with fine mats, and with a high ceiling of white sheeting,
where the couple sat in state surrounded by a most deferential retinue,
he would make his way straight to Doramin, to kiss his hand--which the
other abandoned to him, majestically--and then would step across to
stand by his mother's chair. I suppose I may say they idolised him, but
I never caught them giving him an overt glance. Those, it is true, were
public functions. The room was generally thronged. The solemn formality
of greetings and leave-takings, the profound respect expressed in
gestures, on the faces, in the low whispers, is simply indescribable.
"It's well worth seeing," Jim had assured me while we were crossing the
river, on our way back. "They are like people in a book, aren't they?"
he said triumphantly. "And Dain Waris--their son--is the best
friend (barring you) I ever had. What Mr. Stein would call a good
'war-comrade.' I was in luck. Jove! I was in luck when I tumbled amongst
them at my last gasp." He meditated with bowed head, then rousing
himself he added--'"Of course I didn't go to sleep over it, but . . ."
He paused again. "It seemed to come to me," he murmured. "All at once I
saw what I had to do . . ."
'There was no doubt that it had come to him; and it had come through
war, too, as is natural, since this power that came to him was the power
to make peace. It is in this sense alone that might so often is right.
You must not think he had seen his way at once. When he arrived the
Bugis community was in a most critical position. "They were all afraid,"
he said to me--"each man afraid for himself; while I could see as plain
as possible that they must do something at once, if they did not want
to go under one after another, what between the Rajah and that vagabond
Sherif." But to see that was nothing. When he got his idea he had
to drive it into reluctant minds, through the bulwarks of fear, of
selfishness. He drove it in at last. And that was nothing. He had to
devise the means. He devised them--an audacious plan; and his task
was only half done. He had to inspire with his own confidence a lot
of people who had hidden and absurd reasons to hang back; he had to
conciliate imbecile jealousies, and argue away all sorts of senseless
mistrusts. Without the weight of Doramin's authority, and his son's
fiery enthusiasm, he would have failed. Dain Waris, the distinguished
youth, was the first to believe in him; theirs was one of those strange,
profound, rare friendships between brown and white, in which the very
difference of race seems to draw two human beings closer by some mystic
element of sympathy. Of Dain Waris, his own people said with pride that
he knew how to fight like a white man. This was true; he had that
sort of courage--the courage in the open, I may say--but he had also a
European mind. You meet them sometimes like that, and are surprised to
discover unexpectedly a familiar turn of thought, an unobscured vision,
a tenacity of purpose, a touch of altruism. Of small stature, but
admirably well proportioned, Dain Waris had a proud carriage, a
polished, easy bearing, a temperament like a clear flame. His dusky
face, with big black eyes, was in action expressive, and in repose
thoughtful. He was of a silent disposition; a firm glance, an ironic
smile, a courteous deliberation of manner seemed to hint at great
reserves of intelligence and power. Such beings open to the Western eye,
so often concerned with mere surfaces, the hidden possibilities of races
and lands over which hangs the mystery of unrecorded ages. He not only
trusted Jim, he understood him, I firmly believe. I speak of him because
he had captivated me. His--if I may say so--his caustic placidity,
and, at the same time, his intelligent sympathy with Jim's aspirations,
appealed to me. I seemed to behold the very origin of friendship. If
Jim took the lead, the other had captivated his leader. In fact, Jim
the leader was a captive in every sense. The land, the people, the
friendship, the love, were like the jealous guardians of his body.
Every day added a link to the fetters of that strange freedom. I felt
convinced of it, as from day to day I learned more of the story.
'The story! Haven't I heard the story? I've heard it on the march, in
camp (he made me scour the country after invisible game); I've listened
to a good part of it on one of the twin summits, after climbing the last
hundred feet or so on my hands and knees. Our escort (we had volunteer
followers from village to village) had camped meantime on a bit of level
ground half-way up the slope, and in the still breathless evening the
smell of wood-smoke reached our nostrils from below with the penetrating
delicacy of some choice scent. Voices also ascended, wonderful in their
distinct and immaterial clearness. Jim sat on the trunk of a felled
tree, and pulling out his pipe began to smoke. A new growth of grass and
bushes was springing up; there were traces of an earthwork under a mass
of thorny twigs. "It all started from here," he said, after a long and
meditative silence. On the other hill, two hundred yards across a sombre
precipice, I saw a line of high blackened stakes, showing here and there
ruinously--the remnants of Sherif Ali's impregnable camp.
'But it had been taken, though. That had been his idea. He had
mounted Doramin's old ordnance on the top of that hill; two rusty iron
7-pounders, a lot of small brass cannon--currency cannon. But if the
brass guns represent wealth, they can also, when crammed recklessly to
the muzzle, send a solid shot to some little distance. The thing was
to get them up there. He showed me where he had fastened the cables,
explained how he had improvised a rude capstan out of a hollowed log
turning upon a pointed stake, indicated with the bowl of his pipe the
outline of the earthwork. The last hundred feet of the ascent had been
the most difficult. He had made himself responsible for success on his
own head. He had induced the war party to work hard all night. Big
fires lighted at intervals blazed all down the slope, "but up here," he
explained, "the hoisting gang had to fly around in the dark." From the
top he saw men moving on the hillside like ants at work. He himself on
that night had kept on rushing down and climbing up like a squirrel,
directing, encouraging, watching all along the line. Old Doramin had
himself carried up the hill in his arm-chair. They put him down on the
level place upon the slope, and he sat there in the light of one of the
big fires--"amazing old chap--real old chieftain," said Jim, "with his
little fierce eyes--a pair of immense flintlock pistols on his knees.
Magnificent things, ebony, silver-mounted, with beautiful locks and
a calibre like an old blunderbuss. A present from Stein, it seems--in
exchange for that ring, you know. Used to belong to good old McNeil. God
only knows how _he_ came by them. There he sat, moving neither hand nor
foot, a flame of dry brushwood behind him, and lots of people rushing
about, shouting and pulling round him--the most solemn, imposing old
chap you can imagine. He wouldn't have had much chance if Sherif Ali had
let his infernal crew loose at us and stampeded my lot. Eh? Anyhow, he
had come up there to die if anything went wrong. No mistake! Jove! It
thrilled me to see him there--like a rock. But the Sherif must have
thought us mad, and never troubled to come and see how we got on. Nobody
believed it could be done. Why! I think the very chaps who pulled and
shoved and sweated over it did not believe it could be done! Upon my
word I don't think they did. . . ."
'He stood erect, the smouldering brier-wood in his clutch, with a smile
on his lips and a sparkle in his boyish eyes. I sat on the stump of a
tree at his feet, and below us stretched the land, the great expanse of
the forests, sombre under the sunshine, rolling like a sea, with glints
of winding rivers, the grey spots of villages, and here and there a
clearing, like an islet of light amongst the dark waves of continuous
tree-tops. A brooding gloom lay over this vast and monotonous landscape;
the light fell on it as if into an abyss. The land devoured the
sunshine; only far off, along the coast, the empty ocean, smooth and
polished within the faint haze, seemed to rise up to the sky in a wall
of steel.
'And there I was with him, high in the sunshine on the top of that
historic hill of his. He dominated the forest, the secular gloom, the
old mankind. He was like a figure set up on a pedestal, to represent in
his persistent youth the power, and perhaps the virtues, of races that
never grow old, that have emerged from the gloom. I don't know why he
should always have appeared to me symbolic. Perhaps this is the real
cause of my interest in his fate. I don't know whether it was exactly
fair to him to remember the incident which had given a new direction to
his life, but at that very moment I remembered very distinctly. It was
like a shadow in the light.'
'Already the legend had gifted him with supernatural powers. Yes, it
was said, there had been many ropes cunningly disposed, and a strange
contrivance that turned by the efforts of many men, and each gun went
up tearing slowly through the bushes, like a wild pig rooting its way in
the undergrowth, but . . . and the wisest shook their heads. There was
something occult in all this, no doubt; for what is the strength of
ropes and of men's arms? There is a rebellious soul in things which must
be overcome by powerful charms and incantations. Thus old Sura--a very
respectable householder of Patusan--with whom I had a quiet chat one
evening. However, Sura was a professional sorcerer also, who attended
all the rice sowings and reapings for miles around for the purpose of
subduing the stubborn souls of things. This occupation he seemed to
think a most arduous one, and perhaps the souls of things are more
stubborn than the souls of men. As to the simple folk of outlying
villages, they believed and said (as the most natural thing in the
world) that Jim had carried the guns up the hill on his back--two at a
time.
'This would make Jim stamp his foot in vexation and exclaim with an
exasperated little laugh, "What can you do with such silly beggars? They
will sit up half the night talking bally rot, and the greater the lie
the more they seem to like it." You could trace the subtle influence of
his surroundings in this irritation. It was part of his captivity. The
earnestness of his denials was amusing, and at last I said, "My dear
fellow, you don't suppose _I_ believe this." He looked at me quite
startled. "Well, no! I suppose not," he said, and burst into a Homeric
peal of laughter. "Well, anyhow the guns were there, and went off all
together at sunrise. Jove! You should have seen the splinters fly," he
cried. By his side Dain Waris, listening with a quiet smile, dropped his
eyelids and shuffled his feet a little. It appears that the success in
mounting the guns had given Jim's people such a feeling of confidence
that he ventured to leave the battery under charge of two elderly Bugis
who had seen some fighting in their day, and went to join Dain Waris and
the storming party who were concealed in the ravine. In the small hours
they began creeping up, and when two-thirds of the way up, lay in the
wet grass waiting for the appearance of the sun, which was the agreed
signal. He told me with what impatient anguishing emotion he watched the
swift coming of the dawn; how, heated with the work and the climbing,
he felt the cold dew chilling his very bones; how afraid he was he
would begin to shiver and shake like a leaf before the time came for
the advance. "It was the slowest half-hour in my life," he declared.
Gradually the silent stockade came out on the sky above him. Men
scattered all down the slope were crouching amongst the dark stones and
dripping bushes. Dain Waris was lying flattened by his side. "We
looked at each other," Jim said, resting a gentle hand on his friend's
shoulder. "He smiled at me as cheery as you please, and I dared not stir
my lips for fear I would break out into a shivering fit. 'Pon my word,
it's true! I had been streaming with perspiration when we took cover--so
you may imagine . . ." He declared, and I believe him, that he had no
fears as to the result. He was only anxious as to his ability to repress
these shivers. He didn't bother about the result. He was bound to get to
the top of that hill and stay there, whatever might happen. There could
be no going back for him. Those people had trusted him implicitly. Him
alone! His bare word. . . .
'I remember how, at this point, he paused with his eyes fixed upon me.
"As far as he knew, they never had an occasion to regret it yet,"
he said. "Never. He hoped to God they never would. Meantime--worse
luck!--they had got into the habit of taking his word for anything and
everything. I could have no idea! Why, only the other day an old fool he
had never seen in his life came from some village miles away to find
out if he should divorce his wife. Fact. Solemn word. That's the sort
of thing. . . He wouldn't have believed it. Would I? Squatted on the
verandah chewing betel-nut, sighing and spitting all over the place for
more than an hour, and as glum as an undertaker before he came out with
that dashed conundrum. That's the kind of thing that isn't so funny as
it looks. What was a fellow to say?--Good wife?--Yes. Good wife--old
though. Started a confounded long story about some brass pots. Been
living together for fifteen years--twenty years--could not tell. A long,
long time. Good wife. Beat her a little--not much--just a little, when
she was young. Had to--for the sake of his honour. Suddenly in her old
age she goes and lends three brass pots to her sister's son's wife, and
begins to abuse him every day in a loud voice. His enemies jeered at
him; his face was utterly blackened. Pots totally lost. Awfully cut up
about it. Impossible to fathom a story like that; told him to go home,
and promised to come along myself and settle it all. It's all very well
to grin, but it was the dashedest nuisance! A day's journey through the
forest, another day lost in coaxing a lot of silly villagers to get at
the rights of the affair. There was the making of a sanguinary shindy
in the thing. Every bally idiot took sides with one family or the other,
and one half of the village was ready to go for the other half with
anything that came handy. Honour bright! No joke! . . . Instead of
attending to their bally crops. Got him the infernal pots back of
course--and pacified all hands. No trouble to settle it. Of course not.
Could settle the deadliest quarrel in the country by crooking his little
finger. The trouble was to get at the truth of anything. Was not sure
to this day whether he had been fair to all parties. It worried him. And
the talk! Jove! There didn't seem to be any head or tail to it. Rather
storm a twenty-foot-high old stockade any day. Much! Child's play to
that other job. Wouldn't take so long either. Well, yes; a funny set
out, upon the whole--the fool looked old enough to be his grandfather.
But from another point of view it was no joke. His word decided
everything--ever since the smashing of Sherif Ali. An awful
responsibility," he repeated. "No, really--joking apart, had it been
three lives instead of three rotten brass pots it would have been the
same. . . ."
'Thus he illustrated the moral effect of his victory in war. It was in
truth immense. It had led him from strife to peace, and through death
into the innermost life of the people; but the gloom of the land spread
out under the sunshine preserved its appearance of inscrutable, of
secular repose. The sound of his fresh young voice--it's extraordinary
how very few signs of wear he showed--floated lightly, and passed away
over the unchanged face of the forests like the sound of the big guns
on that cold dewy morning when he had no other concern on earth but
the proper control of the chills in his body. With the first slant of
sun-rays along these immovable tree-tops the summit of one hill wreathed
itself, with heavy reports, in white clouds of smoke, and the other
burst into an amazing noise of yells, war-cries, shouts of anger, of
surprise, of dismay. Jim and Dain Waris were the first to lay their
hands on the stakes. The popular story has it that Jim with a touch
of one finger had thrown down the gate. He was, of course, anxious
to disclaim this achievement. The whole stockade--he would insist on
explaining to you--was a poor affair (Sherif Ali trusted mainly to the
inaccessible position); and, anyway, the thing had been already knocked
to pieces and only hung together by a miracle. He put his shoulder to it
like a little fool and went in head over heels. Jove! If it hadn't been
for Dain Waris, a pock-marked tattooed vagabond would have pinned him
with his spear to a baulk of timber like one of Stein's beetles. The
third man in, it seems, had been Tamb' Itam, Jim's own servant. This was
a Malay from the north, a stranger who had wandered into Patusan, and
had been forcibly detained by Rajah Allang as paddler of one of the
state boats. He had made a bolt of it at the first opportunity, and
finding a precarious refuge (but very little to eat) amongst the Bugis
settlers, had attached himself to Jim's person. His complexion was very
dark, his face flat, his eyes prominent and injected with bile. There
was something excessive, almost fanatical, in his devotion to his
"white lord." He was inseparable from Jim like a morose shadow. On state
occasions he would tread on his master's heels, one hand on the haft
of his kriss, keeping the common people at a distance by his truculent
brooding glances. Jim had made him the headman of his establishment, and
all Patusan respected and courted him as a person of much influence. At
the taking of the stockade he had distinguished himself greatly by the
methodical ferocity of his fighting. The storming party had come on so
quick--Jim said--that notwithstanding the panic of the garrison, there
was a "hot five minutes hand-to-hand inside that stockade, till some
bally ass set fire to the shelters of boughs and dry grass, and we all
had to clear out for dear life."
'The rout, it seems, had been complete. Doramin, waiting immovably in
his chair on the hillside, with the smoke of the guns spreading slowly
above his big head, received the news with a deep grunt. When informed
that his son was safe and leading the pursuit, he, without another
sound, made a mighty effort to rise; his attendants hurried to his help,
and, held up reverently, he shuffled with great dignity into a bit of
shade, where he laid himself down to sleep, covered entirely with a
piece of white sheeting. In Patusan the excitement was intense. Jim told
me that from the hill, turning his back on the stockade with its embers,
black ashes, and half-consumed corpses, he could see time after time the
open spaces between the houses on both sides of the stream fill suddenly
with a seething rush of people and get empty in a moment. His ears
caught feebly from below the tremendous din of gongs and drums; the wild
shouts of the crowd reached him in bursts of faint roaring. A lot of
streamers made a flutter as of little white, red, yellow birds amongst
the brown ridges of roofs. "You must have enjoyed it," I murmured,
feeling the stir of sympathetic emotion.
'"It was . . . it was immense! Immense!" he cried aloud, flinging his
arms open. The sudden movement startled me as though I had seen him bare
the secrets of his breast to the sunshine, to the brooding forests, to
the steely sea. Below us the town reposed in easy curves upon the banks
of a stream whose current seemed to sleep. "Immense!" he repeated for a
third time, speaking in a whisper, for himself alone.
'Immense! No doubt it was immense; the seal of success upon his words,
the conquered ground for the soles of his feet, the blind trust of
men, the belief in himself snatched from the fire, the solitude of his
achievement. All this, as I've warned you, gets dwarfed in the telling.
I can't with mere words convey to you the impression of his total and
utter isolation. I know, of course, he was in every sense alone of his
kind there, but the unsuspected qualities of his nature had brought him
in such close touch with his surroundings that this isolation seemed
only the effect of his power. His loneliness added to his stature. There
was nothing within sight to compare him with, as though he had been one
of those exceptional men who can be only measured by the greatness of
their fame; and his fame, remember, was the greatest thing around for
many a day's journey. You would have to paddle, pole, or track a long
weary way through the jungle before you passed beyond the reach of its
voice. Its voice was not the trumpeting of the disreputable goddess we
all know--not blatant--not brazen. It took its tone from the stillness
and gloom of the land without a past, where his word was the one truth
of every passing day. It shared something of the nature of that
silence through which it accompanied you into unexplored depths, heard
continuously by your side, penetrating, far-reaching--tinged with wonder
and mystery on the lips of whispering men.' | 11,395 | Chapters 23-27 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-23-27 | On his way to Patusan, Jim carries a letter from Mr. Stein to Cornelius, together with a silver ring common among natives as his introduction to Doramin, Mr. Stein's "war-comrades" friend. Doramin gave him the ring as a parting gift and promise of eternal friendship. Stein had saved Doramin's life at one point. Now Jim keeps the ring around his neck. Set to leave, Marlow notices three books tumble out of Jim's valise: the complete Shakespeare. Marlow is struck by this choice of Jim's. He is also struck when Jim, taking the revolver Marlow has offered him, forgets the two small boxes of cartridges. Jim calls to Marlow: "You - shall - hear - of - me" . Marlow visits Patusan two years later, and at the mouth of the river, the elderly headman of the fisher-folk village comes to board Stein's schooner and tells Marlow about a certain "Tuan Jim," the first white man he ever saw. As he goes down the river, he can see Jim going down the river for the first time, and the narrative subtly shifts to Jim's perspective: Jim is describing how he felt seeing the first houses, how the boat came onto the bank. A boat full of armed men behind him, people coming out of the gate straight at him, his revolver empty, he just stood there. He asked them what was the matter, and it stunned them. Kassim, the Rajah's counselor, announced that the Rajah wanted to see him. The Rajah kept him prisoner for three days. He was a fearful soul who hated Doramin and was deeply afraid of Jim. Jim was held by the north front of the stockade which, on his third day in Patusan, he leaped over. His leap of escape was a flying one over the mouth of a muddy creek. Traveling by foot, he reached Doramin, as the women screamed and children cried. He produced the ring. Doramin and his motherly wife were of the merchant class and were viewed with great respect and dignity. They were involved in a deep, factional fight regarding trade, since the Rajah had been pretending he was the only trader in the country. Doramin, fat, imposing, monumental, and motionless, was growing old, and the area was fraught with insecurity. The couple had had a son late in life, named Dain Waris. Dain Waris was very distinguished and about twenty-four or twenty-five. He was adored by his parents, and he would become Jim's best friend. Dain Waris understands Jim very well. Jim next describes to Marlow the extent to which he has become a legend. Like a judge, he feels a keen responsibility for the social order. Many believe he has supernatural powers. An old man from a faraway village even came to ask Jim if he should divorce his wife. A key victory in war settled his stature and respect, having concluded a quarrel with the Rajah. A stockade that had already been knocked to pieces caused the story to circulate that Jim had thrown it down with the touch of a finger. Dain Waris had saved Jim's life at that time. There had been a hot five minutes in the stockade, and then all was clear. Jim cries that it was "Immense!" . As a result of the battle, Tamb' Itam, a stranger to Patusan who had been detained by the Rajah, bolted from him in order to become Jim's devoted servant. He was inseparable from Jim, like a "morose shadow" . | The narrative scatters chronologically. The reader gets a brief view of Jim's success in Patusan, and we learn that Marlow visits him there. The narrative then returns to Jim's perspective, as he first learns about the opportunity Stein is giving him. The silver ring is a traditional symbol of the romantic quest, of which Jim's journey is an example: it takes him into the heart of an unknown place, where the ring will help him inherit the cultural and other ties that Stein made in those parts long ago. He has the opportunity to prove himself, while Stein plays the part of providing luck or chance. From then on, Jim is on his own. The prospect of anonymity is, for Jim, a possible freedom. He discovers that he is not so bad after all, something Marlow had sensed from the beginning. Thrown into a whirlwind of self-confusion, Jim now proves his worth. It is not certain, however, that this success will help him reconcile with his previous failure, since his personality remains obsessed with a particular, fixed aspect of the past. While people can change generally, the past cannot. Hence, the question of Jim's fate ultimately turns on how he learns to live with his past. When Marlow notes Jim's copy of Shakespeare, the scene resonates against the recent scene with Stein, who made reference to the poet's Hamlet. This detail provides a further sense of connection between the romantics, Jim and Stein, regarding the question of how one is to live. The search into literature for answers is Conrad's subtle hint, being an author himself, that his literary work endeavors to answer the complex questions of how to be and how to live. From the moment Jim arrives in Patusan, he exhibits courage. His judgment is flawless, and he makes the correct leap from his imprisonment when he needs to. This contrasts with his leap from the Patna and with his earlier failure to leap at the best time. These successful leaps in Patusan, moreover, provide the seeds of the mythmaking that envelops Jim, who comes to be known as "Tuan Jim" or "Lord Jim." This romanticized "Jim" can fly. He cannot die. The story even trickles down to a faraway place where Marlow will hear that the legend has discovered a giant emerald. When Marlow once again encounters Jim, he feels the pride of a father. He is glad that Jim has successfully made use of the opportunity he received. Something of the stammering, young, ineloquent man remains, but Marlow notes: "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" . While Jim looks upon the land with one eye on possession, Marlow still concludes that "all his conquests, the trust, the fame, the friendships, the love--all these things that made him master had made him captive, too" . Marlow is coming to understand Jim very well. This understanding is reiterated: "Jim the leader was a captive in every sense. The land, the people, the friendship, the love, were like the jealous guardians of his body. Every day added a link to the fetters of that strange freedom" . In other words, the freedom he had sought, the freedom that comes with honor and power generally, must be held accountable to others. Binding oneself to others is constraining: you can't leap or run away. The responsibility is severe. Jim has inserted himself as a necessary and important part of the social fabric in Patusan, and, in this way, the community is not unlike that of a ship on the sea. Thus while Jim is exiled from the sea, this new oceanic wilderness is isolating in a new way. He has assumed a position not unlike the one he had held on board the Patna as first mate. In Patusan, a name that resonates with the sound of "Patna," Jim is isolated even while he is in position to guide the community. An important point to keep in mind in thinking about the communities on board the Patna and in Patusan is their "otherness"; both sets of people for whom Jim is responsible differ considerably from the Western figures who dominate the novel. The ship had been filled with Muslim pilgrims heading for Mecca, and Patusan is filled with a community of Southeast Asian islanders. Stein, also, had been intimately involved with a Malay community. In all these cases, though Jim and Stein had been relatively isolated insofar as they were white men, the white men achieved dominance and held a high stature among the population. This white ascendancy has been critiqued as problematic in much of Conrad's work, gaining some energy from being set in "exotic" locations. Note that Dain Waris "knew how to fight like a white man ... he had also a European mind"--which, from the perspective of the speaker, suggests the superiority of the Western presence in that part of the world, as well as the superiority of a native man who is like a white man . Though colonialism was a fact of the time, critics have argued that Conrad fails to render the native characters in his work with the subtlety and generosity he affords his white characters. | 584 | 946 | [
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110 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/41.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_39_part_0.txt | Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 40 | chapter 40 | null | {"name": "Phase V: \"The Woman Pays,\" Chapter Forty", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-40", "summary": "At breakfast, Angel and his parents discuss his Brazil plan. Everyone tries to be optimistic, but Brazil has a bad reputation--a lot of farmers have emigrated there to seek their fortunes, and have returned disappointed within a year. Angel goes to the town after breakfast to withdraw his money from the bank. While he's there, he arranges for thirty pounds to be sent to Tess in eight months, along with instructions that she write to his father in case of any emergency. On his way back, he runs into Mercy Chant. She asks him about his plans in Brazil, and the conversation turns to the Roman Catholicism of most of the people there. Since she, like Angel's own parents, is a strict Protestant, she's shocked when he makes light of the religious differences of Catholicism. He apologizes for having shocked her, and wonders if he's going nuts. Angel has one other errand before leaving for Brazil. He has to go back to the place where he and Tess spent those few nights after their wedding to pay the rent and pick up a few things they'd left. When he gets there, he remembers how happy they were when they arrived, and wonders if he made a mistake. Then Izz Huett shows up--she says she came to visit them. Angel explains that they're not living there, and tells Izz that Tess is at her parents' house because he's going to find a farm in Brazil. Angel asks how everyone's doing at the dairy, and Izz says that she left, because the dairy was just too depressing, what with Retty's attempted suicide and Marian's descent into alcoholism. Angel offers Izz a ride home, since she lives pretty close by. On the way, she admits that she was pretty depressed, herself, since Angel and Tess left the dairy. Angel asks why, and Izz is like, \"hellooooo, I've had a crush on you for months!\" Angel's quiet for a while, and then thinks about how the whole system of marriage has screwed him . So he tells Izz that he and Tess separated for personal reasons--not just because he's going to Brazil first to check out the farm situation. And then he asks Izz if she'll go with him. She says yes, even though it would be wrong and immoral in the eyes of most people. Angel asks if she really loves him--loves him more than Tess? Izz says she loves him, but not more than Tess - no one could love him more than Tess. That honesty from Izz snaps Angel out of his momentary lunacy, and he turns the cart around to drop Izz off at home. Izz starts crying, of course, but calms down and, when they say good-bye, is able to forgive Angel for totally messing with her head. He sends his farewells to Marian and Retty through Izz, and asks her to tell them to be strong and good. He wavers as he drives away--he almost turns around to drive back to Tess at her parents' house, but decides that if he was right before, he's right now. The state of Tess's feeling for him has nothing to do with it. So, five days later, he leaves for Brazil from a ship out of London.", "analysis": ""} |
At breakfast Brazil was the topic, and all endeavoured to take a
hopeful view of Clare's proposed experiment with that country's soil,
notwithstanding the discouraging reports of some farm-labourers who
had emigrated thither and returned home within the twelve months.
After breakfast Clare went into the little town to wind up such
trifling matters as he was concerned with there, and to get from
the local bank all the money he possessed. On his way back he
encountered Miss Mercy Chant by the church, from whose walls she
seemed to be a sort of emanation. She was carrying an armful of
Bibles for her class, and such was her view of life that events which
produced heartache in others wrought beatific smiles upon her--an
enviable result, although, in the opinion of Angel, it was obtained
by a curiously unnatural sacrifice of humanity to mysticism.
She had learnt that he was about to leave England, and observed what
an excellent and promising scheme it seemed to be.
"Yes; it is a likely scheme enough in a commercial sense, no doubt,"
he replied. "But, my dear Mercy, it snaps the continuity of
existence. Perhaps a cloister would be preferable."
"A cloister! O, Angel Clare!"
"Well?"
"Why, you wicked man, a cloister implies a monk, and a monk Roman
Catholicism."
"And Roman Catholicism sin, and sin damnation. Thou art in a parlous
state, Angel Clare."
"_I_ glory in my Protestantism!" she said severely.
Then Clare, thrown by sheer misery into one of the demoniacal moods
in which a man does despite to his true principles, called her close
to him, and fiendishly whispered in her ear the most heterodox ideas
he could think of. His momentary laughter at the horror which
appeared on her fair face ceased when it merged in pain and anxiety
for his welfare.
"Dear Mercy," he said, "you must forgive me. I think I am going
crazy!"
She thought that he was; and thus the interview ended, and Clare
re-entered the Vicarage. With the local banker he deposited the
jewels till happier days should arise. He also paid into the bank
thirty pounds--to be sent to Tess in a few months, as she might
require; and wrote to her at her parents' home in Blackmoor Vale to
inform her of what he had done. This amount, with the sum he had
already placed in her hands--about fifty pounds--he hoped would be
amply sufficient for her wants just at present, particularly as in
an emergency she had been directed to apply to his father.
He deemed it best not to put his parents into communication with her
by informing them of her address; and, being unaware of what had
really happened to estrange the two, neither his father nor his
mother suggested that he should do so. During the day he left the
parsonage, for what he had to complete he wished to get done quickly.
As the last duty before leaving this part of England it was necessary
for him to call at the Wellbridge farmhouse, in which he had spent
with Tess the first three days of their marriage, the trifle of rent
having to be paid, the key given up of the rooms they had occupied,
and two or three small articles fetched away that they had left
behind. It was under this roof that the deepest shadow ever thrown
upon his life had stretched its gloom over him. Yet when he had
unlocked the door of the sitting-room and looked into it, the memory
which returned first upon him was that of their happy arrival on a
similar afternoon, the first fresh sense of sharing a habitation
conjointly, the first meal together, the chatting by the fire with
joined hands.
The farmer and his wife were in the field at the moment of his visit,
and Clare was in the rooms alone for some time. Inwardly swollen
with a renewal of sentiment that he had not quite reckoned with, he
went upstairs to her chamber, which had never been his. The bed
was smooth as she had made it with her own hands on the morning of
leaving. The mistletoe hung under the tester just as he had placed
it. Having been there three or four weeks it was turning colour, and
the leaves and berries were wrinkled. Angel took it down and crushed
it into the grate. Standing there, he for the first time doubted
whether his course in this conjecture had been a wise, much less
a generous, one. But had he not been cruelly blinded? In the
incoherent multitude of his emotions he knelt down at the bedside
wet-eyed. "O Tess! If you had only told me sooner, I would have
forgiven you!" he mourned.
Hearing a footstep below, he rose and went to the top of the stairs.
At the bottom of the flight he saw a woman standing, and on her
turning up her face recognized the pale, dark-eyed Izz Huett.
"Mr Clare," she said, "I've called to see you and Mrs Clare, and to
inquire if ye be well. I thought you might be back here again."
This was a girl whose secret he had guessed, but who had not yet
guessed his; an honest girl who loved him--one who would have made as
good, or nearly as good, a practical farmer's wife as Tess.
"I am here alone," he said; "we are not living here now." Explaining
why he had come, he asked, "Which way are you going home, Izz?"
"I have no home at Talbothays Dairy now, sir," she said.
"Why is that?"
Izz looked down.
"It was so dismal there that I left! I am staying out this way."
She pointed in a contrary direction, the direction in which he was
journeying.
"Well--are you going there now? I can take you if you
wish for a lift."
Her olive complexion grew richer in hue.
"Thank 'ee, Mr Clare," she said.
He soon found the farmer, and settled the account for his rent and
the few other items which had to be considered by reason of the
sudden abandonment of the lodgings. On Clare's return to his horse
and gig, Izz jumped up beside him.
"I am going to leave England, Izz," he said, as they drove on.
"Going to Brazil."
"And do Mrs Clare like the notion of such a journey?" she asked.
"She is not going at present--say for a year or so. I am going out
to reconnoitre--to see what life there is like."
They sped along eastward for some considerable distance, Izz making
no observation.
"How are the others?" he inquired. "How is Retty?"
"She was in a sort of nervous state when I zid her last; and so thin
and hollow-cheeked that 'a do seem in a decline. Nobody will ever
fall in love wi' her any more," said Izz absently.
"And Marian?"
Izz lowered her voice.
"Marian drinks."
"Indeed!"
"Yes. The dairyman has got rid of her."
"And you!"
"I don't drink, and I bain't in a decline. But--I am no great things
at singing afore breakfast now!"
"How is that? Do you remember how neatly you used to turn ''Twas
down in Cupid's Gardens' and 'The Tailor's Breeches' at morning
milking?"
"Ah, yes! When you first came, sir, that was. Not when you had been
there a bit."
"Why was that falling-off?"
Her black eyes flashed up to his face for one moment by way of
answer.
"Izz!--how weak of you--for such as I!" he said, and fell into
reverie. "Then--suppose I had asked YOU to marry me?"
"If you had I should have said 'Yes', and you would have married a
woman who loved 'ee!"
"Really!"
"Down to the ground!" she whispered vehemently. "O my God! did you
never guess it till now!"
By-and-by they reached a branch road to a village.
"I must get down. I live out there," said Izz abruptly, never having
spoken since her avowal.
Clare slowed the horse. He was incensed against his fate, bitterly
disposed towards social ordinances; for they had cooped him up in a
corner, out of which there was no legitimate pathway. Why not be
revenged on society by shaping his future domesticities loosely,
instead of kissing the pedagogic rod of convention in this ensnaring
manner?
"I am going to Brazil alone, Izz," said he. "I have separated from
my wife for personal, not voyaging, reasons. I may never live with
her again. I may not be able to love you; but--will you go with me
instead of her?"
"You truly wish me to go?"
"I do. I have been badly used enough to wish for relief. And you at
least love me disinterestedly."
"Yes--I will go," said Izz, after a pause.
"You will? You know what it means, Izz?"
"It means that I shall live with you for the time you are over
there--that's good enough for me."
"Remember, you are not to trust me in morals now. But I ought
to remind you that it will be wrong-doing in the eyes of
civilization--Western civilization, that is to say."
"I don't mind that; no woman do when it comes to agony-point, and
there's no other way!"
"Then don't get down, but sit where you are."
He drove past the cross-roads, one mile, two miles, without showing
any signs of affection.
"You love me very, very much, Izz?" he suddenly asked.
"I do--I have said I do! I loved you all the time we was at the
dairy together!"
"More than Tess?"
She shook her head.
"No," she murmured, "not more than she."
"How's that?"
"Because nobody could love 'ee more than Tess did! ... She would
have laid down her life for 'ee. I could do no more."
Like the prophet on the top of Peor, Izz Huett would fain have spoken
perversely at such a moment, but the fascination exercised over her
rougher nature by Tess's character compelled her to grace.
Clare was silent; his heart had risen at these straightforward words
from such an unexpected unimpeachable quarter. In his throat was
something as if a sob had solidified there. His ears repeated, "SHE
WOULD HAVE LAID DOWN HER LIFE FOR 'EE. I COULD DO NO MORE!"
"Forget our idle talk, Izz," he said, turning the horse's head
suddenly. "I don't know what I've been saying! I will now drive
you back to where your lane branches off."
"So much for honesty towards 'ee! O--how can I bear it--how can
I--how can I!"
Izz Huett burst into wild tears, and beat her forehead as she saw
what she had done.
"Do you regret that poor little act of justice to an absent one?
O, Izz, don't spoil it by regret!"
She stilled herself by degrees.
"Very well, sir. Perhaps I didn't know what I was saying, either,
wh--when I agreed to go! I wish--what cannot be!"
"Because I have a loving wife already."
"Yes, yes! You have!"
They reached the corner of the lane which they had passed half an
hour earlier, and she hopped down.
"Izz--please, please forget my momentary levity!" he cried. "It was
so ill-considered, so ill-advised!"
"Forget it? Never, never! O, it was no levity to me!"
He felt how richly he deserved the reproach that the wounded cry
conveyed, and, in a sorrow that was inexpressible, leapt down and
took her hand.
"Well, but, Izz, we'll part friends, anyhow? You don't know what
I've had to bear!"
She was a really generous girl, and allowed no further bitterness to
mar their adieux.
"I forgive 'ee, sir!" she said.
"Now, Izz," he said, while she stood beside him there, forcing
himself to the mentor's part he was far from feeling; "I want you to
tell Marian when you see her that she is to be a good woman, and not
to give way to folly. Promise that, and tell Retty that there are
more worthy men than I in the world, that for my sake she is to act
wisely and well--remember the words--wisely and well--for my sake.
I send this message to them as a dying man to the dying; for I shall
never see them again. And you, Izzy, you have saved me by your
honest words about my wife from an incredible impulse towards folly
and treachery. Women may be bad, but they are not so bad as men in
these things! On that one account I can never forget you. Be always
the good and sincere girl you have hitherto been; and think of me as
a worthless lover, but a faithful friend. Promise."
She gave the promise.
"Heaven bless and keep you, sir. Goodbye!"
He drove on; but no sooner had Izz turned into the lane, and Clare
was out of sight, than she flung herself down on the bank in a fit of
racking anguish; and it was with a strained unnatural face that she
entered her mother's cottage late that night. Nobody ever was told
how Izz spent the dark hours that intervened between Angel Clare's
parting from her and her arrival home.
Clare, too, after bidding the girl farewell, was wrought to aching
thoughts and quivering lips. But his sorrow was not for Izz. That
evening he was within a feather-weight's turn of abandoning his road
to the nearest station, and driving across that elevated dorsal line
of South Wessex which divided him from his Tess's home. It was
neither a contempt for her nature, nor the probable state of her
heart, which deterred him.
No; it was a sense that, despite her love, as corroborated by Izz's
admission, the facts had not changed. If he was right at first,
he was right now. And the momentum of the course on which he
had embarked tended to keep him going in it, unless diverted by
a stronger, more sustained force than had played upon him this
afternoon. He could soon come back to her. He took the train that
night for London, and five days after shook hands in farewell of his
brothers at the port of embarkation.
| 2,194 | Phase V: "The Woman Pays," Chapter Forty | https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-40 | At breakfast, Angel and his parents discuss his Brazil plan. Everyone tries to be optimistic, but Brazil has a bad reputation--a lot of farmers have emigrated there to seek their fortunes, and have returned disappointed within a year. Angel goes to the town after breakfast to withdraw his money from the bank. While he's there, he arranges for thirty pounds to be sent to Tess in eight months, along with instructions that she write to his father in case of any emergency. On his way back, he runs into Mercy Chant. She asks him about his plans in Brazil, and the conversation turns to the Roman Catholicism of most of the people there. Since she, like Angel's own parents, is a strict Protestant, she's shocked when he makes light of the religious differences of Catholicism. He apologizes for having shocked her, and wonders if he's going nuts. Angel has one other errand before leaving for Brazil. He has to go back to the place where he and Tess spent those few nights after their wedding to pay the rent and pick up a few things they'd left. When he gets there, he remembers how happy they were when they arrived, and wonders if he made a mistake. Then Izz Huett shows up--she says she came to visit them. Angel explains that they're not living there, and tells Izz that Tess is at her parents' house because he's going to find a farm in Brazil. Angel asks how everyone's doing at the dairy, and Izz says that she left, because the dairy was just too depressing, what with Retty's attempted suicide and Marian's descent into alcoholism. Angel offers Izz a ride home, since she lives pretty close by. On the way, she admits that she was pretty depressed, herself, since Angel and Tess left the dairy. Angel asks why, and Izz is like, "hellooooo, I've had a crush on you for months!" Angel's quiet for a while, and then thinks about how the whole system of marriage has screwed him . So he tells Izz that he and Tess separated for personal reasons--not just because he's going to Brazil first to check out the farm situation. And then he asks Izz if she'll go with him. She says yes, even though it would be wrong and immoral in the eyes of most people. Angel asks if she really loves him--loves him more than Tess? Izz says she loves him, but not more than Tess - no one could love him more than Tess. That honesty from Izz snaps Angel out of his momentary lunacy, and he turns the cart around to drop Izz off at home. Izz starts crying, of course, but calms down and, when they say good-bye, is able to forgive Angel for totally messing with her head. He sends his farewells to Marian and Retty through Izz, and asks her to tell them to be strong and good. He wavers as he drives away--he almost turns around to drive back to Tess at her parents' house, but decides that if he was right before, he's right now. The state of Tess's feeling for him has nothing to do with it. So, five days later, he leaves for Brazil from a ship out of London. | null | 546 | 1 | [
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44,747 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/75.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_74_part_0.txt | The Red and the Black.part 2.chapter 45 | part 2, chapter 45 | null | {"name": "Part 2, Chapter 45", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-45", "summary": "Julien mentions to his buddy Fouqe that he's willing to consider a last second escape from prison. Fouqe runs off to make the arrangements. Madame de Renal comes to visit Julien one last time. She's even run away from home to see him. Mathilde hears about how often Madame is visiting Julien and she goes crazy with jealousy. Worse yet, the guy back in Paris who wants to marry Mathilde has died in a duel. There are lots of last-second plans to stop Julien's execution, but to no avail. The day quickly comes, and Julien is beheaded. It's kind of abrupt, but yeah, he's dead. The funeral procession takes Julien's body to be buried. But Fouqe manages to get a hold of Julien's body before it's buried. Mathilde visits the house and holds Julien's head in her arms, just like one of her ancestors was rumored to have done for her lover's head a hundred years earlier. Three days after Julien's death, Madame de Renal drops dead for unknown reasons. She's hugging her children at the time. Yeah, pretty grim ending for sure.", "analysis": ""} | CHAPTER LXXV
"I cannot play such a trick on that poor abbe Chas-Bernard, as to
summon him," he said to Fouque: "it would prevent him from dining for
three whole days.--But try and find some Jansenist who is a friend of
M. Pirard."
Fouque was impatiently waiting for this suggestion. Julien acquitted
himself becomingly of all the duty a man owes to provincial opinion.
Thanks to M. the abbe de Frilair, and in spite of his bad choice of a
confessor, Julien enjoyed in his cell the protection of the priestly
congregation; with a little more diplomacy he might have managed to
escape. But the bad air of the cell produced its effect, and his
strength of mind diminished. But this only intensified his happiness at
madame de Renal's return.
"My first duty is towards you, my dear," she said as she embraced him;
"I have run away from Verrieres."
Julien felt no petty vanity in his relations with her, and told her all
his weaknesses. She was good and charming to him.
In the evening she had scarcely left the prison before she made the
priest, who had clung on to Julien like a veritable prey, go to her
aunt's: as his only object was to win prestige among the young women
who belonged to good Besancon society, madame de Renal easily prevailed
upon him to go and perform a novena at the abbey of Bray-le-Haut.
No words can do justice to the madness and extravagance of Julien's
love.
By means of gold, and by using and abusing the influence of her aunt,
who was devout, rich and well-known, madame de Renal managed to see him
twice a day.
At this news, Mathilde's jealousy reached a pitch of positive madness.
M. de Frilair had confessed to her that all his influence did not go
so far as to admit of flouting the conventions by allowing her to
see her sweetheart more than once every day. Mathilde had madame de
Renal followed so as to know the smallest thing she did. M. de Frilair
exhausted all the resources of an extremely clever intellect in order
to prove to her that Julien was unworthy of her.
Plunged though she was in all these torments, she only loved him the
more, and made a horrible scene nearly every day.
Julien wished, with all his might, to behave to the very end like an
honourable man towards this poor young girl whom he had so strangely
compromised, but the reckless love which he felt for madame de Renal
swept him away at every single minute. When he could not manage to
persuade Mathilde of the innocence of her rival's visits by all his
thin excuses, he would say to himself: "at any rate the end of the
drama ought to be quite near. The very fact of not being able to lie
better will be an excuse for me."
Mademoiselle de La Mole learnt of the death of the marquis de
Croisenois. The rich M. de Thaler had indulged in some unpleasant
remarks concerning Mathilde's disappearance: M. de Croisenois went
and asked him to recant them: M. de Thaler showed him some anonymous
letters which had been sent to him, and which were full of details so
artfully put together that the poor marquis could not help catching a
glimpse of the truth.
M. de Thaler indulged in some jests which were devoid of all taste.
Maddened by anger and unhappiness, M. de Croisenois demanded such
unqualified satisfaction, that the millionaire preferred to fight a
duel. Stupidity triumphed, and one of the most lovable of men met with
his death before he was twenty-four.
This death produced a strange and morbid impression on Julien's
demoralised soul.
"Poor Croisenois," he said to Mathilde, "really behaved very reasonably
and very honourably towards us; he had ample ground for hating me and
picking a quarrel with me, by reason of your indiscretion in your
mother's salon; for the hatred which follows on contempt is usually
frenzied."
M. de Croisenois' death changed all Julien's ideas concerning
Mathilde's future. He spent several days in proving to her that she
ought to accept the hand of M. de Luz. "He is a nervous man, not too
much of a Jesuit, and will doubtless be a candidate," he said to her.
"He has a more sinister and persevering ambition than poor Croisenois,
and as there has never been a dukedom in his family, he will be only
too glad to marry Julien Sorel's widow."
"A widow, though, who scorns the grand passions," answered Mathilde
coldly, "for she has lived long enough to see her lover prefer to
her after six months another woman who was the origin of all their
unhappiness."
"You are unjust! Madame de Renal's visits will furnish my advocate
at Paris, who is endeavouring to procure my pardon, with the subject
matter for some sensational phrases; he will depict the murderer
honoured by the attention of his victim. That may produce an
impression, and perhaps some day or other, you will see me provide the
plot of some melodrama or other, etc., etc."
A furious and impotent jealousy, a prolonged and hopeless unhappiness
(for even supposing Julien was saved, how was she to win back his
heart?), coupled with her shame and anguish at loving this unfaithful
lover more than ever had plunged mademoiselle de la Mole into a gloomy
silence, from which all the careful assiduity of M. de Frilair was as
little able to draw her as the rugged frankness of Fouque.
As for Julien, except in those moments which were taken up by
Mathilde's presence, he lived on love with scarcely a thought for the
future.
"In former days," Julien said to her, "when I might have been so happy,
during our walks in the wood of Vergy, a frenzied ambition swept my
soul into the realms of imagination. Instead of pressing to my heart
that charming arm which is so near my lips, the thoughts of my future
took me away from you; I was engaged in countless combats which I
should have to sustain in order to lay the foundations of a colossal
fortune. No, I should have died without knowing what happiness was if
you had not come to see me in this prison."
Two episodes ruffled this tranquil life. Julien's confessor, Jansenist
though he was, was not proof against an intrigue of the Jesuits, and
became their tool without knowing it.
He came to tell him one day that unless he meant to fall into the awful
sin of suicide, he ought to take every possible step to procure his
pardon. Consequently, as the clergy have a great deal of influence with
the minister of Justice at Paris, an easy means presented itself; he
ought to become converted with all publicity.
"With publicity," repeated Julien. "Ha, Ha! I have caught you at it--I
have caught you as well, my father, playing a part like any missionary."
"Your youth," replied the Jansenist gravely, "the interesting
appearance which Providence has given you, the still unsolved mystery
of the motive for your crime, the heroic steps which mademoiselle de
la Mole has so freely taken on your behalf, everything, up to the
surprising affection which your victim manifests towards you, has
contributed to make you the hero of the young women of Besancon.
They have forgotten everything, even politics, on your account. Your
conversion will reverberate in their hearts and will leave behind it a
deep impression. You can be of considerable use to religion, and I was
about to hesitate for the trivial reason that in a similar circumstance
the Jesuits would follow a similar course. But if I did, even in the
one case which has escaped their greedy clutches they would still be
exercising their mischief. The tears which your conversation will
cause to be shed will annul the poisonous effect of ten editions of
Voltaire's works."
"And what will be left for me," answered Julien, coldly, "if I despise
myself? I have been ambitious; I do not mean to blame myself in any
way. Further, I have acted in accordance with the code of the age. Now
I am living from day to day. But I should make myself very unhappy
if I were to yield to what the locality would regard as a piece of
cowardice...."
Madame de Renal was responsible for the other episode which affected
Julien in quite another way. Some intriguing woman friend or other had
managed to persuade this naive and timid soul that it was her duty
to leave for St. Cloud, and go and throw herself at the feet of King
Charles X.
She had made the sacrifice of separating from Julien, and after
a strain as great as that, she no longer thought anything of the
unpleasantness of making an exhibition of herself, though in former
times she would have thought that worse than death.
"I will go to the king. I will confess freely that you are my lover.
The life of a man, and of a man like Julien, too, ought to prevail over
every consideration. I will tell him that it was because of jealousy
that you made an attempt upon my life. There are numerous instances of
poor young people who have been saved in such a case by the clemency of
the jury or of the king."
"I will leave off seeing you; I will shut myself up in my prison,"
exclaimed Julien, "and you can be quite certain that if you do not
promise me to take no step which will make a public exhibition of us
both, I will kill myself in despair the day afterwards. This idea of
going to Paris is not your own. Tell me the name of the intriguing
woman who suggested it to you.
"Let us be happy during the small number of days of this short life.
Let us hide our existence; my crime was only too self-evident.
Mademoiselle de la Mole enjoys all possible influence at Paris. Take
it from me that she has done all that is humanly possible. Here in
the provinces I have all the men of wealth and prestige against me.
Your conduct will still further aggravate those rich and essentially
moderate people to whom life comes so easy.... Let us not give the
Maslons, the Valenods, and the thousand other people who are worth more
than they, anything to laugh about."
Julien came to find the bad air of the cell unbearable. Fortunately,
nature was rejoicing in a fine sunshine on the day when they announced
to him that he would have to die, and he was in a courageous vein.
He found walking in the open air as delicious a sensation as the
navigator, who has been at sea for a long time, finds walking on the
ground. "Come on, everything is going all right," he said to himself.
"I am not lacking in courage."
His head had never looked so poetical as at that moment when it was on
the point of falling. The sweet minutes which he had formerly spent in
the woods of Vergy crowded back upon his mind with extreme force.
Everything went off simply, decorously, and without any affectation on
his part.
Two days before he had said to Fouque: "I cannot guarantee not to
show some emotion. This dense, squalid cell gives me fits of fever in
which I do not recognise myself, but fear?--no! I shall not be seen to
flinch."
He had made his arrangements in advance for Fouque to take Mathilde and
madame de Renal away on the morning of his last day.
"Drive them away in the same carriage," he had said. "Do you see that
the post-horses do not leave off galloping. They will either fall into
each other's arms, or manifest towards each other a mortal hatred.
In either case the poor women will have something to distract them a
little from their awful grief."
Julien had made madame de Renal swear that she would live to look after
Mathilde's son.
"Who knows? Perhaps we have still some sensations after our death," he
had said one day to Fouque. "I should like to rest, for rest is the
right word, in that little grotto in the great mountain which dominates
Verrieres. Many a time, as I have told you, I have spent the night
alone in that grotto, and as my gaze would plunge far and wide over the
richest provinces of France, ambition would inflame my heart. In those
days it was my passion.... Anyway, I hold that grotto dear, and one
cannot dispute that its situation might well arouse the desires of the
philosopher's soul.... Well, you know! those good priests of Besancon
will make money out of everything. If you know how to manage it, they
will sell you my mortal remains."
Fouque succeeded in this melancholy business. He was passing the night
alone in his room by his friend's body when, to his great surprise, he
saw Mathilde come in. A few hours before he had left her ten leagues
from Besancon. Her face and eyes looked distraught.
"I want to see him," she said.
Fouque had not the courage either to speak or get up. He pointed with
his finger to a big blue cloak on the floor; there was wrapped in it
all that remained of Julien.
She threw herself on her knees. The memory of Boniface de la Mole, and
of Marguerite of Navarre gave her, no doubt, a superhuman courage. Her
trembling hands undid the cloak. Fouque turned away his eyes.
He heard Mathilde walking feverishly about the room. She lit several
candles. When Fouque could bring himself to look at her, she had placed
Julien's head on a little marble table in front of her, and was kissing
it on the forehead.
Mathilde followed her lover to the tomb which he had chosen. A great
number of priests convoyed the bier, and, alone in her draped carriage,
without anyone knowing it, she carried on her knees the head of the man
whom she had loved so much.
When they arrived in this way at the most elevated peak of the high
mountains of the Jura, twenty priests celebrated the service of the
dead in the middle of the night in this little grotto, which was
magnificently illuminated by a countless number of wax candles.
Attracted by this strange and singular ceremony, all the inhabitants
of the little mountain villages which the funeral had passed through,
followed it.
Mathilde appeared in their midst in long mourning garments, and had
several thousands of five-franc pieces thrown to them at the end of the
service.
When she was left alone with Fouque, she insisted on burying her
lover's head with her own hands. Fouque nearly went mad with grief.
Mathilde took care that this wild grotto should be decorated with
marble monuments that had been sculpted in Italy at great expense.
Madame de Renal kept her promise. She did not try to make any attempt
upon her life; but she died embracing her children, three days after
Julien.
THE END.
| 2,307 | Part 2, Chapter 45 | https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-45 | Julien mentions to his buddy Fouqe that he's willing to consider a last second escape from prison. Fouqe runs off to make the arrangements. Madame de Renal comes to visit Julien one last time. She's even run away from home to see him. Mathilde hears about how often Madame is visiting Julien and she goes crazy with jealousy. Worse yet, the guy back in Paris who wants to marry Mathilde has died in a duel. There are lots of last-second plans to stop Julien's execution, but to no avail. The day quickly comes, and Julien is beheaded. It's kind of abrupt, but yeah, he's dead. The funeral procession takes Julien's body to be buried. But Fouqe manages to get a hold of Julien's body before it's buried. Mathilde visits the house and holds Julien's head in her arms, just like one of her ancestors was rumored to have done for her lover's head a hundred years earlier. Three days after Julien's death, Madame de Renal drops dead for unknown reasons. She's hugging her children at the time. Yeah, pretty grim ending for sure. | null | 183 | 1 | [
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12,915 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/12915-chapters/2.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The White Devil/section_1_part_0.txt | The White Devil.act 1.scene 2 | act 1, scene 2 | null | {"name": "Act 1, Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210510044810/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-white-devil/summary/act-1-scene-2", "summary": "The Duke of Brachiano arrives at the residence of Vittoria Corombona and her husband, Camillo. He complains to Vittoria's brother, Flamineo , telling him that he's hopelessly in love with Vittoria. Flamineo assures the Duke that Vittoria's into him too. Flamineo and Vittoria's maid, Zanche, will arrange a meeting for them late at night. He also tells the Duke that women like Vittoria aren't really shy or scared of seduction--they're just acting like it to enflame the desires of their suitors. When Brachiano worries about Vittoria's husband, Flamineo tells him that Camillo is just a wimp who can't please a woman. He also tells him that he shouldn't be overly hot to get with Vittoria--men who are in marriage always want to get out of it, even though others want to get in. Camillo approaches, as Flamineo finishes mocking him . Brachiano exits. Flamineo chats with Camillo about his marriage, and Camillo admits his been preoccupied with voyaging and doesn't remember when he last slept with her. He says he always wakes up with a \"flaw\" between him and Vittoria whenever they do have sex. Camillo admits that he knows Brachiano is trying to seduce his wife. Flamineo tries to convince him differently, reminding him of his favorable horoscope, but Camillo's not buying it. Flamineo pretends to advise him in favor of locking up his wife. Camillo thinks this is good advice, but Flamineo reveals he was kidding--that's a sure way to get cuckolded, regardless of your wife's chastity. He should let Vittoria remain at liberty. None of Flamineo's jokes about cuckoldry make Camillo less anxious, though. Flamineo tries to tell him that his jealousy is like a pair of glasses that are designed to distort appearances--you see adultery everywhere. Vittoria enters. Flamineo tells her she should be nicer to Camillo and accept his entreaties--while constantly mocking him in asides to the audience. He talks Camillo up, saying that he'll lie with Vittoria in an extremely luxurious bed and give her the philosopher's stone and so on. But, craftily, Flamineo tells Camillo not to sleep with Vittoria tonight--he needs to make her wait, so she'll be more eager. Camillo agrees, and tells Vittoria he needs to wait a night, like a silkworm, to spin a finer thread. He thinks this is a witty remark, and leaves. The maid, Zanche, prepares the cushions for Vittoria's midnight rendezvous with Brachiano. Brachiano arrives and confesses his love to Vittoria--she seems very receptive. But, all the while, Vittoria and Flamineo's mother, Cornelia, is listening in. Vittoria and Brachiano talk about exchanging jewels, in a somewhat sexually charged moment. Then, Vittoria tells Brachiano about a dream she had: in the dream, she's crying under a yew tree in a cemetery. Her husband, Camillo, and the Duke's wife, Isabella, come along and accuse her of trying to uproot the yew tree and replace it with an evil blackthorn. They try to bury her alive, but a whirlwind comes along and knocks over the yew, killing them and burying them in the grave they've been digging. Flamineo remarks aside that Vittoria is suggesting to the Duke that he murder her husband and his wife, in a veiled way.The Duke promises to \"protect\" Vittoria from them, and promises that she'll be everything to him. Cornelia steps into view and angrily accuses Vittoria and the Duke of adultery. . Vittoria plays innocent, and the Duke tries to speak, but Cornelia condemns the Duke for setting a terrible example, and curses her daughter--wishing her a short life if she betrays her husband. Vittoria feels cursed and exits. Brachiano, angry with Cornelia, leaves--but tells Flamineo to send Doctor Julio to him. Flamineo complains about how Cornelia interrupted his boss, the Duke--which reflects badly on Flamineo. Cornelia says that just because they're poor doesn't mean they need to be vicious--deceitful and murderous. Flamineo says he's just trying to get rich, to add to the fortune his dead father left him, and doesn't need any of her moral qualms. He's made of tougher stuff. Cornelia wishes she'd never given birth to him, and Flamineo wishes he'd had a prostitute for a mother so he would've had multiple presumed dads to take care of him. He tells her to go tell the cardinal about what's going on if she feels so bad. Cornelia exits. Alone, Flamineo complains that the duchess has come to court. But, he says, they need to continue their mischief--using the twisting manipulations of a snake, they'll eventually get what they want.", "analysis": ""} | SCENE II
Enter Brachiano, Camillo, Flamineo, Vittoria
Brach. Your best of rest.
Vit. Unto my lord the duke,
The best of welcome. More lights: attend the duke.
[Exeunt Camillo and Vittoria.
Brach. Flamineo.
Flam. My lord.
Brach. Quite lost, Flamineo.
Flam. Pursue your noble wishes, I am prompt
As lightning to your service. O my lord!
The fair Vittoria, my happy sister,
Shall give you present audience--Gentlemen, [Whisper.
Let the caroch go on--and 'tis his pleasure
You put out all your torches and depart.
Brach. Are we so happy?
Flam. Can it be otherwise?
Observ'd you not to-night, my honour'd lord,
Which way soe'er you went, she threw her eyes?
I have dealt already with her chambermaid,
Zanche the Moor, and she is wondrous proud
To be the agent for so high a spirit.
Brach. We are happy above thought, because 'bove merit.
Flam. 'Bove merit! we may now talk freely: 'bove merit! what is 't you
doubt? her coyness! that 's but the superficies of lust most women have;
yet why should ladies blush to hear that named, which they do not fear
to handle? Oh, they are politic; they know our desire is increased by
the difficulty of enjoying; whereas satiety is a blunt, weary, and
drowsy passion. If the buttery-hatch at court stood continually open,
there would be nothing so passionate crowding, nor hot suit after the
beverage.
Brach. Oh, but her jealous husband----
Flam. Hang him; a gilder that hath his brains perished with quicksilver
is not more cold in the liver. The great barriers moulted not more
feathers, than he hath shed hairs, by the confession of his doctor. An
Irish gamester that will play himself naked, and then wage all
downward, at hazard, is not more venturous. So unable to please a
woman, that, like a Dutch doublet, all his back is shrunk into his
breaches.
Shroud you within this closet, good my lord;
Some trick now must be thought on to divide
My brother-in-law from his fair bed-fellow.
Brach. Oh, should she fail to come----
Flam. I must not have your lordship thus unwisely amorous. I myself
have not loved a lady, and pursued her with a great deal of under-age
protestation, whom some three or four gallants that have enjoyed would
with all their hearts have been glad to have been rid of. 'Tis just
like a summer bird-cage in a garden: the birds that are without despair
to get in, and the birds that are within despair and are in a
consumption for fear they shall never get out. Away, away, my lord.
[Exit Brachiano as Camillo enters.
See here he comes. This fellow by his apparel
Some men would judge a politician;
But call his wit in question, you shall find it
Merely an ass in 's foot-cloth. How now, brother?
What, travelling to bed with your kind wife?
Cam. I assure you, brother, no. My voyage lies
More northerly, in a far colder clime.
I do not well remember, I protest,
When I last lay with her.
Flam. Strange you should lose your count.
Cam. We never lay together, but ere morning
There grew a flaw between us.
Flam. 'T had been your part
To have made up that flaw.
Cam. True, but she loathes I should be seen in 't.
Flam. Why, sir, what 's the matter?
Cam. The duke your master visits me, I thank him;
And I perceive how, like an earnest bowler,
He very passionately leans that way
he should have his bowl run.
Flam. I hope you do not think----
Cam. That nobleman bowl booty? faith, his cheek
Hath a most excellent bias: it would fain
Jump with my mistress.
Flam. Will you be an ass,
Despite your Aristotle? or a cuckold,
Contrary to your Ephemerides,
Which shows you under what a smiling planet
You were first swaddled?
Cam. Pew wew, sir; tell me not
Of planets nor of Ephemerides.
A man may be made cuckold in the day-time,
When the stars' eyes are out.
Flam. Sir, good-bye you;
I do commit you to your pitiful pillow
Stuffed with horn-shavings.
Cam. Brother!
Flam. God refuse me.
Might I advise you now, your only course
Were to lock up your wife.
Cam. 'Twere very good.
Flam. Bar her the sight of revels.
Cam. Excellent.
Flam. Let her not go to church, but, like a hound
In leon, at your heels.
Cam. 'Twere for her honour.
Flam. And so you should be certain in one fortnight,
Despite her chastity or innocence,
To be cuckolded, which yet is in suspense:
This is my counsel, and I ask no fee for 't.
Cam. Come, you know not where my nightcap wrings me.
Flam. Wear it a' th' old fashion; let your large ears come through,
it will be more easy--nay, I will be bitter--bar your wife of her
entertainment: women are more willingly and more gloriously chaste,
when they are least restrained of their liberty. It seems you would
be a fine capricious, mathematically jealous coxcomb; take the height
of your own horns with a Jacob's staff, afore they are up. These
politic enclosures for paltry mutton, makes more rebellion in the
flesh, than all the provocative electuaries doctors have uttered since
last jubilee.
Cam. This doth not physic me----
Flam. It seems you are jealous: I 'll show you the error of it by a
familiar example: I have seen a pair of spectacles fashioned with such
perspective art, that lay down but one twelve pence a' th' board,
'twill appear as if there were twenty; now should you wear a pair of
these spectacles, and see your wife tying her shoe, you would imagine
twenty hands were taking up of your wife's clothes, and this would put
you into a horrible causeless fury.
Cam. The fault there, sir, is not in the eyesight.
Flam. True, but they that have the yellow jaundice think all objects
they look on to be yellow. Jealousy is worse; her fits present to a
man, like so many bubbles in a basin of water, twenty several crabbed
faces, many times makes his own shadow his cuckold-maker. [Enter
Vittoria Corombona.] See, she comes; what reason have you to be
jealous of this creature? what an ignorant ass or flattering knave
might be counted, that should write sonnets to her eyes, or call her
brow the snow of Ida, or ivory of Corinth; or compare her hair to the
blackbird's bill, when 'tis liker the blackbird's feather? This is
all. Be wise; I will make you friends, and you shall go to bed
together. Marry, look you, it shall not be your seeking. Do you stand
upon that, by any means: walk you aloof; I would not have you seen
in 't.--Sister [my lord attend you in the banqueting-house,] your
husband is wondrous discontented.
Vit. I did nothing to displease him; I carved to him at supper-time.
Flam. [You need not have carved him, in faith; they say he is a capon
already. I must now seemingly fall out with you.] Shall a gentleman
so well descended as Camillo [a lousy slave, that within this twenty
years rode with the black guard in the duke's carriage, 'mongst spits
and dripping-pans!]--
Cam. Now he begins to tickle her.
Flam. An excellent scholar [one that hath a head fill'd with calves'
brains without any sage in them,] come crouching in the hams to you for
a night's lodging? [that hath an itch in 's hams, which like the fire
at the glass-house hath not gone out this seven years] Is he not a
courtly gentleman? [when he wears white satin, one would take him by
his black muzzle to be no other creature than a maggot] You are a
goodly foil, I confess, well set out [but cover'd with a false stone--
yon counterfeit diamond].
Cam. He will make her know what is in me.
Flam. Come, my lord attends you; thou shalt go to bed to my lord.
Cam. Now he comes to 't.
Flam. [With a relish as curious as a vintner going to taste new wine.]
[To Camillo.] I am opening your case hard.
Cam. A virtuous brother, o' my credit!
Flam. He will give thee a ring with a philosopher's stone in it.
Cam. Indeed, I am studying alchemy.
Flam. Thou shalt lie in a bed stuffed with turtle's feathers; swoon in
perfumed linen, like the fellow was smothered in roses. So perfect
shall be thy happiness, that as men at sea think land, and trees, and
ships, go that way they go; so both heaven and earth shall seem to go
your voyage. Shalt meet him; 'tis fix'd, with nails of diamonds to
inevitable necessity.
Vit. How shalt rid him hence?
Flam. [I will put brize in 's tail, set him gadding presently.] I have
almost wrought her to it; I find her coming: but, might I advise you
now, for this night I would not lie with her, I would cross her humour
to make her more humble.
Cam. Shall I, shall I?
Flam. It will show in you a supremacy of judgment.
Cam. True, and a mind differing from the tumultuary opinion; for, quae
negata, grata.
Flam. Right: you are the adamant shall draw her to you, though you keep
distance off.
Cam. A philosophical reason.
Flam. Walk by her a' th' nobleman's fashion, and tell her you will lie
with her at the end of the progress.
Cam. Vittoria, I cannot be induc'd, or as a man would say, incited----
Vit. To do what, sir?
Cam. To lie with you to-night. Your silkworm used to fast every third
day, and the next following spins the better. To-morrow at night, I am
for you.
Vit. You 'll spin a fair thread, trust to 't.
Flam. But do you hear, I shall have you steal to her chamber about
midnight.
Cam. Do you think so? why look you, brother, because you shall not say
I 'll gull you, take the key, lock me into the chamber, and say you
shall be sure of me.
Flam. In troth I will; I 'll be your jailor once.
Cam. A pox on 't, as I am a Christian! tell me to-morrow how scurvily
she takes my unkind parting.
Flam. I will.
Cam. Didst thou not mark the jest of the silkworm?
Good-night; in faith, I will use this trick often.
Flam. Do, do, do. [Exit Camillo.
So, now you are safe. Ha, ha, ha, thou entanglest thyself in thine own
work like a silkworm. [Enter Brachiano.] Come, sister, darkness hides
your blush. Women are like cursed dogs: civility keeps them tied all
daytime, but they are let loose at midnight; then they do most good, or
most mischief. My lord, my lord!
Zanche brings out a carpet, spreads it, and lays on it two fair cushions.
Enter Cornelia listening, but unperceived.
Brach. Give credit: I could wish time would stand still,
And never end this interview, this hour;
But all delight doth itself soon'st devour.
Let me into your bosom, happy lady,
Pour out, instead of eloquence, my vows.
Loose me not, madam, for if you forgo me,
I am lost eternally.
Vit. Sir, in the way of pity,
I wish you heart-whole.
Brach. You are a sweet physician.
Vit. Sure, sir, a loathed cruelty in ladies
Is as to doctors many funerals:
It takes away their credit.
Brach. Excellent creature!
We call the cruel fair; what name for you
That are so merciful?
Zan. See now they close.
Flam. Most happy union.
Corn. [Aside.] My fears are fall'n upon me: oh, my heart!
My son the pander! now I find our house
Sinking to ruin. Earthquakes leave behind,
Where they have tyranniz'd, iron, or lead, or stone;
But woe to ruin, violent lust leaves none.
Brach. What value is this jewel?
Vit. 'Tis the ornament of a weak fortune.
Brach. In sooth, I 'll have it; nay, I will but change
My jewel for your jewel.
Flam. Excellent;
His jewel for her jewel: well put in, duke.
Brach. Nay, let me see you wear it.
Vit. Here, sir?
Brach. Nay, lower, you shall wear my jewel lower.
Flam. That 's better: she must wear his jewel lower.
Vit. To pass away the time, I 'll tell your grace
A dream I had last night.
Brach. Most wishedly.
Vit. A foolish idle dream:
Methought I walked about the mid of night
Into a churchyard, where a goodly yew-tree
Spread her large root in ground: under that yew,
As I sat sadly leaning on a grave,
Chequer'd with cross-sticks, there came stealing in
Your duchess and my husband; one of them
A pickaxe bore, th' other a rusty spade,
And in rough terms they 'gan to challenge me
About this yew.
Brach. That tree?
Vit. This harmless yew;
They told me my intent was to root up
That well-grown yew, and plant i' the stead of it
A wither'd blackthorn; and for that they vow'd
To bury me alive. My husband straight
With pickaxe 'gan to dig, and your fell duchess
With shovel, like a fury, voided out
The earth and scatter'd bones: Lord, how methought
I could not pray.
Flam. No; the devil was in your dream.
Vit. When to my rescue there arose, methought,
A whirlwind, which let fall a massy arm
From that strong plant;
And both were struck dead by that sacred yew,
In that base shallow grave that was their due.
Flam. Excellent devil!
She hath taught him in a dream
To make away his duchess and her husband.
Brach. Sweetly shall I interpret this your dream.
You are lodg'd within his arms who shall protect you
From all the fevers of a jealous husband,
From the poor envy of our phlegmatic duchess.
I 'll seat you above law, and above scandal;
Give to your thoughts the invention of delight,
And the fruition; nor shall government
Divide me from you longer, than a care
To keep you great: you shall to me at once
Be dukedom, health, wife, children, friends, and all.
Corn. [Advancing.] Woe to light hearts, they still forerun our fall!
Flam. What fury raised thee up? away, away. [Exit Zanche.
Corn. What make you here, my lord, this dead of night?
Never dropp'd mildew on a flower here till now.
Flam. I pray, will you go to bed then,
Lest you be blasted?
Corn. O that this fair garden
Had with all poison'd herbs of Thessaly
At first been planted; made a nursery
For witchcraft, rather than a burial plot
For both your honours!
Vit. Dearest mother, hear me.
Corn. O, thou dost make my brow bend to the earth.
Sooner than nature! See the curse of children!
In life they keep us frequently in tears;
And in the cold grave leave us in pale fears.
Brach. Come, come, I will not hear you.
Vit. Dear my lord.
Corn. Where is thy duchess now, adulterous duke?
Thou little dream'st this night she 's come to Rome.
Flam. How! come to Rome!
Vit. The duchess!
Brach. She had been better----
Corn. The lives of princes should like dials move,
Whose regular example is so strong,
They make the times by them go right, or wrong.
Flam. So, have you done?
Corn. Unfortunate Camillo!
Vit. I do protest, if any chaste denial,
If anything but blood could have allay'd
His long suit to me----
Corn. I will join with thee,
To the most woeful end e'er mother kneel'd:
If thou dishonour thus thy husband's bed,
Be thy life short as are the funeral tears
In great men's----
Brach. Fie, fie, the woman's mad.
Corn. Be thy act Judas-like; betray in kissing:
May'st thou be envied during his short breath,
And pitied like a wretch after his death!
Vit. O me accurs'd! [Exit.
Flam. Are you out of your wits? my lord,
I 'll fetch her back again.
Brach. No, I 'll to bed:
Send Doctor Julio to me presently.
Uncharitable woman! thy rash tongue
Hath rais'd a fearful and prodigious storm:
Be thou the cause of all ensuing harm. [Exit.
Flam. Now, you that stand so much upon your honour,
Is this a fitting time a' night, think you,
To send a duke home without e'er a man?
I would fain know where lies the mass of wealth
Which you have hoarded for my maintenance,
That I may bear my bear out of the level
Of my lord's stirrup.
Corn. What! because we are poor
Shall we be vicious?
Flam. Pray, what means have you
To keep me from the galleys, or the gallows?
My father prov'd himself a gentleman,
Sold all 's land, and, like a fortunate fellow,
Died ere the money was spent. You brought me up
At Padua, I confess, where I protest,
For want of means--the University judge me--
I have been fain to heel my tutor's stockings,
At least seven years; conspiring with a beard,
Made me a graduate; then to this duke's service,
I visited the court, whence I return'd
More courteous, more lecherous by far,
But not a suit the richer. And shall I,
Having a path so open, and so free
To my preferment, still retain your milk
In my pale forehead? No, this face of mine
I 'll arm, and fortify with lusty wine,
'Gainst shame and blushing.
Corn. O that I ne'er had borne thee!
Flam. So would I;
I would the common'st courtesan in Rome
Had been my mother, rather than thyself.
Nature is very pitiful to whores,
To give them but few children, yet those children
Plurality of fathers; they are sure
They shall not want. Go, go,
Complain unto my great lord cardinal;
It may be he will justify the act.
Lycurgus wonder'd much, men would provide
Good stallions for their mares, and yet would suffer
Their fair wives to be barren.
Corn. Misery of miseries! [Exit.
Flam. The duchess come to court! I like not that.
We are engag'd to mischief, and must on;
As rivers to find out the ocean
Flow with crook bendings beneath forced banks,
Or as we see, to aspire some mountain's top,
The way ascends not straight, but imitates
The subtle foldings of a winter's snake,
So who knows policy and her true aspect,
Shall find her ways winding and indirect.
| 3,739 | Act 1, Scene 2 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210510044810/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-white-devil/summary/act-1-scene-2 | The Duke of Brachiano arrives at the residence of Vittoria Corombona and her husband, Camillo. He complains to Vittoria's brother, Flamineo , telling him that he's hopelessly in love with Vittoria. Flamineo assures the Duke that Vittoria's into him too. Flamineo and Vittoria's maid, Zanche, will arrange a meeting for them late at night. He also tells the Duke that women like Vittoria aren't really shy or scared of seduction--they're just acting like it to enflame the desires of their suitors. When Brachiano worries about Vittoria's husband, Flamineo tells him that Camillo is just a wimp who can't please a woman. He also tells him that he shouldn't be overly hot to get with Vittoria--men who are in marriage always want to get out of it, even though others want to get in. Camillo approaches, as Flamineo finishes mocking him . Brachiano exits. Flamineo chats with Camillo about his marriage, and Camillo admits his been preoccupied with voyaging and doesn't remember when he last slept with her. He says he always wakes up with a "flaw" between him and Vittoria whenever they do have sex. Camillo admits that he knows Brachiano is trying to seduce his wife. Flamineo tries to convince him differently, reminding him of his favorable horoscope, but Camillo's not buying it. Flamineo pretends to advise him in favor of locking up his wife. Camillo thinks this is good advice, but Flamineo reveals he was kidding--that's a sure way to get cuckolded, regardless of your wife's chastity. He should let Vittoria remain at liberty. None of Flamineo's jokes about cuckoldry make Camillo less anxious, though. Flamineo tries to tell him that his jealousy is like a pair of glasses that are designed to distort appearances--you see adultery everywhere. Vittoria enters. Flamineo tells her she should be nicer to Camillo and accept his entreaties--while constantly mocking him in asides to the audience. He talks Camillo up, saying that he'll lie with Vittoria in an extremely luxurious bed and give her the philosopher's stone and so on. But, craftily, Flamineo tells Camillo not to sleep with Vittoria tonight--he needs to make her wait, so she'll be more eager. Camillo agrees, and tells Vittoria he needs to wait a night, like a silkworm, to spin a finer thread. He thinks this is a witty remark, and leaves. The maid, Zanche, prepares the cushions for Vittoria's midnight rendezvous with Brachiano. Brachiano arrives and confesses his love to Vittoria--she seems very receptive. But, all the while, Vittoria and Flamineo's mother, Cornelia, is listening in. Vittoria and Brachiano talk about exchanging jewels, in a somewhat sexually charged moment. Then, Vittoria tells Brachiano about a dream she had: in the dream, she's crying under a yew tree in a cemetery. Her husband, Camillo, and the Duke's wife, Isabella, come along and accuse her of trying to uproot the yew tree and replace it with an evil blackthorn. They try to bury her alive, but a whirlwind comes along and knocks over the yew, killing them and burying them in the grave they've been digging. Flamineo remarks aside that Vittoria is suggesting to the Duke that he murder her husband and his wife, in a veiled way.The Duke promises to "protect" Vittoria from them, and promises that she'll be everything to him. Cornelia steps into view and angrily accuses Vittoria and the Duke of adultery. . Vittoria plays innocent, and the Duke tries to speak, but Cornelia condemns the Duke for setting a terrible example, and curses her daughter--wishing her a short life if she betrays her husband. Vittoria feels cursed and exits. Brachiano, angry with Cornelia, leaves--but tells Flamineo to send Doctor Julio to him. Flamineo complains about how Cornelia interrupted his boss, the Duke--which reflects badly on Flamineo. Cornelia says that just because they're poor doesn't mean they need to be vicious--deceitful and murderous. Flamineo says he's just trying to get rich, to add to the fortune his dead father left him, and doesn't need any of her moral qualms. He's made of tougher stuff. Cornelia wishes she'd never given birth to him, and Flamineo wishes he'd had a prostitute for a mother so he would've had multiple presumed dads to take care of him. He tells her to go tell the cardinal about what's going on if she feels so bad. Cornelia exits. Alone, Flamineo complains that the duchess has come to court. But, he says, they need to continue their mischief--using the twisting manipulations of a snake, they'll eventually get what they want. | null | 751 | 1 | [
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23,042 | false | cliffnotes | all_chapterized_books/23042-chapters/10.txt | finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Tempest/section_9_part_0.txt | The Tempest.act 5 | epilogue | null | {"name": "Epilogue", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219151049/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/the-tempest/summary-and-analysis/act-v-epilogue", "summary": "Prospero, who is now alone on stage, requests that the audience free him. He states that he has thrown away his magic and pardoned those who have injured him. Now he requires that the audience release him from the island, which has been his prison so that he might return to Naples. The audience's applause will be the signal that he is freed. Prospero indicates that his forgiveness of his former enemies is what all men crave. With the audience's applause, Prospero leaves the stage.", "analysis": "The Epilogue is often used to tie up loose ends and clarify any issues that remain unresolved. However, this epilogue does not provide the answers that the audience might expect. For instance, the audience never learns what is to become of Caliban or what will happen to Antonio and Sebastian. Few scholars ponder such questions. Instead, there has been a great deal of speculation on whether Prospero's farewell to magic is intended to announce Shakespeare's retirement from the stage. When Prospero asks the audience to free him from his imprisonment, is it instead the voice of Shakespeare asking the audience to free him from his craft? Certainly, there are parallels between Prospero and Shakespeare to consider. Both are manipulators; Prospero manipulates everyone on the island, and Shakespeare manipulates the characters he creates and the plots he devises. Both create entertainment, Prospero the masque and Shakespeare his plays, and both are intent on retiring. It is easy to look at Prospero's words and imagine Shakespeare mouthing them as he retires from the stage. But such parallels do not necessarily reveal how the author was, could be, or wants to be. The words on the page, or now spoken before an audience, do not tell the author's intentions or tone. To attribute Prospero's words to Shakespeare's own life may be a fallacy. After the completion of Prospero's story, Shakespeare did continue to write, composing parts of three more plays. It would be unwise to focus solely on The Tempest as somehow representative of Shakespeare's farewell to the stage and thus overlook the many other important strengths of the play."} | EPILOGUE.
SPOKEN BY PROSPERO.
Now my charms are all o'erthrown,
And what strength I have's mine own,
Which is most faint: now, 'tis true,
I must be here confined by you,
Or sent to Naples. Let me not, 5
Since I have my dukedom got,
And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell
In this bare island by your spell;
But release me from my bands
With the help of your good hands: 10
Gentle breath of yours my sails
Must fill, or else my project fails,
Which was to please. Now I want
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant;
And my ending is despair, 15
Unless I be relieved by prayer,
Which pierces so, that it assaults
Mercy itself, and frees all faults.
As you from crimes would pardon'd be,
Let your indulgence set me free. 20
Notes: Epilogue.
EPILOGUE ... PROSPERO.] advancing, Capell.]
1: _Now_] _Now, now_ F3 F4.
3: _now_] _and now_ Pope.
13: _Now_] _For now_ Pope.
NOTES.
NOTE I.
I. 1. 15. _What cares these roarers._ This grammatical inaccuracy, which
escaped correction in the later folios, probably came from Shakespeare's
pen. Similar cases occur frequently, especially when the verb precedes
its nominative. For example, _Tempest_, IV. 1. 262, 'Lies at my mercy
all mine enemies,' and _Measure for Measure_, II. 1. 22, 'What knows the
laws, &c.' We correct it in those passages where the occurrence of a
vulgarism would be likely to annoy the reader. In the mouth of a
Boatswain it can offend no one. We therefore leave it.
NOTE II.
I. 1. 57-59. _Mercy on us!--we split, &c._ It may be doubtful whether
the printer of the first folio intended these broken speeches to express
'a confused noise within.' Without question such was the author's
meaning. Rowe, however, and subsequent editors, printed them as part of
Gonzalo's speech. Capell was the first editor who gave the true
arrangement.
NOTE III.
I. 2. 173. _princesses._ See Mr Sidney Walker's _Shakespeare's
Versification_, p. 243 sqq. 'The plurals of substantives ending in _s_,
in certain instances, in _se_, _ss_, _ce_, and sometimes _ge_, ... are
found without the usual addition of _s_ or _es_, in pronunciation at
least, although in many instances the plural affix is added in printing,
where the metre shows that it is not to be pronounced.'
In this and other instances, we have thought it better to trust to the
ear of the reader for the rhythm than to introduce an innovation in
orthography which might perplex him as to the sense. The form
'princesses,' the use of which in Shakespeare's time was doubted by one
of our correspondents, is found in the _History of King Leir_.
Rowe's reading 'princes' might be defended on the ground that the
sentiment is general, and applicable to royal children of both sexes; or
that Sir Philip Sidney, in the first book of the _Arcadia_, calls Pamela
and Philoclea 'princes.'
NOTE IV.
I. 2. 298. The metre of this line, as well as of lines 301, 302, is
defective, but as no mode of correction can be regarded as completely
satisfactory we have in accordance with our custom left the lines as
they are printed in the Folio. The defect, indeed, in the metre of line
298 has not been noticed except by Hanmer, who makes a line thus:
'Do so, and after two days I'll discharge thee.'
Possibly it ought to be printed thus:
'Do so; and
After two days
I will discharge thee.'
There is a broken line, also of four syllables, 253 of the same scene,
another of seven, 235.
There is no reason to doubt that the _words_ are as Shakespeare wrote
them, for, although the action of the play terminates in less than four
hours (I. 2. 240 and V. 1. 186), yet Ariel's ministry is not to end till
the voyage to Naples shall be over. Prospero, too, repeats his promise,
and marks his contentment by further shortening the time of servitude,
'within two days,' I. 2. 420. Possibly 'Invisible' (301) should have a
line to itself. Words thus occupying a broken line acquire a marked
emphasis.
But the truth is that in dialogue Shakespeare's language passes so
rapidly from verse to prose and from prose to verse, sometimes even
hovering, as it were, over the confines, being rhythmical rather than
metrical, that all attempts to give regularity to the metre must be made
with diffidence and received with doubt.
NOTE V.
I. 2. 377, 378:
_Courtsied when you have and kiss'd_
_The wild waves whist._
This punctuation seems to be supported by what Ferdinand says (391,
392):
'The music crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury and my passion, &c.'
At the end of the stanza we have printed _Hark, hark! ... The watch-dogs
bark_ as that part of the burthen which 'sweet sprites bear.' The other
part is borne by distant watch-dogs.
NOTE VI.
I. 2. 443. _I fear you have done yourself some wrong._ See this phrase
used in a similar sense, _Measure for Measure_, I. 11. 39.
NOTE VII.
II. 1. 27. _Which, of he or Adrian._ 'Of' is found in the same
construction, _Midsummer Night's Dream_, III. 2. 336,
'Now follow if thou darest to try whose right,
Of thine or mine, is most in Helena.'
NOTE VIII.
II. 1. 157. _Of its own kind._ There is no doubt, as Dr Guest has shewn,
that 'it,' which is the reading of the 1st and 2nd folios, was commonly
used as a genitive in Shakespeare's time, as it is still in some
provincial dialects. 'Its,' however, was coming into use. One instance
occurs in this play, I. 11. 95, 'in its contrary.'
NOTE IX.
II. 1. 241. _she that from whom._ Mr Spedding writes: 'The received
emendation is not satisfactory to me. I would rather read, "She
that--From whom? All were sea-swallow'd &c., i.e. from whom should she
have note? The report from Naples will be that all were drowned. We
shall be the only survivors." The break in the construction seems to me
characteristic of the speaker. But you must read the whole speech to
feel the effect.'
NOTE X.
II. 1. 249-251. All editors except Mr Staunton have printed in italics
(or between inverted commas) only as far as '_Naples?_', but as '_keep_'
is printed with a small k in the folios, they seem to sanction the
arrangement given in our text.
NOTE XI.
II. 1. 267. _Ay, sir; where lies that? if 'twere a kibe._ Mr Singer and
Mr Dyce have changed ''twere' to 'it were' for the sake of the metre.
But then the first part of the line must be read with a wrong emphasis.
The proper emphasis clearly falls on the first, third, and fifth
syllables, 'AY, sir; WHERE lies THAT?' See Preface.
NOTE XII.
II. 2. 165. Before 'here; bear my bottle' Capell inserts a stage
direction [_To Cal._], but it appears from III. 2. 62, that Trinculo was
entrusted with the office of bottle-bearer.
NOTE XIII.
III. 1. 15. _Most busy lest, when I do it._ As none of the proposed
emendations can be regarded as certain, we have left the reading of F1,
though it is manifestly corrupt. The spelling 'doe' makes Mr Spedding's
conjecture 'idlest' for 'I doe it' more probable.
NOTE XIV.
III. 3. 17. The stage direction, which we have divided into two parts,
is placed all at once in the folios after 'as when they are fresh'
[Solemne and strange Musicke; and Prosper on the top (invisible:) Enter
... depart].
Pope transferred it to follow Sebastian's words, 'I say, to night: no
more.'
NOTE XV.
III. 3. 48. _Each putter out of five for one._ See Beaumont and
Fletcher, _The Noble Gentleman_, I. 1. (Vol. II. p. 261, ed. Moxon):
'The return will give you five for one.' MARINE is about to travel.
NOTE XVI.
IV. 1. 146. _You do look, my son, in a moved sort._ Seymour suggests a
transposition: 'you do, my son, look in a moved sort.' This line however
can scarcely have come from Shakespeare's pen. Perhaps the writer who
composed the Masque was allowed to join it, as best he might, to
Shakespeare's words, which re-commence at 'Our revels now are ended,'
&c.
NOTE XVII.
IV. 1. 230. _Let's alone._ See Staunton's "Shakespeare," Vol. I. p. 81,
note (b).
NOTE XVIII.
V. 1. 309. _Of these our dear-beloved solemnized._ The Folios have
'belov'd'; a mode of spelling, which in this case is convenient as
indicating the probable rhythm of the verse. We have written 'beloved,'
in accordance with the general rule mentioned in the Preface.
'Solemnized' occurs in four other verse passages of Shakespeare. It is
three times to be accented 'SOlemnized' and once (_Love's Labour's
Lost_, II. 1. 41) 'soLEMnized.'
* * * * *
* * * *
* * * * *
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
Dryden:
"_The Tempest_ was altered by Dryden and D'Avenant, and published
as _The Tempest; or the Enchanted Island_, in 1669. We mark the
emendations derived from it: 'Dryden's version.'"
Errors and inconsistencies:
_Re-enter Boatswain._
[printed BOATSWAIN in small capitals]
_Enter _Ariel_._
[printed "Ariel" in lower case]
Where my son lies. When did you lose you daughter?
[Text unchanged: error for "your"?]
[Text-critical notes]
I. 2. 135: _to 't_] om. Steevens (Farmer conj.).
[Here and elsewhere in the volume, body text has unspaced "to't"
while line notes have spaced "to 't".]
I. 2. 202: _o' the_] _of_ Pope.
[Text unchanged: body text is capitalized "O' the"]
II. 1. 88: _Ay._] I. Ff. _Ay?_ Pope.
[Text unchanged: apparent error for italic _I._]
III. 3. 17: Prospero above]
[Text unchanged: stage direction is after l. 19]
[Endnotes]
I: I. 1. 15. [I. 1. 16]
V: 377, 378. [376-377]
XVI: IV. 1. 146 [IV. 1. 147]
| 2,009 | Epilogue | https://web.archive.org/web/20201219151049/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/the-tempest/summary-and-analysis/act-v-epilogue | Prospero, who is now alone on stage, requests that the audience free him. He states that he has thrown away his magic and pardoned those who have injured him. Now he requires that the audience release him from the island, which has been his prison so that he might return to Naples. The audience's applause will be the signal that he is freed. Prospero indicates that his forgiveness of his former enemies is what all men crave. With the audience's applause, Prospero leaves the stage. | The Epilogue is often used to tie up loose ends and clarify any issues that remain unresolved. However, this epilogue does not provide the answers that the audience might expect. For instance, the audience never learns what is to become of Caliban or what will happen to Antonio and Sebastian. Few scholars ponder such questions. Instead, there has been a great deal of speculation on whether Prospero's farewell to magic is intended to announce Shakespeare's retirement from the stage. When Prospero asks the audience to free him from his imprisonment, is it instead the voice of Shakespeare asking the audience to free him from his craft? Certainly, there are parallels between Prospero and Shakespeare to consider. Both are manipulators; Prospero manipulates everyone on the island, and Shakespeare manipulates the characters he creates and the plots he devises. Both create entertainment, Prospero the masque and Shakespeare his plays, and both are intent on retiring. It is easy to look at Prospero's words and imagine Shakespeare mouthing them as he retires from the stage. But such parallels do not necessarily reveal how the author was, could be, or wants to be. The words on the page, or now spoken before an audience, do not tell the author's intentions or tone. To attribute Prospero's words to Shakespeare's own life may be a fallacy. After the completion of Prospero's story, Shakespeare did continue to write, composing parts of three more plays. It would be unwise to focus solely on The Tempest as somehow representative of Shakespeare's farewell to the stage and thus overlook the many other important strengths of the play. | 85 | 267 | [
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107 | false | cliffnotes | all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/42.txt | finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_41_part_0.txt | Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 42 | chapter 42 | null | {"name": "Chapter 42", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-42", "summary": "The workhouse had a small rear door three or four feet from the ground. Here, at about three o'clock, a bright wagon containing flowers drew up. Joseph Poorgrass backed the wagon to the door, and a plain coffin was lifted into it. A man wrote on the coffin with chalk, then covered it with a worn black cloth, and someone handed Joseph a certificate. He placed the flowers over the coffin and drove off. A heavy mist was falling, and gray gloom and quiet enveloped the wagon. Passing through Roy-Town, Joseph came to Buck's Head Inn, a mile and a half from his destination. With great relief, he stopped at the inn. There, to his delight, were \"two coppercoloured discs, in the form of the countenances of Mr. Jan Coggan and Mr. Mark Clark. These owners of the most appreciative throats in the neighborhood, within the pale of respectability,\" hailed him as he entered. Joseph explained that his peaked look was caused by the load he was driving. They drank, and drank again. Joseph said he had to be at the churchyard at a quarter to five, but the men went on discussing life, death, and theology. Poorgrass grew less concerned with time. As the clock struck six, Oak arrived. He reproved the men, but, with drunken logic, Coggan explained that all the hurrying in the world couldn't help a dead woman. Joseph was now singing. He denied being drunk but said his malady of a \"multiplying eye\" had caught up with him. Oak drove the wagon back, reflecting on the rumor that Fanny had run away to follow a soldier. Due to Oak's and Boldwood's tact, Troy had not been identified as the man, and Oak hoped the secret would be kept. When Gabriel reached Bathsheba's house, it was too late for the burial, and so Bathsheba ordered the coffin brought into the house, for to leave it in the coach-house seemed unfeeling. Troy had not yet returned. Oak and three other men carried the coffin in, Gabriel lingered on alone, overcome by the irony of it all, and looked again at the writing on the lid. The scrawl said simply, \"Fanny Robin and child.\" He took his handkerchief and carefully rubbed out the last two words, leaving visible only the inscription \"Fanny Robin.\"", "analysis": "Even in death it seems that there can be no rest for Fanny. In her coffin, she still travels the roads of Wessex. Appropriately, it is Oak who comes to her aid in death, just as he once did in life; and, finally, her body is given lodging within a house. Though their behavior seems rather callous, the men at the inn are merely accepting Fanny's death as the will of Nature. These people, instinctively close to Nature, accept the results of her actions without question."} |
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.
| 3,871 | Chapter 42 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-42 | The workhouse had a small rear door three or four feet from the ground. Here, at about three o'clock, a bright wagon containing flowers drew up. Joseph Poorgrass backed the wagon to the door, and a plain coffin was lifted into it. A man wrote on the coffin with chalk, then covered it with a worn black cloth, and someone handed Joseph a certificate. He placed the flowers over the coffin and drove off. A heavy mist was falling, and gray gloom and quiet enveloped the wagon. Passing through Roy-Town, Joseph came to Buck's Head Inn, a mile and a half from his destination. With great relief, he stopped at the inn. There, to his delight, were "two coppercoloured discs, in the form of the countenances of Mr. Jan Coggan and Mr. Mark Clark. These owners of the most appreciative throats in the neighborhood, within the pale of respectability," hailed him as he entered. Joseph explained that his peaked look was caused by the load he was driving. They drank, and drank again. Joseph said he had to be at the churchyard at a quarter to five, but the men went on discussing life, death, and theology. Poorgrass grew less concerned with time. As the clock struck six, Oak arrived. He reproved the men, but, with drunken logic, Coggan explained that all the hurrying in the world couldn't help a dead woman. Joseph was now singing. He denied being drunk but said his malady of a "multiplying eye" had caught up with him. Oak drove the wagon back, reflecting on the rumor that Fanny had run away to follow a soldier. Due to Oak's and Boldwood's tact, Troy had not been identified as the man, and Oak hoped the secret would be kept. When Gabriel reached Bathsheba's house, it was too late for the burial, and so Bathsheba ordered the coffin brought into the house, for to leave it in the coach-house seemed unfeeling. Troy had not yet returned. Oak and three other men carried the coffin in, Gabriel lingered on alone, overcome by the irony of it all, and looked again at the writing on the lid. The scrawl said simply, "Fanny Robin and child." He took his handkerchief and carefully rubbed out the last two words, leaving visible only the inscription "Fanny Robin." | Even in death it seems that there can be no rest for Fanny. In her coffin, she still travels the roads of Wessex. Appropriately, it is Oak who comes to her aid in death, just as he once did in life; and, finally, her body is given lodging within a house. Though their behavior seems rather callous, the men at the inn are merely accepting Fanny's death as the will of Nature. These people, instinctively close to Nature, accept the results of her actions without question. | 385 | 87 | [
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110 | false | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/05.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_0_part_5.txt | Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 5 | chapter 5 | null | {"name": "Chapter 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-1-chapters-1-11", "summary": "Distress looms in the distance because of the death of the horse. Joan Durbeyfield tells Tess about Mrs. d'Urberville living on the outskirts of The Chase, and tells Tess that she must go and claim kinship and ask for help. Tess is deferential, but she cannot understand why her mother should find such satisfaction in contemplating this enterprise. She suggesting getting work, but finally agrees to go. Tess leaves for The Chase, where she finds the home of the Stoke-d'Urbervilles, as they are now called. A young man with an almost swarthy complexion answers the door, and claims to be Alec d'Urberville. He does not allow Tess to see his mother, for she is an invalid, but she tells him that she is a poor relation. Alec shows her the estate, and he promises that his mother will find a berth for her. He tells her not to bother with the Durbeyfield name, but she says she wishes for no better. Alec prepares to kiss her, but lets her go. Tess perceives nothing, but if she had she might have asked why she was doomed to be seen and coveted that day by the wrong man.", "analysis": "The death of the Durbeyfield's horse is the event that motivates Tess to visit the d'Urbervilles and beg them for financial assistance. By going to claim kinship with the d'Urbervilles, Tess is in fact sent to find a husband; behind her mother's request is the assumption that Tess will marry a gentleman who will provide for the Durbeyfields. It is this aspect of the visit to the d'Urbervilles that disturbs Tess most, highlighting her particular sexual innocence. This introduces the theme of sexuality and innocence that will continue throughout the novel; at this point in the novel Tess represents a particular sexual innocence. She is unaware of her own sexuality and thus cannot perceive the danger that Alec d'Urberville presents to her. From his introduction in the novel, Alec d'Urberville represents a sexuality that contrasts with Tess Durbeyfield's innocence. However, as important as his sexuality is the danger inherent in his sensuality. His early attempt to seduce Tess only serves to foreshadow later, more serious attempts to infringe on his cousin's innocence. Hardy even explicitly notes the danger that Alec d'Urberville poses to Tess. The narrative thrust of the novel will concern Tess's reaction to the dangers that Alec poses for her"} |
The haggling business, which had mainly depended on the horse, became
disorganized forthwith. Distress, if not penury, loomed in the
distance. Durbeyfield was what was locally called a slack-twisted
fellow; he had good strength to work at times; but the times could
not be relied on to coincide with the hours of requirement; and,
having been unaccustomed to the regular toil of the day-labourer,
he was not particularly persistent when they did so coincide.
Tess, meanwhile, as the one who had dragged her parents into this
quagmire, was silently wondering what she could do to help them out
of it; and then her mother broached her scheme.
"We must take the ups wi' the downs, Tess," said she; "and never
could your high blood have been found out at a more called-for
moment. You must try your friends. Do ye know that there is a very
rich Mrs d'Urberville living on the outskirts o' The Chase, who must
be our relation? You must go to her and claim kin, and ask for some
help in our trouble."
"I shouldn't care to do that," says Tess. "If there is such a lady,
'twould be enough for us if she were friendly--not to expect her to
give us help."
"You could win her round to do anything, my dear. Besides, perhaps
there's more in it than you know of. I've heard what I've heard,
good-now."
The oppressive sense of the harm she had done led Tess to be more
deferential than she might otherwise have been to the maternal
wish; but she could not understand why her mother should find such
satisfaction in contemplating an enterprise of, to her, such doubtful
profit. Her mother might have made inquiries, and have discovered
that this Mrs d'Urberville was a lady of unequalled virtues and
charity. But Tess's pride made the part of poor relation one of
particular distaste to her.
"I'd rather try to get work," she murmured.
"Durbeyfield, you can settle it," said his wife, turning to where he
sat in the background. "If you say she ought to go, she will go."
"I don't like my children going and making themselves beholden to
strange kin," murmured he. "I'm the head of the noblest branch o'
the family, and I ought to live up to it."
His reasons for staying away were worse to Tess than her own
objections to going. "Well, as I killed the horse, mother," she said
mournfully, "I suppose I ought to do something. I don't mind going
and seeing her, but you must leave it to me about asking for help.
And don't go thinking about her making a match for me--it is silly."
"Very well said, Tess!" observed her father sententiously.
"Who said I had such a thought?" asked Joan.
"I fancy it is in your mind, mother. But I'll go."
Rising early next day she walked to the hill-town called Shaston,
and there took advantage of a van which twice in the week ran from
Shaston eastward to Chaseborough, passing near Trantridge, the parish
in which the vague and mysterious Mrs d'Urberville had her residence.
Tess Durbeyfield's route on this memorable morning lay amid the
north-eastern undulations of the Vale in which she had been born, and
in which her life had unfolded. The Vale of Blackmoor was to her the
world, and its inhabitants the races thereof. From the gates and
stiles of Marlott she had looked down its length in the wondering
days of infancy, and what had been mystery to her then was not
much less than mystery to her now. She had seen daily from her
chamber-window towers, villages, faint white mansions; above all,
the town of Shaston standing majestically on its height; its windows
shining like lamps in the evening sun. She had hardly ever visited
the place, only a small tract even of the Vale and its environs being
known to her by close inspection. Much less had she been far outside
the valley. Every contour of the surrounding hills was as personal
to her as that of her relatives' faces; but for what lay beyond, her
judgment was dependent on the teaching of the village school, where
she had held a leading place at the time of her leaving, a year or
two before this date.
In those early days she had been much loved by others of her own
sex and age, and had used to be seen about the village as one of
three--all nearly of the same year--walking home from school side
by side; Tess the middle one--in a pink print pinafore, of a finely
reticulated pattern, worn over a stuff frock that had lost its
original colour for a nondescript tertiary--marching on upon long
stalky legs, in tight stockings which had little ladder-like holes
at the knees, torn by kneeling in the roads and banks in search of
vegetable and mineral treasures; her then earth-coloured hair hanging
like pot-hooks; the arms of the two outside girls resting round the
waist of Tess; her arms on the shoulders of the two supporters.
As Tess grew older, and began to see how matters stood, she felt
quite a Malthusian towards her mother for thoughtlessly giving her so
many little sisters and brothers, when it was such a trouble to nurse
and provide for them. Her mother's intelligence was that of a happy
child: Joan Durbeyfield was simply an additional one, and that not
the eldest, to her own long family of waiters on Providence.
However, Tess became humanely beneficent towards the small ones,
and to help them as much as possible she used, as soon as she left
school, to lend a hand at haymaking or harvesting on neighbouring
farms; or, by preference, at milking or butter-making processes,
which she had learnt when her father had owned cows; and being
deft-fingered it was a kind of work in which she excelled.
Every day seemed to throw upon her young shoulders more of the
family burdens, and that Tess should be the representative of the
Durbeyfields at the d'Urberville mansion came as a thing of course.
In this instance it must be admitted that the Durbeyfields were
putting their fairest side outward.
She alighted from the van at Trantridge Cross, and ascended on foot
a hill in the direction of the district known as The Chase, on the
borders of which, as she had been informed, Mrs d'Urberville's seat,
The Slopes, would be found. It was not a manorial home in the
ordinary sense, with fields, and pastures, and a grumbling farmer,
out of whom the owner had to squeeze an income for himself and his
family by hook or by crook. It was more, far more; a country-house
built for enjoyment pure and simple, with not an acre of troublesome
land attached to it beyond what was required for residential
purposes, and for a little fancy farm kept in hand by the owner, and
tended by a bailiff.
The crimson brick lodge came first in sight, up to its eaves in dense
evergreens. Tess thought this was the mansion itself till, passing
through the side wicket with some trepidation, and onward to a point
at which the drive took a turn, the house proper stood in full view.
It was of recent erection--indeed almost new--and of the same rich
red colour that formed such a contrast with the evergreens of the
lodge. Far behind the corner of the house--which rose like a
geranium bloom against the subdued colours around--stretched the soft
azure landscape of The Chase--a truly venerable tract of forest land,
one of the few remaining woodlands in England of undoubted primaeval
date, wherein Druidical mistletoe was still found on aged oaks, and
where enormous yew-trees, not planted by the hand of man grew as
they had grown when they were pollarded for bows. All this sylvan
antiquity, however, though visible from The Slopes, was outside the
immediate boundaries of the estate.
Everything on this snug property was bright, thriving, and well kept;
acres of glass-houses stretched down the inclines to the copses at
their feet. Everything looked like money--like the last coin issued
from the Mint. The stables, partly screened by Austrian pines
and evergreen oaks, and fitted with every late appliance, were
as dignified as Chapels-of-Ease. On the extensive lawn stood an
ornamental tent, its door being towards her.
Simple Tess Durbeyfield stood at gaze, in a half-alarmed attitude,
on the edge of the gravel sweep. Her feet had brought her onward to
this point before she had quite realized where she was; and now all
was contrary to her expectation.
"I thought we were an old family; but this is all new!" she said, in
her artlessness. She wished that she had not fallen in so readily
with her mother's plans for "claiming kin," and had endeavoured to
gain assistance nearer home.
The d'Urbervilles--or Stoke-d'Urbervilles, as they at first called
themselves--who owned all this, were a somewhat unusual family to
find in such an old-fashioned part of the country. Parson Tringham
had spoken truly when he said that our shambling John Durbeyfield was
the only really lineal representative of the old d'Urberville family
existing in the county, or near it; he might have added, what he knew
very well, that the Stoke-d'Urbervilles were no more d'Urbervilles of
the true tree then he was himself. Yet it must be admitted that this
family formed a very good stock whereon to regraft a name which sadly
wanted such renovation.
When old Mr Simon Stoke, latterly deceased, had made his fortune as
an honest merchant (some said money-lender) in the North, he decided
to settle as a county man in the South of England, out of hail of
his business district; and in doing this he felt the necessity of
recommencing with a name that would not too readily identify him with
the smart tradesman of the past, and that would be less commonplace
than the original bald, stark words. Conning for an hour in the
British Museum the pages of works devoted to extinct, half-extinct,
obscured, and ruined families appertaining to the quarter of England
in which he proposed to settle, he considered that _d'Urberville_
looked and sounded as well as any of them: and d'Urberville
accordingly was annexed to his own name for himself and his heirs
eternally. Yet he was not an extravagant-minded man in this, and in
constructing his family tree on the new basis was duly reasonable in
framing his inter-marriages and aristocratic links, never inserting
a single title above a rank of strict moderation.
Of this work of imagination poor Tess and her parents were naturally
in ignorance--much to their discomfiture; indeed, the very
possibility of such annexations was unknown to them; who supposed
that, though to be well-favoured might be the gift of fortune, a
family name came by nature.
Tess still stood hesitating like a bather about to make his plunge,
hardly knowing whether to retreat or to persevere, when a figure came
forth from the dark triangular door of the tent. It was that of a
tall young man, smoking.
He had an almost swarthy complexion, with full lips, badly moulded,
though red and smooth, above which was a well-groomed black moustache
with curled points, though his age could not be more than three- or
four-and-twenty. Despite the touches of barbarism in his contours,
there was a singular force in the gentleman's face, and in his bold
rolling eye.
"Well, my Beauty, what can I do for you?" said he, coming forward.
And perceiving that she stood quite confounded: "Never mind me. I am
Mr d'Urberville. Have you come to see me or my mother?"
This embodiment of a d'Urberville and a namesake differed even more
from what Tess had expected than the house and grounds had differed.
She had dreamed of an aged and dignified face, the sublimation of
all the d'Urberville lineaments, furrowed with incarnate memories
representing in hieroglyphic the centuries of her family's and
England's history. But she screwed herself up to the work in hand,
since she could not get out of it, and answered--
"I came to see your mother, sir."
"I am afraid you cannot see her--she is an invalid," replied the
present representative of the spurious house; for this was Mr Alec,
the only son of the lately deceased gentleman. "Cannot I answer your
purpose? What is the business you wish to see her about?"
"It isn't business--it is--I can hardly say what!"
"Pleasure?"
"Oh no. Why, sir, if I tell you, it will seem--"
Tess's sense of a certain ludicrousness in her errand was now
so strong that, notwithstanding her awe of him, and her general
discomfort at being here, her rosy lips curved towards a smile,
much to the attraction of the swarthy Alexander.
"It is so very foolish," she stammered; "I fear can't tell you!"
"Never mind; I like foolish things. Try again, my dear," said he
kindly.
"Mother asked me to come," Tess continued; "and, indeed, I was in the
mind to do so myself likewise. But I did not think it would be like
this. I came, sir, to tell you that we are of the same family as
you."
"Ho! Poor relations?"
"Yes."
"Stokes?"
"No; d'Urbervilles."
"Ay, ay; I mean d'Urbervilles."
"Our names are worn away to Durbeyfield; but we have several proofs
that we are d'Urbervilles. Antiquarians hold we are,--and--and we
have an old seal, marked with a ramping lion on a shield, and a
castle over him. And we have a very old silver spoon, round in the
bowl like a little ladle, and marked with the same castle. But it
is so worn that mother uses it to stir the pea-soup."
"A castle argent is certainly my crest," said he blandly. "And my
arms a lion rampant."
"And so mother said we ought to make ourselves beknown to you--as
we've lost our horse by a bad accident, and are the oldest branch o'
the family."
"Very kind of your mother, I'm sure. And I, for one, don't regret
her step." Alec looked at Tess as he spoke, in a way that made her
blush a little. "And so, my pretty girl, you've come on a friendly
visit to us, as relations?"
"I suppose I have," faltered Tess, looking uncomfortable again.
"Well--there's no harm in it. Where do you live? What are you?"
She gave him brief particulars; and responding to further inquiries
told him that she was intending to go back by the same carrier who
had brought her.
"It is a long while before he returns past Trantridge Cross.
Supposing we walk round the grounds to pass the time, my pretty Coz?"
Tess wished to abridge her visit as much as possible; but the young
man was pressing, and she consented to accompany him. He conducted
her about the lawns, and flower-beds, and conservatories; and thence
to the fruit-garden and greenhouses, where he asked her if she liked
strawberries.
"Yes," said Tess, "when they come."
"They are already here." D'Urberville began gathering specimens
of the fruit for her, handing them back to her as he stooped; and,
presently, selecting a specially fine product of the "British Queen"
variety, he stood up and held it by the stem to her mouth.
"No--no!" she said quickly, putting her fingers between his hand and
her lips. "I would rather take it in my own hand."
"Nonsense!" he insisted; and in a slight distress she parted her lips
and took it in.
They had spent some time wandering desultorily thus, Tess eating in
a half-pleased, half-reluctant state whatever d'Urberville offered
her. When she could consume no more of the strawberries he filled
her little basket with them; and then the two passed round to the
rose-trees, whence he gathered blossoms and gave her to put in her
bosom. She obeyed like one in a dream, and when she could affix no
more he himself tucked a bud or two into her hat, and heaped her
basket with others in the prodigality of his bounty. At last,
looking at his watch, he said, "Now, by the time you have had
something to eat, it will be time for you to leave, if you want to
catch the carrier to Shaston. Come here, and I'll see what grub I
can find."
Stoke d'Urberville took her back to the lawn and into the tent, where
he left her, soon reappearing with a basket of light luncheon, which
he put before her himself. It was evidently the gentleman's wish not
to be disturbed in this pleasant _tete-a-tete_ by the servantry.
"Do you mind my smoking?" he asked.
"Oh, not at all, sir."
He watched her pretty and unconscious munching through the skeins of
smoke that pervaded the tent, and Tess Durbeyfield did not divine,
as she innocently looked down at the roses in her bosom, that there
behind the blue narcotic haze was potentially the "tragic mischief"
of her drama--one who stood fair to be the blood-red ray in the
spectrum of her young life. She had an attribute which amounted
to a disadvantage just now; and it was this that caused Alec
d'Urberville's eyes to rivet themselves upon her. It was a
luxuriance of aspect, a fulness of growth, which made her appear more
of a woman than she really was. She had inherited the feature from
her mother without the quality it denoted. It had troubled her mind
occasionally, till her companions had said that it was a fault which
time would cure.
She soon had finished her lunch. "Now I am going home, sir," she
said, rising.
"And what do they call you?" he asked, as he accompanied her along
the drive till they were out of sight of the house.
"Tess Durbeyfield, down at Marlott."
"And you say your people have lost their horse?"
"I--killed him!" she answered, her eyes filling with tears as she
gave particulars of Prince's death. "And I don't know what to do
for father on account of it!"
"I must think if I cannot do something. My mother must find a berth
for you. But, Tess, no nonsense about 'd'Urberville';--'Durbeyfield'
only, you know--quite another name."
"I wish for no better, sir," said she with something of dignity.
For a moment--only for a moment--when they were in the turning of the
drive, between the tall rhododendrons and conifers, before the lodge
became visible, he inclined his face towards her as if--but, no: he
thought better of it, and let her go.
Thus the thing began. Had she perceived this meeting's import she
might have asked why she was doomed to be seen and coveted that day
by the wrong man, and not by some other man, the right and desired
one in all respects--as nearly as humanity can supply the right
and desired; yet to him who amongst her acquaintance might have
approximated to this kind, she was but a transient impression, half
forgotten.
In the ill-judged execution of the well-judged plan of things the
call seldom produces the comer, the man to love rarely coincides with
the hour for loving. Nature does not often say "See!" to her poor
creature at a time when seeing can lead to happy doing; or reply
"Here!" to a body's cry of "Where?" till the hide-and-seek has become
an irksome, outworn game. We may wonder whether at the acme and
summit of the human progress these anachronisms will be corrected by
a finer intuition, a closer interaction of the social machinery than
that which now jolts us round and along; but such completeness is not
to be prophesied, or even conceived as possible. Enough that in the
present case, as in millions, it was not the two halves of a perfect
whole that confronted each other at the perfect moment; a missing
counterpart wandered independently about the earth waiting in
crass obtuseness till the late time came. Out of which maladroit
delay sprang anxieties, disappointments, shocks, catastrophes, and
passing-strange destinies.
When d'Urberville got back to the tent he sat down astride on a
chair, reflecting, with a pleased gleam in his face. Then he broke
into a loud laugh.
"Well, I'm damned! What a funny thing! Ha-ha-ha! And what a crumby
girl!"
| 3,137 | Chapter 5 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-1-chapters-1-11 | Distress looms in the distance because of the death of the horse. Joan Durbeyfield tells Tess about Mrs. d'Urberville living on the outskirts of The Chase, and tells Tess that she must go and claim kinship and ask for help. Tess is deferential, but she cannot understand why her mother should find such satisfaction in contemplating this enterprise. She suggesting getting work, but finally agrees to go. Tess leaves for The Chase, where she finds the home of the Stoke-d'Urbervilles, as they are now called. A young man with an almost swarthy complexion answers the door, and claims to be Alec d'Urberville. He does not allow Tess to see his mother, for she is an invalid, but she tells him that she is a poor relation. Alec shows her the estate, and he promises that his mother will find a berth for her. He tells her not to bother with the Durbeyfield name, but she says she wishes for no better. Alec prepares to kiss her, but lets her go. Tess perceives nothing, but if she had she might have asked why she was doomed to be seen and coveted that day by the wrong man. | The death of the Durbeyfield's horse is the event that motivates Tess to visit the d'Urbervilles and beg them for financial assistance. By going to claim kinship with the d'Urbervilles, Tess is in fact sent to find a husband; behind her mother's request is the assumption that Tess will marry a gentleman who will provide for the Durbeyfields. It is this aspect of the visit to the d'Urbervilles that disturbs Tess most, highlighting her particular sexual innocence. This introduces the theme of sexuality and innocence that will continue throughout the novel; at this point in the novel Tess represents a particular sexual innocence. She is unaware of her own sexuality and thus cannot perceive the danger that Alec d'Urberville presents to her. From his introduction in the novel, Alec d'Urberville represents a sexuality that contrasts with Tess Durbeyfield's innocence. However, as important as his sexuality is the danger inherent in his sensuality. His early attempt to seduce Tess only serves to foreshadow later, more serious attempts to infringe on his cousin's innocence. Hardy even explicitly notes the danger that Alec d'Urberville poses to Tess. The narrative thrust of the novel will concern Tess's reaction to the dangers that Alec poses for her | 196 | 202 | [
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23,046 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/23046-chapters/4.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The Comedy of Errors/section_3_part_0.txt | The Comedy of Errors.act ii.scene ii | act ii, scene ii | null | {"name": "Act II, Scene ii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219160210/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/comedy-of-errors/summary/act-ii-scene-ii", "summary": "Back at the marketplace of Ephesus, S. Antipholus is confused. He found out that the gold he sent with S. Dromio did indeed make it to the Centaur. After getting a room at the inn, S. Dromio apparently left the place in search of S. Antipholus. S. Antipholus doesn't think it makes sense that S. Antipholus has already seen S. Dromio, given the timing of the whole thing. When S. Antipholus does see S. Dromio , he begins to question him about his earlier requests and the whole having-a-wife-and-being-late-for-dinner business. S. Dromio is rightfully confused, and says he definitely didn't ask S. Antipholus about a wife and dinner and all that jazz. S. Dromio assures his master that this is the first time he's seen S. Antipholus since heading off to the Centaur. Still, S. Dromio says it's nice to see his master in such a merry, joking mood. However, S. Antipholus is upset and beats S. Dromio. S. Antipholus says it's fine for them to be familiar friends when S. Antipholus is in a good mood, but otherwise S. Dromio should know his place. In other words, S. Antipholus doesn't want to be teased when he's in a serious mood. S. Dromio and S. Antipholus now joke about S. Dromio's beating and the passage of time. Just as they're about to be pals again, S. Antipholus notices people approaching. Adriana and Luciana rush in all hot and bothered. Adriana asserts her husband is being strange; he must be divided from himself, since he is divided from her, and she's a part of him. She says separating her from him would be like separating a drop of water from a gulf--so basically, they're stuck together. Adriana also points out that because of their connection, if he cheats, then she's cheating, too, which he would undoubtedly be unhappy about. Basically, while his gender may seem to absolve him of the crime of disloyalty, his adultery would leave her stained, which would in turn dishonor him. This has been a fine strain of logic, but poor S. Antipholus, as he's actually not her husband, is like, \"What in the world?\" He points out that unless he married Adriana in the last two hours since he arrived at Ephesus, he's not actually married to her at all. Adriana insists she sent E. Dromio to bring her husband home to dinner not a few hours ago. Of course, S. Dromio says he's never seen her in his life . S. Antipholus is just as confused about how this strange woman even knows their names . Adriana continues to insist on standing by her man , and demands that he stand by her. S. Antipholus, being unable to change the woman's mind, decides he must've married her in a dream--or he's currently in a dream--so the best thing to do is ride the high until he figures out what's actually going on. S. Dromio declares Ephesus is a fairyland full of bewitching things, and he too decides to roll with the confusion. Adriana, not to be beaten, demands that the confused S. Antipholus come with her to dinner. She charges S. Dromio to guard the gate and let nobody in. S. Antipholus follows along, given that these ladies seem to know him better than he does.", "analysis": ""} | SCENE II.
A public place._
_Enter _ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse_._
_Ant. S._ The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up
Safe at the Centaur; and the heedful slave
Is wander'd forth, in care to seek me out
By computation and mine host's report.
I could not speak with Dromio since at first 5
I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes.
_Enter _DROMIO of Syracuse_._
How now, sir! is your merry humour alter'd?
As you love strokes, so jest with me again.
You know no Centaur? you receiv'd no gold?
Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner? 10
My house was at the Phoenix? Wast thou mad,
That thus so madly thou didst answer me?
_Dro. S._ What answer, sir? when spake I such a word?
_Ant. S._ Even now, even here, not half an hour since.
_Dro. S._ I did not see you since you sent me hence, 15
Home to the Centaur, with the gold you gave me.
_Ant. S._ Villain, thou didst deny the gold's receipt,
And told'st me of a mistress and a dinner;
For which, I hope, thou felt'st I was displeased.
_Dro. S._ I am glad to see you in this merry vein: 20
What means this jest? I pray you, master, tell me.
_Ant. S._ Yea, dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth?
Think'st thou I jest? Hold, take thou that, and that.
[_Beating him._
_Dro. S._ Hold, sir, for God's sake! now your jest is earnest:
Upon what bargain do you give it me? 25
_Ant. S._ Because that I familiarly sometimes
Do use you for my fool, and chat with you,
Your sauciness will jest upon my love,
And make a common of my serious hours.
When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport, 30
But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.
If you will jest with me, know my aspect,
And fashion your demeanour to my looks,
Or I will beat this method in your sconce.
_Dro. S._ Sconce call you it? so you would leave battering, 35
I had rather have it a head: an you use these blows
long, I must get a sconce for my head, and insconce it
too; or else I shall seek my wit in my shoulders. But,
I pray, sir, why am I beaten?
_Ant. S._ Dost thou not know? 40
_Dro. S._ Nothing, sir, but that I am beaten.
_Ant. S._ Shall I tell you why?
_Dro. S._ Ay, sir, and wherefore; for they say every
why hath a wherefore.
_Ant. S._ Why, first,--for flouting me; and then, wherefore,-- 45
For urging it the second time to me.
_Dro. S._ Was there ever any man thus beaten out of season,
When in the why and the wherefore is neither rhyme nor reason?
Well, sir, I thank you.
_Ant. S._ Thank me, sir! for what? 50
_Dro. S._ Marry, sir, for this something that you gave
me for nothing.
_Ant. S._ I'll make you amends next, to give you nothing
for something. But say, sir, is it dinner-time?
_Dro. S._ No, sir: I think the meat wants that I have. 55
_Ant. S._ In good time, sir; what's that?
_Dro. S._ Basting.
_Ant. S._ Well, sir, then 'twill be dry.
_Dro. S._ If it be, sir, I pray you, eat none of it.
_Ant. S._ Your reason? 60
_Dro. S._ Lest it make you choleric, and purchase me
another dry basting.
_Ant. S._ Well, sir, learn to jest in good time: there's a
time for all things.
_Dro. S._ I durst have denied that, before you were so 65
choleric.
_Ant. S._ By what rule, sir?
_Dro. S._ Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the plain bald
pate of father Time himself.
_Ant. S._ Let's hear it. 70
_Dro. S._ There's no time for a man to recover his hair
that grows bald by nature.
_Ant. S._ May he not do it by fine and recovery?
_Dro. S._ Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig, and recover
the lost hair of another man. 75
_Ant. S._ Why is Time such a niggard of hair, being, as
it is, so plentiful an excrement?
_Dro. S._ Because it is a blessing that he bestows on
beasts: and what he hath scanted men in hair, he hath
given them in wit. 80
_Ant. S._ Why, but there's many a man hath more hair
than wit.
_Dro. S._ Not a man of those but he hath the wit to
lose his hair.
_Ant. S._ Why, thou didst conclude hairy men plain 85
dealers without wit.
_Dro. S._ The plainer dealer, the sooner lost: yet he
loseth it in a kind of jollity.
_Ant. S._ For what reason?
_Dro. S._ For two; and sound ones too. 90
_Ant. S._ Nay, not sound, I pray you.
_Dro. S._ Sure ones, then.
_Ant. S._ Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing.
_Dro. S._ Certain ones, then.
_Ant. S._ Name them. 95
_Dro. S._ The one, to save the money that he spends in
trimming; the other, that at dinner they should not drop
in his porridge.
_Ant. S._ You would all this time have proved there is
no time for all things. 100
_Dro. S._ Marry, and did, sir; namely, no time to recover
hair lost by nature.
_Ant. S._ But your reason was not substantial, why
there is no time to recover.
_Dro. S._ Thus I mend it: Time himself is bald, and 105
therefore to the world's end will have bald followers.
_Ant. S._ I knew 'twould be a bald conclusion:
But, soft! who wafts us yonder?
_Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA._
_Adr._ Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange and frown:
Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects; 110
I am not Adriana nor thy wife.
The time was once when thou unurged wouldst vow
That never words were music to thine ear,
That never object pleasing in thine eye,
That never touch well welcome to thy hand, 115
That never meat sweet-savour'd in thy taste,
Unless I spake, or look'd, or touch'd, or carved to thee.
How comes it now, my husband, O, how comes it,
That thou art then estranged from thyself?
Thyself I call it, being strange to me, 120
That, undividable, incorporate,
Am better than thy dear self's better part.
Ah, do not tear away thyself from me!
For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall
A drop of water in the breaking gulf, 125
And take unmingled thence that drop again,
Without addition or diminishing,
As take from me thyself, and not me too.
How dearly would it touch thee to the quick,
Shouldst thou but hear I were licentious, 130
And that this body, consecrate to thee,
By ruffian lust should be contaminate!
Wouldst thou not spit at me and spurn at me,
And hurl the name of husband in my face,
And tear the stain'd skin off my harlot-brow, 135
And from my false hand cut the wedding-ring,
And break it with a deep-divorcing vow?
I know thou canst; and therefore see thou do it.
I am possess'd with an adulterate blot;
My blood is mingled with the crime of lust: 140
For if we two be one, and thou play false,
I do digest the poison of thy flesh,
Being strumpeted by thy contagion.
Keep, then, fair league and truce with thy true bed;
I live distain'd, thou undishonoured. 145
_Ant. S._ Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not:
In Ephesus I am but two hours old,
As strange unto your town as to your talk;
Who, every word by all my wit being scann'd,
Wants wit in all one word to understand. 150
_Luc._ Fie, brother! how the world is changed with you!
When were you wont to use my sister thus?
She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner.
_Ant. S._ By Dromio?
_Dro. S._ By me? 155
_Adr._ By thee; and this thou didst return from him,
That he did buffet thee, and, in his blows,
Denied my house for his, me for his wife.
_Ant. S._ Did you converse, sir, with this gentlewoman?
What is the course and drift of your compact? 160
_Dro. S._ I, sir? I never saw her till this time.
_Ant. S._ Villain, thou liest; for even her very words
Didst thou deliver to me on the mart.
_Dro. S._ I never spake with her in all my life.
_Ant. S._ How can she thus, then, call us by our names, 165
Unless it be by inspiration.
_Adr._ How ill agrees it with your gravity
To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave,
Abetting him to thwart me in my mood!
Be it my wrong you are from me exempt, 170
But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt.
Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine:
Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine,
Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state,
Makes me with thy strength to communicate: 175
If aught possess thee from me, it is dross,
Usurping ivy, brier, or idle moss;
Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion
Infect thy sap, and live on thy confusion.
_Ant. S._ To me she speaks; she moves me for her theme: 180
What, was I married to her in my dream?
Or sleep I now, and think I hear all this?
What error drives our eyes and ears amiss?
Until I know this sure uncertainty,
I'll entertain the offer'd fallacy. 185
_Luc._ Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner.
_Dro. S._ O, for my beads! I cross me for a sinner.
This is the fairy land;--O spite of spites!
We talk with goblins, owls, and sprites:
If we obey them not, this will ensue, 190
They'll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue.
_Luc._ Why pratest thou to thyself, and answer'st not?
Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot!
_Dro. S._ I am transformed, master, am I not?
_Ant. S._ I think thou art in mind, and so am I. 195
_Dro. S._ Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape.
_Ant. S._ Thou hast thine own form.
_Dro. S._ No, I am an ape.
_Luc._ If thou art chang'd to aught, 'tis to an ass.
_Dro. S._ 'Tis true; she rides me, and I long for grass.
'Tis so, I am an ass; else it could never be 200
But I should know her as well as she knows me.
_Adr._ Come, come, no longer will I be a fool,
To put the finger in the eye and weep,
Whilst man and master laughs my woes to scorn.
Come, sir, to dinner. Dromio, keep the gate. 205
Husband, I'll dine above with you to-day,
And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks.
Sirrah, if any ask you for your master,
Say he dines forth, and let no creature enter.
Come, sister. Dromio, play the porter well. 210
_Ant. S._ Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell?
Sleeping or waking? mad or well-advised?
Known unto these, and to myself disguised!
I'll say as they say, and persever so,
And in this mist at all adventures go. 215
_Dro. S._ Master, shall I be porter at the gate?
_Adr._ Ay; and let none enter, lest I break your pate.
_Luc._ Come, come, Antipholus, we dine too late.
[_Exeunt._
NOTES: II, 2.
SCENE II.] Capell. SCENE IV. Pope.
A public place.] Capell. A street. Pope.
3, 4, 5: _out By ... report. I_] F1 F2 F3. _out By ... report, I_ F4.
_out. By ... report, I_ Rowe.
12: _didst_] _did didst_ F1.
23: Beating him] Beats Dro. Ff.
28: _jest_] _jet_ Dyce.
29: _common_] _comedy_ Hanmer.
35-107: Pope marks as spurious.
38: _else_] om. Capell.
45: _Why, first_] _First, why_ Capell.
53: _next, to_] _next time,_ Capell conj.
_to_] _and_ Collier MS.
59: _none_] F1. _not_ F2 F3 F4.
76: _hair_] _hair to men_ Capell.
79: _men_] Pope, ed. 2 (Theobald). _them_ Ff.
91: _sound_] F1. _sound ones_ F2 F3 F4.
93: _falsing_] _falling_ Heath conj.
97: _trimming_] Rowe. _trying_ Ff. _tyring_ Pope. _'tiring_ Collier.
101: _no time_] F2 F3 F4. _in no time_ F1. _e'en no time_ Collier
(Malone conj.).
110: _thy_] F1. _some_ F2 F3 F4.
111: _not ... nor_] _but ... and_ Capell conj.
112: _unurged_] _unurg'dst_ Pope.
117: _or look'd, or_] _look'd,_ Steevens.
_to thee_] om. Pope. _thee_ S. Walker conj.
119: _then_] _thus_ Rowe.
130: _but_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4.
135: _off_] Hanmer. _of_ Ff.
138: _canst_] _wouldst_ Hanmer.
140: _crime_] _grime_ Warburton.
142: _thy_] F1. _my_ F2 F3 F4.
143: _contagion_] _catagion_ F4.
145: _distain'd_] _unstain'd_ Hanmer (Theobald conj.).
_dis-stain'd_ Theobald. _distained_ Heath conj.
_undishonoured_] _dishonoured_ Heath conj.
149, 150: Marked as spurious by Pope.
_Who, ... Wants_] _Whose every ..., Want_ Becket conj.
150: _Wants_] Ff. _Want_ Johnson.
155: _By me?_] Pope. _By me._ Ff.
156: _this_] F1, Capell. _thus_ F2 F3 F4.
167: _your_] _you_ F2.
174: _stronger_] F4. _stranger_ F1 F2 F3.
180-185: Marked 'aside' by Capell.
180: _moves_] _means_ Collier MS.
183: _drives_] _draws_ Collier MS.
184: _sure uncertainty_] _sure: uncertainly_ Becket conj.
185: _offer'd_] Capell. _free'd_ Ff. _favour'd_ Pope.
_proffered_ Collier MS.
187-201: Marked as spurious by Pope.
189: _talk_] _walk and talk_ Anon. conj.
_goblins_] _ghosts and goblins_ Lettsom conj.
_owls_] _ouphs_ Theobald.
_sprites_] F1. _elves sprites_ F2 F3 F4. _elvish sprites_
Rowe (ed. 2). _elves and sprites_ Collier MS.
191: _or_] _and_ Theobald.
192: _and answer'st not?_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4.
193: _Dromio, thou drone, thou snail_] Theobald.
_Dromio, thou Dromio, thou snaile_ F1.
_Dromio, thou Dromio, snaile_ F2 F3 F4.
194: _am I not?_] Ff. _am not I?_ Theobald.
203: _the eye_] _thy eye_ F2 F3.
204: _laughs_] Ff. _laugh_ Pope.
211-215: Marked as 'aside' by Capell.
| 3,308 | Act II, Scene ii | https://web.archive.org/web/20201219160210/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/comedy-of-errors/summary/act-ii-scene-ii | Back at the marketplace of Ephesus, S. Antipholus is confused. He found out that the gold he sent with S. Dromio did indeed make it to the Centaur. After getting a room at the inn, S. Dromio apparently left the place in search of S. Antipholus. S. Antipholus doesn't think it makes sense that S. Antipholus has already seen S. Dromio, given the timing of the whole thing. When S. Antipholus does see S. Dromio , he begins to question him about his earlier requests and the whole having-a-wife-and-being-late-for-dinner business. S. Dromio is rightfully confused, and says he definitely didn't ask S. Antipholus about a wife and dinner and all that jazz. S. Dromio assures his master that this is the first time he's seen S. Antipholus since heading off to the Centaur. Still, S. Dromio says it's nice to see his master in such a merry, joking mood. However, S. Antipholus is upset and beats S. Dromio. S. Antipholus says it's fine for them to be familiar friends when S. Antipholus is in a good mood, but otherwise S. Dromio should know his place. In other words, S. Antipholus doesn't want to be teased when he's in a serious mood. S. Dromio and S. Antipholus now joke about S. Dromio's beating and the passage of time. Just as they're about to be pals again, S. Antipholus notices people approaching. Adriana and Luciana rush in all hot and bothered. Adriana asserts her husband is being strange; he must be divided from himself, since he is divided from her, and she's a part of him. She says separating her from him would be like separating a drop of water from a gulf--so basically, they're stuck together. Adriana also points out that because of their connection, if he cheats, then she's cheating, too, which he would undoubtedly be unhappy about. Basically, while his gender may seem to absolve him of the crime of disloyalty, his adultery would leave her stained, which would in turn dishonor him. This has been a fine strain of logic, but poor S. Antipholus, as he's actually not her husband, is like, "What in the world?" He points out that unless he married Adriana in the last two hours since he arrived at Ephesus, he's not actually married to her at all. Adriana insists she sent E. Dromio to bring her husband home to dinner not a few hours ago. Of course, S. Dromio says he's never seen her in his life . S. Antipholus is just as confused about how this strange woman even knows their names . Adriana continues to insist on standing by her man , and demands that he stand by her. S. Antipholus, being unable to change the woman's mind, decides he must've married her in a dream--or he's currently in a dream--so the best thing to do is ride the high until he figures out what's actually going on. S. Dromio declares Ephesus is a fairyland full of bewitching things, and he too decides to roll with the confusion. Adriana, not to be beaten, demands that the confused S. Antipholus come with her to dinner. She charges S. Dromio to guard the gate and let nobody in. S. Antipholus follows along, given that these ladies seem to know him better than he does. | null | 551 | 1 | [
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5,658 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/17.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Lord Jim/section_16_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapter 17 | chapter 17 | null | {"name": "Chapter 17", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim25.asp", "summary": "Because of the storm, Jim stays at Marlow's awhile. Marlow tries to encourage him, saying he has faith in his goodness and abilities. He also tells him that he has written a letter of recommendation for him and sent it to a man who is willing to give him a second chance. As the storm subsides, Jim leaps up with animation. Marlow's offer and words of encouragement have brightened the young sailor. He claims that Marlow has given him \"a clean slate.\" Jim then turns and walks out, leaving Marlow sitting alone in the candlelit room.", "analysis": "Notes This chapter is in strong contrast to the last one. In spite of his guilt and humiliation, Jim is still filled with pride. He refuses any offer of money; he will not take his past pay from the Patna and he will not accept monetary help from Marlow. When Marlow tells him that he has recommended him for a job, Jim becomes animated. He moves from somberness to gratitude, from desperation to confidence. With Marlow's help, Jim feels he may be able to face the future. Although the chapter ends on a note of hope for the young sailor, Marlow, who is wiser and older, is not as hopeful as Jim. Conrad uses vivid images throughout the chapter to make the scene come alive. The \"shadows huddled together in corners,\" the water- pipe was \"shedding tears,\" and the flame of the candle was \"flaring upright in the shape of a dagger.\" The inanimate object in the room seems to take on the pain that Jim is feeling."} |
'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.' | 1,248 | Chapter 17 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim25.asp | Because of the storm, Jim stays at Marlow's awhile. Marlow tries to encourage him, saying he has faith in his goodness and abilities. He also tells him that he has written a letter of recommendation for him and sent it to a man who is willing to give him a second chance. As the storm subsides, Jim leaps up with animation. Marlow's offer and words of encouragement have brightened the young sailor. He claims that Marlow has given him "a clean slate." Jim then turns and walks out, leaving Marlow sitting alone in the candlelit room. | Notes This chapter is in strong contrast to the last one. In spite of his guilt and humiliation, Jim is still filled with pride. He refuses any offer of money; he will not take his past pay from the Patna and he will not accept monetary help from Marlow. When Marlow tells him that he has recommended him for a job, Jim becomes animated. He moves from somberness to gratitude, from desperation to confidence. With Marlow's help, Jim feels he may be able to face the future. Although the chapter ends on a note of hope for the young sailor, Marlow, who is wiser and older, is not as hopeful as Jim. Conrad uses vivid images throughout the chapter to make the scene come alive. The "shadows huddled together in corners," the water- pipe was "shedding tears," and the flame of the candle was "flaring upright in the shape of a dagger." The inanimate object in the room seems to take on the pain that Jim is feeling. | 96 | 168 | [
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28,054 | false | sparknotes | all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/22.txt | finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_3_part_9.txt | The Brothers Karamazov.book 3.chapter 9 | book 3, chapter 9 | null | {"name": "book 3, Chapter 9", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section4/", "summary": "The Sensualists Dmitri runs through the rooms trying to find Grushenka, and when Fyodor Pavlovich accuses him of stealing money, Dmitri throws his father to the ground, threatens to kill him, and runs out of the house. Alyosha and Ivan tend to Fyodor Pavlovich's wounds and put him to bed", "analysis": ""} | 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.
| 1,869 | book 3, Chapter 9 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section4/ | The Sensualists Dmitri runs through the rooms trying to find Grushenka, and when Fyodor Pavlovich accuses him of stealing money, Dmitri throws his father to the ground, threatens to kill him, and runs out of the house. Alyosha and Ivan tend to Fyodor Pavlovich's wounds and put him to bed | null | 50 | 1 | [
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161 | false | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/15.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/Sense and Sensibility/section_1_part_5.txt | Sense and Sensibility.chapter 15 | chapter 15 | null | {"name": "Chapter 15", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-11-20", "summary": "Mrs. Dashwood, Elinor, and Margaret go to call on Lady Middleton, while Marianne remains behind; although Willoughby has promised all of them he will visit later that day, he also told Marianne that he would visit her while the rest of her family was gone. When they return from Barton Park, Willoughby's carriage is outside; but they find Marianne crying, and Willoughby saying that he must immediately go to London, and will not be back in Devonshire for some time. Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor are completely unsettled by this hasty departure, and Elinor fears that they might have quarreled, or had some kind of falling-out. Mrs. Dashwood decides that Mrs. Smith, Willoughby's aunt, must have disapproved of Marianne and told Willoughby not to marry her. She suspects that Elinor must think worse of Willoughby, because Elinor is more judgmental than she. But Elinor's notions are founded on Willoughby's tendency to be open with them, and if it were merely a matter of his aunt disapproving of Marianne, she doubts that such an alteration in his character would have taken place. She also doubts that they were ever engaged, although she is sure of their affection. Marianne is torn up by Willoughby's departure, and Elinor is left to hope that Willoughby's intentions are still honorable, and that his relationship with Marianne may continue.", "analysis": "The theme of expectations comes into play, as Willoughby's affections lead the family to believe that Willoughby and Marianne will soon be married, if not already; but, the theme of disappointments counters this, and dashes expectations just as quickly as they are made. Elinor is right to trust her instincts that something is wrong; Willoughby behaves nothing like himself, and once again, his secrecy indicates that he has likely done something terribly wrong. This mishap brings other themes to the fore; it reasserts the importance of social and economic standing with regard to marriage, and introduces the themes of secrecy and doubt. Secrecy, when it appears in this novel, indicates a deeper level of guilt and perhaps wrongdoing as well; it is always a negative sign, and leads to revelations that have a damaging effect. Doubt also indicates something more than is readily apparent; in this case, Elinor's doubt is good warning that there is something more to Willoughby's behavior than is clear to her"} |
Mrs. Dashwood's visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and
two of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from
being of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her
mother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the
night before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly
satisfied with her remaining at home.
On their return from the park they found Willoughby's curricle and
servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that
her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen;
but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her
to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came
hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her
handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs.
Surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had
just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against
the mantel-piece with his back towards them. He turned round on their
coming in, and his countenance shewed that he strongly partook of the
emotion which over-powered Marianne.
"Is anything the matter with her?" cried Mrs. Dashwood as she
entered--"is she ill?"
"I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced
smile presently added, "It is I who may rather expect to be ill--for I
am now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!"
"Disappointment?"
"Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. Mrs. Smith has
this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent
cousin, by sending me on business to London. I have just received my
dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of
exhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you."
"To London!--and are you going this morning?"
"Almost this moment."
"This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged;--and her
business will not detain you from us long I hope."
He coloured as he replied, "You are very kind, but I have no idea of
returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are
never repeated within the twelvemonth."
"And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in the
neighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame, Willoughby, can
you wait for an invitation here?"
His colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only
replied, "You are too good."
Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal
amazement. For a few moments every one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood
first spoke.
"I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you
will always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here
immediately, because you only can judge how far THAT might be pleasing
to Mrs. Smith; and on this head I shall be no more disposed to question
your judgment than to doubt your inclination."
"My engagements at present," replied Willoughby, confusedly, "are of
such a nature--that--I dare not flatter myself"--
He stopt. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another
pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a faint
smile, "It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment
myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is
impossible for me now to enjoy."
He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. They saw him
step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.
Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the
parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this
sudden departure occasioned.
Elinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's. She thought of
what had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby's behaviour
in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of
cheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's
invitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself,
greatly disturbed her. One moment she feared that no serious design
had ever been formed on his side; and the next that some unfortunate
quarrel had taken place between him and her sister;--the distress in
which Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel could
most reasonably account for, though when she considered what Marianne's
love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.
But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister's
affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest
compassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability
not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a
duty.
In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were
red, her countenance was not uncheerful.
"Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor," said she,
as she sat down to work, "and with how heavy a heart does he travel?"
"It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work
of a moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so
affectionate? And now, after only ten minutes notice--Gone too without
intending to return!--Something more than what he owned to us must have
happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself. YOU must
have seen the difference as well as I. What can it be? Can they have
quarrelled? Why else should he have shewn such unwillingness to accept
your invitation here?"--
"It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see
THAT. He had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all
over I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at
first seemed strange to me as well as to you."
"Can you, indeed!"
"Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way;--but
you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can--it will not satisfy YOU,
I know; but you shall not talk ME out of my trust in it. I am
persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves
of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and on that
account is eager to get him away;--and that the business which she
sends him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him.
This is what I believe to have happened. He is, moreover, aware that
she DOES disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at present
confess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels himself
obliged, from his dependent situation, to give into her schemes, and
absent himself from Devonshire for a while. You will tell me, I know,
that this may or may NOT have happened; but I will listen to no cavil,
unless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair
as satisfactory at this. And now, Elinor, what have you to say?"
"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer."
"Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened.
Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had rather
take evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for misery
for Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the
latter. You are resolved to think him blameable, because he took leave
of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shewn. And is
no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by
recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely
because they are not certainties? Is nothing due to the man whom we
have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill
of? To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though
unavoidably secret for a while? And, after all, what is it you suspect
him of?"
"I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is
the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed
in him. There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of
the allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be
candid in my judgment of every body. Willoughby may undoubtedly have
very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has.
But it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at
once. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at
its being practiced by him."
"Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where the
deviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of what I
have said in his defence?--I am happy--and he is acquitted."
"Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they
ARE engaged) from Mrs. Smith--and if that is the case, it must be
highly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at
present. But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us."
"Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and
Marianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have
been reproaching them every day for incautiousness."
"I want no proof of their affection," said Elinor; "but of their
engagement I do."
"I am perfectly satisfied of both."
"Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of
them."
"I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has
not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last
fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future
wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation?
Have we not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been
daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate
respect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How
could such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that
Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's love, should leave
her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his
affection;--that they should part without a mutual exchange of
confidence?"
"I confess," replied Elinor, "that every circumstance except ONE is in
favour of their engagement; but that ONE is the total silence of both
on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other."
"How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby,
if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the
nature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a
part in his behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him
really indifferent to her?"
"No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure."
"But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such
indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him."
"You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this
matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are
fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we
find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed."
"A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you
would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But I
require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to
justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly
open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister's wishes. It must
be Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of
honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to
create alarm? can he be deceitful?"
"I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor. "I love Willoughby,
sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more
painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will
not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his
manners this morning;--he did not speak like himself, and did not
return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be
explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He
had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest
affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs.
Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware
that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for
some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by
our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a
case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more
to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general
character;--but I will not raise objections against any one's conduct
on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself,
or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent."
"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be
suspected. Though WE have not known him long, he is no stranger in
this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage?
Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately,
it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging
everything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an
engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage
must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it
can be observed, may now be very advisable."
They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then
at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to
acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.
They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the
room and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes
were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then
restrained with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could
neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently
pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude
was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.
This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She
was without any power, because she was without any desire of command
over herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby
overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most
anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they
spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings
connected with him.
| 2,357 | Chapter 15 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-11-20 | Mrs. Dashwood, Elinor, and Margaret go to call on Lady Middleton, while Marianne remains behind; although Willoughby has promised all of them he will visit later that day, he also told Marianne that he would visit her while the rest of her family was gone. When they return from Barton Park, Willoughby's carriage is outside; but they find Marianne crying, and Willoughby saying that he must immediately go to London, and will not be back in Devonshire for some time. Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor are completely unsettled by this hasty departure, and Elinor fears that they might have quarreled, or had some kind of falling-out. Mrs. Dashwood decides that Mrs. Smith, Willoughby's aunt, must have disapproved of Marianne and told Willoughby not to marry her. She suspects that Elinor must think worse of Willoughby, because Elinor is more judgmental than she. But Elinor's notions are founded on Willoughby's tendency to be open with them, and if it were merely a matter of his aunt disapproving of Marianne, she doubts that such an alteration in his character would have taken place. She also doubts that they were ever engaged, although she is sure of their affection. Marianne is torn up by Willoughby's departure, and Elinor is left to hope that Willoughby's intentions are still honorable, and that his relationship with Marianne may continue. | The theme of expectations comes into play, as Willoughby's affections lead the family to believe that Willoughby and Marianne will soon be married, if not already; but, the theme of disappointments counters this, and dashes expectations just as quickly as they are made. Elinor is right to trust her instincts that something is wrong; Willoughby behaves nothing like himself, and once again, his secrecy indicates that he has likely done something terribly wrong. This mishap brings other themes to the fore; it reasserts the importance of social and economic standing with regard to marriage, and introduces the themes of secrecy and doubt. Secrecy, when it appears in this novel, indicates a deeper level of guilt and perhaps wrongdoing as well; it is always a negative sign, and leads to revelations that have a damaging effect. Doubt also indicates something more than is readily apparent; in this case, Elinor's doubt is good warning that there is something more to Willoughby's behavior than is clear to her | 222 | 165 | [
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107 | false | cliffnotes | all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/50.txt | finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_49_part_0.txt | Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 50 | chapter 50 | null | {"name": "Chapter 50", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-50", "summary": "Greenhill, the summit of a hill with an ancient rampart, was an ideal fair site. There were permanent buildings and also tents. Shepherds who had traveled with their flocks for days thronged in. The colors identifying the owners of the sheep formed a pleasing pattern. A pony wagon for first-aid to the sheep wove in and out. The sheep of Gabriel's two employers were admired for their breeding, beauty, and grooming. As the day wore on and the sheep were sold, the shepherds turned their attention to a huge tent that would house the Royal Hippodrome's performances. Bands were playing and the crowds were tremendous, with folks like Poorgrass and Coggan adding to the shoving. Two performers' dressing rooms were at the rear of the tent. In one was a young man -- Sergeant Troy. Troy had signed on with the ship that had rescued him and \"ultimately worked his passage to the United States, where he made a precarious living . . . as Professor of Gymnastics, Sword Exercise, Fencing, and Pugilism. A few months were sufficient to give him a distaste for this kind of life. . . . There was ever present, too, the idea that he could claim a home and its comforts did he but choose to return to England.\" He often wondered whether Bathsheba thought him dead. Back in England now, he was reluctant to return to her; he expected her to be vengeful. He fell in with a traveling circus and became a daring rider. Billed as \"Mr. Francis, The Great Cosmopolitan Equestrian and Roughrider,\" he found himself at Greenhill. Here he played the highwayman in an old love story. Boldwood asked Bathsheba whether her sheep had done well. All were sold. Save for an appointment with a dealer, she was ready to leave. She inquired whether Boldwood had seen the play \"Turpin's Ride to York\" and whether the story was authentic. He assured her that it was and politely offered to get her a seat for the performance. This \"reserved seat\" proved to be on a raised bench covered with red cloth in a conspicuous section of the tent, and Bathsheba was the only person sitting there. She sat selfconsciously enthroned, her black skirts draped about her. Peeping from the dressing room, Troy saw her. Troy explained to the show's manager that he could not go on because a creditor of his was in the audience. The manager, afraid to offend his leading man at this point, made a suggestion. \"Go on with the piece and say nothing, doing what you can by a judicious wink now and then. . . . They'll never find out the speeches are omitted.\" Thus the \"creditor\" did not recognize him by his voice, and makeup and a beard disguised his appearance. However, at the next performance Troy suspected that he had been recognized by his wife's former bailiff, Pennyways. Troy resolved to find the man and speak to him. When it was almost dark, he donned a thick beard and wandered about the grounds. Then he spied Bathsheba sitting in the refreshment tent. He found a point outside the tent where he could hear her, and he cut a small hole through the canvas so that he could see her. He saw Pennyways approach Bathsheba, who refused to listen to him. Pennyways then wrote her a note that said that her husband was alive. Impulsively, Troy reached under the edge of the canvas and snatched the note from Bathsheba's hand. Then he ran away. In the confusion, Troy found Pennyways, whispered with him, \"and with a mutual glance of concurrence, the two men went into the night together.\"", "analysis": "Hardy terms Greenhill the \"Nijni Novgorod\" of South Wessex; this refers to a town in Russia once famous for its annual fair. Hardy's avowed purpose was to preserve all the culture and traditions of his countryside, and he put loving care into the planning of this elaborate chapter. One could argue that it contains too many coincidences, but it must be acknowledged that there are, as well, many colorful and realistic passages. Troy is still impulsive and shrewd, but he lacks some of his former cockiness. He does not want Bathsheba to see him in his present circumstances. Although surprised at how attractive she still is to him, he wants to discover what he can about her financial situation before deciding whether or not to reveal that he is alive."} |
THE SHEEP FAIR--TROY TOUCHES HIS WIFE'S HAND
Greenhill was the Nijni Novgorod of South Wessex; and the busiest,
merriest, noisiest day of the whole statute number was the day of
the sheep fair. This yearly gathering was upon the summit of a
hill which retained in good preservation the remains of an ancient
earthwork, consisting of a huge rampart and entrenchment of an oval
form encircling the top of the hill, though somewhat broken down here
and there. To each of the two chief openings on opposite sides a
winding road ascended, and the level green space of ten or fifteen
acres enclosed by the bank was the site of the fair. A few permanent
erections dotted the spot, but the majority of visitors patronized
canvas alone for resting and feeding under during the time of their
sojourn here.
Shepherds who attended with their flocks from long distances started
from home two or three days, or even a week, before the fair, driving
their charges a few miles each day--not more than ten or twelve--and
resting them at night in hired fields by the wayside at previously
chosen points, where they fed, having fasted since morning. The
shepherd of each flock marched behind, a bundle containing his kit
for the week strapped upon his shoulders, and in his hand his crook,
which he used as the staff of his pilgrimage. Several of the sheep
would get worn and lame, and occasionally a lambing occurred on the
road. To meet these contingencies, there was frequently provided, to
accompany the flocks from the remoter points, a pony and waggon into
which the weakly ones were taken for the remainder of the journey.
The Weatherbury Farms, however, were no such long distance from the
hill, and those arrangements were not necessary in their case. But
the large united flocks of Bathsheba and Farmer Boldwood formed a
valuable and imposing multitude which demanded much attention, and
on this account Gabriel, in addition to Boldwood's shepherd and Cain
Ball, accompanied them along the way, through the decayed old town of
Kingsbere, and upward to the plateau,--old George the dog of course
behind them.
When the autumn sun slanted over Greenhill this morning and lighted
the dewy flat upon its crest, nebulous clouds of dust were to be seen
floating between the pairs of hedges which streaked the wide prospect
around in all directions. These gradually converged upon the base of
the hill, and the flocks became individually visible, climbing the
serpentine ways which led to the top. Thus, in a slow procession,
they entered the opening to which the roads tended, multitude after
multitude, horned and hornless--blue flocks and red flocks, buff
flocks and brown flocks, even green and salmon-tinted flocks,
according to the fancy of the colourist and custom of the farm.
Men were shouting, dogs were barking, with greatest animation, but
the thronging travellers in so long a journey had grown nearly
indifferent to such terrors, though they still bleated piteously at
the unwontedness of their experiences, a tall shepherd rising here
and there in the midst of them, like a gigantic idol amid a crowd
of prostrate devotees.
The great mass of sheep in the fair consisted of South Downs and the
old Wessex horned breeds; to the latter class Bathsheba's and Farmer
Boldwood's mainly belonged. These filed in about nine o'clock, their
vermiculated horns lopping gracefully on each side of their cheeks in
geometrically perfect spirals, a small pink and white ear nestling
under each horn. Before and behind came other varieties, perfect
leopards as to the full rich substance of their coats, and only
lacking the spots. There were also a few of the Oxfordshire breed,
whose wool was beginning to curl like a child's flaxen hair, though
surpassed in this respect by the effeminate Leicesters, which were in
turn less curly than the Cotswolds. But the most picturesque by far
was a small flock of Exmoors, which chanced to be there this year.
Their pied faces and legs, dark and heavy horns, tresses of wool
hanging round their swarthy foreheads, quite relieved the monotony
of the flocks in that quarter.
All these bleating, panting, and weary thousands had entered and were
penned before the morning had far advanced, the dog belonging to each
flock being tied to the corner of the pen containing it. Alleys for
pedestrians intersected the pens, which soon became crowded with
buyers and sellers from far and near.
In another part of the hill an altogether different scene began
to force itself upon the eye towards midday. A circular tent, of
exceptional newness and size, was in course of erection here. As
the day drew on, the flocks began to change hands, lightening the
shepherd's responsibilities; and they turned their attention to
this tent and inquired of a man at work there, whose soul seemed
concentrated on tying a bothering knot in no time, what was going
on.
"The Royal Hippodrome Performance of Turpin's Ride to York and the
Death of Black Bess," replied the man promptly, without turning his
eyes or leaving off tying.
As soon as the tent was completed the band struck up highly
stimulating harmonies, and the announcement was publicly made, Black
Bess standing in a conspicuous position on the outside, as a living
proof, if proof were wanted, of the truth of the oracular utterances
from the stage over which the people were to enter. These were so
convinced by such genuine appeals to heart and understanding both
that they soon began to crowd in abundantly, among the foremost being
visible Jan Coggan and Joseph Poorgrass, who were holiday keeping
here to-day.
"That's the great ruffen pushing me!" screamed a woman in front of
Jan over her shoulder at him when the rush was at its fiercest.
"How can I help pushing ye when the folk behind push me?" said
Coggan, in a deprecating tone, turning his head towards the aforesaid
folk as far as he could without turning his body, which was jammed as
in a vice.
There was a silence; then the drums and trumpets again sent forth
their echoing notes. The crowd was again ecstasied, and gave another
lurch in which Coggan and Poorgrass were again thrust by those behind
upon the women in front.
"Oh that helpless feymels should be at the mercy of such ruffens!"
exclaimed one of these ladies again, as she swayed like a reed shaken
by the wind.
"Now," said Coggan, appealing in an earnest voice to the public at
large as it stood clustered about his shoulder-blades, "did ye ever
hear such onreasonable woman as that? Upon my carcase, neighbours,
if I could only get out of this cheese-wring, the damn women might
eat the show for me!"
"Don't ye lose yer temper, Jan!" implored Joseph Poorgrass, in a
whisper. "They might get their men to murder us, for I think by the
shine of their eyes that they be a sinful form of womankind."
Jan held his tongue, as if he had no objection to be pacified to
please a friend, and they gradually reached the foot of the ladder,
Poorgrass being flattened like a jumping-jack, and the sixpence, for
admission, which he had got ready half-an-hour earlier, having become
so reeking hot in the tight squeeze of his excited hand that the
woman in spangles, brazen rings set with glass diamonds, and with
chalked face and shoulders, who took the money of him, hastily
dropped it again from a fear that some trick had been played to burn
her fingers. So they all entered, and the cloth of the tent, to the
eyes of an observer on the outside, became bulged into innumerable
pimples such as we observe on a sack of potatoes, caused by the
various human heads, backs, and elbows at high pressure within.
At the rear of the large tent there were two small dressing-tents.
One of these, alloted to the male performers, was partitioned into
halves by a cloth; and in one of the divisions there was sitting on
the grass, pulling on a pair of jack-boots, a young man whom we
instantly recognise as Sergeant Troy.
Troy's appearance in this position may be briefly accounted for. The
brig aboard which he was taken in Budmouth Roads was about to start
on a voyage, though somewhat short of hands. Troy read the articles
and joined, but before they sailed a boat was despatched across the
bay to Lulwind cove; as he had half expected, his clothes were gone.
He ultimately worked his passage to the United States, where he made
a precarious living in various towns as Professor of Gymnastics,
Sword Exercise, Fencing, and Pugilism. A few months were sufficient
to give him a distaste for this kind of life. There was a certain
animal form of refinement in his nature; and however pleasant a
strange condition might be whilst privations were easily warded off,
it was disadvantageously coarse when money was short. There was ever
present, too, the idea that he could claim a home and its comforts
did he but chose to return to England and Weatherbury Farm. Whether
Bathsheba thought him dead was a frequent subject of curious
conjecture. To England he did return at last; but the fact of
drawing nearer to Weatherbury abstracted its fascinations, and his
intention to enter his old groove at the place became modified. It
was with gloom he considered on landing at Liverpool that if he
were to go home his reception would be of a kind very unpleasant
to contemplate; for what Troy had in the way of emotion was an
occasional fitful sentiment which sometimes caused him as much
inconvenience as emotion of a strong and healthy kind. Bathsheba was
not a woman to be made a fool of, or a woman to suffer in silence;
and how could he endure existence with a spirited wife to whom at
first entering he would be beholden for food and lodging? Moreover,
it was not at all unlikely that his wife would fail at her farming,
if she had not already done so; and he would then become liable for
her maintenance: and what a life such a future of poverty with her
would be, the spectre of Fanny constantly between them, harrowing
his temper and embittering her words! Thus, for reasons touching on
distaste, regret, and shame commingled, he put off his return from
day to day, and would have decided to put it off altogether if he
could have found anywhere else the ready-made establishment which
existed for him there.
At this time--the July preceding the September in which we find
at Greenhill Fair--he fell in with a travelling circus which was
performing in the outskirts of a northern town. Troy introduced
himself to the manager by taming a restive horse of the troupe,
hitting a suspended apple with a pistol-bullet fired from the
animal's back when in full gallop, and other feats. For his
merits in these--all more or less based upon his experiences as a
dragoon-guardsman--Troy was taken into the company, and the play
of Turpin was prepared with a view to his personation of the chief
character. Troy was not greatly elated by the appreciative spirit in
which he was undoubtedly treated, but he thought the engagement might
afford him a few weeks for consideration. It was thus carelessly,
and without having formed any definite plan for the future, that Troy
found himself at Greenhill Fair with the rest of the company on this
day.
And now the mild autumn sun got lower, and in front of the pavilion
the following incident had taken place. Bathsheba--who was driven
to the fair that day by her odd man Poorgrass--had, like every one
else, read or heard the announcement that Mr. Francis, the Great
Cosmopolitan Equestrian and Roughrider, would enact the part of
Turpin, and she was not yet too old and careworn to be without a
little curiosity to see him. This particular show was by far the
largest and grandest in the fair, a horde of little shows grouping
themselves under its shade like chickens around a hen. The crowd had
passed in, and Boldwood, who had been watching all the day for an
opportunity of speaking to her, seeing her comparatively isolated,
came up to her side.
"I hope the sheep have done well to-day, Mrs. Troy?" he said,
nervously.
"Oh yes, thank you," said Bathsheba, colour springing up in the
centre of her cheeks. "I was fortunate enough to sell them all just
as we got upon the hill, so we hadn't to pen at all."
"And now you are entirely at leisure?"
"Yes, except that I have to see one more dealer in two hours' time:
otherwise I should be going home. He was looking at this large tent
and the announcement. Have you ever seen the play of 'Turpin's Ride
to York'? Turpin was a real man, was he not?"
"Oh yes, perfectly true--all of it. Indeed, I think I've heard Jan
Coggan say that a relation of his knew Tom King, Turpin's friend,
quite well."
"Coggan is rather given to strange stories connected with his
relations, we must remember. I hope they can all be believed."
"Yes, yes; we know Coggan. But Turpin is true enough. You have
never seen it played, I suppose?"
"Never. I was not allowed to go into these places when I was young.
Hark! What's that prancing? How they shout!"
"Black Bess just started off, I suppose. Am I right in supposing
you would like to see the performance, Mrs. Troy? Please excuse my
mistake, if it is one; but if you would like to, I'll get a seat for
you with pleasure." Perceiving that she hesitated, he added, "I
myself shall not stay to see it: I've seen it before."
Now Bathsheba did care a little to see the show, and had only
withheld her feet from the ladder because she feared to go in alone.
She had been hoping that Oak might appear, whose assistance in such
cases was always accepted as an inalienable right, but Oak was
nowhere to be seen; and hence it was that she said, "Then if you will
just look in first, to see if there's room, I think I will go in for
a minute or two."
And so a short time after this Bathsheba appeared in the tent with
Boldwood at her elbow, who, taking her to a "reserved" seat, again
withdrew.
This feature consisted of one raised bench in a very conspicuous
part of the circle, covered with red cloth, and floored with a piece
of carpet, and Bathsheba immediately found, to her confusion, that
she was the single reserved individual in the tent, the rest of
the crowded spectators, one and all, standing on their legs on the
borders of the arena, where they got twice as good a view of the
performance for half the money. Hence as many eyes were turned upon
her, enthroned alone in this place of honour, against a scarlet
background, as upon the ponies and clown who were engaged in
preliminary exploits in the centre, Turpin not having yet appeared.
Once there, Bathsheba was forced to make the best of it and remain:
she sat down, spreading her skirts with some dignity over the
unoccupied space on each side of her, and giving a new and feminine
aspect to the pavilion. In a few minutes she noticed the fat red
nape of Coggan's neck among those standing just below her, and Joseph
Poorgrass's saintly profile a little further on.
The interior was shadowy with a peculiar shade. The strange luminous
semi-opacities of fine autumn afternoons and eves intensified into
Rembrandt effects the few yellow sunbeams which came through holes
and divisions in the canvas, and spirted like jets of gold-dust
across the dusky blue atmosphere of haze pervading the tent, until
they alighted on inner surfaces of cloth opposite, and shone like
little lamps suspended there.
Troy, on peeping from his dressing-tent through a slit for a
reconnoitre before entering, saw his unconscious wife on high before
him as described, sitting as queen of the tournament. He started
back in utter confusion, for although his disguise effectually
concealed his personality, he instantly felt that she would be sure
to recognize his voice. He had several times during the day thought
of the possibility of some Weatherbury person or other appearing and
recognizing him; but he had taken the risk carelessly. If they see
me, let them, he had said. But here was Bathsheba in her own person;
and the reality of the scene was so much intenser than any of his
prefigurings that he felt he had not half enough considered the
point.
She looked so charming and fair that his cool mood about Weatherbury
people was changed. He had not expected her to exercise this power
over him in the twinkling of an eye. Should he go on, and care
nothing? He could not bring himself to do that. Beyond a politic
wish to remain unknown, there suddenly arose in him now a sense of
shame at the possibility that his attractive young wife, who already
despised him, should despise him more by discovering him in so mean a
condition after so long a time. He actually blushed at the thought,
and was vexed beyond measure that his sentiments of dislike towards
Weatherbury should have led him to dally about the country in this
way.
But Troy was never more clever than when absolutely at his wit's end.
He hastily thrust aside the curtain dividing his own little dressing
space from that of the manager and proprietor, who now appeared as
the individual called Tom King as far down as his waist, and as the
aforesaid respectable manager thence to his toes.
"Here's the devil to pay!" said Troy.
"How's that?"
"Why, there's a blackguard creditor in the tent I don't want to see,
who'll discover me and nab me as sure as Satan if I open my mouth.
What's to be done?"
"You must appear now, I think."
"I can't."
"But the play must proceed."
"Do you give out that Turpin has got a bad cold, and can't speak his
part, but that he'll perform it just the same without speaking."
The proprietor shook his head.
"Anyhow, play or no play, I won't open my mouth," said Troy, firmly.
"Very well, then let me see. I tell you how we'll manage," said the
other, who perhaps felt it would be extremely awkward to offend his
leading man just at this time. "I won't tell 'em anything about your
keeping silence; go on with the piece and say nothing, doing what
you can by a judicious wink now and then, and a few indomitable nods
in the heroic places, you know. They'll never find out that the
speeches are omitted."
This seemed feasible enough, for Turpin's speeches were not many or
long, the fascination of the piece lying entirely in the action; and
accordingly the play began, and at the appointed time Black Bess
leapt into the grassy circle amid the plaudits of the spectators.
At the turnpike scene, where Bess and Turpin are hotly pursued at
midnight by the officers, and the half-awake gatekeeper in his
tasselled nightcap denies that any horseman has passed, Coggan
uttered a broad-chested "Well done!" which could be heard all over
the fair above the bleating, and Poorgrass smiled delightedly with a
nice sense of dramatic contrast between our hero, who coolly leaps
the gate, and halting justice in the form of his enemies, who must
needs pull up cumbersomely and wait to be let through. At the death
of Tom King, he could not refrain from seizing Coggan by the hand,
and whispering, with tears in his eyes, "Of course he's not really
shot, Jan--only seemingly!" And when the last sad scene came on, and
the body of the gallant and faithful Bess had to be carried out on a
shutter by twelve volunteers from among the spectators, nothing could
restrain Poorgrass from lending a hand, exclaiming, as he asked
Jan to join him, "Twill be something to tell of at Warren's in
future years, Jan, and hand down to our children." For many a year
in Weatherbury, Joseph told, with the air of a man who had had
experiences in his time, that he touched with his own hand the hoof
of Bess as she lay upon the board upon his shoulder. If, as some
thinkers hold, immortality consists in being enshrined in others'
memories, then did Black Bess become immortal that day if she never
had done so before.
Meanwhile Troy had added a few touches to his ordinary make-up for
the character, the more effectually to disguise himself, and though
he had felt faint qualms on first entering, the metamorphosis
effected by judiciously "lining" his face with a wire rendered him
safe from the eyes of Bathsheba and her men. Nevertheless, he was
relieved when it was got through.
There was a second performance in the evening, and the tent was
lighted up. Troy had taken his part very quietly this time,
venturing to introduce a few speeches on occasion; and was just
concluding it when, whilst standing at the edge of the circle
contiguous to the first row of spectators, he observed within a
yard of him the eye of a man darted keenly into his side features.
Troy hastily shifted his position, after having recognized in the
scrutineer the knavish bailiff Pennyways, his wife's sworn enemy,
who still hung about the outskirts of Weatherbury.
At first Troy resolved to take no notice and abide by circumstances.
That he had been recognized by this man was highly probable; yet
there was room for a doubt. Then the great objection he had felt to
allowing news of his proximity to precede him to Weatherbury in the
event of his return, based on a feeling that knowledge of his present
occupation would discredit him still further in his wife's eyes,
returned in full force. Moreover, should he resolve not to return at
all, a tale of his being alive and being in the neighbourhood would
be awkward; and he was anxious to acquire a knowledge of his wife's
temporal affairs before deciding which to do.
In this dilemma Troy at once went out to reconnoitre. It occurred
to him that to find Pennyways, and make a friend of him if possible,
would be a very wise act. He had put on a thick beard borrowed from
the establishment, and in this he wandered about the fair-field. It
was now almost dark, and respectable people were getting their carts
and gigs ready to go home.
The largest refreshment booth in the fair was provided by an
innkeeper from a neighbouring town. This was considered an
unexceptionable place for obtaining the necessary food and rest:
Host Trencher (as he was jauntily called by the local newspaper)
being a substantial man of high repute for catering through all the
country round. The tent was divided into first and second-class
compartments, and at the end of the first-class division was a yet
further enclosure for the most exclusive, fenced off from the body
of the tent by a luncheon-bar, behind which the host himself stood
bustling about in white apron and shirt-sleeves, and looking as if
he had never lived anywhere but under canvas all his life. In these
penetralia were chairs and a table, which, on candles being lighted,
made quite a cozy and luxurious show, with an urn, plated tea and
coffee pots, china teacups, and plum cakes.
Troy stood at the entrance to the booth, where a gipsy-woman was
frying pancakes over a little fire of sticks and selling them at a
penny a-piece, and looked over the heads of the people within. He
could see nothing of Pennyways, but he soon discerned Bathsheba
through an opening into the reserved space at the further end. Troy
thereupon retreated, went round the tent into the darkness, and
listened. He could hear Bathsheba's voice immediately inside the
canvas; she was conversing with a man. A warmth overspread his
face: surely she was not so unprincipled as to flirt in a fair!
He wondered if, then, she reckoned upon his death as an absolute
certainty. To get at the root of the matter, Troy took a penknife
from his pocket and softly made two little cuts crosswise in the
cloth, which, by folding back the corners left a hole the size of a
wafer. Close to this he placed his face, withdrawing it again in a
movement of surprise; for his eye had been within twelve inches of
the top of Bathsheba's head. It was too near to be convenient. He
made another hole a little to one side and lower down, in a shaded
place beside her chair, from which it was easy and safe to survey
her by looking horizontally.
Troy took in the scene completely now. She was leaning back, sipping
a cup of tea that she held in her hand, and the owner of the male
voice was Boldwood, who had apparently just brought the cup to her,
Bathsheba, being in a negligent mood, leant so idly against the
canvas that it was pressed to the shape of her shoulder, and she was,
in fact, as good as in Troy's arms; and he was obliged to keep his
breast carefully backward that she might not feel its warmth through
the cloth as he gazed in.
Troy found unexpected chords of feeling to be stirred again within
him as they had been stirred earlier in the day. She was handsome
as ever, and she was his. It was some minutes before he could
counteract his sudden wish to go in, and claim her. Then he thought
how the proud girl who had always looked down upon him even whilst it
was to love him, would hate him on discovering him to be a strolling
player. Were he to make himself known, that chapter of his life
must at all risks be kept for ever from her and from the Weatherbury
people, or his name would be a byword throughout the parish. He
would be nicknamed "Turpin" as long as he lived. Assuredly before
he could claim her these few past months of his existence must be
entirely blotted out.
"Shall I get you another cup before you start, ma'am?" said Farmer
Boldwood.
"Thank you," said Bathsheba. "But I must be going at once. It was
great neglect in that man to keep me waiting here till so late. I
should have gone two hours ago, if it had not been for him. I had no
idea of coming in here; but there's nothing so refreshing as a cup of
tea, though I should never have got one if you hadn't helped me."
Troy scrutinized her cheek as lit by the candles, and watched each
varying shade thereon, and the white shell-like sinuosities of her
little ear. She took out her purse and was insisting to Boldwood on
paying for her tea for herself, when at this moment Pennyways entered
the tent. Troy trembled: here was his scheme for respectability
endangered at once. He was about to leave his hole of espial,
attempt to follow Pennyways, and find out if the ex-bailiff had
recognized him, when he was arrested by the conversation, and found
he was too late.
"Excuse me, ma'am," said Pennyways; "I've some private information
for your ear alone."
"I cannot hear it now," she said, coldly. That Bathsheba could not
endure this man was evident; in fact, he was continually coming to
her with some tale or other, by which he might creep into favour at
the expense of persons maligned.
"I'll write it down," said Pennyways, confidently. He stooped over
the table, pulled a leaf from a warped pocket-book, and wrote upon
the paper, in a round hand--
"YOUR HUSBAND IS HERE. I'VE SEEN HIM. WHO'S THE FOOL NOW?"
This he folded small, and handed towards her. Bathsheba would not
read it; she would not even put out her hand to take it. Pennyways,
then, with a laugh of derision, tossed it into her lap, and, turning
away, left her.
From the words and action of Pennyways, Troy, though he had not been
able to see what the ex-bailiff wrote, had not a moment's doubt that
the note referred to him. Nothing that he could think of could be
done to check the exposure. "Curse my luck!" he whispered, and
added imprecations which rustled in the gloom like a pestilent wind.
Meanwhile Boldwood said, taking up the note from her lap--
"Don't you wish to read it, Mrs. Troy? If not, I'll destroy it."
"Oh, well," said Bathsheba, carelessly, "perhaps it is unjust not to
read it; but I can guess what it is about. He wants me to recommend
him, or it is to tell me of some little scandal or another connected
with my work-people. He's always doing that."
Bathsheba held the note in her right hand. Boldwood handed towards
her a plate of cut bread-and-butter; when, in order to take a slice,
she put the note into her left hand, where she was still holding
the purse, and then allowed her hand to drop beside her close to
the canvas. The moment had come for saving his game, and Troy
impulsively felt that he would play the card. For yet another time
he looked at the fair hand, and saw the pink finger-tips, and the
blue veins of the wrist, encircled by a bracelet of coral chippings
which she wore: how familiar it all was to him! Then, with the
lightning action in which he was such an adept, he noiselessly
slipped his hand under the bottom of the tent-cloth, which was far
from being pinned tightly down, lifted it a little way, keeping his
eye to the hole, snatched the note from her fingers, dropped the
canvas, and ran away in the gloom towards the bank and ditch, smiling
at the scream of astonishment which burst from her. Troy then slid
down on the outside of the rampart, hastened round in the bottom of
the entrenchment to a distance of a hundred yards, ascended again,
and crossed boldly in a slow walk towards the front entrance of
the tent. His object was now to get to Pennyways, and prevent a
repetition of the announcement until such time as he should choose.
Troy reached the tent door, and standing among the groups there
gathered, looked anxiously for Pennyways, evidently not wishing to
make himself prominent by inquiring for him. One or two men were
speaking of a daring attempt that had just been made to rob a young
lady by lifting the canvas of the tent beside her. It was supposed
that the rogue had imagined a slip of paper which she held in her
hand to be a bank note, for he had seized it, and made off with
it, leaving her purse behind. His chagrin and disappointment at
discovering its worthlessness would be a good joke, it was said.
However, the occurrence seemed to have become known to few, for it
had not interrupted a fiddler, who had lately begun playing by the
door of the tent, nor the four bowed old men with grim countenances
and walking-sticks in hand, who were dancing "Major Malley's Reel"
to the tune. Behind these stood Pennyways. Troy glided up to him,
beckoned, and whispered a few words; and with a mutual glance of
concurrence the two men went into the night together.
| 4,940 | Chapter 50 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-50 | Greenhill, the summit of a hill with an ancient rampart, was an ideal fair site. There were permanent buildings and also tents. Shepherds who had traveled with their flocks for days thronged in. The colors identifying the owners of the sheep formed a pleasing pattern. A pony wagon for first-aid to the sheep wove in and out. The sheep of Gabriel's two employers were admired for their breeding, beauty, and grooming. As the day wore on and the sheep were sold, the shepherds turned their attention to a huge tent that would house the Royal Hippodrome's performances. Bands were playing and the crowds were tremendous, with folks like Poorgrass and Coggan adding to the shoving. Two performers' dressing rooms were at the rear of the tent. In one was a young man -- Sergeant Troy. Troy had signed on with the ship that had rescued him and "ultimately worked his passage to the United States, where he made a precarious living . . . as Professor of Gymnastics, Sword Exercise, Fencing, and Pugilism. A few months were sufficient to give him a distaste for this kind of life. . . . There was ever present, too, the idea that he could claim a home and its comforts did he but choose to return to England." He often wondered whether Bathsheba thought him dead. Back in England now, he was reluctant to return to her; he expected her to be vengeful. He fell in with a traveling circus and became a daring rider. Billed as "Mr. Francis, The Great Cosmopolitan Equestrian and Roughrider," he found himself at Greenhill. Here he played the highwayman in an old love story. Boldwood asked Bathsheba whether her sheep had done well. All were sold. Save for an appointment with a dealer, she was ready to leave. She inquired whether Boldwood had seen the play "Turpin's Ride to York" and whether the story was authentic. He assured her that it was and politely offered to get her a seat for the performance. This "reserved seat" proved to be on a raised bench covered with red cloth in a conspicuous section of the tent, and Bathsheba was the only person sitting there. She sat selfconsciously enthroned, her black skirts draped about her. Peeping from the dressing room, Troy saw her. Troy explained to the show's manager that he could not go on because a creditor of his was in the audience. The manager, afraid to offend his leading man at this point, made a suggestion. "Go on with the piece and say nothing, doing what you can by a judicious wink now and then. . . . They'll never find out the speeches are omitted." Thus the "creditor" did not recognize him by his voice, and makeup and a beard disguised his appearance. However, at the next performance Troy suspected that he had been recognized by his wife's former bailiff, Pennyways. Troy resolved to find the man and speak to him. When it was almost dark, he donned a thick beard and wandered about the grounds. Then he spied Bathsheba sitting in the refreshment tent. He found a point outside the tent where he could hear her, and he cut a small hole through the canvas so that he could see her. He saw Pennyways approach Bathsheba, who refused to listen to him. Pennyways then wrote her a note that said that her husband was alive. Impulsively, Troy reached under the edge of the canvas and snatched the note from Bathsheba's hand. Then he ran away. In the confusion, Troy found Pennyways, whispered with him, "and with a mutual glance of concurrence, the two men went into the night together." | Hardy terms Greenhill the "Nijni Novgorod" of South Wessex; this refers to a town in Russia once famous for its annual fair. Hardy's avowed purpose was to preserve all the culture and traditions of his countryside, and he put loving care into the planning of this elaborate chapter. One could argue that it contains too many coincidences, but it must be acknowledged that there are, as well, many colorful and realistic passages. Troy is still impulsive and shrewd, but he lacks some of his former cockiness. He does not want Bathsheba to see him in his present circumstances. Although surprised at how attractive she still is to him, he wants to discover what he can about her financial situation before deciding whether or not to reveal that he is alive. | 613 | 130 | [
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110 | false | novelguide | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/18.txt | finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_3_part_3.txt | Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter xviii | chapter xviii | null | {"name": "Chapter XVIII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase3-chapter16-24", "summary": "Twenty-six-year-old Mr. Angel Clare, the handsome and well-educated son of a prominent Wessex clergyman, fails to heed his father's wishes to join the church like his two older brothers, chooses instead to become a gentleman farmer and hopes to farm in America: \"he quite the gentleman born\". He is at the Dairy to learn. He plays a harp. Tess shies away from him, believing that she is impure and not good enough for him", "analysis": ""} |
Angel Clare rises out of the past not altogether as a distinct
figure, but as an appreciative voice, a long regard of fixed,
abstracted eyes, and a mobility of mouth somewhat too small and
delicately lined for a man's, though with an unexpectedly firm close
of the lower lip now and then; enough to do away with any inference
of indecision. Nevertheless, something nebulous, preoccupied, vague,
in his bearing and regard, marked him as one who probably had no very
definite aim or concern about his material future. Yet as a lad
people had said of him that he was one who might do anything if he
tried.
He was the youngest son of his father, a poor parson at the other end
of the county, and had arrived at Talbothays Dairy as a six months'
pupil, after going the round of some other farms, his object being
to acquire a practical skill in the various processes of farming,
with a view either to the Colonies or the tenure of a home-farm, as
circumstances might decide.
His entry into the ranks of the agriculturists and breeders was a
step in the young man's career which had been anticipated neither
by himself nor by others.
Mr Clare the elder, whose first wife had died and left him a
daughter, married a second late in life. This lady had somewhat
unexpectedly brought him three sons, so that between Angel, the
youngest, and his father the Vicar there seemed to be almost a
missing generation. Of these boys the aforesaid Angel, the child of
his old age, was the only son who had not taken a University degree,
though he was the single one of them whose early promise might have
done full justice to an academical training.
Some two or three years before Angel's appearance at the Marlott
dance, on a day when he had left school and was pursuing his studies
at home, a parcel came to the Vicarage from the local bookseller's,
directed to the Reverend James Clare. The Vicar having opened it and
found it to contain a book, read a few pages; whereupon he jumped up
from his seat and went straight to the shop with the book under his
arm.
"Why has this been sent to my house?" he asked peremptorily, holding
up the volume.
"It was ordered, sir."
"Not by me, or any one belonging to me, I am happy to say."
The shopkeeper looked into his order-book.
"Oh, it has been misdirected, sir," he said. "It was ordered by Mr
Angel Clare, and should have been sent to him."
Mr Clare winced as if he had been struck. He went home pale and
dejected, and called Angel into his study.
"Look into this book, my boy," he said. "What do you know about it?"
"I ordered it," said Angel simply.
"What for?"
"To read."
"How can you think of reading it?"
"How can I? Why--it is a system of philosophy. There is no more
moral, or even religious, work published."
"Yes--moral enough; I don't deny that. But religious!--and for YOU,
who intend to be a minister of the Gospel!"
"Since you have alluded to the matter, father," said the son, with
anxious thought upon his face, "I should like to say, once for
all, that I should prefer not to take Orders. I fear I could not
conscientiously do so. I love the Church as one loves a parent.
I shall always have the warmest affection for her. There is no
institution for whose history I have a deeper admiration; but I
cannot honestly be ordained her minister, as my brothers are, while
she refuses to liberate her mind from an untenable redemptive
theolatry."
It had never occurred to the straightforward and simple-minded Vicar
that one of his own flesh and blood could come to this! He was
stultified, shocked, paralysed. And if Angel were not going to
enter the Church, what was the use of sending him to Cambridge? The
University as a step to anything but ordination seemed, to this man
of fixed ideas, a preface without a volume. He was a man not merely
religious, but devout; a firm believer--not as the phrase is now
elusively construed by theological thimble-riggers in the Church and
out of it, but in the old and ardent sense of the Evangelical school:
one who could
Indeed opine
That the Eternal and Divine
Did, eighteen centuries ago
In very truth...
Angel's father tried argument, persuasion, entreaty.
"No, father; I cannot underwrite Article Four (leave alone the rest),
taking it 'in the literal and grammatical sense' as required by the
Declaration; and, therefore, I can't be a parson in the present state
of affairs," said Angel. "My whole instinct in matters of religion
is towards reconstruction; to quote your favorite Epistle to the
Hebrews, 'the removing of those things that are shaken, as of things
that are made, that those things which cannot be shaken may remain.'"
His father grieved so deeply that it made Angel quite ill to see him.
"What is the good of your mother and me economizing and stinting
ourselves to give you a University education, if it is not to be used
for the honour and glory of God?" his father repeated.
"Why, that it may be used for the honour and glory of man, father."
Perhaps if Angel had persevered he might have gone to Cambridge like
his brothers. But the Vicar's view of that seat of learning as a
stepping-stone to Orders alone was quite a family tradition; and so
rooted was the idea in his mind that perseverance began to appear to
the sensitive son akin to an intent to misappropriate a trust, and
wrong the pious heads of the household, who had been and were, as his
father had hinted, compelled to exercise much thrift to carry out
this uniform plan of education for the three young men.
"I will do without Cambridge," said Angel at last. "I feel that I
have no right to go there in the circumstances."
The effects of this decisive debate were not long in showing
themselves. He spent years and years in desultory studies,
undertakings, and meditations; he began to evince considerable
indifference to social forms and observances. The material
distinctions of rank and wealth he increasingly despised. Even the
"good old family" (to use a favourite phrase of a late local worthy)
had no aroma for him unless there were good new resolutions in its
representatives. As a balance to these austerities, when he went to
live in London to see what the world was like, and with a view to
practising a profession or business there, he was carried off his
head, and nearly entrapped by a woman much older than himself, though
luckily he escaped not greatly the worse for the experience.
Early association with country solitudes had bred in him an
unconquerable, and almost unreasonable, aversion to modern town life,
and shut him out from such success as he might have aspired to by
following a mundane calling in the impracticability of the spiritual
one. But something had to be done; he had wasted many valuable
years; and having an acquaintance who was starting on a thriving life
as a Colonial farmer, it occurred to Angel that this might be a lead
in the right direction. Farming, either in the Colonies, America, or
at home--farming, at any rate, after becoming well qualified for the
business by a careful apprenticeship--that was a vocation which would
probably afford an independence without the sacrifice of what he
valued even more than a competency--intellectual liberty.
So we find Angel Clare at six-and-twenty here at Talbothays as a
student of kine, and, as there were no houses near at hand in which
he could get a comfortable lodging, a boarder at the dairyman's.
His room was an immense attic which ran the whole length of the
dairy-house. It could only be reached by a ladder from the
cheese-loft, and had been closed up for a long time till he arrived
and selected it as his retreat. Here Clare had plenty of space, and
could often be heard by the dairy-folk pacing up and down when the
household had gone to rest. A portion was divided off at one end by
a curtain, behind which was his bed, the outer part being furnished
as a homely sitting-room.
At first he lived up above entirely, reading a good deal, and
strumming upon an old harp which he had bought at a sale, saying when
in a bitter humour that he might have to get his living by it in the
streets some day. But he soon preferred to read human nature by
taking his meals downstairs in the general dining-kitchen, with the
dairyman and his wife, and the maids and men, who all together formed
a lively assembly; for though but few milking hands slept in the
house, several joined the family at meals. The longer Clare resided
here the less objection had he to his company, and the more did he
like to share quarters with them in common.
Much to his surprise he took, indeed, a real delight in their
companionship. The conventional farm-folk of his imagination--
personified in the newspaper-press by the pitiable dummy known as
Hodge--were obliterated after a few days' residence. At close
quarters no Hodge was to be seen. At first, it is true, when Clare's
intelligence was fresh from a contrasting society, these friends with
whom he now hobnobbed seemed a little strange. Sitting down as a
level member of the dairyman's household seemed at the outset an
undignified proceeding. The ideas, the modes, the surroundings,
appeared retrogressive and unmeaning. But with living on there,
day after day, the acute sojourner became conscious of a new aspect
in the spectacle. Without any objective change whatever, variety
had taken the place of monotonousness. His host and his host's
household, his men and his maids, as they became intimately known to
Clare, began to differentiate themselves as in a chemical process.
The thought of Pascal's was brought home to him: "_A mesure qu'on a
plus d'esprit, on trouve qu'il y a plus d'hommes originaux. Les
gens du commun ne trouvent pas de difference entre les hommes._"
The typical and unvarying Hodge ceased to exist. He had been
disintegrated into a number of varied fellow-creatures--beings of
many minds, beings infinite in difference; some happy, many serene, a
few depressed, one here and there bright even to genius, some stupid,
others wanton, others austere; some mutely Miltonic, some potentially
Cromwellian--into men who had private views of each other, as he had
of his friends; who could applaud or condemn each other, amuse or
sadden themselves by the contemplation of each other's foibles or
vices; men every one of whom walked in his own individual way the
road to dusty death.
Unexpectedly he began to like the outdoor life for its own sake,
and for what it brought, apart from its bearing on his own proposed
career. Considering his position he became wonderfully free from the
chronic melancholy which is taking hold of the civilized races with
the decline of belief in a beneficent Power. For the first time of
late years he could read as his musings inclined him, without any eye
to cramming for a profession, since the few farming handbooks which
he deemed it desirable to master occupied him but little time.
He grew away from old associations, and saw something new in life and
humanity. Secondarily, he made close acquaintance with phenomena
which he had before known but darkly--the seasons in their moods,
morning and evening, night and noon, winds in their different
tempers, trees, waters and mists, shades and silences, and the voices
of inanimate things.
The early mornings were still sufficiently cool to render a fire
acceptable in the large room wherein they breakfasted; and, by
Mrs Crick's orders, who held that he was too genteel to mess at
their table, it was Angel Clare's custom to sit in the yawning
chimney-corner during the meal, his cup-and-saucer and plate being
placed on a hinged flap at his elbow. The light from the long, wide,
mullioned window opposite shone in upon his nook, and, assisted by a
secondary light of cold blue quality which shone down the chimney,
enabled him to read there easily whenever disposed to do so. Between
Clare and the window was the table at which his companions sat, their
munching profiles rising sharp against the panes; while to the side
was the milk-house door, through which were visible the rectangular
leads in rows, full to the brim with the morning's milk. At the
further end the great churn could be seen revolving, and its
slip-slopping heard--the moving power being discernible through the
window in the form of a spiritless horse walking in a circle and
driven by a boy.
For several days after Tess's arrival Clare, sitting abstractedly
reading from some book, periodical, or piece of music just come by
post, hardly noticed that she was present at table. She talked so
little, and the other maids talked so much, that the babble did not
strike him as possessing a new note, and he was ever in the habit
of neglecting the particulars of an outward scene for the general
impression. One day, however, when he had been conning one of his
music-scores, and by force of imagination was hearing the tune in
his head, he lapsed into listlessness, and the music-sheet rolled
to the hearth. He looked at the fire of logs, with its one flame
pirouetting on the top in a dying dance after the breakfast-cooking
and boiling, and it seemed to jig to his inward tune; also at the two
chimney crooks dangling down from the cotterel, or cross-bar, plumed
with soot, which quivered to the same melody; also at the half-empty
kettle whining an accompaniment. The conversation at the table mixed
in with his phantasmal orchestra till he thought: "What a fluty voice
one of those milkmaids has! I suppose it is the new one."
Clare looked round upon her, seated with the others.
She was not looking towards him. Indeed, owing to his long silence,
his presence in the room was almost forgotten.
"I don't know about ghosts," she was saying; "but I do know that our
souls can be made to go outside our bodies when we are alive."
The dairyman turned to her with his mouth full, his eyes charged
with serious inquiry, and his great knife and fork (breakfasts were
breakfasts here) planted erect on the table, like the beginning of
a gallows.
"What--really now? And is it so, maidy?" he said.
"A very easy way to feel 'em go," continued Tess, "is to lie on the
grass at night and look straight up at some big bright star; and, by
fixing your mind upon it, you will soon find that you are hundreds
and hundreds o' miles away from your body, which you don't seem to
want at all."
The dairyman removed his hard gaze from Tess, and fixed it on his
wife.
"Now that's a rum thing, Christianer--hey? To think o' the miles
I've vamped o' starlight nights these last thirty year, courting, or
trading, or for doctor, or for nurse, and yet never had the least
notion o' that till now, or feeled my soul rise so much as an inch
above my shirt-collar."
The general attention being drawn to her, including that of the
dairyman's pupil, Tess flushed, and remarking evasively that it was
only a fancy, resumed her breakfast.
Clare continued to observe her. She soon finished her eating, and
having a consciousness that Clare was regarding her, began to trace
imaginary patterns on the tablecloth with her forefinger with the
constraint of a domestic animal that perceives itself to be watched.
"What a fresh and virginal daughter of Nature that milkmaid is!" he
said to himself.
And then he seemed to discern in her something that was familiar,
something which carried him back into a joyous and unforeseeing past,
before the necessity of taking thought had made the heavens gray. He
concluded that he had beheld her before; where he could not tell. A
casual encounter during some country ramble it certainly had been,
and he was not greatly curious about it. But the circumstance was
sufficient to lead him to select Tess in preference to the other
pretty milkmaids when he wished to contemplate contiguous womankind.
| 2,597 | Chapter XVIII | https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase3-chapter16-24 | Twenty-six-year-old Mr. Angel Clare, the handsome and well-educated son of a prominent Wessex clergyman, fails to heed his father's wishes to join the church like his two older brothers, chooses instead to become a gentleman farmer and hopes to farm in America: "he quite the gentleman born". He is at the Dairy to learn. He plays a harp. Tess shies away from him, believing that she is impure and not good enough for him | null | 74 | 1 | [
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44,747 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/65.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_64_part_0.txt | The Red and the Black.part 2.chapter 35 | part 2, chapter 35 | null | {"name": "Part 2, Chapter 35", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-35", "summary": "Julien gets ready to leave Father Pirard's one day when Pirard gives him a huge wad of money from the marquis. The man doesn't want anything about Julien's life to reveal his lower class status. Julien gets along swimmingly when he first joins the army in his new post. Everyone likes and respects him. Out of nowhere, he gets a note from Mathilde telling him to come to her immediately in Paris. It's an emergency. When Julien gets to Paris, Mathilde tells him that her father has run a background check on Julien and found out about his affair with Madame de Renal back in the day. Madame herself wrote a letter to the marquis talking about how Julien seduced her. It doesn't look good. In fact, it sounds like exactly what he did with Mathilde. Julien runs away in shame. He heads all the way back to his hometown of Verrieres. The first place he goes is the local gun shop, where he buys a pair of pistols. He goes to the Verrieres church, where mass is happening. He walks into the pew directly behind Madame de Renal's and shoots her twice in cold blood for ratting him out. Things just got real.", "analysis": ""} | CHAPTER LXV
A STORM
My God, give me mediocrity.--_Mirabeau_.
His mind was engrossed; he only half answered the eager tenderness that
she showed to him. He remained gloomy and taciturn. He had never seemed
so great and so adorable in Mathilde's eyes. She was apprehensive of
some subtle twist of his pride which would spoil the whole situation.
She saw the abbe Pirard come to the hotel nearly every morning. Might
not Julien have divined something of her father's intentions through
him? Might not the marquis himself have written to him in a momentary
caprice. What was the explanation of Julien's stern manner following on
so great a happiness? She did not dare to question.
She did not _dare_--she--Mathilde! From that moment her feelings for
Julien contained a certain vague and unexpected element which was
almost panic. This arid soul experienced all the passion possible in
an individual who has been brought up amid that excessive civilisation
which Paris so much admires.
Early on the following day Julien was at the house of the abbe Pirard.
Some post-horses were arriving in the courtyard with a dilapidated
chaise which had been hired at a neighbouring station.
"A vehicle like that is out of fashion," said the stern abbe to him
morosely. "Here are twenty thousand francs which M. de la Mole makes
you a gift of. He insists on your spending them within a year, but
at the same time wants you to try to look as little ridiculous as
possible." (The priest regarded flinging away so substantial a sum on a
young man as simply an opportunity for sin).
"The marquis adds this: 'M. Julien de la Vernaye will have received
this money from his father, whom it is needless to call by any other
name. M. de la Vernaye will perhaps think it proper to give a present
to M. Sorel, a carpenter of Verrieres, who cared for him in his
childhood....' I can undertake that commission," added the abbe. "I
have at last prevailed upon M. de la Mole to come to a settlement with
that Jesuit, the abbe de Frilair. His influence is unquestionably too
much for us. The complete recognition of your high birth on the part
of this man, who is in fact the governor of B---- will be one of the
unwritten terms of the arrangement." Julien could no longer control his
ecstasy. He embraced the abbe. He saw himself recognised.
"For shame," said M. Pirard, pushing him away. "What is the meaning of
this worldly vanity? As for Sorel and his sons, I will offer them in my
own name a yearly allowance of five hundred francs, which will be paid
to each of them as long as I am satisfied with them."
Julien was already cold and haughty. He expressed his thanks, but in
the vaguest terms which bound him to nothing. "Could it be possible,"
he said to himself, "that I am the natural son of some great nobleman
who was exiled to our mountains by the terrible Napoleon?" This idea
seemed less and less improbable every minute.... "My hatred of my
father would be a proof of this.... In that case, I should not be an
unnatural monster after all."
A few days after this soliloquy the Fifteenth Regiment of Hussars,
which was one of the most brilliant in the army, was being reviewed on
the parade ground of Strasbourg. M. the chevalier de La Vernaye sat
the finest horse in Alsace, which had cost him six thousand francs. He
was received as a lieutenant, though he had never been sub-lieutenant
except on the rolls of a regiment of which he had never heard.
His impassive manner, his stern and almost malicious eyes, his pallor,
and his invariable self-possession, founded his reputation from
the very first day. Shortly afterwards his perfect and calculated
politeness, and his skill at shooting and fencing, of which, though
without any undue ostentation, he made his comrades aware, did away
with all idea of making fun of him openly. After hesitating for five
or six days, the public opinion of the regiment declared itself in his
favour.
"This young man has everything," said the facetious old officers,
"except youth."
Julien wrote from Strasbourg to the old cure of Verrieres, M. Chelan,
who was now verging on extreme old age.
"You will have learnt, with a joy of which I have no doubt, of the
events which have induced my family to enrich me. Here are five hundred
francs which I request you to distribute quietly, and without any
mention of my name, among those unfortunate ones who are now poor as I
myself was once, and whom you will doubtless help as you once helped
me."
Julien was intoxicated with ambition, and not with vanity. He
nevertheless devoted a great part of his time to attending to his
external appearance. His horses, his uniform, his orderlies' liveries,
were all kept with a correctness which would have done credit to the
punctiliousness of a great English nobleman. He had scarcely been made
a lieutenant as a matter of favour (and that only two days ago) than
he began to calculate that if he was to become commander-in-chief
at thirty, like all the great generals, then he must be more than a
lieutenant at twenty-three at the latest. He thought about nothing
except fame and his son.
It was in the midst of the ecstasies of the most reinless ambition that
he was surprised by the arrival of a young valet from the Hotel de la
Mole, who had come with a letter.
"All is lost," wrote Mathilde to him: "Rush here as quickly as
possible, sacrifice everything, desert if necessary. As soon as you
have arrived, wait for me in a fiacre near the little garden door,
near No. ---- of the street ---- I will come and speak to you: I shall
perhaps be able to introduce you into the garden. All is lost, and I am
afraid there is no way out; count on me; you will find me staunch and
firm in adversity. I love you."
A few minutes afterwards, Julien obtained a furlough from the colonel,
and left Strasbourg at full gallop. But the awful anxiety which
devoured him did not allow him to continue this method of travel beyond
Metz. He flung himself into a post-chaise, and arrived with an almost
incredible rapidity at the indicated spot, near the little garden door
of the Hotel de la Mole. The door opened, and Mathilde, oblivious of
all human conventions, rushed into his arms. Fortunately, it was only
five o'clock in the morning, and the street was still deserted.
"All is lost. My father, fearing my tears, left Thursday night. Nobody
knows where for? But here is his letter: read it." She climbed into the
fiacre with Julien.
"I could forgive everything except the plan of seducing you because
you are rich. That, unhappy girl, is the awful truth. I give you my
word of honour that I will never consent to a marriage with that man.
I will guarantee him an income of 10,000 francs if he will live far
away beyond the French frontiers, or better still, in America. Read the
letter which I have just received in answer to the enquiries which I
have made. The impudent scoundrel had himself requested me to write to
madame de Renal. I will never read a single line you write concerning
that man. I feel a horror for both Paris and yourself. I urge you to
cover what is bound to happen with the utmost secrecy. Be frank, have
nothing more to do with the vile man, and you will find again the
father you have lost."
"Where is Madame de Renal's letter?" said Julien coldly.
"Here it is. I did not want to shew it to you before you were prepared
for it."
LETTER
"My duties to the sacred cause of religion and morality,
oblige me, monsieur, to take the painful course which I
have just done with regard to yourself: an infallible
principle orders me to do harm to my neighbour at the
present moment, but only in order to avoid an even
greater scandal. My sentiment of duty must overcome
the pain which I experience. It is only too true,
monsieur, that the conduct of the person about whom you
ask me to tell you the whole truth may seem incredible
or even honest. It may possibly be considered proper
to hide or to disguise part of the truth: that would
be in accordance with both prudence and religion. But
the conduct about which you desire information has
been in fact reprehensible to the last degree, and
more than I can say. Poor and greedy as the man is, it
is only by the aid of the most consummate hypocrisy,
and by seducing a weak and unhappy woman, that he has
endeavoured to make a career for himself and become
someone in the world. It is part of my painful duty to
add that I am obliged to believe that M. Julien has no
religious principles. I am driven conscientiously to
think that one of his methods of obtaining success in
any household is to try to seduce the woman who commands
the principal influence. His one great object, in spite
of his show of disinterestedness, and his stock-in-trade
of phrases out of novels, is to succeed in doing what he
likes with the master of the household and his fortune.
He leaves behind him unhappiness and eternal remorse,
etc., etc., etc."
This extremely long letter, which was almost blotted out by tears, was
certainly in madame de Renal's handwriting; it was even written with
more than ordinary care.
"I cannot blame M. de la Mole," said Julien, "after he had finished it.
He is just and prudent. What father would give his beloved daughter to
such a man? Adieu!" Julien jumped out of the fiacre and rushed to his
post-chaise, which had stopped at the end of the street. Mathilde, whom
he had apparently forgotten, took a few steps as though to follow him,
but the looks she received from the tradesmen, who were coming out on
the thresholds of their shops, and who knew who she was, forced her to
return precipitately to the garden.
Julien had left for Verrieres. During that rapid journey he was unable
to write to Mathilde as he had intended. His hand could only form
illegible characters on the paper.
He arrived at Verrieres on a Sunday morning. He entered the shop of the
local gunsmith, who overwhelmed him with congratulations on his recent
good fortune. It constituted the news of the locality.
Julien had much difficulty in making him understand that he wanted a
pair of pistols. At his request the gunsmith loaded the pistols.
The three peals sounded; it is a well-known signal in the villages of
France, and after the various ringings in the morning announces the
immediate commencement of Mass.
Julien entered the new church of Verrieres. All the lofty windows of
the building were veiled with crimson curtains. Julien found himself
some spaces behind the pew of madame de Renal. It seemed to him that
she was praying fervently The sight of the woman whom he had loved so
much made Julien's arm tremble so violently that he was at first unable
to execute his project. "I cannot," he said to himself. "It is a
physical impossibility."
At that moment the young priest, who was officiating at the Mass, rang
the bell for the elevation of the host. Madame de Renal lowered her
head, which, for a moment became entirely hidden by the folds of her
shawl. Julien did not see her features so distinctly: he aimed a pistol
shot at her, and missed her: he aimed a second shot, she fell.
| 2,051 | Part 2, Chapter 35 | https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-35 | Julien gets ready to leave Father Pirard's one day when Pirard gives him a huge wad of money from the marquis. The man doesn't want anything about Julien's life to reveal his lower class status. Julien gets along swimmingly when he first joins the army in his new post. Everyone likes and respects him. Out of nowhere, he gets a note from Mathilde telling him to come to her immediately in Paris. It's an emergency. When Julien gets to Paris, Mathilde tells him that her father has run a background check on Julien and found out about his affair with Madame de Renal back in the day. Madame herself wrote a letter to the marquis talking about how Julien seduced her. It doesn't look good. In fact, it sounds like exactly what he did with Mathilde. Julien runs away in shame. He heads all the way back to his hometown of Verrieres. The first place he goes is the local gun shop, where he buys a pair of pistols. He goes to the Verrieres church, where mass is happening. He walks into the pew directly behind Madame de Renal's and shoots her twice in cold blood for ratting him out. Things just got real. | null | 204 | 1 | [
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28,054 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/50.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_49_part_0.txt | The Brothers Karamazov.book 8.chapter 5 | book 8, chapter 5 | null | {"name": "Book 8, Chapter 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-8-chapter-5", "summary": "Dmitri dashes into see Fenya to get the scoop on Grushenka. He frightens Fenya and her grandmother because of his bloodied appearance. She confirms that Grushenka is off to Mokroye. Dmitri then heads back to his friend Pyotr Ilyich Perkhotin, the young official he'd pawned his pistols to. He pays back the loan and gets his pistols back. Perkhotin is startled by how much money Dmitri seems to be flashing around all of a sudden. They send Perkhotin's servant out to the local store for some change, but Dmitri asks Perkhotin's servant to order lots of treats, as Dmitri is planning on wooing Grushenka again in Mokroye. Perkhotin helps Dmitri wash off the blood, all the while trying to get the story out of him, but Dmitri incoherently mumbles about gold mines and Madame Khokhlakov and punishment and theft. Still confused, Perkhotin accompanies Dmitri to Plotnikov's store, where Dmitri loads up a cart with goodies and sets off for Mokroye. Perkhotin is highly suspicious of Dmitri. He goes to the tavern to take his mind off things, but when he tells everyone about Dmitri's sudden wealth, they wonder if Dmitri's finally gotten around to killing his father. This concerns Perkhotin, so he decides to investigate and heads to Grushenka's house to get the story from her servant Fenya.", "analysis": ""} | Chapter V. A Sudden Resolution
She was sitting in the kitchen with her grandmother; they were both just
going to bed. Relying on Nazar Ivanovitch, they had not locked themselves
in. Mitya ran in, pounced on Fenya and seized her by the throat.
"Speak at once! Where is she? With whom is she now, at Mokroe?" he roared
furiously.
Both the women squealed.
"Aie! I'll tell you. Aie! Dmitri Fyodorovitch, darling, I'll tell you
everything directly, I won't hide anything," gabbled Fenya, frightened to
death; "she's gone to Mokroe, to her officer."
"What officer?" roared Mitya.
"To her officer, the same one she used to know, the one who threw her over
five years ago," cackled Fenya, as fast as she could speak.
Mitya withdrew the hands with which he was squeezing her throat. He stood
facing her, pale as death, unable to utter a word, but his eyes showed
that he realized it all, all, from the first word, and guessed the whole
position. Poor Fenya was not in a condition at that moment to observe
whether he understood or not. She remained sitting on the trunk as she had
been when he ran into the room, trembling all over, holding her hands out
before her as though trying to defend herself. She seemed to have grown
rigid in that position. Her wide-opened, scared eyes were fixed immovably
upon him. And to make matters worse, both his hands were smeared with
blood. On the way, as he ran, he must have touched his forehead with them,
wiping off the perspiration, so that on his forehead and his right cheek
were blood-stained patches. Fenya was on the verge of hysterics. The old
cook had jumped up and was staring at him like a mad woman, almost
unconscious with terror.
Mitya stood for a moment, then mechanically sank on to a chair next to
Fenya. He sat, not reflecting but, as it were, terror-stricken, benumbed.
Yet everything was clear as day: that officer, he knew about him, he knew
everything perfectly, he had known it from Grushenka herself, had known
that a letter had come from him a month before. So that for a month, for a
whole month, this had been going on, a secret from him, till the very
arrival of this new man, and he had never thought of him! But how could
he, how could he not have thought of him? Why was it he had forgotten this
officer, like that, forgotten him as soon as he heard of him? That was the
question that faced him like some monstrous thing. And he looked at this
monstrous thing with horror, growing cold with horror.
But suddenly, as gently and mildly as a gentle and affectionate child, he
began speaking to Fenya as though he had utterly forgotten how he had
scared and hurt her just now. He fell to questioning Fenya with an extreme
preciseness, astonishing in his position, and though the girl looked
wildly at his blood-stained hands, she, too, with wonderful readiness and
rapidity, answered every question as though eager to put the whole truth
and nothing but the truth before him. Little by little, even with a sort
of enjoyment, she began explaining every detail, not wanting to torment
him, but, as it were, eager to be of the utmost service to him. She
described the whole of that day, in great detail, the visit of Rakitin and
Alyosha, how she, Fenya, had stood on the watch, how the mistress had set
off, and how she had called out of the window to Alyosha to give him,
Mitya, her greetings, and to tell him "to remember for ever how she had
loved him for an hour."
Hearing of the message, Mitya suddenly smiled, and there was a flush of
color on his pale cheeks. At the same moment Fenya said to him, not a bit
afraid now to be inquisitive:
"Look at your hands, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. They're all over blood!"
"Yes," answered Mitya mechanically. He looked carelessly at his hands and
at once forgot them and Fenya's question.
He sank into silence again. Twenty minutes had passed since he had run in.
His first horror was over, but evidently some new fixed determination had
taken possession of him. He suddenly stood up, smiling dreamily.
"What has happened to you, sir?" said Fenya, pointing to his hands again.
She spoke compassionately, as though she felt very near to him now in his
grief. Mitya looked at his hands again.
"That's blood, Fenya," he said, looking at her with a strange expression.
"That's human blood, and my God! why was it shed? But ... Fenya ...
there's a fence here" (he looked at her as though setting her a riddle),
"a high fence, and terrible to look at. But at dawn to-morrow, when the
sun rises, Mitya will leap over that fence.... You don't understand what
fence, Fenya, and, never mind.... You'll hear to-morrow and understand ...
and now, good-by. I won't stand in her way. I'll step aside, I know how to
step aside. Live, my joy.... You loved me for an hour, remember Mityenka
Karamazov so for ever.... She always used to call me Mityenka, do you
remember?"
And with those words he went suddenly out of the kitchen. Fenya was almost
more frightened at this sudden departure than she had been when he ran in
and attacked her.
Just ten minutes later Dmitri went in to Pyotr Ilyitch Perhotin, the young
official with whom he had pawned his pistols. It was by now half-past
eight, and Pyotr Ilyitch had finished his evening tea, and had just put
his coat on again to go to the "Metropolis" to play billiards. Mitya
caught him coming out.
Seeing him with his face all smeared with blood, the young man uttered a
cry of surprise.
"Good heavens! What is the matter?"
"I've come for my pistols," said Mitya, "and brought you the money. And
thanks very much. I'm in a hurry, Pyotr Ilyitch, please make haste."
Pyotr Ilyitch grew more and more surprised; he suddenly caught sight of a
bundle of bank-notes in Mitya's hand, and what was more, he had walked in
holding the notes as no one walks in and no one carries money: he had them
in his right hand, and held them outstretched as if to show them.
Perhotin's servant-boy, who met Mitya in the passage, said afterwards that
he walked into the passage in the same way, with the money outstretched in
his hand, so he must have been carrying them like that even in the
streets. They were all rainbow-colored hundred-rouble notes, and the
fingers holding them were covered with blood.
When Pyotr Ilyitch was questioned later on as to the sum of money, he said
that it was difficult to judge at a glance, but that it might have been
two thousand, or perhaps three, but it was a big, "fat" bundle. "Dmitri
Fyodorovitch," so he testified afterwards, "seemed unlike himself, too;
not drunk, but, as it were, exalted, lost to everything, but at the same
time, as it were, absorbed, as though pondering and searching for
something and unable to come to a decision. He was in great haste,
answered abruptly and very strangely, and at moments seemed not at all
dejected but quite cheerful."
"But what _is_ the matter with you? What's wrong?" cried Pyotr Ilyitch,
looking wildly at his guest. "How is it that you're all covered with
blood? Have you had a fall? Look at yourself!"
He took him by the elbow and led him to the glass.
Seeing his blood-stained face, Mitya started and scowled wrathfully.
"Damnation! That's the last straw," he muttered angrily, hurriedly
changing the notes from his right hand to the left, and impulsively jerked
the handkerchief out of his pocket. But the handkerchief turned out to be
soaked with blood, too (it was the handkerchief he had used to wipe
Grigory's face). There was scarcely a white spot on it, and it had not
merely begun to dry, but had stiffened into a crumpled ball and could not
be pulled apart. Mitya threw it angrily on the floor.
"Oh, damn it!" he said. "Haven't you a rag of some sort ... to wipe my
face?"
"So you're only stained, not wounded? You'd better wash," said Pyotr
Ilyitch. "Here's a wash-stand. I'll pour you out some water."
"A wash-stand? That's all right ... but where am I to put this?"
With the strangest perplexity he indicated his bundle of hundred-rouble
notes, looking inquiringly at Pyotr Ilyitch as though it were for him to
decide what he, Mitya, was to do with his own money.
"In your pocket, or on the table here. They won't be lost."
"In my pocket? Yes, in my pocket. All right.... But, I say, that's all
nonsense," he cried, as though suddenly coming out of his absorption.
"Look here, let's first settle that business of the pistols. Give them
back to me. Here's your money ... because I am in great need of them ...
and I haven't a minute, a minute to spare."
And taking the topmost note from the bundle he held it out to Pyotr
Ilyitch.
"But I shan't have change enough. Haven't you less?"
"No," said Mitya, looking again at the bundle, and as though not trusting
his own words he turned over two or three of the topmost ones.
"No, they're all alike," he added, and again he looked inquiringly at
Pyotr Ilyitch.
"How have you grown so rich?" the latter asked. "Wait, I'll send my boy to
Plotnikov's, they close late--to see if they won't change it. Here, Misha!"
he called into the passage.
"To Plotnikov's shop--first-rate!" cried Mitya, as though struck by an
idea. "Misha," he turned to the boy as he came in, "look here, run to
Plotnikov's and tell them that Dmitri Fyodorovitch sends his greetings,
and will be there directly.... But listen, listen, tell them to have
champagne, three dozen bottles, ready before I come, and packed as it was
to take to Mokroe. I took four dozen with me then," he added (suddenly
addressing Pyotr Ilyitch); "they know all about it, don't you trouble,
Misha," he turned again to the boy. "Stay, listen; tell them to put in
cheese, Strasburg pies, smoked fish, ham, caviare, and everything,
everything they've got, up to a hundred roubles, or a hundred and twenty
as before.... But wait: don't let them forget dessert, sweets, pears,
water-melons, two or three or four--no, one melon's enough, and chocolate,
candy, toffee, fondants; in fact, everything I took to Mokroe before,
three hundred roubles' worth with the champagne ... let it be just the
same again. And remember, Misha, if you are called Misha--His name is
Misha, isn't it?" He turned to Pyotr Ilyitch again.
"Wait a minute," Protr Ilyitch intervened, listening and watching him
uneasily, "you'd better go yourself and tell them. He'll muddle it."
"He will, I see he will! Eh, Misha! Why, I was going to kiss you for the
commission.... If you don't make a mistake, there's ten roubles for you,
run along, make haste.... Champagne's the chief thing, let them bring up
champagne. And brandy, too, and red and white wine, and all I had then....
They know what I had then."
"But listen!" Pyotr Ilyitch interrupted with some impatience. "I say, let
him simply run and change the money and tell them not to close, and you go
and tell them.... Give him your note. Be off, Misha! Put your best leg
forward!"
Pyotr Ilyitch seemed to hurry Misha off on purpose, because the boy
remained standing with his mouth and eyes wide open, apparently
understanding little of Mitya's orders, gazing up with amazement and
terror at his blood-stained face and the trembling bloodstained fingers
that held the notes.
"Well, now come and wash," said Pyotr Ilyitch sternly. "Put the money on
the table or else in your pocket.... That's right, come along. But take
off your coat."
And beginning to help him off with his coat, he cried out again:
"Look, your coat's covered with blood, too!"
"That ... it's not the coat. It's only a little here on the sleeve.... And
that's only here where the handkerchief lay. It must have soaked through.
I must have sat on the handkerchief at Fenya's, and the blood's come
through," Mitya explained at once with a childlike unconsciousness that
was astounding. Pyotr Ilyitch listened, frowning.
"Well, you must have been up to something; you must have been fighting
with some one," he muttered.
They began to wash. Pyotr Ilyitch held the jug and poured out the water.
Mitya, in desperate haste, scarcely soaped his hands (they were trembling,
and Pyotr Ilyitch remembered it afterwards). But the young official
insisted on his soaping them thoroughly and rubbing them more. He seemed
to exercise more and more sway over Mitya, as time went on. It may be
noted in passing that he was a young man of sturdy character.
"Look, you haven't got your nails clean. Now rub your face; here, on your
temples, by your ear.... Will you go in that shirt? Where are you going?
Look, all the cuff of your right sleeve is covered with blood."
"Yes, it's all bloody," observed Mitya, looking at the cuff of his shirt.
"Then change your shirt."
"I haven't time. You see I'll ..." Mitya went on with the same confiding
ingenuousness, drying his face and hands on the towel, and putting on his
coat. "I'll turn it up at the wrist. It won't be seen under the coat....
You see!"
"Tell me now, what game have you been up to? Have you been fighting with
some one? In the tavern again, as before? Have you been beating that
captain again?" Pyotr Ilyitch asked him reproachfully. "Whom have you been
beating now ... or killing, perhaps?"
"Nonsense!" said Mitya.
"Why 'nonsense'?"
"Don't worry," said Mitya, and he suddenly laughed. "I smashed an old
woman in the market-place just now."
"Smashed? An old woman?"
"An old man!" cried Mitya, looking Pyotr Ilyitch straight in the face,
laughing, and shouting at him as though he were deaf.
"Confound it! An old woman, an old man.... Have you killed some one?"
"We made it up. We had a row--and made it up. In a place I know of. We
parted friends. A fool.... He's forgiven me.... He's sure to have forgiven
me by now ... if he had got up, he wouldn't have forgiven me"--Mitya
suddenly winked--"only damn him, you know, I say, Pyotr Ilyitch, damn him!
Don't worry about him! I don't want to just now!" Mitya snapped out,
resolutely.
"Whatever do you want to go picking quarrels with every one for? ... Just
as you did with that captain over some nonsense.... You've been fighting
and now you're rushing off on the spree--that's you all over! Three dozen
champagne--what do you want all that for?"
"Bravo! Now give me the pistols. Upon my honor I've no time now. I should
like to have a chat with you, my dear boy, but I haven't the time. And
there's no need, it's too late for talking. Where's my money? Where have I
put it?" he cried, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
"You put it on the table ... yourself.... Here it is. Had you forgotten?
Money's like dirt or water to you, it seems. Here are your pistols. It's
an odd thing, at six o'clock you pledged them for ten roubles, and now
you've got thousands. Two or three I should say."
"Three, you bet," laughed Mitya, stuffing the notes into the side-pocket
of his trousers.
"You'll lose it like that. Have you found a gold-mine?"
"The mines? The gold-mines?" Mitya shouted at the top of his voice and
went off into a roar of laughter. "Would you like to go to the mines,
Perhotin? There's a lady here who'll stump up three thousand for you, if
only you'll go. She did it for me, she's so awfully fond of gold-mines. Do
you know Madame Hohlakov?"
"I don't know her, but I've heard of her and seen her. Did she really give
you three thousand? Did she really?" said Pyotr Ilyitch, eyeing him
dubiously.
"As soon as the sun rises to-morrow, as soon as Phoebus, ever young, flies
upwards, praising and glorifying God, you go to her, this Madame Hohlakov,
and ask her whether she did stump up that three thousand or not. Try and
find out."
"I don't know on what terms you are ... since you say it so positively, I
suppose she did give it to you. You've got the money in your hand, but
instead of going to Siberia you're spending it all.... Where are you
really off to now, eh?"
"To Mokroe."
"To Mokroe? But it's night!"
"Once the lad had all, now the lad has naught," cried Mitya suddenly.
"How 'naught'? You say that with all those thousands!"
"I'm not talking about thousands. Damn thousands! I'm talking of the
female character.
Fickle is the heart of woman
Treacherous and full of vice;
I agree with Ulysses. That's what he says."
"I don't understand you!"
"Am I drunk?"
"Not drunk, but worse."
"I'm drunk in spirit, Pyotr Ilyitch, drunk in spirit! But that's enough!"
"What are you doing, loading the pistol?"
"I'm loading the pistol."
Unfastening the pistol-case, Mitya actually opened the powder horn, and
carefully sprinkled and rammed in the charge. Then he took the bullet and,
before inserting it, held it in two fingers in front of the candle.
"Why are you looking at the bullet?" asked Pyotr Ilyitch, watching him
with uneasy curiosity.
"Oh, a fancy. Why, if you meant to put that bullet in your brain, would
you look at it or not?"
"Why look at it?"
"It's going into my brain, so it's interesting to look and see what it's
like. But that's foolishness, a moment's foolishness. Now that's done," he
added, putting in the bullet and driving it home with the ramrod. "Pyotr
Ilyitch, my dear fellow, that's nonsense, all nonsense, and if only you
knew what nonsense! Give me a little piece of paper now."
"Here's some paper."
"No, a clean new piece, writing-paper. That's right."
And taking a pen from the table, Mitya rapidly wrote two lines, folded the
paper in four, and thrust it in his waistcoat pocket. He put the pistols
in the case, locked it up, and kept it in his hand. Then he looked at
Pyotr Ilyitch with a slow, thoughtful smile.
"Now, let's go."
"Where are we going? No, wait a minute.... Are you thinking of putting
that bullet in your brain, perhaps?" Pyotr Ilyitch asked uneasily.
"I was fooling about the bullet! I want to live. I love life! You may be
sure of that. I love golden-haired Phoebus and his warm light.... Dear
Pyotr Ilyitch, do you know how to step aside?"
"What do you mean by 'stepping aside'?"
"Making way. Making way for a dear creature, and for one I hate. And to
let the one I hate become dear--that's what making way means! And to say to
them: God bless you, go your way, pass on, while I--"
"While you--?"
"That's enough, let's go."
"Upon my word. I'll tell some one to prevent your going there," said Pyotr
Ilyitch, looking at him. "What are you going to Mokroe for, now?"
"There's a woman there, a woman. That's enough for you. You shut up."
"Listen, though you're such a savage I've always liked you.... I feel
anxious."
"Thanks, old fellow. I'm a savage you say. Savages, savages! That's what I
am always saying. Savages! Why, here's Misha! I was forgetting him."
Misha ran in, post-haste, with a handful of notes in change, and reported
that every one was in a bustle at the Plotnikovs'; "They're carrying down
the bottles, and the fish, and the tea; it will all be ready directly."
Mitya seized ten roubles and handed it to Pyotr Ilyitch, then tossed
another ten-rouble note to Misha.
"Don't dare to do such a thing!" cried Pyotr Ilyitch. "I won't have it in
my house, it's a bad, demoralizing habit. Put your money away. Here, put
it here, why waste it? It would come in handy to-morrow, and I dare say
you'll be coming to me to borrow ten roubles again. Why do you keep
putting the notes in your side-pocket? Ah, you'll lose them!"
"I say, my dear fellow, let's go to Mokroe together."
"What should I go for?"
"I say, let's open a bottle at once, and drink to life! I want to drink,
and especially to drink with you. I've never drunk with you, have I?"
"Very well, we can go to the 'Metropolis.' I was just going there."
"I haven't time for that. Let's drink at the Plotnikovs', in the back
room. Shall I ask you a riddle?"
"Ask away."
Mitya took the piece of paper out of his waistcoat pocket, unfolded it and
showed it. In a large, distinct hand was written: "I punish myself for my
whole life, my whole life I punish!"
"I will certainly speak to some one, I'll go at once," said Pyotr Ilyitch,
after reading the paper.
"You won't have time, dear boy, come and have a drink. March!"
Plotnikov's shop was at the corner of the street, next door but one to
Pyotr Ilyitch's. It was the largest grocery shop in our town, and by no
means a bad one, belonging to some rich merchants. They kept everything
that could be got in a Petersburg shop, grocery of all sort, wines
"bottled by the brothers Eliseyev," fruits, cigars, tea, coffee, sugar,
and so on. There were three shop-assistants and two errand boys always
employed. Though our part of the country had grown poorer, the landowners
had gone away, and trade had got worse, yet the grocery stores flourished
as before, every year with increasing prosperity; there were plenty of
purchasers for their goods.
They were awaiting Mitya with impatience in the shop. They had vivid
recollections of how he had bought, three or four weeks ago, wine and
goods of all sorts to the value of several hundred roubles, paid for in
cash (they would never have let him have anything on credit, of course).
They remembered that then, as now, he had had a bundle of hundred-rouble
notes in his hand, and had scattered them at random, without bargaining,
without reflecting, or caring to reflect what use so much wine and
provisions would be to him. The story was told all over the town that,
driving off then with Grushenka to Mokroe, he had "spent three thousand in
one night and the following day, and had come back from the spree without
a penny." He had picked up a whole troop of gypsies (encamped in our
neighborhood at the time), who for two days got money without stint out of
him while he was drunk, and drank expensive wine without stint. People
used to tell, laughing at Mitya, how he had given champagne to grimy-
handed peasants, and feasted the village women and girls on sweets and
Strasburg pies. Though to laugh at Mitya to his face was rather a risky
proceeding, there was much laughter behind his back, especially in the
tavern, at his own ingenuous public avowal that all he had got out of
Grushenka by this "escapade" was "permission to kiss her foot, and that
was the utmost she had allowed him."
By the time Mitya and Pyotr Ilyitch reached the shop, they found a cart
with three horses harnessed abreast with bells, and with Andrey, the
driver, ready waiting for Mitya at the entrance. In the shop they had
almost entirely finished packing one box of provisions, and were only
waiting for Mitya's arrival to nail it down and put it in the cart. Pyotr
Ilyitch was astounded.
"Where did this cart come from in such a hurry?" he asked Mitya.
"I met Andrey as I ran to you, and told him to drive straight here to the
shop. There's no time to lose. Last time I drove with Timofey, but Timofey
now has gone on before me with the witch. Shall we be very late, Andrey?"
"They'll only get there an hour at most before us, not even that maybe. I
got Timofey ready to start. I know how he'll go. Their pace won't be ours,
Dmitri Fyodorovitch. How could it be? They won't get there an hour
earlier!" Andrey, a lanky, red-haired, middle-aged driver, wearing a full-
skirted coat, and with a kaftan on his arm, replied warmly.
"Fifty roubles for vodka if we're only an hour behind them."
"I warrant the time, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. Ech, they won't be half an hour
before us, let alone an hour."
Though Mitya bustled about seeing after things, he gave his orders
strangely, as it were disconnectedly, and inconsecutively. He began a
sentence and forgot the end of it. Pyotr Ilyitch found himself obliged to
come to the rescue.
"Four hundred roubles' worth, not less than four hundred roubles' worth,
just as it was then," commanded Mitya. "Four dozen champagne, not a bottle
less."
"What do you want with so much? What's it for? Stay!" cried Pyotr Ilyitch.
"What's this box? What's in it? Surely there isn't four hundred roubles'
worth here?"
The officious shopmen began explaining with oily politeness that the first
box contained only half a dozen bottles of champagne, and only "the most
indispensable articles," such as savories, sweets, toffee, etc. But the
main part of the goods ordered would be packed and sent off, as on the
previous occasion, in a special cart also with three horses traveling at
full speed, so that it would arrive not more than an hour later than
Dmitri Fyodorovitch himself.
"Not more than an hour! Not more than an hour! And put in more toffee and
fondants. The girls there are so fond of it," Mitya insisted hotly.
"The fondants are all right. But what do you want with four dozen of
champagne? One would be enough," said Pyotr Ilyitch, almost angry. He
began bargaining, asking for a bill of the goods, and refused to be
satisfied. But he only succeeded in saving a hundred roubles. In the end
it was agreed that only three hundred roubles' worth should be sent.
"Well, you may go to the devil!" cried Pyotr Ilyitch, on second thoughts.
"What's it to do with me? Throw away your money, since it's cost you
nothing."
"This way, my economist, this way, don't be angry." Mitya drew him into a
room at the back of the shop. "They'll give us a bottle here directly.
We'll taste it. Ech, Pyotr Ilyitch, come along with me, for you're a nice
fellow, the sort I like."
Mitya sat down on a wicker chair, before a little table, covered with a
dirty dinner-napkin. Pyotr Ilyitch sat down opposite, and the champagne
soon appeared, and oysters were suggested to the gentlemen. "First-class
oysters, the last lot in."
"Hang the oysters. I don't eat them. And we don't need anything," cried
Pyotr Ilyitch, almost angrily.
"There's no time for oysters," said Mitya. "And I'm not hungry. Do you
know, friend," he said suddenly, with feeling, "I never have liked all
this disorder."
"Who does like it? Three dozen of champagne for peasants, upon my word,
that's enough to make any one angry!"
"That's not what I mean. I'm talking of a higher order. There's no order
in me, no higher order. But ... that's all over. There's no need to grieve
about it. It's too late, damn it! My whole life has been disorder, and one
must set it in order. Is that a pun, eh?"
"You're raving, not making puns!"
"Glory be to God in Heaven,
Glory be to God in me....
"That verse came from my heart once, it's not a verse, but a tear.... I
made it myself ... not while I was pulling the captain's beard,
though...."
"Why do you bring him in all of a sudden?"
"Why do I bring him in? Foolery! All things come to an end; all things are
made equal. That's the long and short of it."
"You know, I keep thinking of your pistols."
"That's all foolery, too! Drink, and don't be fanciful. I love life. I've
loved life too much, shamefully much. Enough! Let's drink to life, dear
boy, I propose the toast. Why am I pleased with myself? I'm a scoundrel,
but I'm satisfied with myself. And yet I'm tortured by the thought that
I'm a scoundrel, but satisfied with myself. I bless the creation. I'm
ready to bless God and His creation directly, but ... I must kill one
noxious insect for fear it should crawl and spoil life for others.... Let
us drink to life, dear brother. What can be more precious than life?
Nothing! To life, and to one queen of queens!"
"Let's drink to life and to your queen, too, if you like."
They drank a glass each. Although Mitya was excited and expansive, yet he
was melancholy, too. It was as though some heavy, overwhelming anxiety
were weighing upon him.
"Misha ... here's your Misha come! Misha, come here, my boy, drink this
glass to Phoebus, the golden-haired, of to-morrow morn...."
"What are you giving it him for?" cried Pyotr Ilyitch, irritably.
"Yes, yes, yes, let me! I want to!"
"E--ech!"
Misha emptied the glass, bowed, and ran out.
"He'll remember it afterwards," Mitya remarked. "Woman, I love woman! What
is woman? The queen of creation! My heart is sad, my heart is sad, Pyotr
Ilyitch. Do you remember Hamlet? 'I am very sorry, good Horatio! Alas,
poor Yorick!' Perhaps that's me, Yorick? Yes, I'm Yorick now, and a skull
afterwards."
Pyotr Ilyitch listened in silence. Mitya, too, was silent for a while.
"What dog's that you've got here?" he asked the shopman, casually,
noticing a pretty little lap-dog with dark eyes, sitting in the corner.
"It belongs to Varvara Alexyevna, the mistress," answered the clerk. "She
brought it and forgot it here. It must be taken back to her."
"I saw one like it ... in the regiment ..." murmured Mitya dreamily, "only
that one had its hind leg broken.... By the way, Pyotr Ilyitch, I wanted
to ask you: have you ever stolen anything in your life?"
"What a question!"
"Oh, I didn't mean anything. From somebody's pocket, you know. I don't
mean government money, every one steals that, and no doubt you do,
too...."
"You go to the devil."
"I'm talking of other people's money. Stealing straight out of a pocket?
Out of a purse, eh?"
"I stole twenty copecks from my mother when I was nine years old. I took
it off the table on the sly, and held it tight in my hand."
"Well, and what happened?"
"Oh, nothing. I kept it three days, then I felt ashamed, confessed, and
gave it back."
"And what then?"
"Naturally I was whipped. But why do you ask? Have you stolen something?"
"I have," said Mitya, winking slyly.
"What have you stolen?" inquired Pyotr Ilyitch curiously.
"I stole twenty copecks from my mother when I was nine years old, and gave
it back three days after."
As he said this, Mitya suddenly got up.
"Dmitri Fyodorovitch, won't you come now?" called Andrey from the door of
the shop.
"Are you ready? We'll come!" Mitya started. "A few more last words
and--Andrey, a glass of vodka at starting. Give him some brandy as well!
That box" (the one with the pistols) "put under my seat. Good-by, Pyotr
Ilyitch, don't remember evil against me."
"But you're coming back to-morrow?"
"Of course."
"Will you settle the little bill now?" cried the clerk, springing forward.
"Oh, yes, the bill. Of course."
He pulled the bundle of notes out of his pocket again, picked out three
hundred roubles, threw them on the counter, and ran hurriedly out of the
shop. Every one followed him out, bowing and wishing him good luck.
Andrey, coughing from the brandy he had just swallowed, jumped up on the
box. But Mitya was only just taking his seat when suddenly to his surprise
he saw Fenya before him. She ran up panting, clasped her hands before him
with a cry, and plumped down at his feet.
"Dmitri Fyodorovitch, dear good Dmitri Fyodorovitch, don't harm my
mistress. And it was I told you all about it.... And don't murder him, he
came first, he's hers! He'll marry Agrafena Alexandrovna now. That's why
he's come back from Siberia. Dmitri Fyodorovitch, dear, don't take a
fellow creature's life!"
"Tut--tut--tut! That's it, is it? So you're off there to make trouble!"
muttered Pyotr Ilyitch. "Now, it's all clear, as clear as daylight. Dmitri
Fyodorovitch, give me your pistols at once if you mean to behave like a
man," he shouted aloud to Mitya. "Do you hear, Dmitri?"
"The pistols? Wait a bit, brother, I'll throw them into the pool on the
road," answered Mitya. "Fenya, get up, don't kneel to me. Mitya won't hurt
any one, the silly fool won't hurt any one again. But I say, Fenya," he
shouted, after having taken his seat. "I hurt you just now, so forgive me
and have pity on me, forgive a scoundrel.... But it doesn't matter if you
don't. It's all the same now. Now then, Andrey, look alive, fly along full
speed!"
Andrey whipped up the horses, and the bells began ringing.
"Good-by, Pyotr Ilyitch! My last tear is for you!..."
"He's not drunk, but he keeps babbling like a lunatic," Pyotr Ilyitch
thought as he watched him go. He had half a mind to stay and see the cart
packed with the remaining wines and provisions, knowing that they would
deceive and defraud Mitya. But, suddenly feeling vexed with himself, he
turned away with a curse and went to the tavern to play billiards.
"He's a fool, though he's a good fellow," he muttered as he went. "I've
heard of that officer, Grushenka's former flame. Well, if he has turned
up.... Ech, those pistols! Damn it all! I'm not his nurse! Let them do
what they like! Besides, it'll all come to nothing. They're a set of
brawlers, that's all. They'll drink and fight, fight and make friends
again. They are not men who do anything real. What does he mean by 'I'm
stepping aside, I'm punishing myself?' It'll come to nothing! He's shouted
such phrases a thousand times, drunk, in the taverns. But now he's not
drunk. 'Drunk in spirit'--they're fond of fine phrases, the villains. Am I
his nurse? He must have been fighting, his face was all over blood. With
whom? I shall find out at the 'Metropolis.' And his handkerchief was
soaked in blood.... It's still lying on my floor.... Hang it!"
He reached the tavern in a bad humor and at once made up a game. The game
cheered him. He played a second game, and suddenly began telling one of
his partners that Dmitri Karamazov had come in for some cash
again--something like three thousand roubles, and had gone to Mokroe again
to spend it with Grushenka.... This news roused singular interest in his
listeners. They all spoke of it, not laughing, but with a strange gravity.
They left off playing.
"Three thousand? But where can he have got three thousand?"
Questions were asked. The story of Madame Hohlakov's present was received
with skepticism.
"Hasn't he robbed his old father?--that's the question."
"Three thousand! There's something odd about it."
"He boasted aloud that he would kill his father; we all heard him, here.
And it was three thousand he talked about ..."
Pyotr Ilyitch listened. All at once he became short and dry in his
answers. He said not a word about the blood on Mitya's face and hands,
though he had meant to speak of it at first.
They began a third game, and by degrees the talk about Mitya died away.
But by the end of the third game, Pyotr Ilyitch felt no more desire for
billiards; he laid down the cue, and without having supper as he had
intended, he walked out of the tavern. When he reached the market-place he
stood still in perplexity, wondering at himself. He realized that what he
wanted was to go to Fyodor Pavlovitch's and find out if anything had
happened there. "On account of some stupid nonsense--as it's sure to turn
out--am I going to wake up the household and make a scandal? Fooh! damn it,
is it my business to look after them?"
In a very bad humor he went straight home, and suddenly remembered Fenya.
"Damn it all! I ought to have questioned her just now," he thought with
vexation, "I should have heard everything." And the desire to speak to
her, and so find out, became so pressing and importunate that when he was
half-way home he turned abruptly and went towards the house where
Grushenka lodged. Going up to the gate he knocked. The sound of the knock
in the silence of the night sobered him and made him feel annoyed. And no
one answered him; every one in the house was asleep.
"And I shall be making a fuss!" he thought, with a feeling of positive
discomfort. But instead of going away altogether, he fell to knocking
again with all his might, filling the street with clamor.
"Not coming? Well, I will knock them up, I will!" he muttered at each
knock, fuming at himself, but at the same time he redoubled his knocks on
the gate.
| 5,736 | Book 8, Chapter 5 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-8-chapter-5 | Dmitri dashes into see Fenya to get the scoop on Grushenka. He frightens Fenya and her grandmother because of his bloodied appearance. She confirms that Grushenka is off to Mokroye. Dmitri then heads back to his friend Pyotr Ilyich Perkhotin, the young official he'd pawned his pistols to. He pays back the loan and gets his pistols back. Perkhotin is startled by how much money Dmitri seems to be flashing around all of a sudden. They send Perkhotin's servant out to the local store for some change, but Dmitri asks Perkhotin's servant to order lots of treats, as Dmitri is planning on wooing Grushenka again in Mokroye. Perkhotin helps Dmitri wash off the blood, all the while trying to get the story out of him, but Dmitri incoherently mumbles about gold mines and Madame Khokhlakov and punishment and theft. Still confused, Perkhotin accompanies Dmitri to Plotnikov's store, where Dmitri loads up a cart with goodies and sets off for Mokroye. Perkhotin is highly suspicious of Dmitri. He goes to the tavern to take his mind off things, but when he tells everyone about Dmitri's sudden wealth, they wonder if Dmitri's finally gotten around to killing his father. This concerns Perkhotin, so he decides to investigate and heads to Grushenka's house to get the story from her servant Fenya. | null | 218 | 1 | [
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161 | false | novelguide | all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/03.txt | finished_summaries/novelguide/Sense and Sensibility/section_1_part_3.txt | Sense and Sensibility.chapter iii | chapter iii | null | {"name": "Chapter III", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter1-11", "summary": "Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters remain at Norland for several months, putting up with Fanny Dashwood as best they can while they look for a house to rent. Elinor dissuades her mother from choosing houses that are too expensive for their reduced circumstances. Mrs. Dashwood is still confident that John will come up with money to support them. To Mrs. Dashwood's joy, an attachment grows between Elinor and Edward Ferrars, the brother of Fanny Dashwood and the eldest son of a man who died rich. Edward is shy and unsuited to answer his mother's and sister's ambitions for him. They want him to achieve power and influence in the world, whereas he only wants a simple life. Marianne admits to being disappointed in Edward's lack of \"sensibility,\" citing his unimpassioned reading of her favorite poetry", "analysis": ""} |
Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any
disinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased
to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when
her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other
exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy
remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her
inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for
to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could
hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and
ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier
judgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which
her mother would have approved.
Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on
the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last
earthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no
more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her
daughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was
persuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000L would support her in
affluence. For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own
heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his
merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity. His attentive
behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare
was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the
liberality of his intentions.
The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for
her daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge
of her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded;
and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal
affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it
impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular
circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to
the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at Norland.
This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and
the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young
man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's
establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of
his time there.
Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of
interest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died
very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence,
for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the
will of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either
consideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable,
that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality.
It was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune
should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of
disposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by
every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.
Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any
peculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his
manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident
to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome,
his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart.
His understanding was good, and his education had given it solid
improvement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to
answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him
distinguished--as--they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a
fine figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to
interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to
see him connected with some of the great men of the day. Mrs. John
Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these
superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her
ambition to see him driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for
great men or barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic comfort
and the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother
who was more promising.
Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged
much of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such
affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. She saw
only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He
did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation.
She was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a
reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference
between him and his sister. It was a contrast which recommended him
most forcibly to her mother.
"It is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough.
It implies everything amiable. I love him already."
"I think you will like him," said Elinor, "when you know more of him."
"Like him!" replied her mother with a smile. "I feel no sentiment of
approbation inferior to love."
"You may esteem him."
"I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love."
Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her manners
were attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily
comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor
perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his
worth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all
her established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was no
longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper
affectionate.
No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to
Elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and
looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.
"In a few months, my dear Marianne." said she, "Elinor will, in all
probability be settled for life. We shall miss her; but SHE will be
happy."
"Oh! Mama, how shall we do without her?"
"My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few
miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will
gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother. I have the highest
opinion in the world of Edward's heart. But you look grave, Marianne;
do you disapprove your sister's choice?"
"Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider it with some surprise.
Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet--he is not
the kind of young man--there is something wanting--his figure is not
striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man
who could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit,
that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides
all this, I am afraid, Mama, he has no real taste. Music seems
scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very
much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their
worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while
she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as
a lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be
united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every
point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the
same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh! mama, how
spiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last night!
I felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much
composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my
seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost
driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such
dreadful indifference!"
"He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose.
I thought so at the time; but you WOULD give him Cowper."
"Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!--but we must allow
for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she
may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke MY
heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility.
Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I
shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He
must have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must
ornament his goodness with every possible charm."
"Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in
life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate
than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your
destiny be different from hers!"
| 1,437 | Chapter III | https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter1-11 | Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters remain at Norland for several months, putting up with Fanny Dashwood as best they can while they look for a house to rent. Elinor dissuades her mother from choosing houses that are too expensive for their reduced circumstances. Mrs. Dashwood is still confident that John will come up with money to support them. To Mrs. Dashwood's joy, an attachment grows between Elinor and Edward Ferrars, the brother of Fanny Dashwood and the eldest son of a man who died rich. Edward is shy and unsuited to answer his mother's and sister's ambitions for him. They want him to achieve power and influence in the world, whereas he only wants a simple life. Marianne admits to being disappointed in Edward's lack of "sensibility," citing his unimpassioned reading of her favorite poetry | null | 135 | 1 | [
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161 | false | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/47.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/Sense and Sensibility/section_4_part_7.txt | Sense and Sensibility.chapter 47 | chapter 47 | null | {"name": "Chapter 47", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-41-50", "summary": "Elinor tells her mother about her conversation with Willoughby, and though her mother, like herself and Marianne, thinks a little better of him, they do not miss him or have much affection for him anymore. Marianne finally says that she could not have been happy with Willoughby, after hearing of his cruelty toward Miss Williams; Elinor says that Marianne is certainly right in this appraisal, and that Willoughby was too selfish to have made her happy. Mrs. Dashwood takes this as encouragement to recommend Colonel Brandon even more heartily, although Marianne is certainly not ready for that suggestion. Elinor begins to wonder at Edward, having heard nothing of him since she left London; the family is surprised then, when one of their servants returns from the village with news that he is married to Lucy. Their servant saw them himself, and says that Lucy sends her compliments; Elinor knows now that Edward is lost to her forever, and doomed to an unhappy marriage as well. Mrs. Dashwood sees how upset Elinor is, despite her attempts to hide it; she realizes that Elinor felt more for Edward than she guessed before, and is sorry to have paid less attention to Elinor's disappointments simply because she was less open with them than Marianne was.", "analysis": "Marianne's transformation seems complete at this point; her affections for Willoughby are put to rest, and even her mother, who was once fond of him, has decided to forgive and forget. Marianne sees that Willoughby's selfishness and inconstancy would hardly have made her happy; perhaps she will recognize that the Colonel is very much the opposite, and be attracted to him because he is so steady in his affections and cares very much for her happiness. It seems at this point that Elinor's hopes for happiness are destroyed, as she does not have a suitor as Marianne still does. Marianne and Mrs. Dashwood do become more sensitive toward Elinor's disappointment, and come to understand her character more; for although Elinor tries hard to conceal her unhappiness, this does not mean that she doesn't feel less than Marianne does"} |
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.
| 2,128 | Chapter 47 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-41-50 | Elinor tells her mother about her conversation with Willoughby, and though her mother, like herself and Marianne, thinks a little better of him, they do not miss him or have much affection for him anymore. Marianne finally says that she could not have been happy with Willoughby, after hearing of his cruelty toward Miss Williams; Elinor says that Marianne is certainly right in this appraisal, and that Willoughby was too selfish to have made her happy. Mrs. Dashwood takes this as encouragement to recommend Colonel Brandon even more heartily, although Marianne is certainly not ready for that suggestion. Elinor begins to wonder at Edward, having heard nothing of him since she left London; the family is surprised then, when one of their servants returns from the village with news that he is married to Lucy. Their servant saw them himself, and says that Lucy sends her compliments; Elinor knows now that Edward is lost to her forever, and doomed to an unhappy marriage as well. Mrs. Dashwood sees how upset Elinor is, despite her attempts to hide it; she realizes that Elinor felt more for Edward than she guessed before, and is sorry to have paid less attention to Elinor's disappointments simply because she was less open with them than Marianne was. | Marianne's transformation seems complete at this point; her affections for Willoughby are put to rest, and even her mother, who was once fond of him, has decided to forgive and forget. Marianne sees that Willoughby's selfishness and inconstancy would hardly have made her happy; perhaps she will recognize that the Colonel is very much the opposite, and be attracted to him because he is so steady in his affections and cares very much for her happiness. It seems at this point that Elinor's hopes for happiness are destroyed, as she does not have a suitor as Marianne still does. Marianne and Mrs. Dashwood do become more sensitive toward Elinor's disappointment, and come to understand her character more; for although Elinor tries hard to conceal her unhappiness, this does not mean that she doesn't feel less than Marianne does | 212 | 138 | [
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107 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/36.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Far From the Madding Crowd/section_35_part_0.txt | Far From the Madding Crowd.chapter 36 | chapter 36 | null | {"name": "Chapter 36", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-36", "summary": "As night approaches, there are a few signs of approaching rain. Gabriel Oak looks out at a bunch of uncovered haystacks and thinks that they might be spoiled if they get rained on. Meanwhile, there's a celebration going on in the main barn for Bathsheba and Troy's wedding. Troy is having a great time and wants all the men in the barn to get drunk with him. Bathsheba is against this idea, but he insists. He's so insistent, in fact, that he eventually kicks all the women and children out of the barn and says it'll be a dudes-only party for the rest of the night. Gabriel tries to approach Troy to tell him about the need to cover the haystacks, since the farm would lose a lot of money if they were spoiled. But Troy just dismisses him by saying that it won't rain. Sure enough, it starts to rain. Gabriel runs outside into a thunderstorm to cover the haystacks. But first, he has to get the key to a building called the granary from one of the workmen's wives.", "analysis": ""} |
WEALTH IN JEOPARDY--THE REVEL
One night, at the end of August, when Bathsheba's experiences as a
married woman were still new, and when the weather was yet dry and
sultry, a man stood motionless in the stockyard of Weatherbury Upper
Farm, looking at the moon and sky.
The night had a sinister aspect. A heated breeze from the south
slowly fanned the summits of lofty objects, and in the sky dashes
of buoyant cloud were sailing in a course at right angles to that
of another stratum, neither of them in the direction of the breeze
below. The moon, as seen through these films, had a lurid metallic
look. The fields were sallow with the impure light, and all were
tinged in monochrome, as if beheld through stained glass. The same
evening the sheep had trailed homeward head to tail, the behaviour of
the rooks had been confused, and the horses had moved with timidity
and caution.
Thunder was imminent, and, taking some secondary appearances into
consideration, it was likely to be followed by one of the lengthened
rains which mark the close of dry weather for the season. Before
twelve hours had passed a harvest atmosphere would be a bygone thing.
Oak gazed with misgiving at eight naked and unprotected ricks,
massive and heavy with the rich produce of one-half the farm for
that year. He went on to the barn.
This was the night which had been selected by Sergeant Troy--ruling
now in the room of his wife--for giving the harvest supper and dance.
As Oak approached the building the sound of violins and a tambourine,
and the regular jigging of many feet, grew more distinct. He came
close to the large doors, one of which stood slightly ajar, and
looked in.
The central space, together with the recess at one end, was emptied
of all incumbrances, and this area, covering about two-thirds of
the whole, was appropriated for the gathering, the remaining end,
which was piled to the ceiling with oats, being screened off with
sail-cloth. Tufts and garlands of green foliage decorated the walls,
beams, and extemporized chandeliers, and immediately opposite to Oak
a rostrum had been erected, bearing a table and chairs. Here sat
three fiddlers, and beside them stood a frantic man with his hair
on end, perspiration streaming down his cheeks, and a tambourine
quivering in his hand.
The dance ended, and on the black oak floor in the midst a new row of
couples formed for another.
"Now, ma'am, and no offence I hope, I ask what dance you would like
next?" said the first violin.
"Really, it makes no difference," said the clear voice of Bathsheba,
who stood at the inner end of the building, observing the scene from
behind a table covered with cups and viands. Troy was lolling beside
her.
"Then," said the fiddler, "I'll venture to name that the right and
proper thing is 'The Soldier's Joy'--there being a gallant soldier
married into the farm--hey, my sonnies, and gentlemen all?"
"It shall be 'The Soldier's Joy,'" exclaimed a chorus.
"Thanks for the compliment," said the sergeant gaily, taking
Bathsheba by the hand and leading her to the top of the dance. "For
though I have purchased my discharge from Her Most Gracious Majesty's
regiment of cavalry the 11th Dragoon Guards, to attend to the new
duties awaiting me here, I shall continue a soldier in spirit and
feeling as long as I live."
So the dance began. As to the merits of "The Soldier's Joy," there
cannot be, and never were, two opinions. It has been observed in the
musical circles of Weatherbury and its vicinity that this melody, at
the end of three-quarters of an hour of thunderous footing, still
possesses more stimulative properties for the heel and toe than the
majority of other dances at their first opening. "The Soldier's Joy"
has, too, an additional charm, in being so admirably adapted to the
tambourine aforesaid--no mean instrument in the hands of a performer
who understands the proper convulsions, spasms, St. Vitus's dances,
and fearful frenzies necessary when exhibiting its tones in their
highest perfection.
The immortal tune ended, a fine DD rolling forth from the bass-viol
with the sonorousness of a cannonade, and Gabriel delayed his entry
no longer. He avoided Bathsheba, and got as near as possible
to the platform, where Sergeant Troy was now seated, drinking
brandy-and-water, though the others drank without exception cider and
ale. Gabriel could not easily thrust himself within speaking distance
of the sergeant, and he sent a message, asking him to come down for a
moment. The sergeant said he could not attend.
"Will you tell him, then," said Gabriel, "that I only stepped ath'art
to say that a heavy rain is sure to fall soon, and that something
should be done to protect the ricks?"
"Mr. Troy says it will not rain," returned the messenger, "and he
cannot stop to talk to you about such fidgets."
In juxtaposition with Troy, Oak had a melancholy tendency to look
like a candle beside gas, and ill at ease, he went out again,
thinking he would go home; for, under the circumstances, he had no
heart for the scene in the barn. At the door he paused for a moment:
Troy was speaking.
"Friends, it is not only the harvest home that we are celebrating
to-night; but this is also a Wedding Feast. A short time ago I had
the happiness to lead to the altar this lady, your mistress, and not
until now have we been able to give any public flourish to the event
in Weatherbury. That it may be thoroughly well done, and that every
man may go happy to bed, I have ordered to be brought here some
bottles of brandy and kettles of hot water. A treble-strong goblet
will be handed round to each guest."
Bathsheba put her hand upon his arm, and, with upturned pale face,
said imploringly, "No--don't give it to them--pray don't, Frank! It
will only do them harm: they have had enough of everything."
"True--we don't wish for no more, thank ye," said one or two.
"Pooh!" said the sergeant contemptuously, and raised his voice as
if lighted up by a new idea. "Friends," he said, "we'll send the
women-folk home! 'Tis time they were in bed. Then we cockbirds will
have a jolly carouse to ourselves! If any of the men show the white
feather, let them look elsewhere for a winter's work."
Bathsheba indignantly left the barn, followed by all the women and
children. The musicians, not looking upon themselves as "company,"
slipped quietly away to their spring waggon and put in the horse.
Thus Troy and the men on the farm were left sole occupants of the
place. Oak, not to appear unnecessarily disagreeable, stayed a
little while; then he, too, arose and quietly took his departure,
followed by a friendly oath from the sergeant for not staying to a
second round of grog.
Gabriel proceeded towards his home. In approaching the door, his
toe kicked something which felt and sounded soft, leathery, and
distended, like a boxing-glove. It was a large toad humbly
travelling across the path. Oak took it up, thinking it might be
better to kill the creature to save it from pain; but finding it
uninjured, he placed it again among the grass. He knew what this
direct message from the Great Mother meant. And soon came another.
When he struck a light indoors there appeared upon the table a thin
glistening streak, as if a brush of varnish had been lightly dragged
across it. Oak's eyes followed the serpentine sheen to the other
side, where it led up to a huge brown garden-slug, which had come
indoors to-night for reasons of its own. It was Nature's second way
of hinting to him that he was to prepare for foul weather.
Oak sat down meditating for nearly an hour. During this time two
black spiders, of the kind common in thatched houses, promenaded the
ceiling, ultimately dropping to the floor. This reminded him that
if there was one class of manifestation on this matter that he
thoroughly understood, it was the instincts of sheep. He left the
room, ran across two or three fields towards the flock, got upon a
hedge, and looked over among them.
They were crowded close together on the other side around some furze
bushes, and the first peculiarity observable was that, on the sudden
appearance of Oak's head over the fence, they did not stir or run
away. They had now a terror of something greater than their terror
of man. But this was not the most noteworthy feature: they were all
grouped in such a way that their tails, without a single exception,
were towards that half of the horizon from which the storm
threatened. There was an inner circle closely huddled, and outside
these they radiated wider apart, the pattern formed by the flock as a
whole not being unlike a vandyked lace collar, to which the clump of
furze-bushes stood in the position of a wearer's neck.
This was enough to re-establish him in his original opinion. He knew
now that he was right, and that Troy was wrong. Every voice in nature
was unanimous in bespeaking change. But two distinct translations
attached to these dumb expressions. Apparently there was to be a
thunder-storm, and afterwards a cold continuous rain. The creeping
things seemed to know all about the later rain, but little of the
interpolated thunder-storm; whilst the sheep knew all about the
thunder-storm and nothing of the later rain.
This complication of weathers being uncommon, was all the more to be
feared. Oak returned to the stack-yard. All was silent here, and
the conical tips of the ricks jutted darkly into the sky. There were
five wheat-ricks in this yard, and three stacks of barley. The wheat
when threshed would average about thirty quarters to each stack; the
barley, at least forty. Their value to Bathsheba, and indeed to
anybody, Oak mentally estimated by the following simple
calculation:--
5 x 30 = 150 quarters = 500 L.
3 x 40 = 120 quarters = 250 L.
-------
Total . . 750 L.
Seven hundred and fifty pounds in the divinest form that money can
wear--that of necessary food for man and beast: should the risk be
run of deteriorating this bulk of corn to less than half its value,
because of the instability of a woman? "Never, if I can prevent it!"
said Gabriel.
Such was the argument that Oak set outwardly before him. But man,
even to himself, is a palimpsest, having an ostensible writing, and
another beneath the lines. It is possible that there was this golden
legend under the utilitarian one: "I will help to my last effort the
woman I have loved so dearly."
He went back to the barn to endeavour to obtain assistance for
covering the ricks that very night. All was silent within, and he
would have passed on in the belief that the party had broken up, had
not a dim light, yellow as saffron by contrast with the greenish
whiteness outside, streamed through a knot-hole in the folding doors.
Gabriel looked in. An unusual picture met his eye.
The candles suspended among the evergreens had burnt down to their
sockets, and in some cases the leaves tied about them were scorched.
Many of the lights had quite gone out, others smoked and stank,
grease dropping from them upon the floor. Here, under the table, and
leaning against forms and chairs in every conceivable attitude except
the perpendicular, were the wretched persons of all the work-folk,
the hair of their heads at such low levels being suggestive of mops
and brooms. In the midst of these shone red and distinct the figure
of Sergeant Troy, leaning back in a chair. Coggan was on his back,
with his mouth open, huzzing forth snores, as were several others;
the united breathings of the horizonal assemblage forming a subdued
roar like London from a distance. Joseph Poorgrass was curled round
in the fashion of a hedge-hog, apparently in attempts to present the
least possible portion of his surface to the air; and behind him
was dimly visible an unimportant remnant of William Smallbury.
The glasses and cups still stood upon the table, a water-jug being
overturned, from which a small rill, after tracing its course with
marvellous precision down the centre of the long table, fell into the
neck of the unconscious Mark Clark, in a steady, monotonous drip,
like the dripping of a stalactite in a cave.
Gabriel glanced hopelessly at the group, which, with one or two
exceptions, composed all the able-bodied men upon the farm. He saw
at once that if the ricks were to be saved that night, or even the
next morning, he must save them with his own hands.
A faint "ting-ting" resounded from under Coggan's waistcoat. It was
Coggan's watch striking the hour of two.
Oak went to the recumbent form of Matthew Moon, who usually undertook
the rough thatching of the home-stead, and shook him. The shaking
was without effect.
Gabriel shouted in his ear, "where's your thatching-beetle and
rick-stick and spars?"
"Under the staddles," said Moon, mechanically, with the unconscious
promptness of a medium.
Gabriel let go his head, and it dropped upon the floor like a bowl.
He then went to Susan Tall's husband.
"Where's the key of the granary?"
No answer. The question was repeated, with the same result. To be
shouted to at night was evidently less of a novelty to Susan Tall's
husband than to Matthew Moon. Oak flung down Tall's head into the
corner again and turned away.
To be just, the men were not greatly to blame for this painful and
demoralizing termination to the evening's entertainment. Sergeant
Troy had so strenuously insisted, glass in hand, that drinking should
be the bond of their union, that those who wished to refuse hardly
liked to be so unmannerly under the circumstances. Having from their
youth up been entirely unaccustomed to any liquor stronger than cider
or mild ale, it was no wonder that they had succumbed, one and all,
with extraordinary uniformity, after the lapse of about an hour.
Gabriel was greatly depressed. This debauch boded ill for that
wilful and fascinating mistress whom the faithful man even now felt
within him as the embodiment of all that was sweet and bright and
hopeless.
He put out the expiring lights, that the barn might not be
endangered, closed the door upon the men in their deep and oblivious
sleep, and went again into the lone night. A hot breeze, as if
breathed from the parted lips of some dragon about to swallow the
globe, fanned him from the south, while directly opposite in the
north rose a grim misshapen body of cloud, in the very teeth of the
wind. So unnaturally did it rise that one could fancy it to be
lifted by machinery from below. Meanwhile the faint cloudlets had
flown back into the south-east corner of the sky, as if in terror of
the large cloud, like a young brood gazed in upon by some monster.
Going on to the village, Oak flung a small stone against the window
of Laban Tall's bedroom, expecting Susan to open it; but nobody
stirred. He went round to the back door, which had been left
unfastened for Laban's entry, and passed in to the foot of the
staircase.
"Mrs. Tall, I've come for the key of the granary, to get at the
rick-cloths," said Oak, in a stentorian voice.
"Is that you?" said Mrs. Susan Tall, half awake.
"Yes," said Gabriel.
"Come along to bed, do, you drawlatching rogue--keeping a body awake
like this!"
"It isn't Laban--'tis Gabriel Oak. I want the key of the granary."
"Gabriel! What in the name of fortune did you pretend to be Laban
for?"
"I didn't. I thought you meant--"
"Yes you did! What do you want here?"
"The key of the granary."
"Take it then. 'Tis on the nail. People coming disturbing women at
this time of night ought--"
Gabriel took the key, without waiting to hear the conclusion of the
tirade. Ten minutes later his lonely figure might have been seen
dragging four large water-proof coverings across the yard, and soon
two of these heaps of treasure in grain were covered snug--two cloths
to each. Two hundred pounds were secured. Three wheat-stacks
remained open, and there were no more cloths. Oak looked under the
staddles and found a fork. He mounted the third pile of wealth and
began operating, adopting the plan of sloping the upper sheaves one
over the other; and, in addition, filling the interstices with the
material of some untied sheaves.
So far all was well. By this hurried contrivance Bathsheba's
property in wheat was safe for at any rate a week or two, provided
always that there was not much wind.
Next came the barley. This it was only possible to protect by
systematic thatching. Time went on, and the moon vanished not to
reappear. It was the farewell of the ambassador previous to war.
The night had a haggard look, like a sick thing; and there came
finally an utter expiration of air from the whole heaven in the form
of a slow breeze, which might have been likened to a death. And now
nothing was heard in the yard but the dull thuds of the beetle which
drove in the spars, and the rustle of thatch in the intervals.
| 2,805 | Chapter 36 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-36 | As night approaches, there are a few signs of approaching rain. Gabriel Oak looks out at a bunch of uncovered haystacks and thinks that they might be spoiled if they get rained on. Meanwhile, there's a celebration going on in the main barn for Bathsheba and Troy's wedding. Troy is having a great time and wants all the men in the barn to get drunk with him. Bathsheba is against this idea, but he insists. He's so insistent, in fact, that he eventually kicks all the women and children out of the barn and says it'll be a dudes-only party for the rest of the night. Gabriel tries to approach Troy to tell him about the need to cover the haystacks, since the farm would lose a lot of money if they were spoiled. But Troy just dismisses him by saying that it won't rain. Sure enough, it starts to rain. Gabriel runs outside into a thunderstorm to cover the haystacks. But first, he has to get the key to a building called the granary from one of the workmen's wives. | null | 181 | 1 | [
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23,046 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/23046-chapters/5.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The Comedy of Errors/section_4_part_0.txt | The Comedy of Errors.act iii.scene i | act iii, scene i | null | {"name": "Act III, Scene i", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219160210/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/comedy-of-errors/summary/act-iii-scene-i", "summary": "Near E. Antipholus's house, E. Antipholus meets with Angelo, a goldsmith he has asked to make his wife a necklace . He notes that he's late for dinner, which means his wife will be \"shrewish,\" so he asks Angelo to cover for him. Angelo has been instructed to say that E. Antipholus was with him to see about making the necklace, which Angelo should bring to the house the next day. E. Antipholus then complains about E. Dromio, who has been claiming that he gave him a beating in the marketplace, which he absolutely did not...though it's strange that E. Dromio is bruised. E. Dromio won't give in, so E. Antipholus calls him an ass. The conversation turns to the Merchant Balthazar, who's looking rather serious. Balthazar and E. Antipholus then have a witty exchange about a dinner invitation E. Antipholus has extended to the Merchant. Balthazar says he's more pleased about the invitation than he is about the food, as meat is cheap. E. Antipholus quips that meat may be cheap, but words are even cheaper. Still, Balthazar is welcome at his house, and dinner will be delicious and make him think happy thoughts. Anyway, the joke's on E. Antipholus, as dinner would be awesome, if he could get into his house...which he can't. Because the gate is locked. What ensues at the gates is a long, confused exchange. S. Dromio guards the gate of E. Antipholus's house from the inside . Adriana instructed him to let nobody in, so S. Dromio feels justified in having some fun with the guys outside. E. Dromio and E. Antipholus wonder who on earth is guarding the gate and why he wouldn't let the owner of the house in. When they ask who this mystery guard is, S. Dromio truthfully replies that his name is Dromio. This, of course, confuses E. Dromio, who decides his identity has been stolen. Matters are made worse when another servant, Luce, backs up S. Dromio from inside the gate. E. Antipholus assures all the minions they'll pay for this insubordination when he breaks down the gate, which he's about to do. The confusion only increases: Adriana herself has come to the gate. She can't see who the men outside the gate are, but one insists that he's her husband . Adriana thinks her husband is inside, so she won't let them in either. Finally, E. Antipholus has had enough, and gets ready to break down his own door. Balthazar pierces the madness as the voice of reason. He says that if E. Antipholus makes a scene by breaking down his own door, he'll only be hurting his own reputation by casting suspicion on the faithfulness of his wife. Balthazar's says E. Antipholus's wife is a good woman, so she's sure to have a good explanation for locking him out. Until they find out what Adriana's good excuse is, they should go to the Tiger and have some dinner. E. Antipholus decides that going out to eat is a good idea, and he knows where they can go. There's a nice woman at the Porpentine that his wife has accused him of being unfaithful with before. He hasn't been, of course, but hey--she is pretty cute. He then tells Angelo to go get the necklace. He's going to give it to this other woman to get back at his wife for not letting him in.", "analysis": ""} | ACT III. _SCENE I.
Before the house of _ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus_._
_Enter _ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus_, _DROMIO of Ephesus_, ANGELO,
and BALTHAZAR._
_Ant. E._ Good Signior Angelo, you must excuse us all;
My wife is shrewish when I keep not hours:
Say that I linger'd with you at your shop
To see the making of her carcanet,
And that to-morrow you will bring it home. 5
But here's a villain that would face me down
He met me on the mart, and that I beat him,
And charged him with a thousand marks in gold,
And that I did deny my wife and house.
Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by this? 10
_Dro. E._ Say what you will, sir, but I know what I know;
That you beat me at the mart, I have your hand to show:
If the skin were parchment, and the blows you gave were ink,
Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.
_Ant. E._ I think thou art an ass.
_Dro. E._ Marry, so it doth appear 15
By the wrongs I suffer, and the blows I bear.
I should kick, being kick'd; and, being at that pass,
You would keep from my heels, and beware of an ass.
_Ant. E._ You're sad, Signior Balthazar: pray God our cheer
May answer my good will and your good welcome here. 20
_Bal._ I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your welcome dear.
_Ant. E._ O, Signior Balthazar, either at flesh or fish,
A table full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish.
_Bal._ Good meat, sir, is common; that every churl affords.
_Ant. E._ And welcome more common; for that's nothing but words. 25
_Bal._ Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.
_Ant. E._ Ay to a niggardly host and more sparing guest:
But though my cates be mean, take them in good part;
Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart.
But, soft! my door is lock'd.--Go bid them let us in. 30
_Dro. E._ Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicely, Gillian, Ginn!
_Dro. S._ [_Within_] Mome, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb,
idiot, patch!
Either get thee from the door, or sit down at the hatch.
Dost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call'st for such store,
When one is one too many? Go get thee from the door, 35
_Dro. E._ What patch is made our porter? My master stays
in the street.
_Dro. S._ [_Within_] Let him walk from whence he came, lest he
catch cold on's feet.
_Ant. E._ Who talks within there? ho, open the door!
_Dro. S._ [_Within_] Right, sir; I'll tell you when, an you'll
tell me wherefore.
_Ant. E._ Wherefore? for my dinner: I have not dined to-day. 40
_Dro. S._ [_Within_] Nor to-day here you must not; come again
when you may.
_Ant. E._ What art thou that keepest me out from the house I owe?
_Dro. S._ [_Within_] The porter for this time, sir, and
my name is Dromio.
_Dro. E._ O villain, thou hast stolen both mine office
and my name!
The one ne'er got me credit, the other mickle blame. 45
If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place,
Thou wouldst have changed thy face for a name, or thy name
for an ass.
_Luce._ [_Within_] What a coil is there, Dromio? who are
those at the gate?
_Dro. E._ Let my master in, Luce.
_Luce._ [_Within_] Faith, no; he comes too late;
And so tell your master.
_Dro. E._ O Lord, I must laugh! 50
Have at you with a proverb;--Shall I set in my staff?
_Luce._ [_Within_] Have at you with another; that's,
--When? can you tell?
_Dro. S._ [_Within_] If thy name be call'd Luce, --Luce,
thou hast answer'd him well.
_Ant. E._ Do you hear, you minion? you'll let us in, I hope?
_Luce._ [_Within_] I thought to have ask'd you.
_Dro. S._ [_Within_] And you said no. 55
_Dro. E._ So, come, help:--well struck! there was blow for blow.
_Ant. E._ Thou baggage, let me in.
_Luce._ [_Within_] Can you tell for whose sake?
_Dro. E._ Master, knock the door hard.
_Luce._ [_Within_] Let him knock till it ache.
_Ant. E._ You'll cry for this, minion, if I beat the door down.
_Luce._ [_Within_] What needs all that, and a pair of stocks
in the town? 60
_Adr._ [_Within_] Who is that at the door that keeps
all this noise?
_Dro. S._ [_Within_] By my troth, your town is troubled
with unruly boys.
_Ant. E._ Are you, there, wife? you might have come before.
_Adr._ [_Within_] Your wife, sir knave! go get you from the door.
_Dro. E._ If you went in pain, master, this 'knave'
would go sore. 65
_Aug._ Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome: we would
fain have either.
_Bal._ In debating which was best, we shall part with neither.
_Dro. E._ They stand at the door, master; bid them welcome
hither.
_Ant. E._ There is something in the wind, that we cannot get in.
_Dro. E._ You would say so, master, if your garments were thin. 70
Your cake here is warm within; you stand here in the cold:
It would make a man mad as a buck, to be so bought and sold.
_Ant. E._ Go fetch me something: I'll break ope the gate.
_Dro. S._ [_Within_] Break any breaking here, and I'll break
your knave's pate.
_Dro. E._ A man may break a word with you, sir; and words
are but wind; 75
Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not behind.
_Dro. S._ [_Within_] It seems thou want'st breaking: out
upon thee, hind!
_Dro. E._ Here's too much 'out upon thee!' I pray thee,
let me in.
_Dro. S._ [_Within_] Ay, when fowls have no feathers, and
fish have no fin.
_Ant. E._ Well, I'll break in:--go borrow me a crow. 80
_Dro. E._ A crow without feather? Master, mean you so?
For a fish without a fin, there's a fowl without a feather:
If a crow help us in, sirrah, we'll pluck a crow together.
_Ant. E._ Go get thee gone; fetch me an iron crow.
_Bal._ Have patience, sir; O, let it not be so! 85
Herein you war against your reputation,
And draw within the compass of suspect
Th' unviolated honour of your wife.
Once this,--your long experience of her wisdom,
Her sober virtue, years, and modesty, 90
Plead on her part some cause to you unknown;
And doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse
Why at this time the doors are made against you.
Be ruled by me: depart in patience,
And let us to the Tiger all to dinner; 95
And about evening come yourself alone
To know the reason of this strange restraint.
If by strong hand you offer to break in
Now in the stirring passage of the day,
A vulgar comment will be made of it, 100
And that supposed by the common rout
Against your yet ungalled estimation,
That may with foul intrusion enter in,
And dwell upon your grave when you are dead;
For slander lives upon succession, 105
For ever housed where it gets possession.
_Ant. E._ You have prevail'd: I will depart in quiet,
And, in despite of mirth, mean to be merry.
I know a wench of excellent discourse,
Pretty and witty; wild, and yet, too, gentle: 110
There will we dine. This woman that I mean,
My wife--but, I protest, without desert--
Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal:
To her will we to dinner. [_To Ang._] Get you home,
And fetch the chain; by this I know 'tis made: 115
Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpentine;
For there's the house: that chain will I bestow--
Be it for nothing but to spite my wife--
Upon mine hostess there: good sir, make haste.
Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, 120
I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll disdain me.
_Ang._ I'll meet you at that place some hour hence.
_Ant. E._ Do so. This jest shall cost me some expense.
[_Exeunt._
NOTES: III, 1.
SCENE I. ANGELO and BALTHAZAR.] Angelo the Goldsmith and Balthasar
the Merchant. Ff.
1: _all_] om. Pope.
11-14: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope.
11: _Say_] _you must say_ Capell.
13: _the skin_] _my skin_ Collier MS.
14: _own_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4.
_you_] _you for certain_ Collier MS.
15: _doth_] _dont_ Theobald.
19: _You're_] _Y'are_ Ff. _you are_ Capell.
20: _here_] om. Pope.
21-29: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope.
31: _Ginn_] om. Pope. _Jen'_ Malone. _Gin'_ Collier. _Jin_ Dyce.
36-60: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope.
32, sqq.: [Within] Rowe.
46: _been_] F1. _bid_ F2 F3 F4.
47: _an ass_] _a face_ Collier MS.
48: Luce. [Within] Rowe. Enter Luce. Ff.
_there, Dromio? who_] _there! Dromio, who_ Capell.
54: _hope_] _trow_ Theobald. Malone supposes a line omitted
ending _rope_.
61: Adr. [Within]. Rowe. Enter Adriana. Ff.
65-83: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope.
67: _part_] _have part_ Warburton.
71: _cake here_] _cake_ Capell. _cake there_ Anon. conj.
72: _mad_] F1. _as mad_ F2 F3 F4.
_as a buck_] om. Capell.
75: _you,_] _your_ F1.
85: _so_] _thus_ Pope.
89: _Once this_] _Own this_ Malone conj. _This once_ Anon. conj.
_her_] Rowe. _your_ Ff.
91: _her_] Rowe. _your_ Ff.
93: _made_] _barr'd_ Pope.
105: _slander_] _lasting slander_ Johnson conj.
_upon_] _upon its own_ Capell conj.
106: _housed ... gets_] Collier. _hous'd ... gets_ F1.
_hous'd ... once gets_ F2 F3 F4. _hous'd where 't gets_ Steevens.
108: _mirth_] _wrath_ Theobald.
116: _Porpentine_] Ff. _Porcupine_ Rowe (and passim).
117: _will I_] F1. _I will_ F2 F3 F4.
119: _mine_] F1. _my_ F2 F3 F4.
122: _hour_] F1. _hour, sir_ F2 F3 F4.
| 2,316 | Act III, Scene i | https://web.archive.org/web/20201219160210/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/comedy-of-errors/summary/act-iii-scene-i | Near E. Antipholus's house, E. Antipholus meets with Angelo, a goldsmith he has asked to make his wife a necklace . He notes that he's late for dinner, which means his wife will be "shrewish," so he asks Angelo to cover for him. Angelo has been instructed to say that E. Antipholus was with him to see about making the necklace, which Angelo should bring to the house the next day. E. Antipholus then complains about E. Dromio, who has been claiming that he gave him a beating in the marketplace, which he absolutely did not...though it's strange that E. Dromio is bruised. E. Dromio won't give in, so E. Antipholus calls him an ass. The conversation turns to the Merchant Balthazar, who's looking rather serious. Balthazar and E. Antipholus then have a witty exchange about a dinner invitation E. Antipholus has extended to the Merchant. Balthazar says he's more pleased about the invitation than he is about the food, as meat is cheap. E. Antipholus quips that meat may be cheap, but words are even cheaper. Still, Balthazar is welcome at his house, and dinner will be delicious and make him think happy thoughts. Anyway, the joke's on E. Antipholus, as dinner would be awesome, if he could get into his house...which he can't. Because the gate is locked. What ensues at the gates is a long, confused exchange. S. Dromio guards the gate of E. Antipholus's house from the inside . Adriana instructed him to let nobody in, so S. Dromio feels justified in having some fun with the guys outside. E. Dromio and E. Antipholus wonder who on earth is guarding the gate and why he wouldn't let the owner of the house in. When they ask who this mystery guard is, S. Dromio truthfully replies that his name is Dromio. This, of course, confuses E. Dromio, who decides his identity has been stolen. Matters are made worse when another servant, Luce, backs up S. Dromio from inside the gate. E. Antipholus assures all the minions they'll pay for this insubordination when he breaks down the gate, which he's about to do. The confusion only increases: Adriana herself has come to the gate. She can't see who the men outside the gate are, but one insists that he's her husband . Adriana thinks her husband is inside, so she won't let them in either. Finally, E. Antipholus has had enough, and gets ready to break down his own door. Balthazar pierces the madness as the voice of reason. He says that if E. Antipholus makes a scene by breaking down his own door, he'll only be hurting his own reputation by casting suspicion on the faithfulness of his wife. Balthazar's says E. Antipholus's wife is a good woman, so she's sure to have a good explanation for locking him out. Until they find out what Adriana's good excuse is, they should go to the Tiger and have some dinner. E. Antipholus decides that going out to eat is a good idea, and he knows where they can go. There's a nice woman at the Porpentine that his wife has accused him of being unfaithful with before. He hasn't been, of course, but hey--she is pretty cute. He then tells Angelo to go get the necklace. He's going to give it to this other woman to get back at his wife for not letting him in. | null | 568 | 1 | [
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5,658 | true | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_34_to_36.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/Lord Jim/section_9_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapters 34-36 | chapters 34-36 | null | {"name": "Chapters 34-36", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-34-36", "summary": "Chapter 34 begins with Marlow leaning against the balustrade amid the cane-chairs, his audience listening attentively. He continues with his story, describing the new vision he had of Jim: enterprising, energetic, and enthusiastic. Marlow felt sentimental and solitary. He now tells his audience that \"He is one of us,\" and then describes how he had conceived of Cornelius as a dangerous element , while Jim thought Cornelius was too insignificant to be dangerous. Cornelius said to Marlow that Jim was \"no more than a child\" to Marlow , and Marlow responded that Jim would never leave Patusan. Then Marlow forms a kind of collage of the characters of the story in Patusan, as if \"an enchanter's wand\" had immobilized them all except for Jim. Marlow states again, \"He is one of us\" . Jim's story continues. He says good-bye to Marlow, vowing, \"I shall be faithful\" . Marlow is struck by the romance of this statement, and he tells Jim that he should be heading home in about a year. Jim says to that, \"Tell them ...\" . He ends this parting word, however, with \"No- nothing.\" As Marlow's ship pulls away from the shore, he watches Jim, wreathed head to foot in a kind of white veil. \"And, suddenly, I lost him...\" . The narrative is at an end, yet Marlow's audience does not comment. The story is incomplete. How does the story end? Only one man among the listeners shows any interest in knowing Jim's fate. He is a \"privileged man,\" living in a city, in the highest flat of a very lofty building. He receives a packet in the mail from Marlow containing three enclosures. One is a letter from Marlow that informs him of how the story reached its conclusion. Something Jim had begun writing was also included; its heading reads, \"The Fort, Patusan.\" Marlow highlights \"the commonplace hand\" and wonders: \"impossible to say whom he had in mind when he seized the pen: Stein--myself--the world at large--or was this only the aimless startled cry of a solitary man confronted by his fate?\" . There is also an old letter from Jim's father, received just a few days before Jim joined the Patna, beginning \"Dear James\" and containing news of home. The last enclosure is Marlow's story of the final events. Marlow has written it into a narrative, and he comments on its \"profound and terrifying logic\" . Marlow states that the \"information is fragmentary,\" but that he has pieced it together to make \"an intelligible picture\" .", "analysis": "As Marlow brings the story of Jim to a close, he tells the audience gathered around him on the verandah: \"It is not Justice the servant of men, but accident, hazard, Fortune--the ally of patient time--that holds an even and scrupulous balance\" . This rings true in life and in the world Conrad presents. Those deserving a favorable opportunity are not always offered it; rather, opportunities seem to arrive by chance. When they do appear, they must be seized. In the end, Jim was offered an opportunity by Marlow and Stein, and he seized it. He says to Marlow, in parting despite his other ties, \"I shall be faithful\" . He hints that he will live to fulfill their hopes in him of the romantic ideal, still being watched by Marlow. As they part in twilight on the beach, \"the sea at his feet, the opportunity by his side--still veiled\" , the romantic opportunity has yet to be fully identified and grasped. The image recalls the \"Eastern bride\" of opportunity, Jewel in particular, and the unsure possibility that a full life can be lived to its end in that romantic place. Still, the statement \"I shall be faithful\" has an acutely romantic resonance and, as Jim lives to be faithful and to accept his fate, Marlow will be faithful in return. Upon learning of Jim's fate, Marlow finishes the story. But, for the time being, the story is incomplete. Marlow ends his story for his audience on the verandah without their knowing what is to come to be in Patusan. Marlow forms a collage of Patusan and all its characters, frozen as if by \"an enchanter's wand.\" Jim, however, according to Marlow, cannot be frozen like the rest: \"I am not certain of him. No magician's wand can immobilize him under my eyes. He is one of us\" , in a sense uncapturable. This characterization of their relationship reinforces Marlow's storytelling role, and behind the guise of Marlow, Conrad himself figures as a kind of god who constructs the story, or at least a detective piecing together a complex account of the human condition. Jim is an exception because, for all his depth and subtlety, his acute awareness of his own shortcomings, and his desire to make something more of himself, he is Marlow's equal, on a level with the storyteller himself. They are of the same material. Jim, being the subject of this story, is the one studied to understand the man's inner life and contradictions. This has been an inquiry into his soul, as overseen by Marlow. But the audience has no comment. The story is incomplete. No judgment can be given, it seems, until the whole of the man's life has passed. Will Jim finally come to terms with his past? The narrative then skips ahead in time, and the reader learns that there was one man who had expressed interest in Jim's fate, far after Marlow's telling of the story. Marlow now addresses him in a letter, and the boundary of Jim's story is again revealed. This time, however, Marlow has moved on from oral storytelling to the written word. First, he presents pieces of written evidence, and then, using the testimonies of others, he pieces together the story into a written narrative for this \"privileged man,\" the \"privileged reader.\" This unnamed reader, we learn, had not summarily approved of Jim, and in fact the reader had \"prophesied for him the disaster of weariness and disgust with acquired honour,\" also commenting that he would regret having given himself up to \"them\" . Marlow presents the completion of Jim's story by way of counterargument: actually \"the question is whether at the last he had not confessed to a faith mightier than the laws of order and progress\" ."} | Marlow swung his legs out, got up quickly, and staggered a little, as
though he had been set down after a rush through space. He leaned his
back against the balustrade and faced a disordered array of long cane
chairs. The bodies prone in them seemed startled out of their torpor by
his movement. One or two sat up as if alarmed; here and there a cigar
glowed yet; Marlow looked at them all with the eyes of a man returning
from the excessive remoteness of a dream. A throat was cleared; a calm
voice encouraged negligently, 'Well.'
'Nothing,' said Marlow with a slight start. 'He had told her--that's
all. She did not believe him--nothing more. As to myself, I do not know
whether it be just, proper, decent for me to rejoice or to be sorry. For
my part, I cannot say what I believed--indeed I don't know to this day,
and never shall probably. But what did the poor devil believe himself?
Truth shall prevail--don't you know Magna est veritas el . . . Yes, when
it gets a chance. There is a law, no doubt--and likewise a law regulates
your luck in the throwing of dice. It is not Justice the servant of men,
but accident, hazard, Fortune--the ally of patient Time--that holds an
even and scrupulous balance. Both of us had said the very same thing.
Did we both speak the truth--or one of us did--or neither? . . .'
Marlow paused, crossed his arms on his breast, and in a changed tone--
'She said we lied. Poor soul! Well--let's leave it to Chance, whose ally
is Time, that cannot be hurried, and whose enemy is Death, that will not
wait. I had retreated--a little cowed, I must own. I had tried a fall
with fear itself and got thrown--of course. I had only succeeded in
adding to her anguish the hint of some mysterious collusion, of an
inexplicable and incomprehensible conspiracy to keep her for ever in the
dark. And it had come easily, naturally, unavoidably, by his act, by her
own act! It was as though I had been shown the working of the implacable
destiny of which we are the victims--and the tools. It was appalling
to think of the girl whom I had left standing there motionless; Jim's
footsteps had a fateful sound as he tramped by, without seeing me, in
his heavy laced boots. "What? No lights!" he said in a loud, surprised
voice. "What are you doing in the dark--you two?" Next moment he caught
sight of her, I suppose. "Hallo, girl!" he cried cheerily. "Hallo, boy!"
she answered at once, with amazing pluck.
'This was their usual greeting to each other, and the bit of swagger she
would put into her rather high but sweet voice was very droll, pretty,
and childlike. It delighted Jim greatly. This was the last occasion on
which I heard them exchange this familiar hail, and it struck a chill
into my heart. There was the high sweet voice, the pretty effort, the
swagger; but it all seemed to die out prematurely, and the playful call
sounded like a moan. It was too confoundedly awful. "What have you done
with Marlow?" Jim was asking; and then, "Gone down--has he? Funny I
didn't meet him. . . . You there, Marlow?"
'I didn't answer. I wasn't going in--not yet at any rate. I really
couldn't. While he was calling me I was engaged in making my escape
through a little gate leading out upon a stretch of newly cleared
ground. No; I couldn't face them yet. I walked hastily with lowered head
along a trodden path. The ground rose gently, the few big trees had been
felled, the undergrowth had been cut down and the grass fired. He had a
mind to try a coffee-plantation there. The big hill, rearing its double
summit coal-black in the clear yellow glow of the rising moon, seemed
to cast its shadow upon the ground prepared for that experiment. He was
going to try ever so many experiments; I had admired his energy, his
enterprise, and his shrewdness. Nothing on earth seemed less real now
than his plans, his energy, and his enthusiasm; and raising my eyes, I
saw part of the moon glittering through the bushes at the bottom of the
chasm. For a moment it looked as though the smooth disc, falling from
its place in the sky upon the earth, had rolled to the bottom of that
precipice: its ascending movement was like a leisurely rebound; it
disengaged itself from the tangle of twigs; the bare contorted limb of
some tree, growing on the slope, made a black crack right across its
face. It threw its level rays afar as if from a cavern, and in this
mournful eclipse-like light the stumps of felled trees uprose very dark,
the heavy shadows fell at my feet on all sides, my own moving shadow,
and across my path the shadow of the solitary grave perpetually
garlanded with flowers. In the darkened moonlight the interlaced
blossoms took on shapes foreign to one's memory and colours indefinable
to the eye, as though they had been special flowers gathered by no man,
grown not in this world, and destined for the use of the dead alone.
Their powerful scent hung in the warm air, making it thick and heavy
like the fumes of incense. The lumps of white coral shone round the dark
mound like a chaplet of bleached skulls, and everything around was so
quiet that when I stood still all sound and all movement in the world
seemed to come to an end.
'It was a great peace, as if the earth had been one grave, and for a
time I stood there thinking mostly of the living who, buried in remote
places out of the knowledge of mankind, still are fated to share in its
tragic or grotesque miseries. In its noble struggles too--who knows?
The human heart is vast enough to contain all the world. It is valiant
enough to bear the burden, but where is the courage that would cast it
off?
'I suppose I must have fallen into a sentimental mood; I only know that
I stood there long enough for the sense of utter solitude to get hold
of me so completely that all I had lately seen, all I had heard, and the
very human speech itself, seemed to have passed away out of existence,
living only for a while longer in my memory, as though I had been the
last of mankind. It was a strange and melancholy illusion, evolved
half-consciously like all our illusions, which I suspect only to be
visions of remote unattainable truth, seen dimly. This was, indeed, one
of the lost, forgotten, unknown places of the earth; I had looked under
its obscure surface; and I felt that when to-morrow I had left it for
ever, it would slip out of existence, to live only in my memory till I
myself passed into oblivion. I have that feeling about me now; perhaps
it is that feeling which has incited me to tell you the story, to try to
hand over to you, as it were, its very existence, its reality--the truth
disclosed in a moment of illusion.
'Cornelius broke upon it. He bolted out, vermin-like, from the long
grass growing in a depression of the ground. I believe his house was
rotting somewhere near by, though I've never seen it, not having been
far enough in that direction. He ran towards me upon the path; his feet,
shod in dirty white shoes, twinkled on the dark earth; he pulled himself
up, and began to whine and cringe under a tall stove-pipe hat. His
dried-up little carcass was swallowed up, totally lost, in a suit of
black broadcloth. That was his costume for holidays and ceremonies, and
it reminded me that this was the fourth Sunday I had spent in Patusan.
All the time of my stay I had been vaguely aware of his desire to
confide in me, if he only could get me all to himself. He hung about
with an eager craving look on his sour yellow little face; but his
timidity had kept him back as much as my natural reluctance to have
anything to do with such an unsavoury creature. He would have succeeded,
nevertheless, had he not been so ready to slink off as soon as you
looked at him. He would slink off before Jim's severe gaze, before my
own, which I tried to make indifferent, even before Tamb' Itam's surly,
superior glance. He was perpetually slinking away; whenever seen he was
seen moving off deviously, his face over his shoulder, with either a
mistrustful snarl or a woe-begone, piteous, mute aspect; but no assumed
expression could conceal this innate irremediable abjectness of his
nature, any more than an arrangement of clothing can conceal some
monstrous deformity of the body.
'I don't know whether it was the demoralisation of my utter defeat in
my encounter with a spectre of fear less than an hour ago, but I let
him capture me without even a show of resistance. I was doomed to be
the recipient of confidences, and to be confronted with unanswerable
questions. It was trying; but the contempt, the unreasoned contempt, the
man's appearance provoked, made it easier to bear. He couldn't possibly
matter. Nothing mattered, since I had made up my mind that Jim, for
whom alone I cared, had at last mastered his fate. He had told me he
was satisfied . . . nearly. This is going further than most of us dare.
I--who have the right to think myself good enough--dare not. Neither
does any of you here, I suppose? . . .'
Marlow paused, as if expecting an answer. Nobody spoke.
'Quite right,' he began again. 'Let no soul know, since the truth can be
wrung out of us only by some cruel, little, awful catastrophe. But he
is one of us, and he could say he was satisfied . . . nearly. Just
fancy this! Nearly satisfied. One could almost envy him his catastrophe.
Nearly satisfied. After this nothing could matter. It did not matter who
suspected him, who trusted him, who loved him, who hated him--especially
as it was Cornelius who hated him.
'Yet after all this was a kind of recognition. You shall judge of a man
by his foes as well as by his friends, and this enemy of Jim was such as
no decent man would be ashamed to own, without, however, making too
much of him. This was the view Jim took, and in which I shared; but Jim
disregarded him on general grounds. "My dear Marlow," he said, "I feel
that if I go straight nothing can touch me. Indeed I do. Now you have
been long enough here to have a good look round--and, frankly, don't
you think I am pretty safe? It all depends upon me, and, by Jove! I have
lots of confidence in myself. The worst thing he could do would be to
kill me, I suppose. I don't think for a moment he would. He couldn't,
you know--not if I were myself to hand him a loaded rifle for the
purpose, and then turn my back on him. That's the sort of thing he is.
And suppose he would--suppose he could? Well--what of that? I didn't
come here flying for my life--did I? I came here to set my back against
the wall, and I am going to stay here . . ."
'"Till you are _quite_ satisfied," I struck in.
'We were sitting at the time under the roof in the stern of his boat;
twenty paddles flashed like one, ten on a side, striking the water with
a single splash, while behind our backs Tamb' Itam dipped silently right
and left, and stared right down the river, attentive to keep the long
canoe in the greatest strength of the current. Jim bowed his head, and
our last talk seemed to flicker out for good. He was seeing me off as
far as the mouth of the river. The schooner had left the day before,
working down and drifting on the ebb, while I had prolonged my stay
overnight. And now he was seeing me off.
'Jim had been a little angry with me for mentioning Cornelius at all.
I had not, in truth, said much. The man was too insignificant to be
dangerous, though he was as full of hate as he could hold. He had called
me "honourable sir" at every second sentence, and had whined at my elbow
as he followed me from the grave of his "late wife" to the gate of Jim's
compound. He declared himself the most unhappy of men, a victim, crushed
like a worm; he entreated me to look at him. I wouldn't turn my head to
do so; but I could see out of the corner of my eye his obsequious shadow
gliding after mine, while the moon, suspended on our right hand, seemed
to gloat serenely upon the spectacle. He tried to explain--as I've told
you--his share in the events of the memorable night. It was a matter of
expediency. How could he know who was going to get the upper hand? "I
would have saved him, honourable sir! I would have saved him for eighty
dollars," he protested in dulcet tones, keeping a pace behind me. "He
has saved himself," I said, "and he has forgiven you." I heard a sort of
tittering, and turned upon him; at once he appeared ready to take to his
heels. "What are you laughing at?" I asked, standing still. "Don't be
deceived, honourable sir!" he shrieked, seemingly losing all control
over his feelings. "_He_ save himself! He knows nothing, honourable
sir--nothing whatever. Who is he? What does he want here--the big thief?
What does he want here? He throws dust into everybody's eyes; he throws
dust into your eyes, honourable sir; but he can't throw dust into my
eyes. He is a big fool, honourable sir." I laughed contemptuously, and,
turning on my heel, began to walk on again. He ran up to my elbow and
whispered forcibly, "He's no more than a little child here--like a
little child--a little child." Of course I didn't take the slightest
notice, and seeing the time pressed, because we were approaching the
bamboo fence that glittered over the blackened ground of the clearing,
he came to the point. He commenced by being abjectly lachrymose. His
great misfortunes had affected his head. He hoped I would kindly forget
what nothing but his troubles made him say. He didn't mean anything
by it; only the honourable sir did not know what it was to be ruined,
broken down, trampled upon. After this introduction he approached the
matter near his heart, but in such a rambling, ejaculatory, craven
fashion, that for a long time I couldn't make out what he was driving
at. He wanted me to intercede with Jim in his favour. It seemed, too,
to be some sort of money affair. I heard time and again the words,
"Moderate provision--suitable present." He seemed to be claiming value
for something, and he even went the length of saying with some warmth
that life was not worth having if a man were to be robbed of everything.
I did not breathe a word, of course, but neither did I stop my ears.
The gist of the affair, which became clear to me gradually, was in this,
that he regarded himself as entitled to some money in exchange for the
girl. He had brought her up. Somebody else's child. Great trouble and
pains--old man now--suitable present. If the honourable sir would say
a word. . . . I stood still to look at him with curiosity, and fearful
lest I should think him extortionate, I suppose, he hastily brought
himself to make a concession. In consideration of a "suitable present"
given at once, he would, he declared, be willing to undertake the charge
of the girl, "without any other provision--when the time came for the
gentleman to go home." His little yellow face, all crumpled as though it
had been squeezed together, expressed the most anxious, eager avarice.
His voice whined coaxingly, "No more trouble--natural guardian--a sum of
money . . ."
'I stood there and marvelled. That kind of thing, with him, was
evidently a vocation. I discovered suddenly in his cringing attitude
a sort of assurance, as though he had been all his life dealing in
certitudes. He must have thought I was dispassionately considering his
proposal, because he became as sweet as honey. "Every gentleman made
a provision when the time came to go home," he began insinuatingly. I
slammed the little gate. "In this case, Mr. Cornelius," I said, "the
time will never come." He took a few seconds to gather this in. "What!"
he fairly squealed. "Why," I continued from my side of the gate,
"haven't you heard him say so himself? He will never go home." "Oh! this
is too much," he shouted. He would not address me as "honoured sir" any
more. He was very still for a time, and then without a trace of humility
began very low: "Never go--ah! He--he--he comes here devil knows
from where--comes here--devil knows why--to trample on me till I
die--ah--trample" (he stamped softly with both feet), "trample like
this--nobody knows why--till I die. . . ." His voice became quite
extinct; he was bothered by a little cough; he came up close to the
fence and told me, dropping into a confidential and piteous tone,
that he would not be trampled upon. "Patience--patience," he muttered,
striking his breast. I had done laughing at him, but unexpectedly he
treated me to a wild cracked burst of it. "Ha! ha! ha! We shall see! We
shall see! What! Steal from me! Steal from me everything! Everything!
Everything!" His head drooped on one shoulder, his hands were hanging
before him lightly clasped. One would have thought he had cherished
the girl with surpassing love, that his spirit had been crushed and his
heart broken by the most cruel of spoliations. Suddenly he lifted his
head and shot out an infamous word. "Like her mother--she is like her
deceitful mother. Exactly. In her face, too. In her face. The devil!"
He leaned his forehead against the fence, and in that position
uttered threats and horrible blasphemies in Portuguese in very weak
ejaculations, mingled with miserable plaints and groans, coming out with
a heave of the shoulders as though he had been overtaken by a deadly fit
of sickness. It was an inexpressibly grotesque and vile performance,
and I hastened away. He tried to shout something after me. Some
disparagement of Jim, I believe--not too loud though, we were too near
the house. All I heard distinctly was, "No more than a little child--a
little child."'
'But next morning, at the first bend of the river shutting off the
houses of Patusan, all this dropped out of my sight bodily, with its
colour, its design, and its meaning, like a picture created by fancy on
a canvas, upon which, after long contemplation, you turn your back for
the last time. It remains in the memory motionless, unfaded, with its
life arrested, in an unchanging light. There are the ambitions, the
fears, the hate, the hopes, and they remain in my mind just as I had
seen them--intense and as if for ever suspended in their expression. I
had turned away from the picture and was going back to the world where
events move, men change, light flickers, life flows in a clear stream,
no matter whether over mud or over stones. I wasn't going to dive into
it; I would have enough to do to keep my head above the surface. But
as to what I was leaving behind, I cannot imagine any alteration. The
immense and magnanimous Doramin and his little motherly witch of a
wife, gazing together upon the land and nursing secretly their dreams
of parental ambition; Tunku Allang, wizened and greatly perplexed;
Dain Waris, intelligent and brave, with his faith in Jim, with his
firm glance and his ironic friendliness; the girl, absorbed in her
frightened, suspicious adoration; Tamb' Itam, surly and faithful;
Cornelius, leaning his forehead against the fence under the moonlight--I
am certain of them. They exist as if under an enchanter's wand. But the
figure round which all these are grouped--that one lives, and I am not
certain of him. No magician's wand can immobilise him under my eyes. He
is one of us.
'Jim, as I've told you, accompanied me on the first stage of my journey
back to the world he had renounced, and the way at times seemed to
lead through the very heart of untouched wilderness. The empty reaches
sparkled under the high sun; between the high walls of vegetation the
heat drowsed upon the water, and the boat, impelled vigorously, cut her
way through the air that seemed to have settled dense and warm under the
shelter of lofty trees.
'The shadow of the impending separation had already put an immense space
between us, and when we spoke it was with an effort, as if to force our
low voices across a vast and increasing distance. The boat fairly flew;
we sweltered side by side in the stagnant superheated air; the smell of
mud, of mush, the primeval smell of fecund earth, seemed to sting our
faces; till suddenly at a bend it was as if a great hand far away had
lifted a heavy curtain, had flung open un immense portal. The light
itself seemed to stir, the sky above our heads widened, a far-off murmur
reached our ears, a freshness enveloped us, filled our lungs, quickened
our thoughts, our blood, our regrets--and, straight ahead, the forests
sank down against the dark-blue ridge of the sea.
'I breathed deeply, I revelled in the vastness of the opened horizon, in
the different atmosphere that seemed to vibrate with the toil of life,
with the energy of an impeccable world. This sky and this sea were open
to me. The girl was right--there was a sign, a call in them--something
to which I responded with every fibre of my being. I let my eyes roam
through space, like a man released from bonds who stretches his cramped
limbs, runs, leaps, responds to the inspiring elation of freedom. "This
is glorious!" I cried, and then I looked at the sinner by my side. He
sat with his head sunk on his breast and said "Yes," without raising his
eyes, as if afraid to see writ large on the clear sky of the offing the
reproach of his romantic conscience.
'I remember the smallest details of that afternoon. We landed on a bit
of white beach. It was backed by a low cliff wooded on the brow, draped
in creepers to the very foot. Below us the plain of the sea, of a serene
and intense blue, stretched with a slight upward tilt to the thread-like
horizon drawn at the height of our eyes. Great waves of glitter blew
lightly along the pitted dark surface, as swift as feathers chased by
the breeze. A chain of islands sat broken and massive facing the wide
estuary, displayed in a sheet of pale glassy water reflecting faithfully
the contour of the shore. High in the colourless sunshine a solitary
bird, all black, hovered, dropping and soaring above the same spot with
a slight rocking motion of the wings. A ragged, sooty bunch of flimsy
mat hovels was perched over its own inverted image upon a crooked
multitude of high piles the colour of ebony. A tiny black canoe put off
from amongst them with two tiny men, all black, who toiled exceedingly,
striking down at the pale water: and the canoe seemed to slide painfully
on a mirror. This bunch of miserable hovels was the fishing village
that boasted of the white lord's especial protection, and the two men
crossing over were the old headman and his son-in-law. They landed
and walked up to us on the white sand, lean, dark-brown as if dried
in smoke, with ashy patches on the skin of their naked shoulders
and breasts. Their heads were bound in dirty but carefully folded
headkerchiefs, and the old man began at once to state a complaint,
voluble, stretching a lank arm, screwing up at Jim his old bleared eyes
confidently. The Rajah's people would not leave them alone; there had
been some trouble about a lot of turtles' eggs his people had collected
on the islets there--and leaning at arm's-length upon his paddle, he
pointed with a brown skinny hand over the sea. Jim listened for a time
without looking up, and at last told him gently to wait. He would hear
him by-and-by. They withdrew obediently to some little distance, and sat
on their heels, with their paddles lying before them on the sand; the
silvery gleams in their eyes followed our movements patiently; and the
immensity of the outspread sea, the stillness of the coast, passing
north and south beyond the limits of my vision, made up one colossal
Presence watching us four dwarfs isolated on a strip of glistening sand.
'"The trouble is," remarked Jim moodily, "that for generations these
beggars of fishermen in that village there had been considered as the
Rajah's personal slaves--and the old rip can't get it into his head that
. . ."
'He paused. "That you have changed all that," I said.
'"Yes I've changed all that," he muttered in a gloomy voice.
'"You have had your opportunity," I pursued.
'"Have I?" he said. "Well, yes. I suppose so. Yes. I have got back my
confidence in myself--a good name--yet sometimes I wish . . . No! I
shall hold what I've got. Can't expect anything more." He flung his arm
out towards the sea. "Not out there anyhow." He stamped his foot upon
the sand. "This is my limit, because nothing less will do."
'We continued pacing the beach. "Yes, I've changed all that," he went
on, with a sidelong glance at the two patient squatting fishermen; "but
only try to think what it would be if I went away. Jove! can't you see
it? Hell loose. No! To-morrow I shall go and take my chance of drinking
that silly old Tunku Allang's coffee, and I shall make no end of fuss
over these rotten turtles' eggs. No. I can't say--enough. Never. I must
go on, go on for ever holding up my end, to feel sure that nothing can
touch me. I must stick to their belief in me to feel safe and to--to"
. . . He cast about for a word, seemed to look for it on the sea . . .
"to keep in touch with" . . . His voice sank suddenly to a murmur . . .
"with those whom, perhaps, I shall never see any more. With--with--you,
for instance."
'I was profoundly humbled by his words. "For God's sake," I said, "don't
set me up, my dear fellow; just look to yourself." I felt a gratitude,
an affection, for that straggler whose eyes had singled me out, keeping
my place in the ranks of an insignificant multitude. How little that
was to boast of, after all! I turned my burning face away; under the
low sun, glowing, darkened and crimson, like un ember snatched from the
fire, the sea lay outspread, offering all its immense stillness to the
approach of the fiery orb. Twice he was going to speak, but checked
himself; at last, as if he had found a formula--
'"I shall be faithful," he said quietly. "I shall be faithful," he
repeated, without looking at me, but for the first time letting his eyes
wander upon the waters, whose blueness had changed to a gloomy purple
under the fires of sunset. Ah! he was romantic, romantic. I recalled
some words of Stein's. . . . "In the destructive element immerse! . . .
To follow the dream, and again to follow the dream--and
so--always--usque ad finem . . ." He was romantic, but none the
less true. Who could tell what forms, what visions, what faces, what
forgiveness he could see in the glow of the west! . . . A small boat,
leaving the schooner, moved slowly, with a regular beat of two oars,
towards the sandbank to take me off. "And then there's Jewel," he said,
out of the great silence of earth, sky, and sea, which had mastered my
very thoughts so that his voice made me start. "There's Jewel." "Yes,"
I murmured. "I need not tell you what she is to me," he pursued.
"You've seen. In time she will come to understand . . ." "I hope so," I
interrupted. "She trusts me, too," he mused, and then changed his tone.
"When shall we meet next, I wonder?" he said.
'"Never--unless you come out," I answered, avoiding his glance. He
didn't seem to be surprised; he kept very quiet for a while.
'"Good-bye, then," he said, after a pause. "Perhaps it's just as well."
'We shook hands, and I walked to the boat, which waited with her nose
on the beach. The schooner, her mainsail set and jib-sheet to windward,
curveted on the purple sea; there was a rosy tinge on her sails. "Will
you be going home again soon?" asked Jim, just as I swung my leg over
the gunwale. "In a year or so if I live," I said. The forefoot grated on
the sand, the boat floated, the wet oars flashed and dipped once, twice.
Jim, at the water's edge, raised his voice. "Tell them . . ." he began.
I signed to the men to cease rowing, and waited in wonder. Tell who? The
half-submerged sun faced him; I could see its red gleam in his eyes that
looked dumbly at me. . . . "No--nothing," he said, and with a slight
wave of his hand motioned the boat away. I did not look again at the
shore till I had clambered on board the schooner.
'By that time the sun had set. The twilight lay over the east, and the
coast, turned black, extended infinitely its sombre wall that seemed the
very stronghold of the night; the western horizon was one great blaze of
gold and crimson in which a big detached cloud floated dark and still,
casting a slaty shadow on the water beneath, and I saw Jim on the beach
watching the schooner fall off and gather headway.
'The two half-naked fishermen had arisen as soon as I had gone; they
were no doubt pouring the plaint of their trifling, miserable, oppressed
lives into the ears of the white lord, and no doubt he was listening to
it, making it his own, for was it not a part of his luck--the luck "from
the word Go"--the luck to which he had assured me he was so completely
equal? They, too, I should think, were in luck, and I was sure their
pertinacity would be equal to it. Their dark-skinned bodies vanished on
the dark background long before I had lost sight of their protector. He
was white from head to foot, and remained persistently visible with
the stronghold of the night at his back, the sea at his feet, the
opportunity by his side--still veiled. What do you say? Was it still
veiled? I don't know. For me that white figure in the stillness of coast
and sea seemed to stand at the heart of a vast enigma. The twilight
was ebbing fast from the sky above his head, the strip of sand had sunk
already under his feet, he himself appeared no bigger than a child--then
only a speck, a tiny white speck, that seemed to catch all the light
left in a darkened world. . . . And, suddenly, I lost him. . . .
With these words Marlow had ended his narrative, and his audience had
broken up forthwith, under his abstract, pensive gaze. Men drifted off
the verandah in pairs or alone without loss of time, without offering
a remark, as if the last image of that incomplete story, its
incompleteness itself, and the very tone of the speaker, had made
discussion in vain and comment impossible. Each of them seemed to carry
away his own impression, to carry it away with him like a secret; but
there was only one man of all these listeners who was ever to hear the
last word of the story. It came to him at home, more than two years
later, and it came contained in a thick packet addressed in Marlow's
upright and angular handwriting.
The privileged man opened the packet, looked in, then, laying it down,
went to the window. His rooms were in the highest flat of a lofty
building, and his glance could travel afar beyond the clear panes of
glass, as though he were looking out of the lantern of a lighthouse.
The slopes of the roofs glistened, the dark broken ridges succeeded each
other without end like sombre, uncrested waves, and from the depths of
the town under his feet ascended a confused and unceasing mutter. The
spires of churches, numerous, scattered haphazard, uprose like beacons
on a maze of shoals without a channel; the driving rain mingled with the
falling dusk of a winter's evening; and the booming of a big clock on a
tower, striking the hour, rolled past in voluminous, austere bursts
of sound, with a shrill vibrating cry at the core. He drew the heavy
curtains.
The light of his shaded reading-lamp slept like a sheltered pool, his
footfalls made no sound on the carpet, his wandering days were over. No
more horizons as boundless as hope, no more twilights within the forests
as solemn as temples, in the hot quest for the Ever-undiscovered
Country over the hill, across the stream, beyond the wave. The hour
was striking! No more! No more!--but the opened packet under the lamp
brought back the sounds, the visions, the very savour of the past--a
multitude of fading faces, a tumult of low voices, dying away upon the
shores of distant seas under a passionate and unconsoling sunshine. He
sighed and sat down to read.
At first he saw three distinct enclosures. A good many pages closely
blackened and pinned together; a loose square sheet of greyish paper
with a few words traced in a handwriting he had never seen before, and
an explanatory letter from Marlow. From this last fell another letter,
yellowed by time and frayed on the folds. He picked it up and, laying it
aside, turned to Marlow's message, ran swiftly over the opening lines,
and, checking himself, thereafter read on deliberately, like one
approaching with slow feet and alert eyes the glimpse of an undiscovered
country.
'. . . I don't suppose you've forgotten,' went on the letter. 'You alone
have showed an interest in him that survived the telling of his story,
though I remember well you would not admit he had mastered his fate.
You prophesied for him the disaster of weariness and of disgust with
acquired honour, with the self-appointed task, with the love sprung from
pity and youth. You had said you knew so well "that kind of thing," its
illusory satisfaction, its unavoidable deception. You said also--I call
to mind--that "giving your life up to them" (them meaning all of mankind
with skins brown, yellow, or black in colour) "was like selling your
soul to a brute." You contended that "that kind of thing" was only
endurable and enduring when based on a firm conviction in the truth of
ideas racially our own, in whose name are established the order, the
morality of an ethical progress. "We want its strength at our backs,"
you had said. "We want a belief in its necessity and its justice, to
make a worthy and conscious sacrifice of our lives. Without it the
sacrifice is only forgetfulness, the way of offering is no better than
the way to perdition." In other words, you maintained that we must fight
in the ranks or our lives don't count. Possibly! You ought to know--be
it said without malice--you who have rushed into one or two places
single-handed and came out cleverly, without singeing your wings. The
point, however, is that of all mankind Jim had no dealings but with
himself, and the question is whether at the last he had not confessed to
a faith mightier than the laws of order and progress.
'I affirm nothing. Perhaps you may pronounce--after you've read. There
is much truth--after all--in the common expression "under a cloud." It
is impossible to see him clearly--especially as it is through the eyes
of others that we take our last look at him. I have no hesitation in
imparting to you all I know of the last episode that, as he used to say,
had "come to him." One wonders whether this was perhaps that supreme
opportunity, that last and satisfying test for which I had always
suspected him to be waiting, before he could frame a message to the
impeccable world. You remember that when I was leaving him for the last
time he had asked whether I would be going home soon, and suddenly cried
after me, "Tell them . . ." I had waited--curious I'll own, and hopeful
too--only to hear him shout, "No--nothing." That was all then--and there
will be nothing more; there will be no message, unless such as each of
us can interpret for himself from the language of facts, that are so
often more enigmatic than the craftiest arrangement of words. He made,
it is true, one more attempt to deliver himself; but that too failed, as
you may perceive if you look at the sheet of greyish foolscap enclosed
here. He had tried to write; do you notice the commonplace hand? It is
headed "The Fort, Patusan." I suppose he had carried out his intention
of making out of his house a place of defence. It was an excellent plan:
a deep ditch, an earth wall topped by a palisade, and at the angles
guns mounted on platforms to sweep each side of the square. Doramin had
agreed to furnish him the guns; and so each man of his party would know
there was a place of safety, upon which every faithful partisan could
rally in case of some sudden danger. All this showed his judicious
foresight, his faith in the future. What he called "my own people"--the
liberated captives of the Sherif--were to make a distinct quarter of
Patusan, with their huts and little plots of ground under the walls of
the stronghold. Within he would be an invincible host in himself "The
Fort, Patusan." No date, as you observe. What is a number and a name to
a day of days? It is also impossible to say whom he had in his mind when
he seized the pen: Stein--myself--the world at large--or was this only
the aimless startled cry of a solitary man confronted by his fate? "An
awful thing has happened," he wrote before he flung the pen down for the
first time; look at the ink blot resembling the head of an arrow under
these words. After a while he had tried again, scrawling heavily, as if
with a hand of lead, another line. "I must now at once . . ." The pen
had spluttered, and that time he gave it up. There's nothing more;
he had seen a broad gulf that neither eye nor voice could span. I
can understand this. He was overwhelmed by the inexplicable; he was
overwhelmed by his own personality--the gift of that destiny which he
had done his best to master.
'I send you also an old letter--a very old letter. It was found
carefully preserved in his writing-case. It is from his father, and
by the date you can see he must have received it a few days before he
joined the Patna. Thus it must be the last letter he ever had from home.
He had treasured it all these years. The good old parson fancied his
sailor son. I've looked in at a sentence here and there. There is
nothing in it except just affection. He tells his "dear James" that the
last long letter from him was very "honest and entertaining." He would
not have him "judge men harshly or hastily." There are four pages of it,
easy morality and family news. Tom had "taken orders." Carrie's husband
had "money losses." The old chap goes on equably trusting Providence and
the established order of the universe, but alive to its small dangers
and its small mercies. One can almost see him, grey-haired and serene in
the inviolable shelter of his book-lined, faded, and comfortable study,
where for forty years he had conscientiously gone over and over again
the round of his little thoughts about faith and virtue, about the
conduct of life and the only proper manner of dying; where he had
written so many sermons, where he sits talking to his boy, over there,
on the other side of the earth. But what of the distance? Virtue is one
all over the world, and there is only one faith, one conceivable conduct
of life, one manner of dying. He hopes his "dear James" will never
forget that "who once gives way to temptation, in the very instant
hazards his total depravity and everlasting ruin. Therefore resolve
fixedly never, through any possible motives, to do anything which you
believe to be wrong." There is also some news of a favourite dog; and a
pony, "which all you boys used to ride," had gone blind from old age and
had to be shot. The old chap invokes Heaven's blessing; the mother and
all the girls then at home send their love. . . . No, there is nothing
much in that yellow frayed letter fluttering out of his cherishing
grasp after so many years. It was never answered, but who can say what
converse he may have held with all these placid, colourless forms of men
and women peopling that quiet corner of the world as free of danger
or strife as a tomb, and breathing equably the air of undisturbed
rectitude. It seems amazing that he should belong to it, he to whom so
many things "had come." Nothing ever came to them; they would never be
taken unawares, and never be called upon to grapple with fate. Here they
all are, evoked by the mild gossip of the father, all these brothers
and sisters, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, gazing with clear
unconscious eyes, while I seem to see him, returned at last, no longer
a mere white speck at the heart of an immense mystery, but of full
stature, standing disregarded amongst their untroubled shapes, with a
stern and romantic aspect, but always mute, dark--under a cloud.
'The story of the last events you will find in the few pages enclosed
here. You must admit that it is romantic beyond the wildest dreams
of his boyhood, and yet there is to my mind a sort of profound and
terrifying logic in it, as if it were our imagination alone that could
set loose upon us the might of an overwhelming destiny. The imprudence
of our thoughts recoils upon our heads; who toys with the sword shall
perish by the sword. This astounding adventure, of which the most
astounding part is that it is true, comes on as an unavoidable
consequence. Something of the sort had to happen. You repeat this to
yourself while you marvel that such a thing could happen in the year of
grace before last. But it has happened--and there is no disputing its
logic.
'I put it down here for you as though I had been an eyewitness. My
information was fragmentary, but I've fitted the pieces together, and
there is enough of them to make an intelligible picture. I wonder how
he would have related it himself. He has confided so much in me that at
times it seems as though he must come in presently and tell the story
in his own words, in his careless yet feeling voice, with his offhand
manner, a little puzzled, a little bothered, a little hurt, but now and
then by a word or a phrase giving one of these glimpses of his very
own self that were never any good for purposes of orientation. It's
difficult to believe he will never come. I shall never hear his voice
again, nor shall I see his smooth tan-and-pink face with a white line
on the forehead, and the youthful eyes darkened by excitement to a
profound, unfathomable blue.'
| 6,914 | Chapters 34-36 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-34-36 | Chapter 34 begins with Marlow leaning against the balustrade amid the cane-chairs, his audience listening attentively. He continues with his story, describing the new vision he had of Jim: enterprising, energetic, and enthusiastic. Marlow felt sentimental and solitary. He now tells his audience that "He is one of us," and then describes how he had conceived of Cornelius as a dangerous element , while Jim thought Cornelius was too insignificant to be dangerous. Cornelius said to Marlow that Jim was "no more than a child" to Marlow , and Marlow responded that Jim would never leave Patusan. Then Marlow forms a kind of collage of the characters of the story in Patusan, as if "an enchanter's wand" had immobilized them all except for Jim. Marlow states again, "He is one of us" . Jim's story continues. He says good-bye to Marlow, vowing, "I shall be faithful" . Marlow is struck by the romance of this statement, and he tells Jim that he should be heading home in about a year. Jim says to that, "Tell them ..." . He ends this parting word, however, with "No- nothing." As Marlow's ship pulls away from the shore, he watches Jim, wreathed head to foot in a kind of white veil. "And, suddenly, I lost him..." . The narrative is at an end, yet Marlow's audience does not comment. The story is incomplete. How does the story end? Only one man among the listeners shows any interest in knowing Jim's fate. He is a "privileged man," living in a city, in the highest flat of a very lofty building. He receives a packet in the mail from Marlow containing three enclosures. One is a letter from Marlow that informs him of how the story reached its conclusion. Something Jim had begun writing was also included; its heading reads, "The Fort, Patusan." Marlow highlights "the commonplace hand" and wonders: "impossible to say whom he had in mind when he seized the pen: Stein--myself--the world at large--or was this only the aimless startled cry of a solitary man confronted by his fate?" . There is also an old letter from Jim's father, received just a few days before Jim joined the Patna, beginning "Dear James" and containing news of home. The last enclosure is Marlow's story of the final events. Marlow has written it into a narrative, and he comments on its "profound and terrifying logic" . Marlow states that the "information is fragmentary," but that he has pieced it together to make "an intelligible picture" . | As Marlow brings the story of Jim to a close, he tells the audience gathered around him on the verandah: "It is not Justice the servant of men, but accident, hazard, Fortune--the ally of patient time--that holds an even and scrupulous balance" . This rings true in life and in the world Conrad presents. Those deserving a favorable opportunity are not always offered it; rather, opportunities seem to arrive by chance. When they do appear, they must be seized. In the end, Jim was offered an opportunity by Marlow and Stein, and he seized it. He says to Marlow, in parting despite his other ties, "I shall be faithful" . He hints that he will live to fulfill their hopes in him of the romantic ideal, still being watched by Marlow. As they part in twilight on the beach, "the sea at his feet, the opportunity by his side--still veiled" , the romantic opportunity has yet to be fully identified and grasped. The image recalls the "Eastern bride" of opportunity, Jewel in particular, and the unsure possibility that a full life can be lived to its end in that romantic place. Still, the statement "I shall be faithful" has an acutely romantic resonance and, as Jim lives to be faithful and to accept his fate, Marlow will be faithful in return. Upon learning of Jim's fate, Marlow finishes the story. But, for the time being, the story is incomplete. Marlow ends his story for his audience on the verandah without their knowing what is to come to be in Patusan. Marlow forms a collage of Patusan and all its characters, frozen as if by "an enchanter's wand." Jim, however, according to Marlow, cannot be frozen like the rest: "I am not certain of him. No magician's wand can immobilize him under my eyes. He is one of us" , in a sense uncapturable. This characterization of their relationship reinforces Marlow's storytelling role, and behind the guise of Marlow, Conrad himself figures as a kind of god who constructs the story, or at least a detective piecing together a complex account of the human condition. Jim is an exception because, for all his depth and subtlety, his acute awareness of his own shortcomings, and his desire to make something more of himself, he is Marlow's equal, on a level with the storyteller himself. They are of the same material. Jim, being the subject of this story, is the one studied to understand the man's inner life and contradictions. This has been an inquiry into his soul, as overseen by Marlow. But the audience has no comment. The story is incomplete. No judgment can be given, it seems, until the whole of the man's life has passed. Will Jim finally come to terms with his past? The narrative then skips ahead in time, and the reader learns that there was one man who had expressed interest in Jim's fate, far after Marlow's telling of the story. Marlow now addresses him in a letter, and the boundary of Jim's story is again revealed. This time, however, Marlow has moved on from oral storytelling to the written word. First, he presents pieces of written evidence, and then, using the testimonies of others, he pieces together the story into a written narrative for this "privileged man," the "privileged reader." This unnamed reader, we learn, had not summarily approved of Jim, and in fact the reader had "prophesied for him the disaster of weariness and disgust with acquired honour," also commenting that he would regret having given himself up to "them" . Marlow presents the completion of Jim's story by way of counterargument: actually "the question is whether at the last he had not confessed to a faith mightier than the laws of order and progress" . | 422 | 660 | [
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5,658 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/21.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_20_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapter 21 | chapter 21 | null | {"name": "Chapter 21", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-21", "summary": "Time for yet another interruption: Marlow breaks in to ask if anyone in his audience has heard of Patusan. No, but we're sure you're about to enlighten us, Marlow. And indeed he is. This Stein guy has a trading post on Patusan, and he suggests sending Jim there to run it. Apparently the guy who is currently running the post, Cornelius, is a bit of a loser. He's not up to snuff. In fact, Stein only gave Cornelius the job as a favor to Cornelius's wife, whom Stein admired. But the wife is now dead, and Stein thinks Jim would do a better job than the guy he's stuck with. This idea prompts Marlow to ponder his relationship with Jim and the idea of home. Marlow takes this opportunity to jump ahead in time to assure us that Jim was successful on Patusan. As it turns out, he's nearing the end of Jim's story. But Marlow, we still have twenty-four chapters to go...", "analysis": ""} |
'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!'
| 2,395 | Chapter 21 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-21 | Time for yet another interruption: Marlow breaks in to ask if anyone in his audience has heard of Patusan. No, but we're sure you're about to enlighten us, Marlow. And indeed he is. This Stein guy has a trading post on Patusan, and he suggests sending Jim there to run it. Apparently the guy who is currently running the post, Cornelius, is a bit of a loser. He's not up to snuff. In fact, Stein only gave Cornelius the job as a favor to Cornelius's wife, whom Stein admired. But the wife is now dead, and Stein thinks Jim would do a better job than the guy he's stuck with. This idea prompts Marlow to ponder his relationship with Jim and the idea of home. Marlow takes this opportunity to jump ahead in time to assure us that Jim was successful on Patusan. As it turns out, he's nearing the end of Jim's story. But Marlow, we still have twenty-four chapters to go... | null | 163 | 1 | [
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110 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/33.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_32_part_0.txt | Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 33 | chapter 33 | null | {"name": "Phase IV: \"The Consequence,\" Chapter Thirty-Three", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-33", "summary": "Angel wants to spend a day with Tess, just the two of them, before they get married. It'll be their last day as an engaged couple. So they go shopping together on Christmas Eve. Angel leaves Tess briefly in front of an inn . While she's waiting, a couple of men pass by. One of them is from Trantridge , and he recognizes her. He's starting to say so, when Angel comes back. Angel sees the horrified expression on Tess's face, and punches the guy in the jaw. The guy staggers back, and says that it must be a mistake--it must be some other girl, forty miles off. Angel realizes that he overreacted, and gives the guy a few shillings for a bandage. Tess is depressed by the incident, and asks if it would be possible to postpone the wedding. Angel says no, and Tess is silent the whole way home. She's thinking that they're going to move hundreds of miles away, where no one who knew her before could possibly ever see her. That night, Tess gets woken up by the sound of a scuffle from Angel's room overhead. She runs upstairs, and he tells her that he was having a dream that he was fighting that guy again, and was beating up his suitcase in his sleep. Tess makes up her mind at last: since she can't bring herself to tell him her history in person, she writes it all down in a letter, seals it up, and tiptoes upstairs and pokes it under Angel's door. The next morning, she meets him downstairs as usual, and he kisses her as usual. Even when they're alone, he doesn't allude to the letter. Could he have read it? She peeps into his room that afternoon, and doesn't see the note. He must have read it, and he must have forgiven her. The last few days before the wedding slip by. The morning of their wedding, she begins to suspect that he never got the letter. She slips up to his room, and finds the corner of the letter sticking out from under his carpet. It must have gone under the rug when she stuck it under the door. He never saw it. She burns the letter in her room, and pulls Angel aside downstairs. She wants to tell him all of her faults now, before they are married, so that he can never blame her for not telling him later. But Angel says that he doesn't want to hear them, since that they'll have plenty of time to talk over both of their faults later on, after they're married. She has to be \"perfect\" on her wedding day. He promises that he'll confess his own faults later, too. They have to take a coach to the church, because it's a long way off and it's the middle of winter. Because the Dairyman's cart is open, they've rented a closed coach from a local inn. It's old and rickety. There aren't very many people at the church to watch the ceremony, because they hadn't advertised it by publishing the banns . Tess repeats her vows in a low voice, and they are married. Angel knows that she loves him, but he doesn't realize that she'd lie down in front of a cart and get run over repeatedly for him. After the service, Tess stares for a while at the old coach--she thinks it looks familiar. Angel assumes that it's because it reminds her of the legend of the D'Urberville coach, but she's never heard it before. Angel doesn't want to tell her the whole story, since it's pretty gloomy. But he gives the bare bones of it: some member of the D'Urberville family committed some horrible crime in the family coach and, after that, members of the family have a vision of the coach whenever... but that's as far as Angel gets with the story. Tess asks whether it's when they've committed a crime, or when they're about to die, that D'Urbervilles see the coach? Angel doesn't answer, and kisses her. They get back to the dairy, and Tess manages to get a few minutes by herself to calm down. As they leave the dairy, all the workers and Mr. and Mrs. Crick line up to say good-bye. Angel kisses each in turn as a formal farewell, and the dairymaids get all agitated. But Angel doesn't notice. As they're starting to leave through the gate, a rooster crows. Hearing a rooster crow in the afternoon, apparently, is bad luck, and they hurry away as Dairyman Crick threatens to ring the bird's neck.", "analysis": ""} |
Angel felt that he would like to spend a day with her before the
wedding, somewhere away from the dairy, as a last jaunt in her
company while there were yet mere lover and mistress; a romantic day,
in circumstances that would never be repeated; with that other and
greater day beaming close ahead of them. During the preceding week,
therefore, he suggested making a few purchases in the nearest town,
and they started together.
Clare's life at the dairy had been that of a recluse in respect the
world of his own class. For months he had never gone near a town,
and, requiring no vehicle, had never kept one, hiring the dairyman's
cob or gig if he rode or drove. They went in the gig that day.
And then for the first time in their lives they shopped as partners
in one concern. It was Christmas Eve, with its loads a holly and
mistletoe, and the town was very full of strangers who had come in
from all parts of the country on account of the day. Tess paid the
penalty of walking about with happiness superadded to beauty on her
countenance by being much stared at as she moved amid them on his
arm.
In the evening they returned to the inn at which they had put up, and
Tess waited in the entry while Angel went to see the horse and gig
brought to the door. The general sitting-room was full of guests,
who were continually going in and out. As the door opened and shut
each time for the passage of these, the light within the parlour fell
full upon Tess's face. Two men came out and passed by her among the
rest. One of them had stared her up and down in surprise, and she
fancied he was a Trantridge man, though that village lay so many
miles off that Trantridge folk were rarities here.
"A comely maid that," said the other.
"True, comely enough. But unless I make a great mistake--" And he
negatived the remainder of the definition forthwith.
Clare had just returned from the stable-yard, and, confronting the
man on the threshold, heard the words, and saw the shrinking of
Tess. The insult to her stung him to the quick, and before he had
considered anything at all he struck the man on the chin with the
full force of his fist, sending him staggering backwards into the
passage.
The man recovered himself, and seemed inclined to come on, and Clare,
stepping outside the door, put himself in a posture of defence. But
his opponent began to think better of the matter. He looked anew at
Tess as he passed her, and said to Clare--
"I beg pardon, sir; 'twas a complete mistake. I thought she was
another woman, forty miles from here."
Clare, feeling then that he had been too hasty, and that he was,
moreover, to blame for leaving her standing in an inn-passage, did
what he usually did in such cases, gave the man five shillings to
plaster the blow; and thus they parted, bidding each other a pacific
good night. As soon as Clare had taken the reins from the ostler,
and the young couple had driven off, the two men went in the other
direction.
"And was it a mistake?" said the second one.
"Not a bit of it. But I didn't want to hurt the gentleman's
feelings--not I."
In the meantime the lovers were driving onward.
"Could we put off our wedding till a little later?" Tess asked in a
dry dull voice. "I mean if we wished?"
"No, my love. Calm yourself. Do you mean that the fellow may have
time to summon me for assault?" he asked good-humouredly.
"No--I only meant--if it should have to be put off."
What she meant was not very clear, and he directed her to dismiss
such fancies from her mind, which she obediently did as well as she
could. But she was grave, very grave, all the way home; till she
thought, "We shall go away, a very long distance, hundreds of miles
from these parts, and such as this can never happen again, and no
ghost of the past reach there."
They parted tenderly that night on the landing, and Clare ascended to
his attic. Tess sat up getting on with some little requisites, lest
the few remaining days should not afford sufficient time. While she
sat she heard a noise in Angel's room overhead, a sound of thumping
and struggling. Everybody else in the house was asleep, and in her
anxiety lest Clare should be ill she ran up and knocked at his door,
and asked him what was the matter.
"Oh, nothing, dear," he said from within. "I am so sorry I disturbed
you! But the reason is rather an amusing one: I fell asleep and
dreamt that I was fighting that fellow again who insulted you,
and the noise you heard was my pummelling away with my fists at
my portmanteau, which I pulled out to-day for packing. I am
occasionally liable to these freaks in my sleep. Go to bed and
think of it no more."
This was the last drachm required to turn the scale of her
indecision. Declare the past to him by word of mouth she could not;
but there was another way. She sat down and wrote on the four pages
of a note-sheet a succinct narrative of those events of three or four
years ago, put it into an envelope, and directed it to Clare. Then,
lest the flesh should again be weak, she crept upstairs without any
shoes and slipped the note under his door.
Her night was a broken one, as it well might be, and she listened for
the first faint noise overhead. It came, as usual; he descended, as
usual. She descended. He met her at the bottom of the stairs and
kissed her. Surely it was as warmly as ever!
He looked a little disturbed and worn, she thought. But he said not
a word to her about her revelation, even when they were alone. Could
he have had it? Unless he began the subject she felt that she could
say nothing. So the day passed, and it was evident that whatever
he thought he meant to keep to himself. Yet he was frank and
affectionate as before. Could it be that her doubts were childish?
that he forgave her; that he loved her for what she was, just as she
was, and smiled at her disquiet as at a foolish nightmare? Had he
really received her note? She glanced into his room, and could see
nothing of it. It might be that he forgave her. But even if he had
not received it she had a sudden enthusiastic trust that he surely
would forgive her.
Every morning and night he was the same, and thus New Year's Eve
broke--the wedding day.
The lovers did not rise at milking-time, having through the whole of
this last week of their sojourn at the dairy been accorded something
of the position of guests, Tess being honoured with a room of her
own. When they arrived downstairs at breakfast-time they were
surprised to see what effects had been produced in the large
kitchen for their glory since they had last beheld it. At some
unnatural hour of the morning the dairyman had caused the yawning
chimney-corner to be whitened, and the brick hearth reddened, and a
blazing yellow damask blower to be hung across the arch in place of
the old grimy blue cotton one with a black sprig pattern which had
formerly done duty there. This renovated aspect of what was the
focus indeed of the room on a full winter morning threw a smiling
demeanour over the whole apartment.
"I was determined to do summat in honour o't", said the dairyman.
"And as you wouldn't hear of my gieing a rattling good randy wi'
fiddles and bass-viols complete, as we should ha' done in old times,
this was all I could think o' as a noiseless thing."
Tess's friends lived so far off that none could conveniently have
been present at the ceremony, even had any been asked; but as a fact
nobody was invited from Marlott. As for Angel's family, he had
written and duly informed them of the time, and assured them that he
would be glad to see one at least of them there for the day if he
would like to come. His brothers had not replied at all, seeming
to be indignant with him; while his father and mother had written
a rather sad letter, deploring his precipitancy in rushing into
marriage, but making the best of the matter by saying that, though
a dairywoman was the last daughter-in-law they could have expected,
their son had arrived at an age which he might be supposed to be the
best judge.
This coolness in his relations distressed Clare less than it would
have done had he been without the grand card with which he meant to
surprise them ere long. To produce Tess, fresh from the dairy, as
a d'Urberville and a lady, he had felt to be temerarious and risky;
hence he had concealed her lineage till such time as, familiarized
with worldly ways by a few months' travel and reading with him, he
could take her on a visit to his parents and impart the knowledge
while triumphantly producing her as worthy of such an ancient line.
It was a pretty lover's dream, if no more. Perhaps Tess's lineage
had more value for himself than for anybody in the world beside.
Her perception that Angel's bearing towards her still remained in no
whit altered by her own communication rendered Tess guiltily doubtful
if he could have received it. She rose from breakfast before he had
finished, and hastened upstairs. It had occurred to her to look once
more into the queer gaunt room which had been Clare's den, or rather
eyrie, for so long, and climbing the ladder she stood at the open
door of the apartment, regarding and pondering. She stooped to the
threshold of the doorway, where she had pushed in the note two or
three days earlier in such excitement. The carpet reached close to
the sill, and under the edge of the carpet she discerned the faint
white margin of the envelope containing her letter to him, which he
obviously had never seen, owing to her having in her haste thrust it
beneath the carpet as well as beneath the door.
With a feeling of faintness she withdrew the letter. There it
was--sealed up, just as it had left her hands. The mountain had
not yet been removed. She could not let him read it now, the house
being in full bustle of preparation; and descending to her own room
she destroyed the letter there.
She was so pale when he saw her again that he felt quite anxious.
The incident of the misplaced letter she had jumped at as if it
prevented a confession; but she knew in her conscience that it need
not; there was still time. Yet everything was in a stir; there
was coming and going; all had to dress, the dairyman and Mrs Crick
having been asked to accompany them as witnesses; and reflection or
deliberate talk was well-nigh impossible. The only minute Tess could
get to be alone with Clare was when they met upon the landing.
"I am so anxious to talk to you--I want to confess all my faults and
blunders!" she said with attempted lightness.
"No, no--we can't have faults talked of--you must be deemed perfect
to-day at least, my Sweet!" he cried. "We shall have plenty of time,
hereafter, I hope, to talk over our failings. I will confess mine at
the same time."
"But it would be better for me to do it now, I think, so that you
could not say--"
"Well, my quixotic one, you shall tell me anything--say, as soon as
we are settled in our lodging; not now. I, too, will tell you my
faults then. But do not let us spoil the day with them; they will
be excellent matter for a dull time."
"Then you don't wish me to, dearest?"
"I do not, Tessy, really."
The hurry of dressing and starting left no time for more than this.
Those words of his seemed to reassure her on further reflection.
She was whirled onward through the next couple of critical hours by
the mastering tide of her devotion to him, which closed up further
meditation. Her one desire, so long resisted, to make herself his,
to call him her lord, her own--then, if necessary, to die--had
at last lifted her up from her plodding reflective pathway. In
dressing, she moved about in a mental cloud of many-coloured
idealities, which eclipsed all sinister contingencies by its
brightness.
The church was a long way off, and they were obliged to drive,
particularly as it was winter. A closed carriage was ordered from
a roadside inn, a vehicle which had been kept there ever since the
old days of post-chaise travelling. It had stout wheel-spokes, and
heavy felloes a great curved bed, immense straps and springs, and a
pole like a battering-ram. The postilion was a venerable "boy" of
sixty--a martyr to rheumatic gout, the result of excessive exposure
in youth, counter-acted by strong liquors--who had stood at inn-doors
doing nothing for the whole five-and-twenty years that had elapsed
since he had no longer been required to ride professionally, as if
expecting the old times to come back again. He had a permanent
running wound on the outside of his right leg, originated by the
constant bruisings of aristocratic carriage-poles during the many
years that he had been in regular employ at the King's Arms,
Casterbridge.
Inside this cumbrous and creaking structure, and behind this decayed
conductor, the _partie carree_ took their seats--the bride and
bridegroom and Mr and Mrs Crick. Angel would have liked one at least
of his brothers to be present as groomsman, but their silence after
his gentle hint to that effect by letter had signified that they did
not care to come. They disapproved of the marriage, and could not be
expected to countenance it. Perhaps it was as well that they could
not be present. They were not worldly young fellows, but fraternizing
with dairy-folk would have struck unpleasantly upon their biased
niceness, apart from their views of the match.
Upheld by the momentum of the time, Tess knew nothing of this, did
not see anything, did not know the road they were taking to the
church. She knew that Angel was close to her; all the rest was
a luminous mist. She was a sort of celestial person, who owed
her being to poetry--one of those classical divinities Clare was
accustomed to talk to her about when they took their walks together.
The marriage being by licence there were only a dozen or so of people
in the church; had there been a thousand they would have produced
no more effect upon her. They were at stellar distances from her
present world. In the ecstatic solemnity with which she swore her
faith to him the ordinary sensibilities of sex seemed a flippancy.
At a pause in the service, while they were kneeling together, she
unconsciously inclined herself towards him, so that her shoulder
touched his arm; she had been frightened by a passing thought, and
the movement had been automatic, to assure herself that he was really
there, and to fortify her belief that his fidelity would be proof
against all things.
Clare knew that she loved him--every curve of her form showed that--
but he did not know at that time the full depth of her devotion, its
single-mindedness, its meekness; what long-suffering it guaranteed,
what honesty, what endurance, what good faith.
As they came out of church the ringers swung the bells off their
rests, and a modest peal of three notes broke forth--that limited
amount of expression having been deemed sufficient by the church
builders for the joys of such a small parish. Passing by the tower
with her husband on the path to the gate she could feel the vibrant
air humming round them from the louvred belfry in the circle of
sound, and it matched the highly-charged mental atmosphere in which
she was living.
This condition of mind, wherein she felt glorified by an irradiation
not her own, like the angel whom St John saw in the sun, lasted till
the sound of the church bells had died away, and the emotions of the
wedding-service had calmed down. Her eyes could dwell upon details
more clearly now, and Mr and Mrs Crick having directed their own gig
to be sent for them, to leave the carriage to the young couple, she
observed the build and character of that conveyance for the first
time. Sitting in silence she regarded it long.
"I fancy you seem oppressed, Tessy," said Clare.
"Yes," she answered, putting her hand to her brow. "I tremble at
many things. It is all so serious, Angel. Among other things I seem
to have seen this carriage before, to be very well acquainted with
it. It is very odd--I must have seen it in a dream."
"Oh--you have heard the legend of the d'Urberville Coach--that
well-known superstition of this county about your family when they
were very popular here; and this lumbering old thing reminds you of
it."
"I have never heard of it to my knowledge," said she. "What is the
legend--may I know it?"
"Well--I would rather not tell it in detail just now. A certain
d'Urberville of the sixteenth or seventeenth century committed a
dreadful crime in his family coach; and since that time members of
the family see or hear the old coach whenever--But I'll tell you
another day--it is rather gloomy. Evidently some dim knowledge of
it has been brought back to your mind by the sight of this venerable
caravan."
"I don't remember hearing it before," she murmured. "Is it when we
are going to die, Angel, that members of my family see it, or is it
when we have committed a crime?"
"Now, Tess!"
He silenced her by a kiss.
By the time they reached home she was contrite and spiritless. She
was Mrs Angel Clare, indeed, but had she any moral right to the name?
Was she not more truly Mrs Alexander d'Urberville? Could intensity
of love justify what might be considered in upright souls as culpable
reticence? She knew not what was expected of women in such cases;
and she had no counsellor.
However, when she found herself alone in her room for a few
minutes--the last day this on which she was ever to enter it--she
knelt down and prayed. She tried to pray to God, but it was her
husband who really had her supplication. Her idolatry of this man
was such that she herself almost feared it to be ill-omened. She was
conscious of the notion expressed by Friar Laurence: "These violent
delights have violent ends." It might be too desperate for human
conditions--too rank, to wild, too deadly.
"O my love, why do I love you so!" she whispered there alone; "for
she you love is not my real self, but one in my image; the one I
might have been!"
Afternoon came, and with it the hour for departure. They had decided
to fulfil the plan of going for a few days to the lodgings in the old
farmhouse near Wellbridge Mill, at which he meant to reside during
his investigation of flour processes. At two o'clock there was
nothing left to do but to start. All the servantry of the dairy were
standing in the red-brick entry to see them go out, the dairyman and
his wife following to the door. Tess saw her three chamber-mates
in a row against the wall, pensively inclining their heads. She
had much questioned if they would appear at the parting moment; but
there they were, stoical and staunch to the last. She knew why the
delicate Retty looked so fragile, and Izz so tragically sorrowful,
and Marian so blank; and she forgot her own dogging shadow for a
moment in contemplating theirs.
She impulsively whispered to him--
"Will you kiss 'em all, once, poor things, for the first and last
time?"
Clare had not the least objection to such a farewell formality--which
was all that it was to him--and as he passed them he kissed them in
succession where they stood, saying "Goodbye" to each as he did so.
When they reached the door Tess femininely glanced back to discern
the effect of that kiss of charity; there was no triumph in her
glance, as there might have been. If there had it would have
disappeared when she saw how moved the girls all were. The kiss had
obviously done harm by awakening feelings they were trying to subdue.
Of all this Clare was unconscious. Passing on to the wicket-gate he
shook hands with the dairyman and his wife, and expressed his last
thanks to them for their attentions; after which there was a moment
of silence before they had moved off. It was interrupted by the
crowing of a cock. The white one with the rose comb had come and
settled on the palings in front of the house, within a few yards of
them, and his notes thrilled their ears through, dwindling away like
echoes down a valley of rocks.
"Oh?" said Mrs Crick. "An afternoon crow!"
Two men were standing by the yard gate, holding it open.
"That's bad," one murmured to the other, not thinking that the words
could be heard by the group at the door-wicket.
The cock crew again--straight towards Clare.
"Well!" said the dairyman.
"I don't like to hear him!" said Tess to her husband. "Tell the man
to drive on. Goodbye, goodbye!"
The cock crew again.
"Hoosh! Just you be off, sir, or I'll twist your neck!" said the
dairyman with some irritation, turning to the bird and driving him
away. And to his wife as they went indoors: "Now, to think o' that
just to-day! I've not heard his crow of an afternoon all the year
afore."
"It only means a change in the weather," said she; "not what you
think: 'tis impossible!"
| 3,515 | Phase IV: "The Consequence," Chapter Thirty-Three | https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-33 | Angel wants to spend a day with Tess, just the two of them, before they get married. It'll be their last day as an engaged couple. So they go shopping together on Christmas Eve. Angel leaves Tess briefly in front of an inn . While she's waiting, a couple of men pass by. One of them is from Trantridge , and he recognizes her. He's starting to say so, when Angel comes back. Angel sees the horrified expression on Tess's face, and punches the guy in the jaw. The guy staggers back, and says that it must be a mistake--it must be some other girl, forty miles off. Angel realizes that he overreacted, and gives the guy a few shillings for a bandage. Tess is depressed by the incident, and asks if it would be possible to postpone the wedding. Angel says no, and Tess is silent the whole way home. She's thinking that they're going to move hundreds of miles away, where no one who knew her before could possibly ever see her. That night, Tess gets woken up by the sound of a scuffle from Angel's room overhead. She runs upstairs, and he tells her that he was having a dream that he was fighting that guy again, and was beating up his suitcase in his sleep. Tess makes up her mind at last: since she can't bring herself to tell him her history in person, she writes it all down in a letter, seals it up, and tiptoes upstairs and pokes it under Angel's door. The next morning, she meets him downstairs as usual, and he kisses her as usual. Even when they're alone, he doesn't allude to the letter. Could he have read it? She peeps into his room that afternoon, and doesn't see the note. He must have read it, and he must have forgiven her. The last few days before the wedding slip by. The morning of their wedding, she begins to suspect that he never got the letter. She slips up to his room, and finds the corner of the letter sticking out from under his carpet. It must have gone under the rug when she stuck it under the door. He never saw it. She burns the letter in her room, and pulls Angel aside downstairs. She wants to tell him all of her faults now, before they are married, so that he can never blame her for not telling him later. But Angel says that he doesn't want to hear them, since that they'll have plenty of time to talk over both of their faults later on, after they're married. She has to be "perfect" on her wedding day. He promises that he'll confess his own faults later, too. They have to take a coach to the church, because it's a long way off and it's the middle of winter. Because the Dairyman's cart is open, they've rented a closed coach from a local inn. It's old and rickety. There aren't very many people at the church to watch the ceremony, because they hadn't advertised it by publishing the banns . Tess repeats her vows in a low voice, and they are married. Angel knows that she loves him, but he doesn't realize that she'd lie down in front of a cart and get run over repeatedly for him. After the service, Tess stares for a while at the old coach--she thinks it looks familiar. Angel assumes that it's because it reminds her of the legend of the D'Urberville coach, but she's never heard it before. Angel doesn't want to tell her the whole story, since it's pretty gloomy. But he gives the bare bones of it: some member of the D'Urberville family committed some horrible crime in the family coach and, after that, members of the family have a vision of the coach whenever... but that's as far as Angel gets with the story. Tess asks whether it's when they've committed a crime, or when they're about to die, that D'Urbervilles see the coach? Angel doesn't answer, and kisses her. They get back to the dairy, and Tess manages to get a few minutes by herself to calm down. As they leave the dairy, all the workers and Mr. and Mrs. Crick line up to say good-bye. Angel kisses each in turn as a formal farewell, and the dairymaids get all agitated. But Angel doesn't notice. As they're starting to leave through the gate, a rooster crows. Hearing a rooster crow in the afternoon, apparently, is bad luck, and they hurry away as Dairyman Crick threatens to ring the bird's neck. | null | 771 | 1 | [
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174 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/01.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_0_part_0.txt | The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 1 | chapter 1 | null | {"name": "Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210304030722/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/picture-dorian-gray/summary/chapter-1", "summary": "In the midst of a beautiful, luxurious painter's studio, we meet Lord Henry Wotton and his friend, artist Basil Hallward. The studio is Basil's, and, as they chat, he critically regards his current masterpiece, a portrait of a gorgeous young man. Lord Henry tells Basil that the painting is his best work ever and suggests where he should exhibit it--but Basil says he doesn't want to do that. Lord Henry is appalled, but Basil holds out, claiming that he's put too much of himself into this painting. Henry protests that there's absolutely no resemblance between Basil and the man in the picture; while the subject of the painting is totally hot, intellectuals like Basil, he half-jokingly says, are generally pretty ugly. Basil tells Henry that he's wrong--looks aside, anyone who's different in any way is marked by fate. He predicts that his art, Lord Henry's wealth, and Dorian Gray's beauty will make them all suffer for their distinction. Lord Henry ignores Basil's dire prophecy, and focuses on the name--Dorian Gray, the beautiful boy in the portrait. Basil, it turns out, hadn't wanted to tell Henry Dorian's name, and Lord Henry asks why. Basil replies that some names are special to him; whenever he likes someone, he always conceals their names from friends, because it makes them seem more mysterious. In general, mysteries are more appealing. This is something Lord Henry completely understands. In his marriage for example, he and his wife have nothing but secrets, and they both like it that way. Basil laughs off Lord Henry's cynical attitude, and claims that his friend isn't really a cynic on the inside. Lord Henry responds that everyone's a poseur of one kind or another, and that cynicism is entertaining, in the least. The friends go out into the garden, and Henry announces that he has to leave. Before he goes, though, he asks one more question: why won't he exhibit Dorian's portrait? Basil protests that he already told Lord Henry the real reason. Under pressure, he explains further, that it's not the sitter that the portrait reveals, but the artist himself. Basil is afraid that showing the picture would reveal the secret of his very soul. Lord Henry laughs and asks what this secret is; Basil says he will tell it, though he warns that Lord Henry will hardly believe it, much less understand. Basil then relates how he met Dorian at a party at Lady Brandon's. As he chatted with various boring nobles, he realized someone was looking at him--someone so utterly fascinating that it terrified him. He tried to leave, but Lady Brandon grabbed him. He suddenly found himself face to face with the handsome young man who scared him: it's Dorian Gray. Basil and Dorian start their friendship by laughing together at Lady Brandon; Lord Henry says lightly that laughter is a good way to begin a friendship, but the best way to end one, to which Basil replies that Henry does not understand what friendship or enmity is. Lord Henry, who apparently is never serious, protests that he does indeed distinguish between his friends and enemies. He chooses his friends for their looks and his enemies for their brains. Basil and Henry kid around a bit, and Basil claims again that his friend really is a decent man, inside his flippant facade. Henry returns to the subject at hand--Dorian Gray. We learn that Basil sees Dorian every day. Lord Henry remarks that it's amazing that Basil now cares for something more than his art, but Basil insists that Dorian is his art now; apparently, meeting Dorian has changed the whole way he sees the world. Lord Henry starts hassling Basil about meeting Dorian. Basil finally admits that he doesn't want to exhibit the picture because the world will find out about his adoration for Dorian, something he hasn't even told Dorian about. Lord Henry asks if Dorian feels the same way about Basil; Basil thinks Dorian likes him, but isn't sure. Lord Henry suggests that Basil might get sick of Dorian--after all, he reasons, genius lasts longer than mere physical beauty. Basil thinks not. He argues that Lord Henry couldn't possibly understand, since he's so faithless in his loves. Ooh, ouch. Lord Henry remembers that he's heard the name Dorian Gray before, from his Aunt Agatha; he hadn't paid attention when she mentioned him, but now wishes he had. Basil replies that he's glad he didn't because he still doesn't want Henry to meet Dorian--and right on cue, Basil's butler announces that Mr. Dorian Gray has arrived. Score one for Lord Henry. Basil orders the butler to tell Dorian to wait a few moments. Then he turns to Lord Henry authoritatively, and tries to impart once more how much Dorian means to him. Basil tells Lord Henry that Dorian is his best friend and warns him not to \"influence\" him. Lord Henry just laughs him off, and we have to wonder what his plans are...", "analysis": ""} |
The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light
summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through
the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate
perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.
From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was
lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry
Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured
blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to
bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then
the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long
tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window,
producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of
those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of
an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of
swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their
way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous
insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine,
seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London
was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.
In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the
full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty,
and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist
himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago
caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many
strange conjectures.
As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so
skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his
face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up,
and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he
sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he
feared he might awake.
"It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done," said
Lord Henry languidly. "You must certainly send it next year to the
Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have
gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been
able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that
I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor
is really the only place."
"I don't think I shall send it anywhere," he answered, tossing his head
back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at
Oxford. "No, I won't send it anywhere."
Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through
the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls
from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. "Not send it anywhere? My
dear fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters
are! You do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as
you have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you,
for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about,
and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you
far above all the young men in England, and make the old men quite
jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion."
"I know you will laugh at me," he replied, "but I really can't exhibit
it. I have put too much of myself into it."
Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.
"Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same."
"Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn't know you
were so vain; and I really can't see any resemblance between you, with
your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young
Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why,
my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you--well, of course you have an
intellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends
where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode
of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one
sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something
horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions.
How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But
then in the Church they don't think. A bishop keeps on saying at the
age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen,
and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful.
Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but
whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of
that. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always
here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in
summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don't flatter
yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him."
"You don't understand me, Harry," answered the artist. "Of course I am
not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry
to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the
truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual
distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the
faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one's
fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world.
They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing
of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They
live as we all should live--undisturbed, indifferent, and without
disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it
from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they
are--my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray's good looks--we
shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly."
"Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the
studio towards Basil Hallward.
"Yes, that is his name. I didn't intend to tell it to you."
"But why not?"
"Oh, I can't explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their
names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have
grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make
modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is
delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my
people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It
is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great
deal of romance into one's life. I suppose you think me awfully
foolish about it?"
"Not at all," answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil. You
seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that
it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I
never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing.
When we meet--we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go
down to the Duke's--we tell each other the most absurd stories with the
most serious faces. My wife is very good at it--much better, in fact,
than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do.
But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes
wish she would; but she merely laughs at me."
"I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry," said Basil
Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. "I
believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are
thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary
fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing.
Your cynicism is simply a pose."
"Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know,"
cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the
garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that
stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over
the polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous.
After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. "I am afraid I must be
going, Basil," he murmured, "and before I go, I insist on your
answering a question I put to you some time ago."
"What is that?" said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.
"You know quite well."
"I do not, Harry."
"Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you
won't exhibit Dorian Gray's picture. I want the real reason."
"I told you the real reason."
"No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of
yourself in it. Now, that is childish."
"Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every
portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not
of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is
not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on
the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit
this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of
my own soul."
Lord Henry laughed. "And what is that?" he asked.
"I will tell you," said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came
over his face.
"I am all expectation, Basil," continued his companion, glancing at him.
"Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry," answered the painter;
"and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will
hardly believe it."
Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from
the grass and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall understand it," he
replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk,
"and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it
is quite incredible."
The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy
lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the
languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a
blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze
wings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward's heart
beating, and wondered what was coming.
"The story is simply this," said the painter after some time. "Two
months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon's. You know we poor
artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to
remind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a
white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain
a reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the room
about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious
academicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at
me. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time.
When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation
of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some
one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to
do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art
itself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know
yourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. I have always been my
own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray.
Then--but I don't know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to
tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had
a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and
exquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was
not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I take
no credit to myself for trying to escape."
"Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil.
Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all."
"I don't believe that, Harry, and I don't believe you do either.
However, whatever was my motive--and it may have been pride, for I used
to be very proud--I certainly struggled to the door. There, of course,
I stumbled against Lady Brandon. 'You are not going to run away so
soon, Mr. Hallward?' she screamed out. You know her curiously shrill
voice?"
"Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty," said Lord Henry,
pulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers.
"I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to royalties, and
people with stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras
and parrot noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only
met her once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. I
believe some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at
least had been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the
nineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found myself
face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely
stirred me. We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again.
It was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him.
Perhaps it was not so reckless, after all. It was simply inevitable.
We would have spoken to each other without any introduction. I am sure
of that. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were
destined to know each other."
"And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?" asked his
companion. "I know she goes in for giving a rapid _precis_ of all her
guests. I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old
gentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my
ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to
everybody in the room, the most astounding details. I simply fled. I
like to find out people for myself. But Lady Brandon treats her guests
exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them
entirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants
to know."
"Poor Lady Brandon! You are hard on her, Harry!" said Hallward
listlessly.
"My dear fellow, she tried to found a _salon_, and only succeeded in
opening a restaurant. How could I admire her? But tell me, what did
she say about Mr. Dorian Gray?"
"Oh, something like, 'Charming boy--poor dear mother and I absolutely
inseparable. Quite forget what he does--afraid he--doesn't do
anything--oh, yes, plays the piano--or is it the violin, dear Mr.
Gray?' Neither of us could help laughing, and we became friends at
once."
"Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far
the best ending for one," said the young lord, plucking another daisy.
Hallward shook his head. "You don't understand what friendship is,
Harry," he murmured--"or what enmity is, for that matter. You like
every one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one."
"How horribly unjust of you!" cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back
and looking up at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeins of
glossy white silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the
summer sky. "Yes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference
between people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my
acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good
intellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.
I have not got one who is a fool. They are all men of some
intellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me. Is that
very vain of me? I think it is rather vain."
"I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category I must
be merely an acquaintance."
"My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance."
"And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?"
"Oh, brothers! I don't care for brothers. My elder brother won't die,
and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else."
"Harry!" exclaimed Hallward, frowning.
"My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can't help detesting my
relations. I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand
other people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathize
with the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices
of the upper orders. The masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and
immorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of
us makes an ass of himself, he is poaching on their preserves. When
poor Southwark got into the divorce court, their indignation was quite
magnificent. And yet I don't suppose that ten per cent of the
proletariat live correctly."
"I don't agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is
more, Harry, I feel sure you don't either."
Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard and tapped the toe of his
patent-leather boot with a tasselled ebony cane. "How English you are
Basil! That is the second time you have made that observation. If one
puts forward an idea to a true Englishman--always a rash thing to
do--he never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong.
The only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes
it oneself. Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do
with the sincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, the
probabilities are that the more insincere the man is, the more purely
intellectual will the idea be, as in that case it will not be coloured
by either his wants, his desires, or his prejudices. However, I don't
propose to discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I
like persons better than principles, and I like persons with no
principles better than anything else in the world. Tell me more about
Mr. Dorian Gray. How often do you see him?"
"Every day. I couldn't be happy if I didn't see him every day. He is
absolutely necessary to me."
"How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but
your art."
"He is all my art to me now," said the painter gravely. "I sometimes
think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the
world's history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art,
and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also.
What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of
Antinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will
some day be to me. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw from
him, sketch from him. Of course, I have done all that. But he is much
more to me than a model or a sitter. I won't tell you that I am
dissatisfied with what I have done of him, or that his beauty is such
that art cannot express it. There is nothing that art cannot express,
and I know that the work I have done, since I met Dorian Gray, is good
work, is the best work of my life. But in some curious way--I wonder
will you understand me?--his personality has suggested to me an
entirely new manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. I see
things differently, I think of them differently. I can now recreate
life in a way that was hidden from me before. 'A dream of form in days
of thought'--who is it who says that? I forget; but it is what Dorian
Gray has been to me. The merely visible presence of this lad--for he
seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over
twenty--his merely visible presence--ah! I wonder can you realize all
that that means? Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh
school, a school that is to have in it all the passion of the romantic
spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony of
soul and body--how much that is! We in our madness have separated the
two, and have invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is
void. Harry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! You remember
that landscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a huge price
but which I would not part with? It is one of the best things I have
ever done. And why is it so? Because, while I was painting it, Dorian
Gray sat beside me. Some subtle influence passed from him to me, and
for the first time in my life I saw in the plain woodland the wonder I
had always looked for and always missed."
"Basil, this is extraordinary! I must see Dorian Gray."
Hallward got up from the seat and walked up and down the garden. After
some time he came back. "Harry," he said, "Dorian Gray is to me simply
a motive in art. You might see nothing in him. I see everything in
him. He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is
there. He is a suggestion, as I have said, of a new manner. I find
him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of
certain colours. That is all."
"Then why won't you exhibit his portrait?" asked Lord Henry.
"Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of
all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never
cared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know
anything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare
my soul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall never be put
under their microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing,
Harry--too much of myself!"
"Poets are not so scrupulous as you are. They know how useful passion
is for publication. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions."
"I hate them for it," cried Hallward. "An artist should create
beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We
live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of
autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. Some day I
will show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall
never see my portrait of Dorian Gray."
"I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won't argue with you. It is only
the intellectually lost who ever argue. Tell me, is Dorian Gray very
fond of you?"
The painter considered for a few moments. "He likes me," he answered
after a pause; "I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him
dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I
know I shall be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to
me, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and
then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real
delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away
my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put
in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a
summer's day."
"Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger," murmured Lord Henry.
"Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing to think
of, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. That
accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate
ourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have
something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and
facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly
well-informed man--that is the modern ideal. And the mind of the
thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a
_bric-a-brac_ shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above
its proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day
you will look at your friend, and he will seem to you to be a little
out of drawing, or you won't like his tone of colour, or something.
You will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think
that he has behaved very badly to you. The next time he calls, you
will be perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for
it will alter you. What you have told me is quite a romance, a romance
of art one might call it, and the worst of having a romance of any kind
is that it leaves one so unromantic."
"Harry, don't talk like that. As long as I live, the personality of
Dorian Gray will dominate me. You can't feel what I feel. You change
too often."
"Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are
faithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who
know love's tragedies." And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty
silver case and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and
satisfied air, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase. There was
a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy,
and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like
swallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other
people's emotions were!--much more delightful than their ideas, it
seemed to him. One's own soul, and the passions of one's
friends--those were the fascinating things in life. He pictured to
himself with silent amusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed
by staying so long with Basil Hallward. Had he gone to his aunt's, he
would have been sure to have met Lord Goodbody there, and the whole
conversation would have been about the feeding of the poor and the
necessity for model lodging-houses. Each class would have preached the
importance of those virtues, for whose exercise there was no necessity
in their own lives. The rich would have spoken on the value of thrift,
and the idle grown eloquent over the dignity of labour. It was
charming to have escaped all that! As he thought of his aunt, an idea
seemed to strike him. He turned to Hallward and said, "My dear fellow,
I have just remembered."
"Remembered what, Harry?"
"Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray."
"Where was it?" asked Hallward, with a slight frown.
"Don't look so angry, Basil. It was at my aunt, Lady Agatha's. She
told me she had discovered a wonderful young man who was going to help
her in the East End, and that his name was Dorian Gray. I am bound to
state that she never told me he was good-looking. Women have no
appreciation of good looks; at least, good women have not. She said
that he was very earnest and had a beautiful nature. I at once
pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly
freckled, and tramping about on huge feet. I wish I had known it was
your friend."
"I am very glad you didn't, Harry."
"Why?"
"I don't want you to meet him."
"You don't want me to meet him?"
"No."
"Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir," said the butler, coming into
the garden.
"You must introduce me now," cried Lord Henry, laughing.
The painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight.
"Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I shall be in in a few moments." The
man bowed and went up the walk.
Then he looked at Lord Henry. "Dorian Gray is my dearest friend," he
said. "He has a simple and a beautiful nature. Your aunt was quite
right in what she said of him. Don't spoil him. Don't try to
influence him. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, and
has many marvellous people in it. Don't take away from me the one
person who gives to my art whatever charm it possesses: my life as an
artist depends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you." He spoke very
slowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will.
"What nonsense you talk!" said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallward
by the arm, he almost led him into the house.
| 4,736 | Chapter 1 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210304030722/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/picture-dorian-gray/summary/chapter-1 | In the midst of a beautiful, luxurious painter's studio, we meet Lord Henry Wotton and his friend, artist Basil Hallward. The studio is Basil's, and, as they chat, he critically regards his current masterpiece, a portrait of a gorgeous young man. Lord Henry tells Basil that the painting is his best work ever and suggests where he should exhibit it--but Basil says he doesn't want to do that. Lord Henry is appalled, but Basil holds out, claiming that he's put too much of himself into this painting. Henry protests that there's absolutely no resemblance between Basil and the man in the picture; while the subject of the painting is totally hot, intellectuals like Basil, he half-jokingly says, are generally pretty ugly. Basil tells Henry that he's wrong--looks aside, anyone who's different in any way is marked by fate. He predicts that his art, Lord Henry's wealth, and Dorian Gray's beauty will make them all suffer for their distinction. Lord Henry ignores Basil's dire prophecy, and focuses on the name--Dorian Gray, the beautiful boy in the portrait. Basil, it turns out, hadn't wanted to tell Henry Dorian's name, and Lord Henry asks why. Basil replies that some names are special to him; whenever he likes someone, he always conceals their names from friends, because it makes them seem more mysterious. In general, mysteries are more appealing. This is something Lord Henry completely understands. In his marriage for example, he and his wife have nothing but secrets, and they both like it that way. Basil laughs off Lord Henry's cynical attitude, and claims that his friend isn't really a cynic on the inside. Lord Henry responds that everyone's a poseur of one kind or another, and that cynicism is entertaining, in the least. The friends go out into the garden, and Henry announces that he has to leave. Before he goes, though, he asks one more question: why won't he exhibit Dorian's portrait? Basil protests that he already told Lord Henry the real reason. Under pressure, he explains further, that it's not the sitter that the portrait reveals, but the artist himself. Basil is afraid that showing the picture would reveal the secret of his very soul. Lord Henry laughs and asks what this secret is; Basil says he will tell it, though he warns that Lord Henry will hardly believe it, much less understand. Basil then relates how he met Dorian at a party at Lady Brandon's. As he chatted with various boring nobles, he realized someone was looking at him--someone so utterly fascinating that it terrified him. He tried to leave, but Lady Brandon grabbed him. He suddenly found himself face to face with the handsome young man who scared him: it's Dorian Gray. Basil and Dorian start their friendship by laughing together at Lady Brandon; Lord Henry says lightly that laughter is a good way to begin a friendship, but the best way to end one, to which Basil replies that Henry does not understand what friendship or enmity is. Lord Henry, who apparently is never serious, protests that he does indeed distinguish between his friends and enemies. He chooses his friends for their looks and his enemies for their brains. Basil and Henry kid around a bit, and Basil claims again that his friend really is a decent man, inside his flippant facade. Henry returns to the subject at hand--Dorian Gray. We learn that Basil sees Dorian every day. Lord Henry remarks that it's amazing that Basil now cares for something more than his art, but Basil insists that Dorian is his art now; apparently, meeting Dorian has changed the whole way he sees the world. Lord Henry starts hassling Basil about meeting Dorian. Basil finally admits that he doesn't want to exhibit the picture because the world will find out about his adoration for Dorian, something he hasn't even told Dorian about. Lord Henry asks if Dorian feels the same way about Basil; Basil thinks Dorian likes him, but isn't sure. Lord Henry suggests that Basil might get sick of Dorian--after all, he reasons, genius lasts longer than mere physical beauty. Basil thinks not. He argues that Lord Henry couldn't possibly understand, since he's so faithless in his loves. Ooh, ouch. Lord Henry remembers that he's heard the name Dorian Gray before, from his Aunt Agatha; he hadn't paid attention when she mentioned him, but now wishes he had. Basil replies that he's glad he didn't because he still doesn't want Henry to meet Dorian--and right on cue, Basil's butler announces that Mr. Dorian Gray has arrived. Score one for Lord Henry. Basil orders the butler to tell Dorian to wait a few moments. Then he turns to Lord Henry authoritatively, and tries to impart once more how much Dorian means to him. Basil tells Lord Henry that Dorian is his best friend and warns him not to "influence" him. Lord Henry just laughs him off, and we have to wonder what his plans are... | null | 828 | 1 | [
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161 | true | cliffnotes | all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/chapters_13_to_14.txt | finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Sense and Sensibility/section_9_part_0.txt | Sense and Sensibility.chapters 13-14 | chapters 13-14 | null | {"name": "Chapters 13-14", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101060302/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/sense-and-sensibility/summary-and-analysis/chapters-1314", "summary": "While the party breakfasted at Barton Hall, a letter came for Colonel Brandon. He \"took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room.\" He soon returned, saying that he was obliged to leave for London and regretting that the party would not be able to go to Whitwell without him. Mrs. Jennings intimated that she knew who the letter was from, and after Brandon left told the group about a Miss Williams, the colonel's natural daughter. Sir John arranged for the party to drive in the country. Marianne and Willoughby dashed off in the first carriage and returned after the last one, telling no one where they had been. However, during a dance that evening, Mrs. Jennings told Marianne that she had found out where they had been. Having questioned the groom, she learned that Willoughby had taken Marianne to Allenham and shown her over the house. Despite Marianne's embarrassment, Mrs. Jennings continued to banter the girl on how the house would one day be hers. Elinor reproved her sister for her impropriety in going alone with Willoughby to Allenham. Marianne, at first annoyed, later conceded her error. But her enthusiasm about the place, apparently prompted by dreams of future ownership, superseded any regrets. While Mrs. Jennings conjectured about Colonel Brandon's business in London, Elinor wondered about \"the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby\" about whether or not they were engaged. Willoughby was a constant visitor, and he and Marianne seemed to have reached a tacit agreement, which, however, needed verbalization. One day he begged Mrs. Dashwood, \"Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours unchanged as your dwelling.\" Mrs. Dashwood graciously accorded, and an engagement was made for dinner the next day.", "analysis": "The absence of commercial entertainment in Austen's day compelled provincial people to seek relaxation in their own homes and the homes of others. So we find the characters in Sense and Sensibility constantly involved in all sorts of social occasions. Only one novel features picnics, but one is planned in Sense and Sensibility. As the month was October, and late for picnics, Elinor was right in preparing to be \"fatigued, wet through, and frightened.\" Only Sir John would have thought of such an idea to entertain his guests. Notice Austen's use of irony in representing Willoughby's sentimental attachment to Barton Cottage. No change was needed, although the kitchen smoked and the staircase was dark and narrow. Contrast this with Elinor's commonsensible perspective on her home."} |
Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from
what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through,
fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for
they did not go at all.
By ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they
were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had
rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky,
and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and
good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the
greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.
While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the
rest there was one for Colonel Brandon;--he took it, looked at the
direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room.
"What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John.
Nobody could tell.
"I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton. "It must be
something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my
breakfast table so suddenly."
In about five minutes he returned.
"No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he
entered the room.
"None at all, ma'am, I thank you."
"Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is
worse."
"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business."
"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a
letter of business? Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear
the truth of it."
"My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying."
"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" said
Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof.
"No, indeed, it is not."
"Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well."
"Whom do you mean, ma'am?" said he, colouring a little.
"Oh! you know who I mean."
"I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton,
"that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which
requires my immediate attendance in town."
"In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town at
this time of year?"
"My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so
agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence
is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell."
What a blow upon them all was this!
"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said
Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?"
He shook his head.
"We must go," said Sir John.--"It shall not be put off when we are so
near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all."
"I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to
delay my journey for one day!"
"If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs.
Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not."
"You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to
defer your journey till our return."
"I cannot afford to lose ONE hour."--
Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, "There
are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of
them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this
trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was
of his own writing."
"I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne.
"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of
old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything. But,
however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the
two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked
up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his
usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell."
Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of
disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be
unavoidable.
"Well, then, when will you come back again?"
"I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as
you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to
Whitwell till you return."
"You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in
my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all."
"Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John. "If he is not here
by the end of the week, I shall go after him."
"Ay, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may
find out what his business is."
"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns. I suppose it is
something he is ashamed of."
Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.
"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John.
"No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post."
"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you
had better change your mind."
"I assure you it is not in my power."
He then took leave of the whole party.
"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this
winter, Miss Dashwood?"
"I am afraid, none at all."
"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to
do."
To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.
"Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know what
you are going about."
He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room.
The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto
restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and
again how provoking it was to be so disappointed.
"I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings
exultingly.
"Can you, ma'am?" said almost every body.
"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure."
"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne.
"What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have
heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a
very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the
young ladies." Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor,
"She is his natural daughter."
"Indeed!"
"Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel
will leave her all his fortune."
When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret
on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as
they were all got together, they must do something by way of being
happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although
happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a
tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The
carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne never
looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the park
very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them
was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return
of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said
only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others
went on the downs.
It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that
every body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the
Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly
twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment.
Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods.
Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had not been long
seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to
Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, "I have found you out in
spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning."
Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray?"--
"Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that we had been out in my
curricle?"
"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined
to find out WHERE you had been to.-- I hope you like your house, Miss
Marianne. It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you,
I hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when
I was there six years ago."
Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed
heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they
had been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr.
Willoughby's groom; and that she had by that method been informed that
they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in
walking about the garden and going all over the house.
Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely
that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house
while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest
acquaintance.
As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it;
and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance
related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry
with her for doubting it.
"Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we
did not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do
yourself?"
"Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with
no other companion than Mr. Willoughby."
"Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to shew
that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to
have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter morning in my
life."
"I am afraid," replied Elinor, "that the pleasantness of an employment
does not always evince its propriety."
"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if
there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been
sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting
wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure."
"But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very
impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of
your own conduct?"
"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of
impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives.
I value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation. I
am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs.
Smith's grounds, or in seeing her house. They will one day be Mr.
Willoughby's, and--"
"If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be
justified in what you have done."
She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her;
and after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her
sister again, and said with great good humour, "Perhaps, Elinor, it WAS
rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted
particularly to shew me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure
you.--There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice
comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would
be delightful. It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides. On
one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a
beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church
and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so
often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be
more forlorn than the furniture,--but if it were newly fitted up--a
couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the
pleasantest summer-rooms in England."
Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others,
she would have described every room in the house with equal delight.
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.
| 3,348 | Chapters 13-14 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201101060302/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/sense-and-sensibility/summary-and-analysis/chapters-1314 | While the party breakfasted at Barton Hall, a letter came for Colonel Brandon. He "took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room." He soon returned, saying that he was obliged to leave for London and regretting that the party would not be able to go to Whitwell without him. Mrs. Jennings intimated that she knew who the letter was from, and after Brandon left told the group about a Miss Williams, the colonel's natural daughter. Sir John arranged for the party to drive in the country. Marianne and Willoughby dashed off in the first carriage and returned after the last one, telling no one where they had been. However, during a dance that evening, Mrs. Jennings told Marianne that she had found out where they had been. Having questioned the groom, she learned that Willoughby had taken Marianne to Allenham and shown her over the house. Despite Marianne's embarrassment, Mrs. Jennings continued to banter the girl on how the house would one day be hers. Elinor reproved her sister for her impropriety in going alone with Willoughby to Allenham. Marianne, at first annoyed, later conceded her error. But her enthusiasm about the place, apparently prompted by dreams of future ownership, superseded any regrets. While Mrs. Jennings conjectured about Colonel Brandon's business in London, Elinor wondered about "the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby" about whether or not they were engaged. Willoughby was a constant visitor, and he and Marianne seemed to have reached a tacit agreement, which, however, needed verbalization. One day he begged Mrs. Dashwood, "Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours unchanged as your dwelling." Mrs. Dashwood graciously accorded, and an engagement was made for dinner the next day. | The absence of commercial entertainment in Austen's day compelled provincial people to seek relaxation in their own homes and the homes of others. So we find the characters in Sense and Sensibility constantly involved in all sorts of social occasions. Only one novel features picnics, but one is planned in Sense and Sensibility. As the month was October, and late for picnics, Elinor was right in preparing to be "fatigued, wet through, and frightened." Only Sir John would have thought of such an idea to entertain his guests. Notice Austen's use of irony in representing Willoughby's sentimental attachment to Barton Cottage. No change was needed, although the kitchen smoked and the staircase was dark and narrow. Contrast this with Elinor's commonsensible perspective on her home. | 300 | 126 | [
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44,747 | true | sparknotes | all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/part_1_chapters_6_to_11.txt | finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Red and the Black/section_1_part_0.txt | The Red and the Black.part 1.chapters 6-11 | book 1, chapters 6-11 | null | {"name": "", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301223854/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/redblack/section2/", "summary": "Julien timidly walks over to the Renal home. Moved by Julien's weak frame and pale complexion, Mme. de Renal's \"romantic disposition\" makes her feel immediate pity for Julien. Their first encounter is tender and innocent, especially since Mme. de Renal initially thinks that Julien is a young woman. Julien is not used to being treated so well by an aristocrat and the two instantly take a liking to each other. He promises not to harm her children and, realizing that he has an advantage, kisses her hand. Mme. de Renal is shocked but does not scold Julien. He continues to make a good impression by reciting portions of the Bible in Latin from memory. M. de Renal's self-esteem is aroused by Julien's intelligence and he parades the whole town through his house to witness how great his children's tutor is. The Renals and their children accept Julien as a fixture in their home, but he continues to loathe \"high society\" in private. Elisa, Mme. de Renal's maid, falls in love with Julien, and it is through her maid's eyes that Mme. de Renal begins to have feelings for Julien as well. Raised in a convent, Mme. de Renal had never known love and thought that all men were like her husband and M. Valenod, only concerned with hatred and money. Convinced that Mme. de Renal is only out to humiliate him, Julien acts very cold around her. He also rejects Elisa's offer of marriage. M. Chelan urges Julien to reconsider, recognizing the Julien's lack of true devotion to the Church. He does not call Julien a hypocrite, but Julien is ashamed that someone actually loves him. After a few days, however, Julien perfects \"the language of sly and prudent hypocrisy,\" refusing to reveal his true ambitions to the priest. Jealous of Elisa, Mme. de Renal begins to fall in love with Julien and is overjoyed when he refuses Elisa. She blushes in his presence, buys him gifts, and starts to pay more attention to her physical appearance. The Renals move out to the countryside for the spring, and Julien decides to seduce Mme. de Renal. He does not love her, but convinces himself that it would be cowardly not to hold her hand as they sit in the garden. Considering it his military \"duty,\" Julien grabs hold of her hand--and Mme. de Renal does not resist him. The next day Julien ignores the children and further humiliates M. de Renal by securing a raise. Julien's moment of glory is short-lived. After discovering that M. de Renal is changing the bed straw, he begs Mme. de Renal to remove a portrait from under his mattress. Afraid that it is a portrait of the woman he loves, Mme. de Renal chooses not to look at what turns out to be a portrait of Napoleon. Julien is furious at himself for his near blunder. Had M. de Renal seen the portrait, Julien's hypocrisy would have been evident. That evening, Julien redoubles his efforts, passionately kissing Mme. de Renal. Invisible in the darkness of night, Julien is able to achieve this \"victory\" directly in front of M. de Renal.", "analysis": "Commentary The beginning part of this section emphasizes Mme. de Renal's purity and innocence. Unlike her husband, she is unconcerned with social rank and class, immediately calling Julien, \"Sir.\" Stendhal's correlation of Mme. de Renal's beauty with her strong sense of morality is a hallmark of nineteenth-century romantic fiction. Despite this tenderness on the part of Stendhal, his description of Mme. de Renal's youth in a convent and the ease with which she falls in love with Julien also evokes the irony of many Enlightenment writers, especially Voltaire. Stendhal also introduces an important theme in this section: triangular desire. Elisa falls in love with Julien, while Mme. de Renal jealously falls in love because of Elisa. Julien desires Mme. de Renal, but only because she represents a conquest that he compares to military glory. Together they form a love triangle, one of many that Stendhal employs throughout the novel. For Stendhal, the love triangle meant that one could only fall in love through an intermediary figure. Indeed, Stendhal thought of himself as a scientist of love, attempting to reduce love to different formulas, levels, and stages, much like a mathematician. He often distinguished four types of love: passion- love, physical-love, vanity-love, and stylish-love. This devotion to understanding the psychology of love and its abstract analysis was a major influence for later Realist writers such as Balzac, Flaubert, and Zola. From the moment he enters the Renal home, Julien thinks of himself as Napoleon and Mme. de Renal as a battle to be won--not about love. Each advance represents an incremental increase in the intensity of their relationship but also a feeling of pride for Julien. Kissing Mme. de Renal's hand is a victory, but more importantly, an attack against the aristocracy: he is humiliating M. de Renal by seducing his wife. Julien thinks incessantly about adhering to Napoleon's military \"style\" and fulfilling \"the destiny of Napoleon.\" Stendhal reinforces this symbolic closeness with the image of an eagle circling above Julien's head. The metaphor is twofold: the eagle is both the symbol of Napoleon and military glory, and a bird circling his prey. In effect, Julien's adoration of Napoleon gets him into serious trouble. M. de Renal almost discovers Julien's portrait of Napoleon, covered with inscriptions of praise written by Julien himself. After Mme. de Renal returns it to him, Julien immediately burns the portrait, establishing his conviction to succeed in French society at any cost."} | CHAPTER VI
ENNUI
Non so piu cosa son
Cosa facio.
MOZART (_Figaro_).
Madame de Renal was going out of the salon by the folding window which
opened on to the garden with that vivacity and grace which was natural
to her when she was free from human observation, when she noticed a
young peasant near the entrance gate. He was still almost a child,
extremely pale, and looked as though he had been crying. He was in a
white shirt and had under his arm a perfectly new suit of violet frieze.
The little peasant's complexion was so white and his eyes were so soft,
that Madame de Renal's somewhat romantic spirit thought at first that
it might be a young girl in disguise, who had come to ask some favour
of the M. the Mayor. She took pity on this poor creature, who had
stopped at the entrance of the door, and who apparently did not dare
to raise its hand to the bell. Madame de Renal approached, forgetting
for the moment the bitter chagrin occasioned by the tutor's arrival.
Julien, who was turned towards the gate, did not see her advance. He
trembled when a soft voice said quite close to his ear:
"What do you want here, my child."
Julien turned round sharply and was so struck by Madame de Renal's
look, full of graciousness as it was, that up to a certain point he
forgot to be nervous. Overcome by her beauty he soon forgot everything,
even what he had come for. Madame de Renal repeated her question.
"I have come here to be tutor, Madame," he said at last, quite ashamed
of his tears which he was drying as best as he could.
Madame de Renal remained silent. They had a view of each other at close
range. Julien had never seen a human being so well-dressed, and above
all he had never seen a woman with so dazzling a complexion speak to
him at all softly. Madame de Renal observed the big tears which had
lingered on the cheeks of the young peasant, those cheeks which had
been so pale and were now so pink. Soon she began to laugh with all the
mad gaiety of a young girl, she made fun of herself, and was unable to
realise the extent of her happiness. So this was that tutor whom she
had imagined a dirty, badly dressed priest, who was coming to scold and
flog her children.
"What! Monsieur," she said to him at last, "you know Latin?"
The word "Monsieur" astonished Julien so much that he reflected for a
moment.
"Yes, Madame," he said timidly.
Madame de Renal was so happy that she plucked up the courage to say to
Julien, "You will not scold the poor children too much?"
"I scold them!" said Julien in astonishment; "why should I?"
"You won't, will you, Monsieur," she added after a little silence, in
a soft voice whose emotion became more and more intense. "You will be
nice to them, you promise me?"
To hear himself called "Monsieur" again in all seriousness by so well
dressed a lady was beyond all Julien's expectations. He had always said
to himself in all the castles of Spain that he had built in his youth,
that no real lady would ever condescend to talk to him except when he
had a fine uniform. Madame de Renal, on her side, was completely taken
in by Julien's beautiful complexion, his big black eyes, and his pretty
hair, which was more than usually curly, because he had just plunged
his head into the basin of the public fountain in order to refresh
himself. She was over-joyed to find that this sinister tutor, whom
she had feared to find so harsh and severe to her children, had, as a
matter of fact, the timid manner of a girl. The contrast between her
fears and what she now saw, proved a great event for Madame de Renal's
peaceful temperament. Finally, she recovered from her surprise. She
was astonished to find herself at the gate of her own house talking in
this way and at such close quarters to this young and somewhat scantily
dressed man.
"Let us go in, Monsieur," she said to him with a certain air of
embarrassment.
During Madame de Renal's whole life she had never been so deeply moved
by such a sense of pure pleasure. Never had so gracious a vision
followed in the wake of her disconcerting fears. So these pretty
children of whom she took such care were not after all to fall into
the hands of a dirty grumbling priest. She had scarcely entered the
vestibule when she turned round towards Julien, who was following her
trembling. His astonishment at the sight of so fine a house proved but
an additional charm in Madame de Renal's eyes. She could not believe
her own eyes. It seemed to her, above all, that the tutor ought to have
a black suit.
"But is it true, Monsieur," she said to him, stopping once again, and
in mortal fear that she had made a mistake, so happy had her discovery
made her. "Is it true that you know Latin?" These words offended
Julien's pride, and dissipated the charming atmosphere which he had
been enjoying for the last quarter of an hour.
"Yes, Madame," he said, trying to assume an air of coldness, "I know
Latin as well as the cure, who has been good enough to say sometimes
that I know it even better."
Madame de Renal thought that Julien looked extremely wicked. He had
stopped two paces from her. She approached and said to him in a whisper:
"You won't beat my children the first few days, will you, even if they
do not know their lessons?"
The softness and almost supplication of so beautiful a lady made Julien
suddenly forget what he owed to his reputation as a Latinist. Madame de
Renal's face was close to his own. He smelt the perfume of a woman's
summer clothing, a quite astonishing experience for a poor peasant.
Julien blushed extremely, and said with a sigh in a faltering voice:
"Fear nothing, Madame, I will obey you in everything."
It was only now, when her anxiety about her children had been relieved
once and for all, that Madame de Renal was struck by Julien's extreme
beauty. The comparative effeminancy of his features and his air of
extreme embarrassment did not seem in any way ridiculous to a woman who
was herself extremely timid. The male air, which is usually considered
essential to a man's beauty, would have terrified her.
"How old are you, sir," she said to Julien.
"Nearly nineteen."
"My elder son is eleven," went on Madame de Renal, who had completely
recovered her confidence. "He will be almost a chum for you. You will
talk sensibly to him. His father started beating him once. The child
was ill for a whole week, and yet it was only a little tap."
What a difference between him and me, thought Julien. Why, it was only
yesterday that my father beat me. How happy these rich people are.
Madame de Renal, who had already begun to observe the fine nuances of
the workings in the tutor's mind, took this fit of sadness for timidity
and tried to encourage him.
"What is your name, Monsieur?" she said to him, with an accent and
a graciousness whose charm Julien appreciated without being able to
explain.
"I am called Julien Sorel, Madame. I feel nervous of entering a strange
house for the first time in my life. I have need of your protection
and I want you to make many allowances for me during the first few
days. I have never been to the college, I was too poor. I have never
spoken to anyone else except my cousin who was Surgeon-Major, Member
of the Legion of Honour, and M. the cure Chelan. He will give you a
good account of me. My brothers always used to beat me, and you must
not believe them if they speak badly of me to you. You must forgive my
faults, Madame. I shall always mean everything for the best."
Julien had regained his confidence during this long speech. He was
examining Madame de Renal. Perfect grace works wonders when it is
natural to the character, and above all, when the person whom it
adorns never thinks of trying to affect it. Julien, who was quite a
connoisseur in feminine beauty, would have sworn at this particular
moment that she was not more than twenty. The rash idea of kissing her
hand immediately occurred to him. He soon became frightened of his
idea. A minute later he said to himself, it will be an act of cowardice
if I do not carry out an action which may be useful to me, and lessen
the contempt which this fine lady probably has for a poor workman just
taken away from the saw-mill. Possibly Julien was a little encouraged
through having heard some young girls repeat on Sundays during the last
six months the words "pretty boy."
During this internal debate, Madame de Renal was giving him two or
three hints on the way to commence handling the children. The strain
Julien was putting on himself made him once more very pale. He said
with an air of constraint.
"I will never beat your children, Madame. I swear it before God." In
saying this, he dared to take Madame de Renal's hand and carry it
to his lips. She was astonished at this act, and after reflecting,
became shocked. As the weather was very warm, her arm was quite bare
underneath the shawl, and Julien's movement in carrying her hand to his
lips entirely uncovered it. After a few moments she scolded herself. It
seemed to her that her anger had not been quick enough.
M. de Renal, who had heard voices, came out of his study, and assuming
the same air of paternal majesty with which he celebrated marriages at
the mayoral office, said to Julien:
"It is essential for me to have a few words with you before my children
see you." He made Julien enter a room and insisted on his wife being
present, although she wished to leave them alone. Having closed the
door M. Renal sat down.
"M. the cure has told me that you are a worthy person, and everybody
here will treat you with respect. If I am satisfied with you I will
later on help you in having a little establishment of your own. I do
not wish you to see either anything more of your relatives or your
friends. Their tone is bound to be prejudicial to my children. Here are
thirty-six francs for the first month, but I insist on your word not to
give a sou of this money to your father."
M. de Renal was piqued against the old man for having proved the
shrewder bargainer.
"Now, Monsieur, for I have given orders for everybody here to call you
Monsieur, and you will appreciate the advantage of having entered the
house of real gentle folk, now, Monsieur, it is not becoming for the
children to see you in a jacket." "Have the servants seen him?" said M.
de Renal to his wife.
"No, my dear," she answered, with an air of deep pensiveness.
"All the better. Put this on," he said to the surprised young man,
giving him a frock-coat of his own. "Let us now go to M. Durand's the
draper."
When M. de Renal came back with the new tutor in his black suit more
than an hour later, he found his wife still seated in the same place.
She felt calmed by Julien's presence. When she examined him she forgot
to be frightened of him. Julien was not thinking about her at all. In
spite of all his distrust of destiny and mankind, his soul at this
moment was as simple as that of a child. It seemed as though he had
lived through years since the moment, three hours ago, when he had been
all atremble in the church. He noticed Madame de Renal's frigid manner
and realised that she was very angry, because he had dared to kiss her
hand. But the proud consciousness which was given to him by the feel
of clothes so different from those which he usually wore, transported
him so violently and he had so great a desire to conceal his
exultation, that all his movements were marked by a certain spasmodic
irresponsibility. Madame de Renal looked at him with astonishment.
"Monsieur," said M. de Renal to him, "dignity above all is necessary if
you wish to be respected by my children."
"Sir," answered Julien, "I feel awkward in my new clothes. I am a poor
peasant and have never wore anything but jackets. If you allow it, I
will retire to my room."
"What do you think of this 'acquisition?'" said M. de Renal to his wife.
Madame de Renal concealed the truth from her husband, obeying an almost
instinctive impulse which she certainly did not own to herself.
"I am not as fascinated as you are by this little peasant. Your favours
will result in his not being able to keep his place, and you will have
to send him back before the month is out."
"Oh, well! we'll send him back then, he cannot run me into more than
a hundred francs, and Verrieres will have got used to seeing M. de
Renal's children with a tutor. That result would not have been achieved
if I had allowed Julien to wear a workman's clothes. If I do send him
back, I shall of course keep the complete black suit which I have just
ordered at the draper's. All he will keep is the ready-made suit which
I have just put him into at the the tailor's."
The hour that Julien spent in his room seemed only a minute to Madame
de Renal. The children who had been told about their new tutor began
to overwhelm their mother with questions. Eventually Julien appeared.
He was quite another man. It would be incorrect to say that he was
grave--he was the very incarnation of gravity. He was introduced to
the children and spoke to them in a manner that astonished M. de Renal
himself.
"I am here, gentlemen, he said, as he finished his speech, to teach
you Latin. You know what it means to recite a lesson. Here is the Holy
Bible, he said, showing them a small volume in thirty-two mo., bound in
black. It deals especially with the history of our Lord Jesus Christ
and is the part which is called the New Testament. I shall often make
you recite your lesson, but do you make me now recite mine."
Adolphe, the eldest of the children, had taken up the book. "Open it
anywhere you like," went on Julien and tell me the first word of any
verse, "I will then recite by heart that sacred book which governs our
conduct towards the whole world, until you stop me."
Adolphe opened the book and read a word, and Julien recited the whole
of the page as easily as though he had been talking French. M. de Renal
looked at his wife with an air of triumph The children, seeing the
astonishment of their parents, opened their eyes wide. A servant came
to the door of the drawing-room; Julien went on talking Latin. The
servant first remained motionless, and then disappeared. Soon Madame's
house-maid, together with the cook, arrived at the door. Adolphe had
already opened the book at eight different places, while Julien went
on reciting all the time with the same facility. "Great heavens!" said
the cook, a good and devout girl, quite aloud, "what a pretty little
priest!" M. de Renal's self-esteem became uneasy. Instead of thinking
of examining the tutor, his mind was concentrated in racking his memory
for some other Latin words. Eventually he managed to spout a phrase of
Horace. Julien knew no other Latin except his Bible. He answered with a
frown. "The holy ministry to which I destine myself has forbidden me to
read so profane a poet."
M. de Renal quoted quite a large number of alleged verses from Horace.
He explained to his children who Horace was, but the admiring children,
scarcely attended to what he was saying: they were looking at Julien.
The servants were still at the door. Julien thought that he ought to
prolong the test--"M. Stanislas-Xavier also," he said to the youngest
of the children, "must give me a passage from the holy book."
Little Stanislas, who was quite flattered, read indifferently the first
word of a verse, and Julien said the whole page.
To put the finishing touch on M. de Renal's triumph, M. Valenod, the
owner of the fine Norman horses, and M. Charcot de Maugiron, the
sub-prefect of the district came in when Julien was reciting. This
scene earned for Julien the title of Monsieur; even the servants did
not dare to refuse it to him.
That evening all Verrieres flocked to M. de Renal's to see the prodigy.
Julien answered everybody in a gloomy manner and kept his own distance.
His fame spread so rapidly in the town that a few hours afterwards
M. de Renal, fearing that he would be taken away by somebody else,
proposed to that he should sign an engagement for two years.
"No, Monsieur," Julien answered coldly, "if you wished to dismiss me, I
should have to go. An engagement which binds me without involving you
in any obligation is not an equal one and I refuse it."
Julien played his cards so well, that in less than a month of his
arrival at the house, M. de Renal himself respected him. As the cure
had quarrelled with both M. de Renal and M. Valenod, there was no one
who could betray Julien's old passion for Napoleon. He always spoke of
Napoleon with abhorrence.
CHAPTER VII
THE ELECTIVE AFFINITIES
They only manage to touch the heart by wounding it.--_A
Modern_.
The children adored him, but he did not like them in the least. His
thoughts were elsewhere. But nothing which the little brats ever did
made him lose his patience. Cold, just and impassive, and none the less
liked, inasmuch his arrival had more or less driven ennui out of the
house, he was a good tutor. As for himself, he felt nothing but hate
and abhorrence for that good society into which he had been admitted;
admitted, it is true at the bottom of the table, a circumstance which
perhaps explained his hate and his abhorrence. There were certain
'full-dress' dinners at which he was scarcely able to control his
hate for everything that surrounded him. One St. Louis feast day in
particular, when M. Valenod was monopolizing the conversation of M.
de Renal, Julien was on the point of betraying himself. He escaped
into the garden on the pretext of finding the children. "What praise
of honesty," he exclaimed. "One would say that was the only virtue,
and yet think how they respect and grovel before a man who has almost
doubled and trebled his fortune since he has administered the poor
fund. I would bet anything that he makes a profit even out of the
monies which are intended for the foundlings of these poor creatures
whose misery is even more sacred than that of others. Oh, Monsters!
Monsters! And I too, am a kind of foundling, hated as I am by my
father, my brothers, and all my family."
Some days before the feast of St. Louis, when Julien was taking a
solitary walk and reciting his breviary in the little wood called
the Belvedere, which dominates the _Cours de la Fidelite_, he had
endeavoured in vain to avoid his two brothers whom he saw coming along
in the distance by a lonely path. The jealousy of these coarse workmen
had been provoked to such a pitch by their brother's fine black suit,
by his air of extreme respectability, and by the sincere contempt which
he had for them, that they had beaten him until he had fainted and was
bleeding all over.
Madame de Renal, who was taking a walk with M. de Renal and the
sub-prefect, happened to arrive in the little wood. She saw Julien
lying on the ground and thought that he was dead. She was so overcome
that she made M. Valenod jealous.
His alarm was premature. Julien found Madame de Renal very pretty, but
he hated her on account of her beauty, for that had been the first
danger which had almost stopped his career.
He talked to her as little as possible, in order to make her forget the
transport which had induced him to kiss her hand on the first day.
Madame de Renal's housemaid, Elisa, had lost no time in falling
in love with the young tutor. She often talked about him to her
mistress. Elisa's love had earned for Julien the hatred of one of the
men-servants. One day he heard the man saying to Elisa, "You haven't
a word for me now that this dirty tutor has entered the household."
The insult was undeserved, but Julien with the instinctive vanity of a
pretty boy redoubled his care of his personal appearance. M. Valenod's
hate also increased. He said publicly, that it was not becoming for a
young abbe to be such a fop.
Madame de Renal observed that Julien talked more frequently than usual
to Mademoiselle Elisa. She learnt that the reason of these interviews
was the poverty of Julien's extremely small wardrobe. He had so little
linen that he was obliged to have it very frequently washed outside the
house, and it was in these little matters that Elisa was useful to him.
Madame de Renal was touched by this extreme poverty which she had never
suspected before. She was anxious to make him presents, but she did not
dare to do so. This inner conflict was the first painful emotion that
Julien had caused her. Till then Julien's name had been synonymous with
a pure and quite intellectual joy. Tormented by the idea of Julien's
poverty, Madame de Renal spoke to her husband about giving him some
linen for a present.
"What nonsense," he answered, "the very idea of giving presents to a
man with whom we are perfectly satisfied and who is a good servant. It
will only be if he is remiss that we shall have to stimulate his zeal."
Madame de Renal felt humiliated by this way of looking at things,
though she would never have noticed it in the days before Julien's
arrival. She never looked at the young abbe's attire, with its
combination of simplicity and absolute cleanliness, without saying to
herself, "The poor boy, how can he manage?"
Little by little, instead of being shocked by all Julien's
deficiencies, she pitied him for them.
Madame de Renal was one of those provincial women whom one is apt
to take for fools during the first fortnight of acquaintanceship.
She had no experience of the world and never bothered to keep up the
conversation. Nature had given her a refined and fastidious soul,
while that instinct for happiness which is innate in all human beings
caused her, as a rule, to pay no attention to the acts of the coarse
persons in whose midst chance had thrown her. If she had received the
slightest education, she would have been noticeable for the spontaneity
and vivacity of her mind, but being an heiress, she had been brought
up in a Convent of Nuns, who were passionate devotees of the _Sacred
Heart of Jesus_ and animated by a violent hate for the French as being
the enemies of the Jesuits. Madame de Renal had had enough sense to
forget quickly all the nonsense which she had learned at the convent,
but had substituted nothing for it, and in the long run knew nothing.
The flatteries which had been lavished on her when still a child, by
reason of the great fortune of which she was the heiress, and a decided
tendency to passionate devotion, had given her quite an inner life of
her own. In spite of her pose of perfect affability and her elimination
of her individual will which was cited as a model example by all the
husbands in Verrieres and which made M. de Renal feel very proud, the
moods of her mind were usually dictated by a spirit of the most haughty
discontent.
Many a princess who has become a bye-word for pride has given
infinitely more attention to what her courtiers have been doing around
her than did this apparently gentle and demure woman to anything which
her husband either said or did. Up to the time of Julien's arrival she
had never really troubled about anything except her children. Their
little maladies, their troubles, their little joys, occupied all the
sensibility of that soul, who, during her whole life, had adored no one
but God, when she had been at the Sacred Heart of Besancon.
A feverish attack of one of her sons would affect her almost as deeply
as if the child had died, though she would not deign to confide
in anyone. A burst of coarse laughter, a shrug of the shoulders,
accompanied by some platitude on the folly of women, had been the only
welcome her husband had vouchsafed to those confidences about her
troubles, which the need of unburdening herself had induced her to make
during the first years of their marriage. Jokes of this kind, and above
all, when they were directed at her children's ailments, were exquisite
torture to Madame de Renal. And these jokes were all she found to take
the place of those exaggerated sugary flatteries with which she had
been regaled at the Jesuit Convent where she had passed her youth. Her
education had been given her by suffering. Too proud even to talk to
her friend, Madame Derville, about troubles of this kind, she imagined
that all men were like her husband, M. Valenod, and the sub-prefect,
M. Charcot de Maugiron. Coarseness, and the most brutal callousness to
everything except financial gain, precedence, or orders, together with
blind hate of every argument to which they objected, seemed to her as
natural to the male sex as wearing boots and felt hats.
After many years, Madame de Renal had still failed to acclimatize
herself to those monied people in whose society she had to live.
Hence the success of the little peasant Julien. She found in the
sympathy of this proud and noble soul a sweet enjoyment which had all
the glamour and fascination of novelty.
Madame de Renal soon forgave him that extreme ignorance, which
constituted but an additional charm, and the roughness of his manner
which she succeeded in correcting. She thought that he was worth
listening to, even when the conversation turned on the most ordinary
events, even in fact when it was only a question of a poor dog which
had been crushed as he crossed the street by a peasant's cart going
at a trot. The sight of the dog's pain made her husband indulge in
his coarse laugh, while she noticed Julien frown, with his fine black
eyebrows which were so beautifully arched.
Little by little, it seemed to her that generosity, nobility of soul
and humanity were to be found in nobody else except this young abbe.
She felt for him all the sympathy and even all the admiration which
those virtues excite in well-born souls.
If the scene had been Paris, Julien's position towards Madame de Renal
would have been soon simplified. But at Paris, love is a creature of
novels. The young tutor and his timid mistress would soon have found
the elucidation of their position in three or four novels, and even
in the couplets of the Gymnase Theatre. The novels which have traced
out for them the part they would play, and showed them the model which
they were to imitate, and Julien would sooner or later have been forced
by his vanity to follow that model, even though it had given him no
pleasure and had perhaps actually gone against the grain.
If the scene had been laid in a small town in Aveyron or the Pyrenees,
the slightest episode would have been rendered crucial by the fiery
condition of the atmosphere. But under our more gloomy skies, a poor
young man who is only ambitious because his natural refinement makes
him feel the necessity of some of those joys which only money can give,
can see every day a woman of thirty who is sincerely virtuous, is
absorbed in her children, and never goes to novels for her examples of
conduct. Everything goes slowly, everything happens gradually, in the
provinces where there is far more naturalness.
Madame de Renal was often overcome to the point of tears when she
thought of the young tutor's poverty. Julien surprised her one day
actually crying.
"Oh Madame! has any misfortune happened to you?"
"No, my friend," she answered, "call the children, let us go for a
walk."
She took his arm and leant on it in a manner that struck Julien as
singular. It was the first time she had called Julien "My friend."
Towards the end of the walk, Julien noticed that she was blushing
violently. She slackened her pace.
"You have no doubt heard," she said, without looking at him, "that I
am the only heiress of a very rich aunt who lives at Besancon. She
loads me with presents.... My sons are getting on so wonderfully that
I should like to ask you to accept a small present as a token of my
gratitude. It is only a matter of a few louis to enable you to get
some linen. But--" she added, blushing still more, and she left off
speaking--
"But what, Madame?" said Julien.
"It is unnecessary," she went on lowering her head, "to mention this to
my husband."
"I may not be big, Madame, but I am not mean," answered Julien,
stopping, and drawing himself up to his full height, with his
eyes shining with rage, "and this is what you have not realised
sufficiently. I should be lower than a menial if I were to put myself
in the position of concealing from M de. Renal anything at all having
to do with my money."
Madame de Renal was thunderstruck.
"The Mayor," went on Julien, "has given me on five occasions sums of
thirty-six francs since I have been living in his house. I am ready
to show any account-book to M. de Renal and anyone else, even to M.
Valenod who hates me."
As the result of this outburst, Madame de Renal remained pale and
nervous, and the walk ended without either one or the other finding any
pretext for renewing the conversation. Julien's proud heart had found
it more and more impossible to love Madame de Renal.
As for her, she respected him, she admired him, and she had been
scolded by him. Under the pretext of making up for the involuntary
humiliation which she had caused him, she indulged in acts of the most
tender solicitude. The novelty of these attentions made Madame de
Renal happy for eight days. Their effect was to appease to some extent
Julien's anger. He was far from seeing anything in them in the nature
of a fancy for himself personally.
"That is just what rich people are," he said to himself--"they snub you
and then they think they can make up for everything by a few monkey
tricks."
Madame de Renal's heart was too full, and at the same time too
innocent, for her not too tell her husband, in spite of her resolutions
not to do so, about the offer she had made to Julien, and the manner in
which she had been rebuffed.
"How on earth," answered M. de Renal, keenly piqued, "could you put
up with a refusal on the part of a servant,"--and, when Madame de
Renal protested against the word "Servant," "I am using, madam, the
words of the late Prince of Conde, when he presented his Chamberlains
to his new wife. 'All these people' he said 'are servants.' I have
also read you this passage from the Memoirs of Besenval, a book which
is indispensable on all questions of etiquette. 'Every person, not
a gentleman, who lives in your house and receives a salary is your
servant.' I'll go and say a few words to M. Julien and give him a
hundred francs."
"Oh, my dear," said Madame De Renal trembling, "I hope you won't do it
before the servants!"
"Yes, they might be jealous and rightly so," said her husband as he
took his leave, thinking of the greatness of the sum.
Madame de Renal fell on a chair almost fainting in her anguish. He is
going to humiliate Julien, and it is my fault! She felt an abhorrence
for her husband and hid her face in her hands. She resolved that
henceforth she would never make any more confidences.
When she saw Julien again she was trembling all over. Her chest was so
cramped that she could not succeed in pronouncing a single word. In her
embarrassment she took his hands and pressed them.
"Well, my friend," she said to him at last, "are you satisfied with my
husband?"
"How could I be otherwise," answered Julien, with a bitter smile, "he
has given me a hundred francs."
Madame de Renal looked at him doubtfully.
"Give me your arm," she said at last, with a courageous intonation that
Julien had not heard before.
She dared to go as far as the shop of the bookseller of Verrieres, in
spite of his awful reputation for Liberalism. In the shop she chose
ten louis worth of books for a present for her sons. But these books
were those which she knew Julien was wanting. She insisted on each
child writing his name then and there in the bookseller's shop in
those books which fell to his lot. While Madame de Renal was rejoicing
over the kind reparation which she had had the courage to make to
Julien, the latter was overwhelmed with astonishment at the quantity
of books which he saw at the bookseller's. He had never dared to enter
so profane a place. His heart was palpitating. Instead of trying to
guess what was passing in Madame de Renal's heart he pondered deeply
over the means by which a young theological student could procure
some of those books. Eventually it occurred to him that it would be
possible, with tact, to persuade M. de Renal that one of the proper
subjects of his sons' curriculum would be the history of the celebrated
gentlemen who had been born in the province. After a month of careful
preparation Julien witnessed the success of this idea. The success was
so great that he actually dared to risk mentioning to M. de Renal in
conversation, a matter which the noble mayor found disagreeable from
quite another point of view. The suggestion was to contribute to the
fortune of a Liberal by taking a subscription at the bookseller's. M.
de Renal agreed that it would be wise to give his elder son a first
hand acquaintance with many works which he would hear mentioned in
conversation when he went to the Military School.
But Julien saw that the mayor had determined to go no further. He
suspected some secret reason but could not guess it.
"I was thinking, sir," he said to him one day, "that it would be highly
undesirable for the name of so good a gentleman as a Renal to appear on
a bookseller's dirty ledger." M. de Renal's face cleared.
"It would also be a black mark," continued Julien in a more humble
tone, "against a poor theology student if it ever leaked out that his
name had been on the ledger of a bookseller who let out books. The
Liberals might go so far as to accuse me of having asked for the most
infamous books. Who knows if they will not even go so far as to write
the titles of those perverse volumes after my name?" But Julien was
getting off the track. He noticed that the Mayor's physiognomy was
re-assuming its expression of embarrassment and displeasure. Julien was
silent. "I have caught my man," he said to himself.
It so happened that a few days afterwards the elder of the children
asked Julien, in M. de Renal's presence, about a book which had been
advertised in the _Quotidienne_.
"In order to prevent the Jacobin Party having the slightest pretext for
a score," said the young tutor, "and yet give me the means of answering
M. de Adolphe's question, you can make your most menial servant take
out a subscription at the booksellers."
"That's not a bad idea," said M. de Renal, who was obviously very
delighted.
"You will have to stipulate all the same," said Julien in that solemn
and almost melancholy manner which suits some people so well when they
see the realization of matters which they have desired for a long time
past, "you will have to stipulate that the servant should not take out
any novels. Those dangerous books, once they got into the house, might
corrupt Madame de Renal's maids, and even the servant himself."
"You are forgetting the political pamphlets," went on M. de Renal with
an important air. He was anxious to conceal the admiration with which
the cunning "middle course" devised by his children's tutor had filled
him.
In this way Julien's life was made up of a series of little acts of
diplomacy, and their success gave him far more food for thought than
the marked manifestation of favouritism which he could have read at any
time in Madame de Renal's heart, had he so wished.
The psychological position in which he had found himself all his
life was renewed again in the mayor of Verrieres' house. Here in the
same way as at his father's saw-mill, he deeply despised the people
with whom he lived, and was hated by them. He saw every day in the
conversation of the sub-perfect, M. Valenod and the other friends of
the family, about things which had just taken place under their very
eyes, how little ideas corresponded to reality. If an action seemed to
Julien worthy of admiration, it was precisely that very action which
would bring down upon itself the censure of the people with whom he
lived. His inner mental reply always was, "What beasts or what fools!"
The joke was that, in spite of all his pride, he often understood
absolutely nothing what they were talking about.
Throughout his whole life he had only spoken sincerely to the old
Surgeon-Major.
The few ideas he had were about Buonaparte's Italian Campaigns or else
surgery. His youthful courage revelled in the circumstantial details of
the most terrible operations. He said to himself.
"I should not have flinched."
The first time that Madame de Renal tried to enter into conversation
independently of the children's education, he began to talk of surgical
operations. She grew pale and asked him to leave off. Julien knew
nothing beyond that.
So it came about that, though he passed his life in Madame de Renal's
company, the most singular silence would reign between them as soon as
they were alone.
When he was in the salon, she noticed in his eyes, in spite of all the
humbleness of his demeanour, an air of intellectual superiority towards
everyone who came to visit her. If she found herself alone with him for
a single moment, she saw that he was palpably embarrassed. This made
her feel uneasy, for her woman's instinct caused her to realise that
this embarrassment was not inspired by any tenderness.
Owing to some mysterious idea, derived from some tale of good society,
such as the old Surgeon-Major had seen it, Julien felt humiliated
whenever the conversation languished on any occasion when he found
himself in a woman's society, as though the particular pause were his
own special fault. This sensation was a hundred times more painful in
_tete-a-tete_. His imagination, full as it was of the most extravagant
and most Spanish ideas of what a man ought to say when he is alone
with a woman, only suggested to the troubled youth things which were
absolutely impossible. His soul was in the clouds. Nevertheless he was
unable to emerge from this most humiliating silence. Consequently,
during his long walks with Madame de Renal and the children, the
severity of his manner was accentuated by the poignancy of his
sufferings. He despised himself terribly. If, by any luck, he made
himself speak, he came out with the most absurd things. To put the
finishing touch on his misery, he saw his own absurdity and exaggerated
its extent, but what he did not see was the expression in his eyes,
which were so beautiful and betokened so ardent a soul, that like good
actors, they sometimes gave charm to something which is really devoid
of it.
Madame de Renal noticed that when he was alone with her he never
chanced to say a good thing except when he was taken out of himself
by some unexpected event, and consequently forgot to try and turn a
compliment. As the friends of the house did not spoil her by regaling
her with new and brilliant ideas, she enjoyed with delight all the
flashes of Julien's intellect.
After the fall of Napoleon, every appearance of gallantry has been
severely exiled from provincial etiquette. People are frightened of
losing their jobs. All rascals look to the religious order for support,
and hypocrisy has made firm progress even among the Liberal classes.
One's ennui is doubled. The only pleasures left are reading and
agriculture.
Madame de Renal, the rich heiress of a devout aunt, and married at
sixteen to a respectable gentleman, had never felt or seen in her whole
life anything that had the slightest resemblance in the whole world
to love. Her confessor, the good cure Chelan, had once mentioned love
to her, in discussing the advances of M. de Valenod, and had drawn so
loathsome a picture of the passion that the word now stood to her for
nothing but the most abject debauchery. She had regarded love, such
as she had come across it, in the very small number of novels with
which chance had made her acquainted, as an exception if not indeed as
something absolutely abnormal. It was, thanks to this ignorance, that
Madame de Renal, although incessantly absorbed in Julien, was perfectly
happy, and never thought of reproaching herself in the slightest.
CHAPTER VIII
LITTLE EPISODES
"Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression,
And stolen glances sweeter for the theft,
And burning blushes, though for no transgression."
_Don Juan_, c. I, st. 74.
It was only when Madame de Renal began to think of her maid Elisa
that there was some slight change in that angelic sweetness which she
owed both to her natural character and her actual happiness. The girl
had come into a fortune, went to confess herself to the cure Chelan
and confessed to him her plan of marrying Julien. The cure was truly
rejoiced at his friend's good fortune, but he was extremely surprised
when Julien resolutely informed him that Mademoiselle Elisa's offer
could not suit him.
"Beware, my friend, of what is passing within your heart," said the
cure with a frown, "I congratulate you on your mission, if that is the
only reason why you despise a more than ample fortune. It is fifty-six
years since I was first cure of Verrieres, and yet I shall be turned
out, according to all appearances. I am distressed by it, and yet my
income amounts to eight hundred francs. I inform you of this detail so
that you may not be under any illusions as to what awaits you in your
career as a priest. If you think of paying court to the men who enjoy
power, your eternal damnation is assured. You may make your fortune,
but you will have to do harm to the poor, flatter the sub-prefect,
the mayor, the man who enjoys prestige, and pander to his passion;
this conduct, which in the world is called knowledge of life, is not
absolutely incompatible with salvation so far as a layman is concerned;
but in our career we have to make a choice; it is a question of making
one's fortune either in this world or the next; there is no middle
course. Come, my dear friend, reflect, and come back in three days with
a definite answer. I am pained to detect that there is at the bottom
of your character a sombre passion which is far from indicating to me
that moderation and that perfect renunciation of earthly advantages so
necessary for a priest; I augur well of your intellect, but allow me to
tell you," added the good cure with tears in his eyes, "I tremble for
your salvation in your career as a priest."
Julien was ashamed of his emotion; he found himself loved for the first
time in his life; he wept with delight; and went to hide his tears in
the great woods behind Verrieres.
"Why am I in this position?" he said to himself at last, "I feel that
I would give my life a hundred times over for this good cure Chelan,
and he has just proved to me that I am nothing more than a fool. It
is especially necessary for me to deceive him, and he manages to find
me out. The secret ardour which he refers to is my plan of making my
fortune. He thinks I am unworthy of being a priest, that too, just when
I was imagining that my sacrifice of fifty louis would give him the
very highest idea of my piety and devotion to my mission."
"In future," continued Julien, "I will only reckon on those elements in
my character which I have tested. Who could have told me that I should
find any pleasure in shedding tears? How I should like some one to
convince me that I am simply a fool!"
Three days later, Julien found the excuse with which he ought to have
been prepared on the first day; the excuse was a piece of calumny, but
what did it matter? He confessed to the cure, with a great deal of
hesitation, that he had been persuaded from the suggested union by a
reason he could not explain, inasmuch as it tended to damage a third
party. This was equivalent to impeaching Elisa's conduct. M. Chelan
found that his manner betrayed a certain worldly fire which was very
different from that which ought to have animated a young acolyte.
"My friend," he said to him again, "be a good country citizen,
respected and educated, rather than a priest without a true mission."
So far as words were concerned, Julien answered these new remonstrances
very well. He managed to find the words which a young and ardent
seminarist would have employed, but the tone in which he pronounced
them, together with the thinly concealed fire which blazed in his eye,
alarmed M. Chelan.
You must not have too bad an opinion of Julien's prospects. He
invented with correctness all the words suitable to a prudent and
cunning hypocrisy. It was not bad for his age. As for his tone and his
gestures, he had spent his life with country people; he had never been
given an opportunity of seeing great models. Consequently, as soon as
he was given a chance of getting near such gentlemen, his gestures
became as admirable as his words.
Madame de Renal was astonished that her maid's new fortune did not
make her more happy. She saw her repeatedly going to the cure and
coming back with tears in her eyes. At last Elisa talked to her of her
marriage.
Madame de Renal thought she was ill. A kind of fever prevented her from
sleeping. She only lived when either her maid or Julien were in sight.
She was unable to think of anything except them and the happiness
which they would find in their home. Her imagination depicted in the
most fascinating colours the poverty of the little house, where they
were to live on their income of fifty louis a year. Julien could quite
well become an advocate at Bray, the sub-prefecture, two leagues from
Verrieres. In that case she would see him sometimes. Madame de Renal
sincerely believed she would go mad. She said so to her husband and
finally fell ill. That very evening when her maid was attending her,
she noticed that the girl was crying. She abhorred Elisa at that
moment, and started to scold her; she then begged her pardon. Elisa's
tears redoubled. She said if her mistress would allow her, she would
tell her all her unhappiness.
"Tell me," answered Madame de Renal.
"Well, Madame, he refuses me, some wicked people must have spoken badly
about me. He believes them."
"Who refuses you?" said Madame de Renal, scarcely breathing.
"Who else, Madame, but M. Julien," answered the maid sobbing. "M. the
cure had been unable to overcome his resistance, for M. the cure thinks
that he ought not to refuse an honest girl on the pretext that she
has been a maid. After all, M. Julien's father is nothing more than
a carpenter, and how did he himself earn his living before he was at
Madame's?"
Madame de Renal stopped listening; her excessive happiness had almost
deprived her of her reason. She made the girl repeat several times
the assurance that Julien had refused her, with a positiveness which
shut the door on the possibility of his coming round to a more prudent
decision.
"I will make a last attempt," she said to her maid. "I will speak to M.
Julien."
The following day, after breakfast, Madame de Renal indulged in the
delightful luxury of pleading her rival's cause, and of seeing Elisa's
hand and fortune stubbornly refused for a whole hour.
Julien gradually emerged from his cautiously worded answers, and
finished by answering with spirit Madame de Renal's good advice. She
could not help being overcome by the torrent of happiness which, after
so many days of despair, now inundated her soul. She felt quite ill.
When she had recovered and was comfortably in her own room she sent
everyone away. She was profoundly astonished.
"Can I be in love with Julien?" she finally said to herself. This
discovery, which at any other time would have plunged her into remorse
and the deepest agitation, now only produced the effect of a singular,
but as it were, indifferent spectacle. Her soul was exhausted by all
that she had just gone through, and had no more sensibility to passion
left.
Madame de Renal tried to work, and fell into a deep sleep; when she
woke up she did not frighten herself so much as she ought to have. She
was too happy to be able to see anything wrong in anything. Naive and
innocent as she was, this worthy provincial woman had never tortured
her soul in her endeavours to extract from it a little sensibility to
some new shade of sentiment or unhappiness. Entirely absorbed as she
had been before Julien's arrival with that mass of work which falls
to the lot of a good mistress of a household away from Paris, Madame
de Renal thought of passion in the same way in which we think of a
lottery: a certain deception, a happiness sought after by fools.
The dinner bell rang. Madame de Renal blushed violently. She heard the
voice of Julien who was bringing in the children. Having grown somewhat
adroit since her falling in love, she complained of an awful headache
in order to explain her redness.
"That's just like what all women are," answered M. de Renal with a
coarse laugh. "Those machines have always got something or other to be
put right."
Although she was accustomed to this type of wit, Madame de Renal was
shocked by the tone of voice. In order to distract herself, she looked
at Julien's physiognomy; he would have pleased her at this particular
moment, even if he had been the ugliest man imaginable.
M. de Renal, who always made a point of copying the habits of the
gentry of the court, established himself at Vergy in the first fine
days of the spring; this is the village rendered celebrated by the
tragic adventure of Gabrielle. A hundred paces from the picturesque
ruin of the old Gothic church, M. de Renal owns an old chateau with its
four towers and a garden designed like the one in the Tuileries with
a great many edging verges of box and avenues of chestnut trees which
are cut twice in the year. An adjacent field, crowded with apple trees,
served for a promenade. Eight or ten magnificent walnut trees were at
the end of the orchard. Their immense foliage went as high as perhaps
eighty feet.
"Each of these cursed walnut trees," M. de Renal was in the habit of
saying, whenever his wife admired them, "costs me the harvest of at
least half an acre; corn cannot grow under their shade."
Madame de Renal found the sight of the country novel: her admiration
reached the point of enthusiasm. The sentiment by which she was
animated gave her both ideas and resolution. M. de Renal had returned
to the town, for mayoral business, two days after their arrival in
Vergy. But Madame de Renal engaged workmen at her own expense. Julien
had given her the idea of a little sanded path which was to go round
the orchard and under the big walnut trees, and render it possible
for the children to take their walk in the very earliest hours of the
morning without getting their feet wet from the dew. This idea was put
into execution within twenty-four hours of its being conceived. Madame
de Renal gaily spent the whole day with Julien in supervising the
workmen.
When the Mayor of Verrieres came back from the town he was very
surprised to find the avenue completed. His arrival surprised Madame
de Renal as well. She had forgotten his existence. For two months
he talked with irritation about the boldness involved in making so
important a repair without consulting him, but Madame de Renal had had
it executed at her own expense, a fact which somewhat consoled him.
She spent her days in running about the orchard with her children,
and in catching butterflies. They had made big hoods of clear gauze
with which they caught the poor _lepidoptera_. This is the barbarous
name which Julien taught Madame de Renal. For she had had M. Godart's
fine work ordered from Besancon, and Julien used to tell her about the
strange habits of the creatures.
They ruthlessly transfixed them by means of pins in a great cardboard
box which Julien had prepared.
Madame de Renal and Julien had at last a topic of conversation; he was
no longer exposed to the awful torture that had been occasioned by
their moments of silence.
They talked incessantly and with extreme interest, though always about
very innocent matters. This gay, full, active life, pleased the fancy
of everyone, except Mademoiselle Elisa who found herself overworked.
Madame had never taken so much trouble with her dress, even at carnival
time, when there is a ball at Verrieres, she would say; she changes her
gowns two or three times a day.
As it is not our intention to flatter anyone, we do not propose to
deny that Madame de Renal, who had a superb skin, arranged her gowns
in such a way as to leave her arms and her bosom very exposed. She was
extremely well made, and this style of dress suited her delightfully.
"You have never been _so young_, Madame," her Verrieres friends would
say to her, when they came to dinner at Vergy (this is one of the local
expressions).
It is a singular thing, and one which few amongst us will believe, but
Madame de Renal had no specific object in taking so much trouble. She
found pleasure in it and spent all the time which she did not pass in
hunting butterflies with the children and Julien, in working with Elisa
at making gowns, without giving the matter a further thought. Her only
expedition to Verrieres was caused by her desire to buy some new summer
gowns which had just come from Mulhouse.
She brought back to Vergy a young woman who was a relative of hers.
Since her marriage, Madame de Renal had gradually become attached to
Madame Derville, who had once been her school mate at the _Sacre Coeur_.
Madame Derville laughed a great deal at what she called her cousin's
mad ideas: "I would never have thought of them alone," she said. When
Madame de Renal was with her husband, she was ashamed of those sudden
ideas, which, are called sallies in Paris, and thought them quite
silly: but Madame Derville's presence gave her courage. She would start
to telling her her thoughts in a timid voice, but after the ladies
had been alone for a long time, Madame de Renal's brain became more
animated, and a long morning spent together by the two friends passed
like a second, and left them in the best of spirits. On this particular
journey, however, the acute Madame Derville thought her cousin much
less merry, but much more happy than usual.
Julien, on his side, had since coming to the country lived like an
absolute child, and been as happy as his pupils in running after
the butterflies. After so long a period of constraint and wary
diplomacy, he was at last alone and far from human observation; he
was instinctively free from any apprehension on the score of Madame
de Renal, and abandoned himself to the sheer pleasure of being alive,
which is so keen at so young an age, especially among the most
beautiful mountains in the world.
Ever since Madame Derville's arrival, Julien thought that she was his
friend; he took the first opportunity of showing her the view from the
end of the new avenue, under the walnut tree; as a matter of fact it is
equal, if not superior, to the most wonderful views that Switzerland
and the Italian lakes can offer. If you ascend the steep slope which
commences some paces from there, you soon arrive at great precipices
fringed by oak forests, which almost jut on to the river. It was to the
peaked summits of these rocks that Julien, who was now happy, free, and
king of the household into the bargain, would take the two friends, and
enjoy their admiration these sublime views.
"To me it's like Mozart's music," Madame Derville would say.
The country around Verrieres had been spoilt for Julien by the jealousy
of his brothers and the presence of a tyranous and angry father. He
was free from these bitter memories at Vergy; for the first time in
his life, he failed to see an enemy. When, as frequently happened, M.
de Renal was in town, he ventured to read; soon, instead of reading at
night time, a procedure, moreover, which involved carefully hiding his
lamp at the bottom of a flower-pot turned upside down, he was able to
indulge in sleep; in the day, however, in the intervals between the
children's lessons, he would come among these rocks with that book
which was the one guide of his conduct and object of his enthusiasm. He
found in it simultaneously happiness, ecstasy and consolation for his
moments of discouragement.
Certain remarks of Napoleon about women, several discussions about the
merits of the novels which were fashionable in his reign, furnished him
now for the first time with some ideas which any other young man of his
age would have had for a long time.
The dog days arrived. They started the habit of spending the evenings
under an immense pine tree some yards from the house. The darkness was
profound. One evening, Julien was speaking and gesticulating, enjoying
to the full the pleasure of being at his best when talking to young
women; in one of his gestures, he touched the hand of Madame de Renal
which was leaning on the back of one of those chairs of painted wood,
which are so frequently to be seen in gardens.
The hand was quickly removed, but Julien thought it a point of duty
to secure that that hand should not be removed when he touched it.
The idea of a duty to be performed and the consciousness of his
stultification, or rather of his social inferiority, if he should fail
in achieving it, immediately banished all pleasure from his heart.
CHAPTER IX
AN EVENING IN THE COUNTRY
M. Guerin's Dido, a charming sketch!--_Strombeck_.
His expression was singular when he saw Madame de Renal the next
day; he watched her like an enemy with whom he would have to fight a
duel. These looks, which were so different from those of the previous
evening, made Madame de Renal lose her head; she had been kind to him
and he appeared angry. She could not take her eyes off his.
Madame Derville's presence allowed Julien to devote less time to
conversation, and more time to thinking about what he had in his mind.
His one object all this day was to fortify himself by reading the
inspired book that gave strength to his soul.
He considerably curtailed the children's lessons, and when Madame de
Renal's presence had effectually brought him back to the pursuit of his
ambition, he decided that she absolutely must allow her hand to rest in
his that evening.
The setting of the sun which brought the crucial moment nearer and
nearer made Julien's heart beat in a strange way. Night came. He
noticed with a joy, which took an immense weight off his heart, that
it was going to be very dark. The sky, which was laden with big clouds
that had been brought along by a sultry wind, seemed to herald a storm.
The two friends went for their walk very late. All they did that night
struck Julien as strange. They were enjoying that hour which seems to
give certain refined souls an increased pleasure in loving.
At last they sat down, Madame de Renal beside Julien, and Madame
Derville near her friend. Engrossed as he was by the attempt which
he was going to make, Julien could think of nothing to say. The
conversation languished.
"Shall I be as nervous and miserable over my first duel?" said Julien
to himself; for he was too suspicious both of himself and of others,
not to realise his own mental state.
In his mortal anguish, he would have preferred any danger whatsoever.
How many times did he not wish some matter to crop up which would
necessitate Madame de Renal going into the house and leaving the
garden! The violent strain on Julien's nerves was too great for his
voice not to be considerably changed; soon Madame de Renal's voice
became nervous as well, but Julien did not notice it. The awful battle
raging between duty and timidity was too painful, for him to be in a
position to observe anything outside himself. A quarter to ten had
just struck on the chateau clock without his having ventured anything.
Julien was indignant at his own cowardice, and said to himself, "at
the exact moment when ten o'clock strikes, I will perform what I have
resolved to do all through the day, or I will go up to my room and blow
out my brains."
After a final moment of expectation and anxiety, during which Julien
was rendered almost beside himself by his excessive emotion, ten
o'clock struck from the clock over his head. Each stroke of the fatal
clock reverberated in his bosom, and caused an almost physical pang.
Finally, when the last stroke of ten was still reverberating, he
stretched out his hand and took Madame de Renal's, who immediately
withdrew it. Julien, scarcely knowing what he was doing, seized it
again. In spite of his own excitement, he could not help being struck
by the icy coldness of the hand which he was taking; he pressed it
convulsively; a last effort was made to take it away, but in the end
the hand remained in his.
His soul was inundated with happiness, not that he loved Madame de
Renal, but an awful torture had just ended. He thought it necessary
to say something, to avoid Madame Derville noticing anything. His
voice was now strong and ringing. Madame de Renal's, on the contrary,
betrayed so much emotion that her friend thought she was ill, and
suggested her going in. Julien scented danger, "if Madame de Renal goes
back to the salon, I shall relapse into the awful state in which I have
been all day. I have held the hand far too short a time for it really
to count as the scoring of an actual advantage."
At the moment when Madame Derville was repeating her suggestion to
go back to the salon, Julien squeezed vigorously the hand that was
abandoned to him.
Madame de Renal, who had started to get up, sat down again and said in
a faint voice,
"I feel a little ill, as a matter of fact, but the open air is doing me
good."
These words confirmed Julien's happiness, which at the present moment
was extreme; he spoke, he forgot to pose, and appeared the most
charming man in the world to the two friends who were listening to him.
Nevertheless, there was a slight lack of courage in all this eloquence
which had suddenly come upon him. He was mortally afraid that Madame
Derville would get tired of the wind before the storm, which was
beginning to rise, and want to go back alone into the salon. He would
then have remained _tete-a-tete_ with Madame de Renal. He had had,
almost by accident that blind courage which is sufficient for action;
but he felt that it was out of his power to speak the simplest word to
Madame de Renal. He was certain that, however slight her reproaches
might be, he would nevertheless be worsted, and that the advantage he
had just won would be destroyed.
Luckily for him on this evening, his moving and emphatic speeches found
favour with Madame Derville, who very often found him as clumsy as a
child and not at all amusing. As for Madame de Renal, with her hand in
Julien's, she did not have a thought; she simply allowed herself to go
on living.
The hours spent under this great pine tree, planted by by Charles the
Bold according to the local tradition, were a real period of happiness.
She listened with delight to the soughing of the wind in the thick
foliage of the pine tree and to the noise of some stray drops which
were beginning to fall upon the leaves which were lowest down. Julien
failed to notice one circumstance which, if he had, would have quickly
reassured him; Madame de Renal, who had been obliged to take away her
hand, because she had got up to help her cousin to pick up a flower-pot
which the wind had knocked over at her feet, had scarcely sat down
again before she gave him her hand with scarcely any difficulty and as
though it had already been a pre-arranged thing between them.
Midnight had struck a long time ago; it was at last necessary to leave
the garden; they separated. Madame de Renal swept away as she was, by
the happiness of loving, was so completely ignorant of the world that
she scarcely reproached herself at all. Her happiness deprived her of
her sleep. A leaden sleep overwhelmed Julien who was mortally fatigued
by the battle which timidity and pride had waged in his heart all
through the day.
He was called at five o'clock on the following day and scarcely gave
Madame de Renal a single thought.
He had accomplished his duty, and a heroic duty too. The consciousness
of this filled him with happiness; he locked himself in his room, and
abandoned himself with quite a new pleasure to reading exploits of his
hero.
When the breakfast bell sounded, the reading of the Bulletins of the
Great Army had made him forget all his advantages of the previous day.
He said to himself flippantly, as he went down to the salon, "I must
tell that woman that I am in love with her." Instead of those looks
brimful of pleasure which he was expecting to meet, he found the stern
visage of M. de Renal, who had arrived from Verrieres two hours ago,
and did not conceal his dissatisfaction at Julien's having passed the
whole morning without attending to the children. Nothing could have
been more sordid than this self-important man when he was in a bad
temper and thought that he could safely show it.
Each harsh word of her husband pierced Madame de Renal's heart.
As for Julien, he was so plunged in his ecstasy, and still so engrossed
by the great events which had been passing before his eyes for several
hours, that he had some difficulty at first in bringing his attention
sufficiently down to listen to the harsh remarks which M. de Renal was
addressing to him. He said to him at last, rather abruptly,
"I was ill."
The tone of this answer would have stung a much less sensitive man than
the mayor of Verrieres. He half thought of answering Julien by turning
him out of the house straight away. He was only restrained by the
maxim which he had prescribed for himself, of never hurrying unduly in
business matters.
"The young fool," he said to himself shortly afterwards, "has won a
kind of reputation in my house. That man Valenod may take him into his
family, or he may quite well marry Elisa, and in either case, he will
be able to have the laugh of me in his heart."
In spite of the wisdom of these reflections, M. de Renal's
dissatisfaction did not fail to vent itself any the less by a string
of coarse insults which gradually irritated Julien. Madame de Renal
was on the point of bursting into tears. Breakfast was scarcely over,
when she asked Julien to give her his arm for a walk. She leaned on him
affectionately. Julien could only answer all that Madame de Renal said
to him by whispering.
"_That's what rich people are like!_"
M. de Renal was walking quite close to them; his presence increased
Julien's anger. He suddenly noticed that Madame de Renal was leaning on
his arm in a manner which was somewhat marked. This horrified him, and
he pushed her violently away and disengaged his arm.
Luckily, M. de Renal did not see this new piece of impertinence; it was
only noticed by Madame Derville. Her friend burst into tears. M. de
Renal now started to chase away by a shower of stones a little peasant
girl who had taken a private path crossing a corner of the orchard.
"Monsieur Julien, restrain yourself, I pray you. Remember that we all
have our moments of temper," said madame Derville rapidly.
Julien looked at her coldly with eyes in which the most supreme
contempt was depicted.
This look astonished Madame Derville, and it would have surprised
her even more if she had appreciated its real expression; she would
have read in it something like a vague hope of the most atrocious
vengeance. It is, no doubt, such moments of humiliation which have made
Robespierres.
"Your Julien is very violent; he frightens me," said Madame Derville to
her friend, in a low voice.
"He is right to be angry," she answered. "What does it matter if
he does pass a morning without speaking to the children, after the
astonishing progress which he has made them make. One must admit that
men are very hard."
For the first time in her life Madame de Renal experienced a kind
of desire for vengeance against her husband. The extreme hatred of
the rich by which Julien was animated was on the point of exploding.
Luckily, M. de Renal called his gardener, and remained occupied
with him in barring by faggots of thorns the private road through
the orchard. Julien did not vouchsafe any answer to the kindly
consideration of which he was the object during all the rest of the
walk. M. de Renal had scarcely gone away before the two friends made
the excuse of being fatigued, and each asked him for an arm.
Walking as he did between these two women whose extreme nervousness
filled their cheeks with a blushing embarrassment, the haughty pallor
and sombre, resolute air of Julien formed a strange contrast. He
despised these women and all tender sentiments.
"What!" he said to himself, "not even an income of five hundred francs
to finish my studies! Ah! how I should like to send them packing."
And absorbed as he was by these stern ideas, such few courteous words
of his two friends as he deigned to take the trouble to understand,
displeased him as devoid of sense, silly, feeble, in a word--feminine.
As the result of speaking for the sake of speaking and of endeavouring
to keep the conversation alive, it came about that Madame de Renal
mentioned that her husband had come from Verrieres because he had made
a bargain for the May straw with one of his farmers. (In this district
it is the May straw with which the bed mattresses are filled).
"My husband will not rejoin us," added Madame de Renal; "he will occupy
himself with finishing the re-stuffing of the house mattresses with
the help of the gardener and his valet. He has put the May straw this
morning in all the beds on the first storey; he is now at the second."
Julien changed colour. He looked at Madame de Renal in a singular way,
and soon managed somehow to take her on one side, doubling his pace.
Madame Derville allowed them to get ahead.
"Save my life," said Julien to Madame de Renal; "only you can do it,
for you know that the valet hates me desperately. I must confess to
you, madame, that I have a portrait. I have hidden it in the mattress
of my bed."
At these words Madame de Renal in her turn became pale.
"Only you, Madame, are able at this moment to go into my room, feel
about without their noticing in the corner of the mattress; it
is nearest the window. You will find a small, round box of black
cardboard, very glossy."
"Does it contain a portrait?" said Madame de Renal, scarcely able to
hold herself upright.
Julien noticed her air of discouragement, and at once proceeded to
exploit it.
"I have a second favour to ask you, madame. I entreat you not to look
at that portrait; it is my secret."
"It is a secret," repeated Madame de Renal in a faint voice.
But though she had been brought up among people who are proud of their
fortune and appreciative of nothing except money, love had already
instilled generosity into her soul. Truly wounded as she was, it was
with an air of the most simple devotion that Madame de Renal asked
Julien the questions necessary to enable her to fulfil her commission.
"So" she said to him as she went away, "it is a little round box of
black cardboard, very glossy."
"Yes, Madame," answered Julien, with that hardness which danger gives
to men.
She ascended the second storey of the chateau as pale as though she had
been going to her death. Her misery was completed by the sensation that
she was on the verge of falling ill, but the necessity of doing Julien
a service restored her strength.
"I must have that box," she said to herself, as she doubled her pace.
She heard her husband speaking to the valet in Julien's very room.
Happily, they passed into the children's room. She lifted up the
mattress, and plunged her hand into the stuffing so violently that she
bruised her fingers. But, though she was very sensitive to slight pain
of this kind, she was not conscious of it now, for she felt almost
simultaneously the smooth surface of the cardboard box. She seized it
and disappeared.
She had scarcely recovered from the fear of being surprised by her
husband than the horror with which this box inspired her came within an
ace of positively making her feel ill.
"So Julien is in love, and I hold here the portrait of the woman whom
he loves!"
Seated on the chair in the ante-chamber of his apartment, Madame
de Renal fell a prey to all the horrors of jealousy. Her extreme
ignorance, moreover, was useful to her at this juncture; her
astonishment mitigated her grief. Julien seized the box without
thanking her or saying a single word, and ran into his room, where
he lit a fire and immediately burnt it. He was pale and in a state
of collapse. He exaggerated the extent of the danger which he had
undergone.
"Finding Napoleon's portrait," he said to himself, "in the possession
of a man who professes so great a hate for the usurper! Found, too,
by M. de Renal, who is so great an _ultra_, and is now in a state of
irritation, and, to complete my imprudence, lines written in my own
handwriting on the white cardboard behind the portrait, lines, too,
which can leave no doubt on the score of my excessive admiration. And
each of these transports of love is dated. There was one the day before
yesterday."
"All my reputation collapsed and shattered in a moment," said Julien
to himself as he watched the box burn, "and my reputation is my only
asset. It is all I have to live by--and what a life to, by heaven!"
An hour afterwards, this fatigue, together with the pity which he felt
for himself made him inclined to be more tender. He met Madame de Renal
and took her hand, which he kissed with more sincerity than he had
ever done before. She blushed with happiness and almost simultaneously
rebuffed Julien with all the anger of jealousy. Julien's pride which
had been so recently wounded made him act foolishly at this juncture.
He saw in Madame de Renal nothing but a rich woman, he disdainfully let
her hand fall and went away. He went and walked about meditatively in
the garden. Soon a bitter smile appeared on his lips.
"Here I am walking about as serenely as a man who is master of his own
time. I am not bothering about the children! I am exposing myself to M.
de Renal's humiliating remarks, and he will be quite right." He ran to
the children's room. The caresses of the youngest child, whom he loved
very much, somewhat calmed his agony.
"He does not despise me yet," thought Julien. But he soon reproached
himself for this alleviation of his agony as though it were a new
weakness. The children caress me just in the same way in which they
would caress the young hunting-hound which was bought yesterday.
CHAPTER X
A GREAT HEART AND A SMALL FORTUNE
But passion most disembles, yet betrays,
Even by its darkness, as the blackest sky
Foretells the heaviest tempest.
_Don Juan_, c. 4, st. 75.
M. De Renal was going through all the rooms in the chateau, and he came
back into the children's room with the servants who were bringing back
the stuffings of the mattresses. The sudden entry of this man had the
effect on Julien of the drop of water which makes the pot overflow.
Looking paler and more sinister than usual, he rushed towards him. M.
de Renal stopped and looked at his servants.
"Monsieur," said Julien to him, "Do you think your children would have
made the progress they have made with me with any other tutor? If you
answer 'No,'" continued Julien so quickly that M. de Renal did not have
time to speak, "how dare you reproach me with neglecting them?"
M. de Renal, who had scarcely recovered from his fright, concluded from
the strange tone he saw this little peasant assume, that he had some
advantageous offer in his pocket, and that he was going to leave him.
The more he spoke the more Julien's anger increased, "I can live
without you, Monsieur," he added.
"I am really sorry to see you so upset," answered M. de Renal
shuddering a little. The servants were ten yards off engaged in making
the beds.
"That is not what I mean, Monsieur," replied Julien quite beside
himself. "Think of the infamous words that you have addressed to me,
and before women too."
M. de Renal understood only too well what Julien was asking, and a
painful conflict tore his soul. It happened that Julien, who was really
mad with rage, cried out,
"I know where to go, Monsieur, when I leave your house."
At these words M. de Renal saw Julien installed with M. Valenod. "Well,
sir," he said at last with a sigh, just as though he had called in
a surgeon to perform the most painful operation, "I accede to your
request. I will give you fifty francs a month. Starting from the day
after to-morrow which is the first of the month."
Julien wanted to laugh, and stood there dumbfounded. All his anger had
vanished.
"I do not despise the brute enough," he said to himself. "I have no
doubt that that is the greatest apology that so base a soul can make."
The children who had listened to this scene with gaping mouths, ran
into the garden to tell their mother that M. Julien was very angry, but
that he was going to have fifty francs a month.
Julien followed them as a matter of habit without even looking at M. de
Renal whom he left in a considerable state of irritation.
"That makes one hundred and sixty-eight francs," said the mayor to
himself, "that M. Valenod has cost me. I must absolutely speak a few
strong words to him about his contract to provide for the foundlings."
A minute afterwards Julien found himself opposite M. de Renal.
"I want to speak to M. Chelan on a matter of conscience. I have the
honour to inform you that I shall be absent some hours."
"Why, my dear Julien," said M. de Renal smiling with the falsest
expression possible, "take the whole day, and to-morrow too if you
like, my good friend. Take the gardener's horse to go to Verrieres."
"He is on the very point," said M. de Renal to himself, "of giving an
answer to Valenod. He has promised me nothing, but I must let this
hot-headed young man have time to cool down."
Julien quickly went away, and went up into the great forest, through
which one can manage to get from Vergy to Verrieres. He did not wish
to arrive at M. Chelan's at once. Far from wishing to cramp himself in
a new pose of hypocrisy he needed to see clear in his own soul, and to
give audience to the crowd of sentiments which were agitating him.
"I have won a battle," he said to himself, as soon as he saw that he
was well in the forest, and far from all human gaze. "So I have won a
battle."
This expression shed a rosy light on his situation, and restored him to
some serenity.
"Here I am with a salary of fifty francs a month, M. de Renal must be
precious afraid, but what of?"
This meditation about what could have put fear into the heart of that
happy, powerful man against whom he had been boiling with rage only
an hour back, completed the restoration to serenity of Julien's soul.
He was almost able to enjoy for a moment the delightful beauty of the
woods amidst which he was walking. Enormous blocks of bare rocks had
fallen down long ago in the middle of the forest by the mountain side.
Great cedars towered almost as high as these rocks whose shade caused a
delicious freshness within three yards of places where the heat of the
sun's rays would have made it impossible to rest.
Julien took breath for a moment in the shade of these great rocks,
and then he began again to climb. Traversing a narrow path that was
scarcely marked, and was only used by the goat herds, he soon found
himself standing upon an immense rock with the complete certainty of
being far away from all mankind. This physical position made him smile.
It symbolised to him the position he was burning to attain in the moral
sphere. The pure air of these lovely mountains filled his soul with
serenity and even with joy. The mayor of Verrieres still continued to
typify in his eyes all the wealth and all the arrogance of the earth;
but Julien felt that the hatred that had just thrilled him had nothing
personal about it in spite of all the violence which he had manifested.
If he had left off seeing M. de Renal he would in eight days have
forgotten him, his castle, his dogs, his children and all his family.
"I forced him, I don't know how, to make the greatest sacrifice. What?
more than fifty crowns a year, and only a minute before I managed to
extricate myself from the greatest danger; so there are two victories
in one day. The second one is devoid of merit, I must find out the why
and the wherefore. But these laborious researches are for to-morrow."
Standing up on his great rock, Julien looked at the sky which was all
afire with an August sun. The grasshoppers sang in the field about the
rock; when they held their peace there was universal silence around
him. He saw twenty leagues of country at his feet. He noticed from
time to time some hawk, which launching off from the great rocks over
his head was describing in silence its immense circles. Julien's eye
followed the bird of prey mechanically. Its tranquil powerful movements
struck him. He envied that strength, that isolation.
"Would Napoleon's destiny be one day his?"
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.
| 15,136 | null | https://web.archive.org/web/20210301223854/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/redblack/section2/ | Julien timidly walks over to the Renal home. Moved by Julien's weak frame and pale complexion, Mme. de Renal's "romantic disposition" makes her feel immediate pity for Julien. Their first encounter is tender and innocent, especially since Mme. de Renal initially thinks that Julien is a young woman. Julien is not used to being treated so well by an aristocrat and the two instantly take a liking to each other. He promises not to harm her children and, realizing that he has an advantage, kisses her hand. Mme. de Renal is shocked but does not scold Julien. He continues to make a good impression by reciting portions of the Bible in Latin from memory. M. de Renal's self-esteem is aroused by Julien's intelligence and he parades the whole town through his house to witness how great his children's tutor is. The Renals and their children accept Julien as a fixture in their home, but he continues to loathe "high society" in private. Elisa, Mme. de Renal's maid, falls in love with Julien, and it is through her maid's eyes that Mme. de Renal begins to have feelings for Julien as well. Raised in a convent, Mme. de Renal had never known love and thought that all men were like her husband and M. Valenod, only concerned with hatred and money. Convinced that Mme. de Renal is only out to humiliate him, Julien acts very cold around her. He also rejects Elisa's offer of marriage. M. Chelan urges Julien to reconsider, recognizing the Julien's lack of true devotion to the Church. He does not call Julien a hypocrite, but Julien is ashamed that someone actually loves him. After a few days, however, Julien perfects "the language of sly and prudent hypocrisy," refusing to reveal his true ambitions to the priest. Jealous of Elisa, Mme. de Renal begins to fall in love with Julien and is overjoyed when he refuses Elisa. She blushes in his presence, buys him gifts, and starts to pay more attention to her physical appearance. The Renals move out to the countryside for the spring, and Julien decides to seduce Mme. de Renal. He does not love her, but convinces himself that it would be cowardly not to hold her hand as they sit in the garden. Considering it his military "duty," Julien grabs hold of her hand--and Mme. de Renal does not resist him. The next day Julien ignores the children and further humiliates M. de Renal by securing a raise. Julien's moment of glory is short-lived. After discovering that M. de Renal is changing the bed straw, he begs Mme. de Renal to remove a portrait from under his mattress. Afraid that it is a portrait of the woman he loves, Mme. de Renal chooses not to look at what turns out to be a portrait of Napoleon. Julien is furious at himself for his near blunder. Had M. de Renal seen the portrait, Julien's hypocrisy would have been evident. That evening, Julien redoubles his efforts, passionately kissing Mme. de Renal. Invisible in the darkness of night, Julien is able to achieve this "victory" directly in front of M. de Renal. | Commentary The beginning part of this section emphasizes Mme. de Renal's purity and innocence. Unlike her husband, she is unconcerned with social rank and class, immediately calling Julien, "Sir." Stendhal's correlation of Mme. de Renal's beauty with her strong sense of morality is a hallmark of nineteenth-century romantic fiction. Despite this tenderness on the part of Stendhal, his description of Mme. de Renal's youth in a convent and the ease with which she falls in love with Julien also evokes the irony of many Enlightenment writers, especially Voltaire. Stendhal also introduces an important theme in this section: triangular desire. Elisa falls in love with Julien, while Mme. de Renal jealously falls in love because of Elisa. Julien desires Mme. de Renal, but only because she represents a conquest that he compares to military glory. Together they form a love triangle, one of many that Stendhal employs throughout the novel. For Stendhal, the love triangle meant that one could only fall in love through an intermediary figure. Indeed, Stendhal thought of himself as a scientist of love, attempting to reduce love to different formulas, levels, and stages, much like a mathematician. He often distinguished four types of love: passion- love, physical-love, vanity-love, and stylish-love. This devotion to understanding the psychology of love and its abstract analysis was a major influence for later Realist writers such as Balzac, Flaubert, and Zola. From the moment he enters the Renal home, Julien thinks of himself as Napoleon and Mme. de Renal as a battle to be won--not about love. Each advance represents an incremental increase in the intensity of their relationship but also a feeling of pride for Julien. Kissing Mme. de Renal's hand is a victory, but more importantly, an attack against the aristocracy: he is humiliating M. de Renal by seducing his wife. Julien thinks incessantly about adhering to Napoleon's military "style" and fulfilling "the destiny of Napoleon." Stendhal reinforces this symbolic closeness with the image of an eagle circling above Julien's head. The metaphor is twofold: the eagle is both the symbol of Napoleon and military glory, and a bird circling his prey. In effect, Julien's adoration of Napoleon gets him into serious trouble. M. de Renal almost discovers Julien's portrait of Napoleon, covered with inscriptions of praise written by Julien himself. After Mme. de Renal returns it to him, Julien immediately burns the portrait, establishing his conviction to succeed in French society at any cost. | 525 | 405 | [
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28,054 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/54.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_53_part_0.txt | The Brothers Karamazov.book 9.chapter 1 | book 9, chapter 1 | null | {"name": "Book 9, Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-9-chapter-1", "summary": "The novel picks up with Perkhotin knocking at the widow Morozov's house, where Grushenka is renting a place. Here the servant Fenya tells Perkhotin that Dmitri had arrived earlier, covered in blood, and had even confessed to killing a man. More concerned than ever, Perkhotin starts to go to Fyodor Karamazov's but decides against it because he fears causing a scandal just in case Fyodor Karamazov was not murdered. Instead, he decides to ask Madame Khokhlakov what happened. Although it's late - 11 at night - Madame Khokhlakov is finally roused from her bed to receive Perkhotin. She attests that she never lent Dmitri any money and even writes a short statement to that effect. Perkhotin and Khokhlakov experience a mutual attraction, despite the extraordinary circumstances, and Perkhotin goes on his way.", "analysis": ""} | Book IX. The Preliminary Investigation Chapter I. The Beginning Of Perhotin's Official Career
Pyotr Ilyitch Perhotin, whom we left knocking at the strong locked gates
of the widow Morozov's house, ended, of course, by making himself heard.
Fenya, who was still excited by the fright she had had two hours before,
and too much "upset" to go to bed, was almost frightened into hysterics on
hearing the furious knocking at the gate. Though she had herself seen him
drive away, she fancied that it must be Dmitri Fyodorovitch knocking
again, no one else could knock so savagely. She ran to the house-porter,
who had already waked up and gone out to the gate, and began imploring him
not to open it. But having questioned Pyotr Ilyitch, and learned that he
wanted to see Fenya on very "important business," the man made up his mind
at last to open. Pyotr Ilyitch was admitted into Fenya's kitchen, but the
girl begged him to allow the house-porter to be present, "because of her
misgivings." He began questioning her and at once learnt the most vital
fact, that is, that when Dmitri Fyodorovitch had run out to look for
Grushenka, he had snatched up a pestle from the mortar, and that when he
returned, the pestle was not with him and his hands were smeared with
blood.
"And the blood was simply flowing, dripping from him, dripping!" Fenya
kept exclaiming. This horrible detail was simply the product of her
disordered imagination. But although not "dripping," Pyotr Ilyitch had
himself seen those hands stained with blood, and had helped to wash them.
Moreover, the question he had to decide was not how soon the blood had
dried, but where Dmitri Fyodorovitch had run with the pestle, or rather,
whether it really was to Fyodor Pavlovitch's, and how he could
satisfactorily ascertain. Pyotr Ilyitch persisted in returning to this
point, and though he found out nothing conclusive, yet he carried away a
conviction that Dmitri Fyodorovitch could have gone nowhere but to his
father's house, and that therefore something must have happened there.
"And when he came back," Fenya added with excitement, "I told him the
whole story, and then I began asking him, 'Why have you got blood on your
hands, Dmitri Fyodorovitch?' and he answered that that was human blood,
and that he had just killed some one. He confessed it all to me, and
suddenly ran off like a madman. I sat down and began thinking, where's he
run off to now like a madman? He'll go to Mokroe, I thought, and kill my
mistress there. I ran out to beg him not to kill her. I was running to his
lodgings, but I looked at Plotnikov's shop, and saw him just setting off,
and there was no blood on his hands then." (Fenya had noticed this and
remembered it.) Fenya's old grandmother confirmed her evidence as far as
she was capable. After asking some further questions, Pyotr Ilyitch left
the house, even more upset and uneasy than he had been when he entered it.
The most direct and the easiest thing for him to do would have been to go
straight to Fyodor Pavlovitch's, to find out whether anything had happened
there, and if so, what; and only to go to the police captain, as Pyotr
Ilyitch firmly intended doing, when he had satisfied himself of the fact.
But the night was dark, Fyodor Pavlovitch's gates were strong, and he
would have to knock again. His acquaintance with Fyodor Pavlovitch was of
the slightest, and what if, after he had been knocking, they opened to
him, and nothing had happened? Then Fyodor Pavlovitch in his jeering way
would go telling the story all over the town, how a stranger, called
Perhotin, had broken in upon him at midnight to ask if any one had killed
him. It would make a scandal. And scandal was what Pyotr Ilyitch dreaded
more than anything in the world.
Yet the feeling that possessed him was so strong, that though he stamped
his foot angrily and swore at himself, he set off again, not to Fyodor
Pavlovitch's but to Madame Hohlakov's. He decided that if she denied
having just given Dmitri Fyodorovitch three thousand roubles, he would go
straight to the police captain, but if she admitted having given him the
money, he would go home and let the matter rest till next morning.
It is, of course, perfectly evident that there was even more likelihood of
causing scandal by going at eleven o'clock at night to a fashionable lady,
a complete stranger, and perhaps rousing her from her bed to ask her an
amazing question, than by going to Fyodor Pavlovitch. But that is just how
it is, sometimes, especially in cases like the present one, with the
decisions of the most precise and phlegmatic people. Pyotr Ilyitch was by
no means phlegmatic at that moment. He remembered all his life how a
haunting uneasiness gradually gained possession of him, growing more and
more painful and driving him on, against his will. Yet he kept cursing
himself, of course, all the way for going to this lady, but "I will get to
the bottom of it, I will!" he repeated for the tenth time, grinding his
teeth, and he carried out his intention.
It was exactly eleven o'clock when he entered Madame Hohlakov's house. He
was admitted into the yard pretty quickly, but, in response to his inquiry
whether the lady was still up, the porter could give no answer, except
that she was usually in bed by that time.
"Ask at the top of the stairs. If the lady wants to receive you, she'll
receive you. If she won't, she won't."
Pyotr Ilyitch went up, but did not find things so easy here. The footman
was unwilling to take in his name, but finally called a maid. Pyotr
Ilyitch politely but insistently begged her to inform her lady that an
official, living in the town, called Perhotin, had called on particular
business, and that if it were not of the greatest importance he would not
have ventured to come. "Tell her in those words, in those words exactly,"
he asked the girl.
She went away. He remained waiting in the entry. Madame Hohlakov herself
was already in her bedroom, though not yet asleep. She had felt upset ever
since Mitya's visit, and had a presentiment that she would not get through
the night without the sick headache which always, with her, followed such
excitement. She was surprised on hearing the announcement from the maid.
She irritably declined to see him, however, though the unexpected visit at
such an hour, of an "official living in the town," who was a total
stranger, roused her feminine curiosity intensely. But this time Pyotr
Ilyitch was as obstinate as a mule. He begged the maid most earnestly to
take another message in these very words:
"That he had come on business of the greatest importance, and that Madame
Hohlakov might have cause to regret it later, if she refused to see him
now."
"I plunged headlong," he described it afterwards.
The maid, gazing at him in amazement, went to take his message again.
Madame Hohlakov was impressed. She thought a little, asked what he looked
like, and learned that he was "very well dressed, young and so polite." We
may note, parenthetically, that Pyotr Ilyitch was a rather good-looking
young man, and well aware of the fact. Madame Hohlakov made up her mind to
see him. She was in her dressing-gown and slippers, but she flung a black
shawl over her shoulders. "The official" was asked to walk into the
drawing-room, the very room in which Mitya had been received shortly
before. The lady came to meet her visitor, with a sternly inquiring
countenance, and, without asking him to sit down, began at once with the
question:
"What do you want?"
"I have ventured to disturb you, madam, on a matter concerning our common
acquaintance, Dmitri Fyodorovitch Karamazov," Perhotin began.
But he had hardly uttered the name, when the lady's face showed signs of
acute irritation. She almost shrieked, and interrupted him in a fury:
"How much longer am I to be worried by that awful man?" she cried
hysterically. "How dare you, sir, how could you venture to disturb a lady
who is a stranger to you, in her own house at such an hour!... And to
force yourself upon her to talk of a man who came here, to this very
drawing-room, only three hours ago, to murder me, and went stamping out of
the room, as no one would go out of a decent house. Let me tell you, sir,
that I shall lodge a complaint against you, that I will not let it pass.
Kindly leave me at once.... I am a mother.... I ... I--"
"Murder! then he tried to murder you, too?"
"Why, has he killed somebody else?" Madame Hohlakov asked impulsively.
"If you would kindly listen, madam, for half a moment, I'll explain it all
in a couple of words," answered Perhotin, firmly. "At five o'clock this
afternoon Dmitri Fyodorovitch borrowed ten roubles from me, and I know for
a fact he had no money. Yet at nine o'clock, he came to see me with a
bundle of hundred-rouble notes in his hand, about two or three thousand
roubles. His hands and face were all covered with blood, and he looked
like a madman. When I asked him where he had got so much money, he
answered that he had just received it from you, that you had given him a
sum of three thousand to go to the gold-mines...."
Madame Hohlakov's face assumed an expression of intense and painful
excitement.
"Good God! He must have killed his old father!" she cried, clasping her
hands. "I have never given him money, never! Oh, run, run!... Don't say
another word! Save the old man ... run to his father ... run!"
"Excuse me, madam, then you did not give him money? You remember for a
fact that you did not give him any money?"
"No, I didn't, I didn't! I refused to give it him, for he could not
appreciate it. He ran out in a fury, stamping. He rushed at me, but I
slipped away.... And let me tell you, as I wish to hide nothing from you
now, that he positively spat at me. Can you fancy that! But why are we
standing? Ah, sit down."
"Excuse me, I...."
"Or better run, run, you must run and save the poor old man from an awful
death!"
"But if he has killed him already?"
"Ah, good heavens, yes! Then what are we to do now? What do you think we
must do now?"
Meantime she had made Pyotr Ilyitch sit down and sat down herself, facing
him. Briefly, but fairly clearly, Pyotr Ilyitch told her the history of
the affair, that part of it at least which he had himself witnessed. He
described, too, his visit to Fenya, and told her about the pestle. All
these details produced an overwhelming effect on the distracted lady, who
kept uttering shrieks, and covering her face with her hands....
"Would you believe it, I foresaw all this! I have that special faculty,
whatever I imagine comes to pass. And how often I've looked at that awful
man and always thought, that man will end by murdering me. And now it's
happened ... that is, if he hasn't murdered me, but only his own father,
it's only because the finger of God preserved me, and what's more, he was
ashamed to murder me because, in this very place, I put the holy ikon from
the relics of the holy martyr, Saint Varvara, on his neck.... And to think
how near I was to death at that minute, I went close up to him and he
stretched out his neck to me!... Do you know, Pyotr Ilyitch (I think you
said your name was Pyotr Ilyitch), I don't believe in miracles, but that
ikon and this unmistakable miracle with me now--that shakes me, and I'm
ready to believe in anything you like. Have you heard about Father
Zossima?... But I don't know what I'm saying ... and only fancy, with the
ikon on his neck he spat at me.... He only spat, it's true, he didn't
murder me and ... he dashed away! But what shall we do, what must we do
now? What do you think?"
Pyotr Ilyitch got up, and announced that he was going straight to the
police captain, to tell him all about it, and leave him to do what he
thought fit.
"Oh, he's an excellent man, excellent! Mihail Makarovitch, I know him. Of
course, he's the person to go to. How practical you are, Pyotr Ilyitch!
How well you've thought of everything! I should never have thought of it
in your place!"
"Especially as I know the police captain very well, too," observed Pyotr
Ilyitch, who still continued to stand, and was obviously anxious to escape
as quickly as possible from the impulsive lady, who would not let him say
good-by and go away.
"And be sure, be sure," she prattled on, "to come back and tell me what
you see there, and what you find out ... what comes to light ... how
they'll try him ... and what he's condemned to.... Tell me, we have no
capital punishment, have we? But be sure to come, even if it's at three
o'clock at night, at four, at half-past four.... Tell them to wake me, to
wake me, to shake me, if I don't get up.... But, good heavens, I shan't
sleep! But wait, hadn't I better come with you?"
"N--no. But if you would write three lines with your own hand, stating that
you did not give Dmitri Fyodorovitch money, it might, perhaps, be of use
... in case it's needed...."
"To be sure!" Madame Hohlakov skipped, delighted, to her bureau. "And you
know I'm simply struck, amazed at your resourcefulness, your good sense in
such affairs. Are you in the service here? I'm delighted to think that
you're in the service here!"
And still speaking, she scribbled on half a sheet of notepaper the
following lines:
I've never in my life lent to that unhappy man, Dmitri
Fyodorovitch Karamazov (for, in spite of all, he is unhappy),
three thousand roubles to-day. I've never given him money, never:
That I swear by all that's holy!
K. HOHLAKOV.
"Here's the note!" she turned quickly to Pyotr Ilyitch. "Go, save him.
It's a noble deed on your part!"
And she made the sign of the cross three times over him. She ran out to
accompany him to the passage.
"How grateful I am to you! You can't think how grateful I am to you for
having come to me, first. How is it I haven't met you before? I shall feel
flattered at seeing you at my house in the future. How delightful it is
that you are living here!... Such precision! Such practical ability!...
They must appreciate you, they must understand you. If there's anything I
can do, believe me ... oh, I love young people! I'm in love with young
people! The younger generation are the one prop of our suffering country.
Her one hope.... Oh, go, go!..."
But Pyotr Ilyitch had already run away or she would not have let him go so
soon. Yet Madame Hohlakov had made a rather agreeable impression on him,
which had somewhat softened his anxiety at being drawn into such an
unpleasant affair. Tastes differ, as we all know. "She's by no means so
elderly," he thought, feeling pleased, "on the contrary I should have
taken her for her daughter."
As for Madame Hohlakov, she was simply enchanted by the young man. "Such
sense! such exactness! in so young a man! in our day! and all that with
such manners and appearance! People say the young people of to-day are no
good for anything, but here's an example!" etc. So she simply forgot this
"dreadful affair," and it was only as she was getting into bed, that,
suddenly recalling "how near death she had been," she exclaimed: "Ah, it
is awful, awful!"
But she fell at once into a sound, sweet sleep.
I would not, however, have dwelt on such trivial and irrelevant details,
if this eccentric meeting of the young official with the by no means
elderly widow had not subsequently turned out to be the foundation of the
whole career of that practical and precise young man. His story is
remembered to this day with amazement in our town, and I shall perhaps
have something to say about it, when I have finished my long history of
the Brothers Karamazov.
| 2,592 | Book 9, Chapter 1 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-9-chapter-1 | The novel picks up with Perkhotin knocking at the widow Morozov's house, where Grushenka is renting a place. Here the servant Fenya tells Perkhotin that Dmitri had arrived earlier, covered in blood, and had even confessed to killing a man. More concerned than ever, Perkhotin starts to go to Fyodor Karamazov's but decides against it because he fears causing a scandal just in case Fyodor Karamazov was not murdered. Instead, he decides to ask Madame Khokhlakov what happened. Although it's late - 11 at night - Madame Khokhlakov is finally roused from her bed to receive Perkhotin. She attests that she never lent Dmitri any money and even writes a short statement to that effect. Perkhotin and Khokhlakov experience a mutual attraction, despite the extraordinary circumstances, and Perkhotin goes on his way. | null | 132 | 1 | [
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23,046 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/23046-chapters/8.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The Comedy of Errors/section_7_part_0.txt | The Comedy of Errors.act iv.scene ii | act iv, scene ii | null | {"name": "Act IV, Scene ii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219160210/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/comedy-of-errors/summary/act-iv-scene-ii", "summary": "At E. Antipholus's house, the women are a mess. Luciana tells Adriana about E. Antipholus's proclamations of love. Adriana wants every dirty detail of her husband's trespass. Luciana admits that S. Antipholus's words were exactly the right kind to win a girl--if a girl were to be won, of course. This continues on for a while, with Adriana declaring her hatred for E. Antipholus, even as she still prays for him. S. Dromio arrives, out of breath, and explains that Antipholus has been jailed. S. Dromio can't explain the details exactly, but h gets the bail money from Adriana and rushes off. Adriana is left to wonder at why her husband is locked up.", "analysis": ""} | SCENE II.
The house of _ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus_.
_Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA._
_Adr._ Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so?
Mightst thou perceive austerely in his eye
That he did plead in earnest? yea or no?
Look'd he or red or pale, or sad or merrily?
What observation madest thou, in this case, 5
Of his heart's meteors tilting in his face?
_Luc._ First he denied you had in him no right.
_Adr._ He meant he did me none; the more my spite.
_Luc._ Then swore he that he was a stranger here.
_Adr._ And true he swore, though yet forsworn he were. 10
_Luc._ Then pleaded I for you.
_Adr._ And what said he?
_Luc._ That love I begg'd for you he begg'd of me.
_Adr._ With what persuasion did he tempt thy love?
_Luc._ With words that in an honest suit might move.
First he did praise my beauty, then my speech. 15
_Adr._ Didst speak him fair?
_Luc._ Have patience, I beseech.
_Adr._ I cannot, nor I will not, hold me still;
My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.
He is deformed, crooked, old, and sere,
Ill-faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere; 20
Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind;
Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.
_Luc._ Who would be jealous, then, of such a one?
No evil lost is wail'd when it is gone.
_Adr._ Ah, but I think him better than I say, 25
And yet would herein others' eyes were worse.
Far from her nest the lapwing cries away:
My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse.
_Enter _DROMIO of Syracuse_._
_Dro. S._ Here! go; the desk, the purse! sweet, now, make haste.
_Luc._ How hast thou lost thy breath?
_Dro. S._ By running fast. 30
_Adr._ Where is thy master, Dromio? is he well?
_Dro. S._ No, he's in Tartar limbo, worse than hell.
A devil in an everlasting garment hath him;
One whose hard heart is button'd up with steel;
A fiend, a fury, pitiless and rough; 35
A wolf, nay, worse; a fellow all in buff;
A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that countermands
The passages of alleys, creeks, and narrow lands;
A hound that runs counter, and yet draws dry-foot well;
One that, before the Judgment, carries poor souls to hell. 40
_Adr._ Why, man, what is the matter?
_Dro. S._ I do not know the matter: he is 'rested on the case.
_Adr._ What, is he arrested? Tell me at whose suit.
_Dro. S._ I know not at whose suit he is arrested well;
But he's in a suit of buff which 'rested him, that can I tell. 45
Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk?
_Adr._ Go fetch it, sister. [_Exit Luciana._] This I wonder at,
That he, unknown to me, should be in debt.
Tell me, was he arrested on a band?
_Dro. S._ Not on a band, but on a stronger thing; 50
A chain, a chain! Do you not hear it ring?
_Adr._ What, the chain?
_Dro. S._ No, no, the bell: 'tis time that I were gone:
It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes one.
_Adr._ The hours come back! that did I never hear. 55
_Dro. S._ O, yes; if any hour meet a sergeant, 'a turns back
for very fear.
_Adr._ As if Time were in debt! how fondly dost thou reason!
_Dro. S._ Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than he's
worth to season.
Nay, he's a thief too: have you not heard men say,
That Time comes stealing on by night and day? 60
If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way,
Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?
_Re-enter LUCIANA with a purse._
_Adr._ Go, Dromio; there's the money, bear it straight;
And bring thy master home immediately.
Come, sister: I am press'd down with conceit,-- 65
Conceit, my comfort and my injury.
[_Exeunt._
NOTES: IV, 2.
SCENE II.] SCENE III. Pope.
2: _austerely_] _assuredly_ Heath conj.
4: _or sad or_] _sad_ Capell.
_merrily_] _merry_ Collier MS.
6: _Of_] F2 F3 F4. _Oh,_ F1.
7: _you_] _you; you_ Capell.
_no_] _a_ Rowe.
18: _his_] _it's_ Rowe.
22: _in mind_] F1. _the mind_ F2 F3 F4.
26: _herein_] _he in_ Hanmer.
29: SCENE IV. Pope.
_sweet_] _swift_ Collier MS.
33: _hath him_] _hath him fell_ Collier MS. _hath him by the heel_
Spedding conj.
34: _One_] F2 F3 F4. _On_ F1.
After this line Collier MS. inserts: _Who knows no touch of mercy,
cannot feel_.
35: _fury_] Pope, ed. 2 (Theobald). _Fairie_ Ff.
37: _countermands_] _commands_ Theobald.
38: _of_] _and_ Collier MS.
_alleys_] _allies_ Ff.
_lands_] _lanes_ Grey conj. See note (V).
37, 38: _countermands The ... lands_] _his court maintains I' the
... lanes_ Becket conj.
42, 45: _'rested_] Theobald. _rested_ Ff.
43: _Tell_] _Well, tell_ Edd. conj.
44: _arrested well;_] F1. _arrested, well;_ F2 F3.
_arrested: well:_ F4.
45: _But he's_] F3 F4. _But is_ F1 F2. _But 'a's_ Edd. conj.
_can I_] F1 F2. _I can_ F3 F4.
46: _mistress, redemption_] Hanmer. _Mistris redemption_ F1 F2 F3.
_Mistris Redemption_ F4. See note (VI).
48: _That_] _Thus_ F1.
49, 50: _band_] _bond_ Rowe.
50: _but on_] _but_ Pope.
54-62: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope.
55: _hear_] _here_ F1.
56: _'a turns_] _it turns_ Pope. _he turns_ Capell.
58: _bankrupt_] _bankrout_ Ff.
_to season_] om. Pope.
61: _Time_] Rowe. _I_ Ff. _he_ Malone. _'a_ Staunton.
62: _an hour_] _any hour_ Collier MS.
| 1,259 | Act IV, Scene ii | https://web.archive.org/web/20201219160210/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/comedy-of-errors/summary/act-iv-scene-ii | At E. Antipholus's house, the women are a mess. Luciana tells Adriana about E. Antipholus's proclamations of love. Adriana wants every dirty detail of her husband's trespass. Luciana admits that S. Antipholus's words were exactly the right kind to win a girl--if a girl were to be won, of course. This continues on for a while, with Adriana declaring her hatred for E. Antipholus, even as she still prays for him. S. Dromio arrives, out of breath, and explains that Antipholus has been jailed. S. Dromio can't explain the details exactly, but h gets the bail money from Adriana and rushes off. Adriana is left to wonder at why her husband is locked up. | null | 114 | 1 | [
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107 | true | sparknotes | all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/chapters_31_to_34.txt | finished_summaries/sparknotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_5_part_0.txt | Far from the Madding Crowd.chapters 31-34 | chapters 31-34 | null | {"name": "Chapters 31 to 34", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000853/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/maddingcrowd/section6/", "summary": "Bathsheba leaves one evening soon afterward with the intention of visiting Liddy. She has written to Boldwood to refuse him and does not want to see him when he returns from his trip. Troy is in Bath and is planning to return to Weatherbury in the next day or two. On her way to Liddy's, Bathsheba runs into Boldwood, who has received her letter but will not accept her refusal. The two of them have a heated discussion, in which he reminds her of the valentine she sent, and she tries to persuade him that it meant nothing. Finally, she claims that she lacks warmth. Boldwood responds by telling her that he knows she loves Troy, and he chastises her for being \"dazzled by brass and scarlet. \" She admits that she does love Troy and has kissed him. He flies into a jealous rage, declaring, \"I pray God he may not come into my sight for I may be tempted beyond myself.\" Bathsheba fears greatly for Troy. Chapter 32 opens in the perspective of the wife of one of Bathsheba's farm laborers, a woman by the name of Maryann Money. After Bathsheba has left, Maryann sees someone take a horse from the stable. Thinking it is a thief she alerts Gabriel and Coggan, and the two set off after the rider. When they finally catch up to him or her, after a long chase, they discover it is Bathsheba, secretly following Troy to Bath. They agree not to tell anyone what they have seen, but Gabriel warns Bathsheba that women generally should not travel alone at night. The chapter ends with a summary of the events from Bathsheba's perspective, explaining that she was so frightened by Boldwood's words that she determined to warn Troy not to return to Weatherbury. The next chapter spans two weeks at the farm during the oak harvest. No news of Bathsheba comes, except when Cainy Ball, one of the farm hands, comes back from seeing a doctor in Bath. He tells a group of farm workers that he saw the mistress enter a park arm-in-arm with a soldier. That night Gabriel hears voices and realizes that Liddy and Bathsheba have returned. Boldwood is also walking nearby, and he sees Sergeant Troy return to the carriage house. Boldwood tries to bribe Troy to marry Fanny Robin and leave Bathsheba alone. Troy claims to agree to the bribe but persuades Boldwood to wait and overhear his conversation with Bathsheba first, whom he now awaits. She comes and Boldwood hears her invite Troy back to the house, and she calls him by his first name, Frank. At this, Boldwood abandons all hope, thinking she has now lost all sense of propriety. When Bathsheba has gone back to the house, Boldwood tells Troy he will now pay him to marry Bathsheba rather than Fanny, reasoning that marriage will be more honorable than the current state of affairs. At this, however, Troy brings Boldwood back to the farm and shows him a newspaper announcement revealing that he and Bathsheba are, in fact, already married. He refuses Boldwood's money but has utterly humiliated him. Boldwood wanders the fields all night after Troy locks him out of the house.", "analysis": "Commentary Aside from advancing the plot with the off-stage marriage of Bathsheba and Troy, this short section provides crucial insights into the characters of Bathsheba, Boldwood, and Troy. Having shown us the effect of a series of meetings with Troy on Bathsheba's feelings, Hardy now takes Troy away and shows us how his absence affects her. Interestingly, very little of this section is shown from her point of view. Instead, we see her behavior as it strikes people who know her only distantly, such as Maryann Money and the farm workers. Chapter 32 is a particularly good example. Maryann watches someone take the horse from the stables and has no idea that Bathsheba would act so rashly as to ride to Bath at night without telling anyone. Thus, rather than seeing the series of decisions that lead up to her strange act, we see the act from afar. Hardy's use of perspective here makes the strange irrationality of Bathsheba's actions much more clear to us than it would be if we were inside Bathsheba's consciousness. Hardy does not allow us to sympathize with her but rather asks us to evaluate her behavior; the information with which he provides us gives us little choice but to judge this once strong and independent woman as increasingly foolish. A similar transformation occurs in Boldwood, as shown in particular through his desperate dealings with Troy. Troy has some perspective and is emotionally removed enough from the situation to manipulate Boldwood and utterly humiliate the man who once was above all weakness. After showing him the wedding announcement, Troy mocks him, calling him ridiculous. This scene reveals a cruel and heartless aspect of Troy's character that makes the reader fear for Bathsheba. Cainy Ball's report about Bath is a comic scene, in which the farm laborers serve a dual role, acting both as a kind of Greek chorus, commenting on what has happened, and also as a kind of comic relief."} |
BLAME--FURY
The next evening Bathsheba, with the idea of getting out of the way
of Mr. Boldwood in the event of his returning to answer her note
in person, proceeded to fulfil an engagement made with Liddy some
few hours earlier. Bathsheba's companion, as a gauge of their
reconciliation, had been granted a week's holiday to visit her
sister, who was married to a thriving hurdler and cattle-crib-maker
living in a delightful labyrinth of hazel copse not far beyond
Yalbury. The arrangement was that Miss Everdene should honour
them by coming there for a day or two to inspect some ingenious
contrivances which this man of the woods had introduced into his
wares.
Leaving her instructions with Gabriel and Maryann, that they were to
see everything carefully locked up for the night, she went out of the
house just at the close of a timely thunder-shower, which had refined
the air, and daintily bathed the coat of the land, though all beneath
was dry as ever. Freshness was exhaled in an essence from the varied
contours of bank and hollow, as if the earth breathed maiden breath;
and the pleased birds were hymning to the scene. Before her, among
the clouds, there was a contrast in the shape of lairs of fierce
light which showed themselves in the neighbourhood of a hidden sun,
lingering on to the farthest north-west corner of the heavens that
this midsummer season allowed.
She had walked nearly two miles of her journey, watching how the
day was retreating, and thinking how the time of deeds was quietly
melting into the time of thought, to give place in its turn to the
time of prayer and sleep, when she beheld advancing over Yalbury
hill the very man she sought so anxiously to elude. Boldwood was
stepping on, not with that quiet tread of reserved strength which
was his customary gait, in which he always seemed to be balancing
two thoughts. His manner was stunned and sluggish now.
Boldwood had for the first time been awakened to woman's privileges
in tergiversation even when it involves another person's possible
blight. That Bathsheba was a firm and positive girl, far less
inconsequent than her fellows, had been the very lung of his hope;
for he had held that these qualities would lead her to adhere to a
straight course for consistency's sake, and accept him, though her
fancy might not flood him with the iridescent hues of uncritical
love. But the argument now came back as sorry gleams from a broken
mirror. The discovery was no less a scourge than a surprise.
He came on looking upon the ground, and did not see Bathsheba till
they were less than a stone's throw apart. He looked up at the sound
of her pit-pat, and his changed appearance sufficiently denoted to
her the depth and strength of the feelings paralyzed by her letter.
"Oh; is it you, Mr. Boldwood?" she faltered, a guilty warmth pulsing
in her face.
Those who have the power of reproaching in silence may find it a
means more effective than words. There are accents in the eye which
are not on the tongue, and more tales come from pale lips than can
enter an ear. It is both the grandeur and the pain of the remoter
moods that they avoid the pathway of sound. Boldwood's look was
unanswerable.
Seeing she turned a little aside, he said, "What, are you afraid of
me?"
"Why should you say that?" said Bathsheba.
"I fancied you looked so," said he. "And it is most strange, because
of its contrast with my feeling for you."
She regained self-possession, fixed her eyes calmly, and waited.
"You know what that feeling is," continued Boldwood, deliberately.
"A thing strong as death. No dismissal by a hasty letter affects
that."
"I wish you did not feel so strongly about me," she murmured. "It is
generous of you, and more than I deserve, but I must not hear it
now."
"Hear it? What do you think I have to say, then? I am not to marry
you, and that's enough. Your letter was excellently plain. I want
you to hear nothing--not I."
Bathsheba was unable to direct her will into any definite groove for
freeing herself from this fearfully awkward position. She confusedly
said, "Good evening," and was moving on. Boldwood walked up to her
heavily and dully.
"Bathsheba--darling--is it final indeed?"
"Indeed it is."
"Oh, Bathsheba--have pity upon me!" Boldwood burst out. "God's sake,
yes--I am come to that low, lowest stage--to ask a woman for pity!
Still, she is you--she is you."
Bathsheba commanded herself well. But she could hardly get a clear
voice for what came instinctively to her lips: "There is little
honour to the woman in that speech." It was only whispered, for
something unutterably mournful no less than distressing in this
spectacle of a man showing himself to be so entirely the vane of a
passion enervated the feminine instinct for punctilios.
"I am beyond myself about this, and am mad," he said. "I am no stoic
at all to be supplicating here; but I do supplicate to you. I wish
you knew what is in me of devotion to you; but it is impossible,
that. In bare human mercy to a lonely man, don't throw me off now!"
"I don't throw you off--indeed, how can I? I never had you." In her
noon-clear sense that she had never loved him she forgot for a moment
her thoughtless angle on that day in February.
"But there was a time when you turned to me, before I thought of you!
I don't reproach you, for even now I feel that the ignorant and cold
darkness that I should have lived in if you had not attracted me by
that letter--valentine you call it--would have been worse than my
knowledge of you, though it has brought this misery. But, I say,
there was a time when I knew nothing of you, and cared nothing
for you, and yet you drew me on. And if you say you gave me no
encouragement, I cannot but contradict you."
"What you call encouragement was the childish game of an idle minute.
I have bitterly repented of it--ay, bitterly, and in tears. Can you
still go on reminding me?"
"I don't accuse you of it--I deplore it. I took for earnest what
you insist was jest, and now this that I pray to be jest you say is
awful, wretched earnest. Our moods meet at wrong places. I wish
your feeling was more like mine, or my feeling more like yours! Oh,
could I but have foreseen the torture that trifling trick was going
to lead me into, how I should have cursed you; but only having been
able to see it since, I cannot do that, for I love you too well! But
it is weak, idle drivelling to go on like this.... Bathsheba, you
are the first woman of any shade or nature that I have ever looked at
to love, and it is the having been so near claiming you for my own
that makes this denial so hard to bear. How nearly you promised me!
But I don't speak now to move your heart, and make you grieve because
of my pain; it is no use, that. I must bear it; my pain would get no
less by paining you."
"But I do pity you--deeply--O, so deeply!" she earnestly said.
"Do no such thing--do no such thing. Your dear love, Bathsheba, is
such a vast thing beside your pity, that the loss of your pity as
well as your love is no great addition to my sorrow, nor does the
gain of your pity make it sensibly less. O sweet--how dearly you
spoke to me behind the spear-bed at the washing-pool, and in the barn
at the shearing, and that dearest last time in the evening at your
home! Where are your pleasant words all gone--your earnest hope to
be able to love me? Where is your firm conviction that you would get
to care for me very much? Really forgotten?--really?"
She checked emotion, looked him quietly and clearly in the face, and
said in her low, firm voice, "Mr. Boldwood, I promised you nothing.
Would you have had me a woman of clay when you paid me that furthest,
highest compliment a man can pay a woman--telling her he loves her?
I was bound to show some feeling, if I would not be a graceless
shrew. Yet each of those pleasures was just for the day--the day
just for the pleasure. How was I to know that what is a pastime to
all other men was death to you? Have reason, do, and think more
kindly of me!"
"Well, never mind arguing--never mind. One thing is sure: you
were all but mine, and now you are not nearly mine. Everything is
changed, and that by you alone, remember. You were nothing to me
once, and I was contented; you are now nothing to me again, and how
different the second nothing is from the first! Would to God you
had never taken me up, since it was only to throw me down!"
Bathsheba, in spite of her mettle, began to feel unmistakable signs
that she was inherently the weaker vessel. She strove miserably
against this femininity which would insist upon supplying unbidden
emotions in stronger and stronger current. She had tried to elude
agitation by fixing her mind on the trees, sky, any trivial object
before her eyes, whilst his reproaches fell, but ingenuity could not
save her now.
"I did not take you up--surely I did not!" she answered as heroically
as she could. "But don't be in this mood with me. I can endure
being told I am in the wrong, if you will only tell it me gently!
O sir, will you not kindly forgive me, and look at it cheerfully?"
"Cheerfully! Can a man fooled to utter heart-burning find a reason
for being merry? If I have lost, how can I be as if I had won?
Heavens you must be heartless quite! Had I known what a fearfully
bitter sweet this was to be, how I would have avoided you, and never
seen you, and been deaf of you. I tell you all this, but what do you
care! You don't care."
She returned silent and weak denials to his charges, and swayed
her head desperately, as if to thrust away the words as they came
showering about her ears from the lips of the trembling man in the
climax of life, with his bronzed Roman face and fine frame.
"Dearest, dearest, I am wavering even now between the two opposites
of recklessly renouncing you, and labouring humbly for you again.
Forget that you have said No, and let it be as it was! Say,
Bathsheba, that you only wrote that refusal to me in fun--come, say
it to me!"
"It would be untrue, and painful to both of us. You overrate my
capacity for love. I don't possess half the warmth of nature you
believe me to have. An unprotected childhood in a cold world has
beaten gentleness out of me."
He immediately said with more resentment: "That may be true,
somewhat; but ah, Miss Everdene, it won't do as a reason! You are
not the cold woman you would have me believe. No, no! It isn't
because you have no feeling in you that you don't love me. You
naturally would have me think so--you would hide from me that you
have a burning heart like mine. You have love enough, but it is
turned into a new channel. I know where."
The swift music of her heart became hubbub now, and she throbbed
to extremity. He was coming to Troy. He did then know what had
occurred! And the name fell from his lips the next moment.
"Why did Troy not leave my treasure alone?" he asked, fiercely.
"When I had no thought of injuring him, why did he force himself upon
your notice! Before he worried you your inclination was to have me;
when next I should have come to you your answer would have been Yes.
Can you deny it--I ask, can you deny it?"
She delayed the reply, but was too honest to withhold it. "I
cannot," she whispered.
"I know you cannot. But he stole in in my absence and robbed me.
Why didn't he win you away before, when nobody would have been
grieved?--when nobody would have been set tale-bearing. Now the
people sneer at me--the very hills and sky seem to laugh at me till I
blush shamefully for my folly. I have lost my respect, my good name,
my standing--lost it, never to get it again. Go and marry your
man--go on!"
"Oh sir--Mr. Boldwood!"
"You may as well. I have no further claim upon you. As for me, I
had better go somewhere alone, and hide--and pray. I loved a woman
once. I am now ashamed. When I am dead they'll say, miserable
love-sick man that he was. Heaven--heaven--if I had got jilted
secretly, and the dishonour not known, and my position kept! But
no matter, it is gone, and the woman not gained. Shame upon
him--shame!"
His unreasonable anger terrified her, and she glided from him,
without obviously moving, as she said, "I am only a girl--do not
speak to me so!"
"All the time you knew--how very well you knew--that your new freak
was my misery. Dazzled by brass and scarlet--Oh, Bathsheba--this is
woman's folly indeed!"
She fired up at once. "You are taking too much upon yourself!" she
said, vehemently. "Everybody is upon me--everybody. It is unmanly
to attack a woman so! I have nobody in the world to fight my battles
for me; but no mercy is shown. Yet if a thousand of you sneer and
say things against me, I WILL NOT be put down!"
"You'll chatter with him doubtless about me. Say to him, 'Boldwood
would have died for me.' Yes, and you have given way to him, knowing
him to be not the man for you. He has kissed you--claimed you as
his. Do you hear--he has kissed you. Deny it!"
The most tragic woman is cowed by a tragic man, and although Boldwood
was, in vehemence and glow, nearly her own self rendered into another
sex, Bathsheba's cheek quivered. She gasped, "Leave me, sir--leave
me! I am nothing to you. Let me go on!"
"Deny that he has kissed you."
"I shall not."
"Ha--then he has!" came hoarsely from the farmer.
"He has," she said, slowly, and, in spite of her fear, defiantly. "I
am not ashamed to speak the truth."
"Then curse him; and curse him!" said Boldwood, breaking into a
whispered fury. "Whilst I would have given worlds to touch your hand,
you have let a rake come in without right or ceremony and--kiss you!
Heaven's mercy--kiss you! ... Ah, a time of his life shall come
when he will have to repent, and think wretchedly of the pain he has
caused another man; and then may he ache, and wish, and curse, and
yearn--as I do now!"
"Don't, don't, oh, don't pray down evil upon him!" she implored in a
miserable cry. "Anything but that--anything. Oh, be kind to him,
sir, for I love him true!"
Boldwood's ideas had reached that point of fusion at which outline
and consistency entirely disappear. The impending night appeared to
concentrate in his eye. He did not hear her at all now.
"I'll punish him--by my soul, that will I! I'll meet him, soldier or
no, and I'll horsewhip the untimely stripling for this reckless theft
of my one delight. If he were a hundred men I'd horsewhip him--"
He dropped his voice suddenly and unnaturally. "Bathsheba, sweet,
lost coquette, pardon me! I've been blaming you, threatening you,
behaving like a churl to you, when he's the greatest sinner. He
stole your dear heart away with his unfathomable lies! ... It is a
fortunate thing for him that he's gone back to his regiment--that
he's away up the country, and not here! I hope he may not return
here just yet. I pray God he may not come into my sight, for I may
be tempted beyond myself. Oh, Bathsheba, keep him away--yes, keep
him away from me!"
For a moment Boldwood stood so inertly after this that his soul
seemed to have been entirely exhaled with the breath of his
passionate words. He turned his face away, and withdrew, and his
form was soon covered over by the twilight as his footsteps mixed
in with the low hiss of the leafy trees.
Bathsheba, who had been standing motionless as a model all this
latter time, flung her hands to her face, and wildly attempted to
ponder on the exhibition which had just passed away. Such astounding
wells of fevered feeling in a still man like Mr. Boldwood were
incomprehensible, dreadful. Instead of being a man trained to
repression he was--what she had seen him.
The force of the farmer's threats lay in their relation to a
circumstance known at present only to herself: her lover was coming
back to Weatherbury in the course of the very next day or two. Troy
had not returned to his distant barracks as Boldwood and others
supposed, but had merely gone to visit some acquaintance in Bath,
and had yet a week or more remaining to his furlough.
She felt wretchedly certain that if he revisited her just at this
nick of time, and came into contact with Boldwood, a fierce quarrel
would be the consequence. She panted with solicitude when she
thought of possible injury to Troy. The least spark would kindle
the farmer's swift feelings of rage and jealousy; he would lose his
self-mastery as he had this evening; Troy's blitheness might become
aggressive; it might take the direction of derision, and Boldwood's
anger might then take the direction of revenge.
With almost a morbid dread of being thought a gushing girl, this
guileless woman too well concealed from the world under a manner of
carelessness the warm depths of her strong emotions. But now there
was no reserve. In her distraction, instead of advancing further she
walked up and down, beating the air with her fingers, pressing on her
brow, and sobbing brokenly to herself. Then she sat down on a heap
of stones by the wayside to think. There she remained long. Above
the dark margin of the earth appeared foreshores and promontories of
coppery cloud, bounding a green and pellucid expanse in the western
sky. Amaranthine glosses came over them then, and the unresting
world wheeled her round to a contrasting prospect eastward, in the
shape of indecisive and palpitating stars. She gazed upon their
silent throes amid the shades of space, but realised none at all.
Her troubled spirit was far away with Troy.
NIGHT--HORSES TRAMPING
The village of Weatherbury was quiet as the graveyard in its midst,
and the living were lying well-nigh as still as the dead. The church
clock struck eleven. The air was so empty of other sounds that the
whirr of the clock-work immediately before the strokes was distinct,
and so was also the click of the same at their close. The notes flew
forth with the usual blind obtuseness of inanimate things--flapping
and rebounding among walls, undulating against the scattered clouds,
spreading through their interstices into unexplored miles of space.
Bathsheba's crannied and mouldy halls were to-night occupied only by
Maryann, Liddy being, as was stated, with her sister, whom Bathsheba
had set out to visit. A few minutes after eleven had struck, Maryann
turned in her bed with a sense of being disturbed. She was totally
unconscious of the nature of the interruption to her sleep. It led
to a dream, and the dream to an awakening, with an uneasy sensation
that something had happened. She left her bed and looked out of the
window. The paddock abutted on this end of the building, and in the
paddock she could just discern by the uncertain gray a moving figure
approaching the horse that was feeding there. The figure seized the
horse by the forelock, and led it to the corner of the field. Here
she could see some object which circumstances proved to be a vehicle,
for after a few minutes spent apparently in harnessing, she heard the
trot of the horse down the road, mingled with the sound of light
wheels.
Two varieties only of humanity could have entered the paddock with
the ghostlike glide of that mysterious figure. They were a woman and
a gipsy man. A woman was out of the question in such an occupation
at this hour, and the comer could be no less than a thief, who might
probably have known the weakness of the household on this particular
night, and have chosen it on that account for his daring attempt.
Moreover, to raise suspicion to conviction itself, there were gipsies
in Weatherbury Bottom.
Maryann, who had been afraid to shout in the robber's presence,
having seen him depart had no fear. She hastily slipped on her
clothes, stumped down the disjointed staircase with its hundred
creaks, ran to Coggan's, the nearest house, and raised an alarm.
Coggan called Gabriel, who now again lodged in his house as at first,
and together they went to the paddock. Beyond all doubt the horse
was gone.
"Hark!" said Gabriel.
They listened. Distinct upon the stagnant air came the sounds of a
trotting horse passing up Longpuddle Lane--just beyond the gipsies'
encampment in Weatherbury Bottom.
"That's our Dainty--I'll swear to her step," said Jan.
"Mighty me! Won't mis'ess storm and call us stupids when she comes
back!" moaned Maryann. "How I wish it had happened when she was at
home, and none of us had been answerable!"
"We must ride after," said Gabriel, decisively. "I'll be
responsible to Miss Everdene for what we do. Yes, we'll follow."
"Faith, I don't see how," said Coggan. "All our horses are too heavy
for that trick except little Poppet, and what's she between two of
us?--If we only had that pair over the hedge we might do something."
"Which pair?"
"Mr. Boldwood's Tidy and Moll."
"Then wait here till I come hither again," said Gabriel. He ran down
the hill towards Farmer Boldwood's.
"Farmer Boldwood is not at home," said Maryann.
"All the better," said Coggan. "I know what he's gone for."
Less than five minutes brought up Oak again, running at the same
pace, with two halters dangling from his hand.
"Where did you find 'em?" said Coggan, turning round and leaping upon
the hedge without waiting for an answer.
"Under the eaves. I knew where they were kept," said Gabriel,
following him. "Coggan, you can ride bare-backed? there's no time to
look for saddles."
"Like a hero!" said Jan.
"Maryann, you go to bed," Gabriel shouted to her from the top of the
hedge.
Springing down into Boldwood's pastures, each pocketed his halter to
hide it from the horses, who, seeing the men empty-handed, docilely
allowed themselves to be seized by the mane, when the halters were
dexterously slipped on. Having neither bit nor bridle, Oak and
Coggan extemporized the former by passing the rope in each case
through the animal's mouth and looping it on the other side. Oak
vaulted astride, and Coggan clambered up by aid of the bank, when
they ascended to the gate and galloped off in the direction taken by
Bathsheba's horse and the robber. Whose vehicle the horse had been
harnessed to was a matter of some uncertainty.
Weatherbury Bottom was reached in three or four minutes. They
scanned the shady green patch by the roadside. The gipsies were
gone.
"The villains!" said Gabriel. "Which way have they gone, I wonder?"
"Straight on, as sure as God made little apples," said Jan.
"Very well; we are better mounted, and must overtake em", said Oak.
"Now on at full speed!"
No sound of the rider in their van could now be discovered. The
road-metal grew softer and more clayey as Weatherbury was left
behind, and the late rain had wetted its surface to a somewhat
plastic, but not muddy state. They came to cross-roads. Coggan
suddenly pulled up Moll and slipped off.
"What's the matter?" said Gabriel.
"We must try to track 'em, since we can't hear 'em," said Jan,
fumbling in his pockets. He struck a light, and held the match to
the ground. The rain had been heavier here, and all foot and horse
tracks made previous to the storm had been abraded and blurred by
the drops, and they were now so many little scoops of water, which
reflected the flame of the match like eyes. One set of tracks was
fresh and had no water in them; one pair of ruts was also empty,
and not small canals, like the others. The footprints forming this
recent impression were full of information as to pace; they were in
equidistant pairs, three or four feet apart, the right and left foot
of each pair being exactly opposite one another.
"Straight on!" Jan exclaimed. "Tracks like that mean a stiff gallop.
No wonder we don't hear him. And the horse is harnessed--look at the
ruts. Ay, that's our mare sure enough!"
"How do you know?"
"Old Jimmy Harris only shoed her last week, and I'd swear to his make
among ten thousand."
"The rest of the gipsies must ha' gone on earlier, or some other
way," said Oak. "You saw there were no other tracks?"
"True." They rode along silently for a long weary time. Coggan
carried an old pinchbeck repeater which he had inherited from some
genius in his family; and it now struck one. He lighted another
match, and examined the ground again.
"'Tis a canter now," he said, throwing away the light. "A twisty,
rickety pace for a gig. The fact is, they over-drove her at
starting; we shall catch 'em yet."
Again they hastened on, and entered Blackmore Vale. Coggan's watch
struck one. When they looked again the hoof-marks were so spaced as
to form a sort of zigzag if united, like the lamps along a street.
"That's a trot, I know," said Gabriel.
"Only a trot now," said Coggan, cheerfully. "We shall overtake him
in time."
They pushed rapidly on for yet two or three miles. "Ah! a moment,"
said Jan. "Let's see how she was driven up this hill. 'Twill help
us." A light was promptly struck upon his gaiters as before, and the
examination made.
"Hurrah!" said Coggan. "She walked up here--and well she might. We
shall get them in two miles, for a crown."
They rode three, and listened. No sound was to be heard save a
millpond trickling hoarsely through a hatch, and suggesting gloomy
possibilities of drowning by jumping in. Gabriel dismounted when
they came to a turning. The tracks were absolutely the only guide as
to the direction that they now had, and great caution was necessary
to avoid confusing them with some others which had made their
appearance lately.
"What does this mean?--though I guess," said Gabriel, looking up
at Coggan as he moved the match over the ground about the turning.
Coggan, who, no less than the panting horses, had latterly shown
signs of weariness, again scrutinized the mystic characters. This
time only three were of the regular horseshoe shape. Every fourth
was a dot.
He screwed up his face and emitted a long "Whew-w-w!"
"Lame," said Oak.
"Yes. Dainty is lamed; the near-foot-afore," said Coggan slowly,
staring still at the footprints.
"We'll push on," said Gabriel, remounting his humid steed.
Although the road along its greater part had been as good as any
turnpike-road in the country, it was nominally only a byway. The
last turning had brought them into the high road leading to Bath.
Coggan recollected himself.
"We shall have him now!" he exclaimed.
"Where?"
"Sherton Turnpike. The keeper of that gate is the sleepiest man
between here and London--Dan Randall, that's his name--knowed en for
years, when he was at Casterbridge gate. Between the lameness and the
gate 'tis a done job."
They now advanced with extreme caution. Nothing was said until,
against a shady background of foliage, five white bars were visible,
crossing their route a little way ahead.
"Hush--we are almost close!" said Gabriel.
"Amble on upon the grass," said Coggan.
The white bars were blotted out in the midst by a dark shape in
front of them. The silence of this lonely time was pierced by an
exclamation from that quarter.
"Hoy-a-hoy! Gate!"
It appeared that there had been a previous call which they had not
noticed, for on their close approach the door of the turnpike-house
opened, and the keeper came out half-dressed, with a candle in his
hand. The rays illumined the whole group.
"Keep the gate close!" shouted Gabriel. "He has stolen the horse!"
"Who?" said the turnpike-man.
Gabriel looked at the driver of the gig, and saw a woman--Bathsheba,
his mistress.
On hearing his voice she had turned her face away from the light.
Coggan had, however, caught sight of her in the meanwhile.
"Why, 'tis mistress--I'll take my oath!" he said, amazed.
Bathsheba it certainly was, and she had by this time done the trick
she could do so well in crises not of love, namely, mask a surprise
by coolness of manner.
"Well, Gabriel," she inquired quietly, "where are you going?"
"We thought--" began Gabriel.
"I am driving to Bath," she said, taking for her own use the
assurance that Gabriel lacked. "An important matter made it
necessary for me to give up my visit to Liddy, and go off at once.
What, then, were you following me?"
"We thought the horse was stole."
"Well--what a thing! How very foolish of you not to know that I had
taken the trap and horse. I could neither wake Maryann nor get into
the house, though I hammered for ten minutes against her window-sill.
Fortunately, I could get the key of the coach-house, so I troubled no
one further. Didn't you think it might be me?"
"Why should we, miss?"
"Perhaps not. Why, those are never Farmer Boldwood's horses!
Goodness mercy! what have you been doing--bringing trouble upon me in
this way? What! mustn't a lady move an inch from her door without
being dogged like a thief?"
"But how was we to know, if you left no account of your doings?"
expostulated Coggan, "and ladies don't drive at these hours, miss,
as a jineral rule of society."
"I did leave an account--and you would have seen it in the morning.
I wrote in chalk on the coach-house doors that I had come back for
the horse and gig, and driven off; that I could arouse nobody, and
should return soon."
"But you'll consider, ma'am, that we couldn't see that till it got
daylight."
"True," she said, and though vexed at first she had too much sense
to blame them long or seriously for a devotion to her that was as
valuable as it was rare. She added with a very pretty grace, "Well,
I really thank you heartily for taking all this trouble; but I wish
you had borrowed anybody's horses but Mr. Boldwood's."
"Dainty is lame, miss," said Coggan. "Can ye go on?"
"It was only a stone in her shoe. I got down and pulled it out a
hundred yards back. I can manage very well, thank you. I shall be
in Bath by daylight. Will you now return, please?"
She turned her head--the gateman's candle shimmering upon her quick,
clear eyes as she did so--passed through the gate, and was soon
wrapped in the embowering shades of mysterious summer boughs. Coggan
and Gabriel put about their horses, and, fanned by the velvety air of
this July night, retraced the road by which they had come.
"A strange vagary, this of hers, isn't it, Oak?" said Coggan,
curiously.
"Yes," said Gabriel, shortly.
"She won't be in Bath by no daylight!"
"Coggan, suppose we keep this night's work as quiet as we can?"
"I am of one and the same mind."
"Very well. We shall be home by three o'clock or so, and can creep
into the parish like lambs."
Bathsheba's perturbed meditations by the roadside had ultimately
evolved a conclusion that there were only two remedies for the
present desperate state of affairs. The first was merely to
keep Troy away from Weatherbury till Boldwood's indignation had
cooled; the second to listen to Oak's entreaties, and Boldwood's
denunciations, and give up Troy altogether.
Alas! Could she give up this new love--induce him to renounce her
by saying she did not like him--could no more speak to him, and beg
him, for her good, to end his furlough in Bath, and see her and
Weatherbury no more?
It was a picture full of misery, but for a while she contemplated it
firmly, allowing herself, nevertheless, as girls will, to dwell upon
the happy life she would have enjoyed had Troy been Boldwood, and the
path of love the path of duty--inflicting upon herself gratuitous
tortures by imagining him the lover of another woman after forgetting
her; for she had penetrated Troy's nature so far as to estimate his
tendencies pretty accurately, but unfortunately loved him no less in
thinking that he might soon cease to love her--indeed, considerably
more.
She jumped to her feet. She would see him at once. Yes, she would
implore him by word of mouth to assist her in this dilemma. A letter
to keep him away could not reach him in time, even if he should be
disposed to listen to it.
Was Bathsheba altogether blind to the obvious fact that the support
of a lover's arms is not of a kind best calculated to assist a
resolve to renounce him? Or was she sophistically sensible, with a
thrill of pleasure, that by adopting this course for getting rid of
him she was ensuring a meeting with him, at any rate, once more?
It was now dark, and the hour must have been nearly ten. The only
way to accomplish her purpose was to give up her idea of visiting
Liddy at Yalbury, return to Weatherbury Farm, put the horse into
the gig, and drive at once to Bath. The scheme seemed at first
impossible: the journey was a fearfully heavy one, even for a strong
horse, at her own estimate; and she much underrated the distance.
It was most venturesome for a woman, at night, and alone.
But could she go on to Liddy's and leave things to take their course?
No, no; anything but that. Bathsheba was full of a stimulating
turbulence, beside which caution vainly prayed for a hearing. She
turned back towards the village.
Her walk was slow, for she wished not to enter Weatherbury till the
cottagers were in bed, and, particularly, till Boldwood was secure.
Her plan was now to drive to Bath during the night, see Sergeant Troy
in the morning before he set out to come to her, bid him farewell,
and dismiss him: then to rest the horse thoroughly (herself to weep
the while, she thought), starting early the next morning on her
return journey. By this arrangement she could trot Dainty gently
all the day, reach Liddy at Yalbury in the evening, and come home to
Weatherbury with her whenever they chose--so nobody would know she
had been to Bath at all. Such was Bathsheba's scheme. But in her
topographical ignorance as a late comer to the place, she misreckoned
the distance of her journey as not much more than half what it really
was.
This idea she proceeded to carry out, with what initial success we
have already seen.
IN THE SUN--A HARBINGER
A week passed, and there were no tidings of Bathsheba; nor was there
any explanation of her Gilpin's rig.
Then a note came for Maryann, stating that the business which had
called her mistress to Bath still detained her there; but that she
hoped to return in the course of another week.
Another week passed. The oat-harvest began, and all the men were
a-field under a monochromatic Lammas sky, amid the trembling air
and short shadows of noon. Indoors nothing was to be heard save
the droning of blue-bottle flies; out-of-doors the whetting of
scythes and the hiss of tressy oat-ears rubbing together as their
perpendicular stalks of amber-yellow fell heavily to each swath.
Every drop of moisture not in the men's bottles and flagons in the
form of cider was raining as perspiration from their foreheads and
cheeks. Drought was everywhere else.
They were about to withdraw for a while into the charitable shade
of a tree in the fence, when Coggan saw a figure in a blue coat and
brass buttons running to them across the field.
"I wonder who that is?" he said.
"I hope nothing is wrong about mistress," said Maryann, who with some
other women was tying the bundles (oats being always sheafed on this
farm), "but an unlucky token came to me indoors this morning. I
went to unlock the door and dropped the key, and it fell upon the
stone floor and broke into two pieces. Breaking a key is a dreadful
bodement. I wish mis'ess was home."
"'Tis Cain Ball," said Gabriel, pausing from whetting his reaphook.
Oak was not bound by his agreement to assist in the corn-field; but
the harvest month is an anxious time for a farmer, and the corn was
Bathsheba's, so he lent a hand.
"He's dressed up in his best clothes," said Matthew Moon. "He hev
been away from home for a few days, since he's had that felon upon
his finger; for 'a said, since I can't work I'll have a hollerday."
"A good time for one--a' excellent time," said Joseph Poorgrass,
straightening his back; for he, like some of the others, had a way
of resting a while from his labour on such hot days for reasons
preternaturally small; of which Cain Ball's advent on a week-day in
his Sunday-clothes was one of the first magnitude. "Twas a bad leg
allowed me to read the _Pilgrim's Progress_, and Mark Clark learnt
All-Fours in a whitlow."
"Ay, and my father put his arm out of joint to have time to go
courting," said Jan Coggan, in an eclipsing tone, wiping his face
with his shirt-sleeve and thrusting back his hat upon the nape of
his neck.
By this time Cainy was nearing the group of harvesters, and was
perceived to be carrying a large slice of bread and ham in one hand,
from which he took mouthfuls as he ran, the other being wrapped in a
bandage. When he came close, his mouth assumed the bell shape, and
he began to cough violently.
"Now, Cainy!" said Gabriel, sternly. "How many more times must I
tell you to keep from running so fast when you be eating? You'll
choke yourself some day, that's what you'll do, Cain Ball."
"Hok-hok-hok!" replied Cain. "A crumb of my victuals went the
wrong way--hok-hok! That's what 'tis, Mister Oak! And I've been
visiting to Bath because I had a felon on my thumb; yes, and I've
seen--ahok-hok!"
Directly Cain mentioned Bath, they all threw down their hooks and
forks and drew round him. Unfortunately the erratic crumb did not
improve his narrative powers, and a supplementary hindrance was that
of a sneeze, jerking from his pocket his rather large watch, which
dangled in front of the young man pendulum-wise.
"Yes," he continued, directing his thoughts to Bath and letting his
eyes follow, "I've seed the world at last--yes--and I've seed our
mis'ess--ahok-hok-hok!"
"Bother the boy!" said Gabriel. "Something is always going the wrong
way down your throat, so that you can't tell what's necessary to be
told."
"Ahok! there! Please, Mister Oak, a gnat have just fleed into my
stomach and brought the cough on again!"
"Yes, that's just it. Your mouth is always open, you young rascal!"
"'Tis terrible bad to have a gnat fly down yer throat, pore boy!"
said Matthew Moon.
"Well, at Bath you saw--" prompted Gabriel.
"I saw our mistress," continued the junior shepherd, "and a sojer,
walking along. And bymeby they got closer and closer, and then they
went arm-in-crook, like courting complete--hok-hok! like courting
complete--hok!--courting complete--" Losing the thread of his
narrative at this point simultaneously with his loss of breath, their
informant looked up and down the field apparently for some clue to
it. "Well, I see our mis'ess and a soldier--a-ha-a-wk!"
"Damn the boy!" said Gabriel.
"'Tis only my manner, Mister Oak, if ye'll excuse it," said Cain
Ball, looking reproachfully at Oak, with eyes drenched in their own
dew.
"Here's some cider for him--that'll cure his throat," said Jan
Coggan, lifting a flagon of cider, pulling out the cork, and applying
the hole to Cainy's mouth; Joseph Poorgrass in the meantime beginning
to think apprehensively of the serious consequences that would follow
Cainy Ball's strangulation in his cough, and the history of his Bath
adventures dying with him.
"For my poor self, I always say 'please God' afore I do anything,"
said Joseph, in an unboastful voice; "and so should you, Cain Ball.
'Tis a great safeguard, and might perhaps save you from being choked
to death some day."
Mr. Coggan poured the liquor with unstinted liberality at the
suffering Cain's circular mouth; half of it running down the side of
the flagon, and half of what reached his mouth running down outside
his throat, and half of what ran in going the wrong way, and being
coughed and sneezed around the persons of the gathered reapers in the
form of a cider fog, which for a moment hung in the sunny air like a
small exhalation.
"There's a great clumsy sneeze! Why can't ye have better manners,
you young dog!" said Coggan, withdrawing the flagon.
"The cider went up my nose!" cried Cainy, as soon as he could speak;
"and now 'tis gone down my neck, and into my poor dumb felon, and
over my shiny buttons and all my best cloze!"
"The poor lad's cough is terrible unfortunate," said Matthew Moon.
"And a great history on hand, too. Bump his back, shepherd."
"'Tis my nater," mourned Cain. "Mother says I always was so
excitable when my feelings were worked up to a point!"
"True, true," said Joseph Poorgrass. "The Balls were always a very
excitable family. I knowed the boy's grandfather--a truly nervous
and modest man, even to genteel refinery. 'Twas blush, blush with
him, almost as much as 'tis with me--not but that 'tis a fault in
me!"
"Not at all, Master Poorgrass," said Coggan. "'Tis a very noble
quality in ye."
"Heh-heh! well, I wish to noise nothing abroad--nothing at all,"
murmured Poorgrass, diffidently. "But we be born to things--that's
true. Yet I would rather my trifle were hid; though, perhaps, a high
nater is a little high, and at my birth all things were possible to
my Maker, and he may have begrudged no gifts.... But under your
bushel, Joseph! under your bushel with 'ee! A strange desire,
neighbours, this desire to hide, and no praise due. Yet there is a
Sermon on the Mount with a calendar of the blessed at the head, and
certain meek men may be named therein."
"Cainy's grandfather was a very clever man," said Matthew Moon.
"Invented a' apple-tree out of his own head, which is called by his
name to this day--the Early Ball. You know 'em, Jan? A Quarrenden
grafted on a Tom Putt, and a Rathe-ripe upon top o' that again. 'Tis
trew 'a used to bide about in a public-house wi' a 'ooman in a way he
had no business to by rights, but there--'a were a clever man in the
sense of the term."
"Now then," said Gabriel, impatiently, "what did you see, Cain?"
"I seed our mis'ess go into a sort of a park place, where there's
seats, and shrubs and flowers, arm-in-crook with a sojer," continued
Cainy, firmly, and with a dim sense that his words were very
effective as regarded Gabriel's emotions. "And I think the sojer
was Sergeant Troy. And they sat there together for more than
half-an-hour, talking moving things, and she once was crying a'most
to death. And when they came out her eyes were shining and she was
as white as a lily; and they looked into one another's faces, as
far-gone friendly as a man and woman can be."
Gabriel's features seemed to get thinner. "Well, what did you see
besides?"
"Oh, all sorts."
"White as a lily? You are sure 'twas she?"
"Yes."
"Well, what besides?"
"Great glass windows to the shops, and great clouds in the sky, full
of rain, and old wooden trees in the country round."
"You stun-poll! What will ye say next?" said Coggan.
"Let en alone," interposed Joseph Poorgrass. "The boy's meaning is
that the sky and the earth in the kingdom of Bath is not altogether
different from ours here. 'Tis for our good to gain knowledge of
strange cities, and as such the boy's words should be suffered, so
to speak it."
"And the people of Bath," continued Cain, "never need to light their
fires except as a luxury, for the water springs up out of the earth
ready boiled for use."
"'Tis true as the light," testified Matthew Moon. "I've heard other
navigators say the same thing."
"They drink nothing else there," said Cain, "and seem to enjoy it, to
see how they swaller it down."
"Well, it seems a barbarian practice enough to us, but I daresay the
natives think nothing o' it," said Matthew.
"And don't victuals spring up as well as drink?" asked Coggan,
twirling his eye.
"No--I own to a blot there in Bath--a true blot. God didn't provide
'em with victuals as well as drink, and 'twas a drawback I couldn't
get over at all."
"Well, 'tis a curious place, to say the least," observed Moon; "and
it must be a curious people that live therein."
"Miss Everdene and the soldier were walking about together, you say?"
said Gabriel, returning to the group.
"Ay, and she wore a beautiful gold-colour silk gown, trimmed with
black lace, that would have stood alone 'ithout legs inside if
required. 'Twas a very winsome sight; and her hair was brushed
splendid. And when the sun shone upon the bright gown and his red
coat--my! how handsome they looked. You could see 'em all the
length of the street."
"And what then?" murmured Gabriel.
"And then I went into Griffin's to hae my boots hobbed, and then I
went to Riggs's batty-cake shop, and asked 'em for a penneth of the
cheapest and nicest stales, that were all but blue-mouldy, but not
quite. And whilst I was chawing 'em down I walked on and seed a
clock with a face as big as a baking trendle--"
"But that's nothing to do with mistress!"
"I'm coming to that, if you'll leave me alone, Mister Oak!"
remonstrated Cainy. "If you excites me, perhaps you'll bring on my
cough, and then I shan't be able to tell ye nothing."
"Yes--let him tell it his own way," said Coggan.
Gabriel settled into a despairing attitude of patience, and Cainy
went on:--
"And there were great large houses, and more people all the week long
than at Weatherbury club-walking on White Tuesdays. And I went to
grand churches and chapels. And how the parson would pray! Yes; he
would kneel down and put up his hands together, and make the holy
gold rings on his fingers gleam and twinkle in yer eyes, that he'd
earned by praying so excellent well!--Ah yes, I wish I lived there."
"Our poor Parson Thirdly can't get no money to buy such rings," said
Matthew Moon, thoughtfully. "And as good a man as ever walked. I
don't believe poor Thirdly have a single one, even of humblest tin
or copper. Such a great ornament as they'd be to him on a dull
afternoon, when he's up in the pulpit lighted by the wax candles!
But 'tis impossible, poor man. Ah, to think how unequal things be."
"Perhaps he's made of different stuff than to wear 'em," said
Gabriel, grimly. "Well, that's enough of this. Go on, Cainy--quick."
"Oh--and the new style of parsons wear moustaches and long beards,"
continued the illustrious traveller, "and look like Moses and Aaron
complete, and make we fokes in the congregation feel all over like
the children of Israel."
"A very right feeling--very," said Joseph Poorgrass.
"And there's two religions going on in the nation now--High Church
and High Chapel. And, thinks I, I'll play fair; so I went to High
Church in the morning, and High Chapel in the afternoon."
"A right and proper boy," said Joseph Poorgrass.
"Well, at High Church they pray singing, and worship all the colours
of the rainbow; and at High Chapel they pray preaching, and worship
drab and whitewash only. And then--I didn't see no more of Miss
Everdene at all."
"Why didn't you say so afore, then?" exclaimed Oak, with much
disappointment.
"Ah," said Matthew Moon, "she'll wish her cake dough if so be she's
over intimate with that man."
"She's not over intimate with him," said Gabriel, indignantly.
"She would know better," said Coggan. "Our mis'ess has too much
sense under they knots of black hair to do such a mad thing."
"You see, he's not a coarse, ignorant man, for he was well brought
up," said Matthew, dubiously. "'Twas only wildness that made him a
soldier, and maids rather like your man of sin."
"Now, Cain Ball," said Gabriel restlessly, "can you swear in the most
awful form that the woman you saw was Miss Everdene?"
"Cain Ball, you be no longer a babe and suckling," said Joseph in the
sepulchral tone the circumstances demanded, "and you know what taking
an oath is. 'Tis a horrible testament mind ye, which you say and
seal with your blood-stone, and the prophet Matthew tells us that on
whomsoever it shall fall it will grind him to powder. Now, before
all the work-folk here assembled, can you swear to your words as the
shepherd asks ye?"
"Please no, Mister Oak!" said Cainy, looking from one to the other
with great uneasiness at the spiritual magnitude of the position. "I
don't mind saying 'tis true, but I don't like to say 'tis damn true,
if that's what you mane."
"Cain, Cain, how can you!" asked Joseph sternly. "You be asked to
swear in a holy manner, and you swear like wicked Shimei, the son of
Gera, who cursed as he came. Young man, fie!"
"No, I don't! 'Tis you want to squander a pore boy's soul, Joseph
Poorgrass--that's what 'tis!" said Cain, beginning to cry. "All I
mane is that in common truth 'twas Miss Everdene and Sergeant Troy,
but in the horrible so-help-me truth that ye want to make of it
perhaps 'twas somebody else!"
"There's no getting at the rights of it," said Gabriel, turning to
his work.
"Cain Ball, you'll come to a bit of bread!" groaned Joseph Poorgrass.
Then the reapers' hooks were flourished again, and the old sounds
went on. Gabriel, without making any pretence of being lively, did
nothing to show that he was particularly dull. However, Coggan knew
pretty nearly how the land lay, and when they were in a nook together
he said--
"Don't take on about her, Gabriel. What difference does it make
whose sweetheart she is, since she can't be yours?"
"That's the very thing I say to myself," said Gabriel.
HOME AGAIN--A TRICKSTER
That same evening at dusk Gabriel was leaning over Coggan's
garden-gate, taking an up-and-down survey before retiring to rest.
A vehicle of some kind was softly creeping along the grassy margin of
the lane. From it spread the tones of two women talking. The tones
were natural and not at all suppressed. Oak instantly knew the voices
to be those of Bathsheba and Liddy.
The carriage came opposite and passed by. It was Miss Everdene's
gig, and Liddy and her mistress were the only occupants of the seat.
Liddy was asking questions about the city of Bath, and her companion
was answering them listlessly and unconcernedly. Both Bathsheba and
the horse seemed weary.
The exquisite relief of finding that she was here again, safe and
sound, overpowered all reflection, and Oak could only luxuriate in
the sense of it. All grave reports were forgotten.
He lingered and lingered on, till there was no difference between the
eastern and western expanses of sky, and the timid hares began to
limp courageously round the dim hillocks. Gabriel might have been
there an additional half-hour when a dark form walked slowly by.
"Good-night, Gabriel," the passer said.
It was Boldwood. "Good-night, sir," said Gabriel.
Boldwood likewise vanished up the road, and Oak shortly afterwards
turned indoors to bed.
Farmer Boldwood went on towards Miss Everdene's house. He reached
the front, and approaching the entrance, saw a light in the parlour.
The blind was not drawn down, and inside the room was Bathsheba,
looking over some papers or letters. Her back was towards Boldwood.
He went to the door, knocked, and waited with tense muscles and an
aching brow.
Boldwood had not been outside his garden since his meeting with
Bathsheba in the road to Yalbury. Silent and alone, he had remained
in moody meditation on woman's ways, deeming as essentials of the
whole sex the accidents of the single one of their number he had ever
closely beheld. By degrees a more charitable temper had pervaded
him, and this was the reason of his sally to-night. He had come to
apologize and beg forgiveness of Bathsheba with something like a
sense of shame at his violence, having but just now learnt that she
had returned--only from a visit to Liddy, as he supposed, the Bath
escapade being quite unknown to him.
He inquired for Miss Everdene. Liddy's manner was odd, but he did
not notice it. She went in, leaving him standing there, and in her
absence the blind of the room containing Bathsheba was pulled down.
Boldwood augured ill from that sign. Liddy came out.
"My mistress cannot see you, sir," she said.
The farmer instantly went out by the gate. He was unforgiven--that
was the issue of it all. He had seen her who was to him
simultaneously a delight and a torture, sitting in the room he had
shared with her as a peculiarly privileged guest only a little
earlier in the summer, and she had denied him an entrance there now.
Boldwood did not hurry homeward. It was ten o'clock at least, when,
walking deliberately through the lower part of Weatherbury, he heard
the carrier's spring van entering the village. The van ran to and
from a town in a northern direction, and it was owned and driven by
a Weatherbury man, at the door of whose house it now pulled up. The
lamp fixed to the head of the hood illuminated a scarlet and gilded
form, who was the first to alight.
"Ah!" said Boldwood to himself, "come to see her again."
Troy entered the carrier's house, which had been the place of his
lodging on his last visit to his native place. Boldwood was moved
by a sudden determination. He hastened home. In ten minutes he was
back again, and made as if he were going to call upon Troy at the
carrier's. But as he approached, some one opened the door and came
out. He heard this person say "Good-night" to the inmates, and the
voice was Troy's. This was strange, coming so immediately after
his arrival. Boldwood, however, hastened up to him. Troy had what
appeared to be a carpet-bag in his hand--the same that he had brought
with him. It seemed as if he were going to leave again this very
night.
Troy turned up the hill and quickened his pace. Boldwood stepped
forward.
"Sergeant Troy?"
"Yes--I'm Sergeant Troy."
"Just arrived from up the country, I think?"
"Just arrived from Bath."
"I am William Boldwood."
"Indeed."
The tone in which this word was uttered was all that had been wanted
to bring Boldwood to the point.
"I wish to speak a word with you," he said.
"What about?"
"About her who lives just ahead there--and about a woman you have
wronged."
"I wonder at your impertinence," said Troy, moving on.
"Now look here," said Boldwood, standing in front of him, "wonder or
not, you are going to hold a conversation with me."
Troy heard the dull determination in Boldwood's voice, looked at his
stalwart frame, then at the thick cudgel he carried in his hand. He
remembered it was past ten o'clock. It seemed worth while to be civil
to Boldwood.
"Very well, I'll listen with pleasure," said Troy, placing his bag on
the ground, "only speak low, for somebody or other may overhear us in
the farmhouse there."
"Well then--I know a good deal concerning your Fanny Robin's
attachment to you. I may say, too, that I believe I am the only
person in the village, excepting Gabriel Oak, who does know it. You
ought to marry her."
"I suppose I ought. Indeed, I wish to, but I cannot."
"Why?"
Troy was about to utter something hastily; he then checked himself
and said, "I am too poor." His voice was changed. Previously it had
had a devil-may-care tone. It was the voice of a trickster now.
Boldwood's present mood was not critical enough to notice tones. He
continued, "I may as well speak plainly; and understand, I don't
wish to enter into the questions of right or wrong, woman's honour
and shame, or to express any opinion on your conduct. I intend a
business transaction with you."
"I see," said Troy. "Suppose we sit down here."
An old tree trunk lay under the hedge immediately opposite, and they
sat down.
"I was engaged to be married to Miss Everdene," said Boldwood, "but
you came and--"
"Not engaged," said Troy.
"As good as engaged."
"If I had not turned up she might have become engaged to you."
"Hang might!"
"Would, then."
"If you had not come I should certainly--yes, CERTAINLY--have been
accepted by this time. If you had not seen her you might have been
married to Fanny. Well, there's too much difference between Miss
Everdene's station and your own for this flirtation with her ever to
benefit you by ending in marriage. So all I ask is, don't molest her
any more. Marry Fanny. I'll make it worth your while."
"How will you?"
"I'll pay you well now, I'll settle a sum of money upon her, and
I'll see that you don't suffer from poverty in the future. I'll put
it clearly. Bathsheba is only playing with you: you are too poor
for her as I said; so give up wasting your time about a great match
you'll never make for a moderate and rightful match you may make
to-morrow; take up your carpet-bag, turn about, leave Weatherbury
now, this night, and you shall take fifty pounds with you. Fanny
shall have fifty to enable her to prepare for the wedding, when you
have told me where she is living, and she shall have five hundred
paid down on her wedding-day."
In making this statement Boldwood's voice revealed only too clearly
a consciousness of the weakness of his position, his aims, and his
method. His manner had lapsed quite from that of the firm and
dignified Boldwood of former times; and such a scheme as he had now
engaged in he would have condemned as childishly imbecile only a few
months ago. We discern a grand force in the lover which he lacks
whilst a free man; but there is a breadth of vision in the free
man which in the lover we vainly seek. Where there is much bias
there must be some narrowness, and love, though added emotion, is
subtracted capacity. Boldwood exemplified this to an abnormal
degree: he knew nothing of Fanny Robin's circumstances or
whereabouts, he knew nothing of Troy's possibilities, yet that was
what he said.
"I like Fanny best," said Troy; "and if, as you say, Miss Everdene is
out of my reach, why I have all to gain by accepting your money, and
marrying Fan. But she's only a servant."
"Never mind--do you agree to my arrangement?"
"I do."
"Ah!" said Boldwood, in a more elastic voice. "Oh, Troy, if you like
her best, why then did you step in here and injure my happiness?"
"I love Fanny best now," said Troy. "But Bathsh--Miss Everdene
inflamed me, and displaced Fanny for a time. It is over now."
"Why should it be over so soon? And why then did you come here
again?"
"There are weighty reasons. Fifty pounds at once, you said!"
"I did," said Boldwood, "and here they are--fifty sovereigns." He
handed Troy a small packet.
"You have everything ready--it seems that you calculated on my
accepting them," said the sergeant, taking the packet.
"I thought you might accept them," said Boldwood.
"You've only my word that the programme shall be adhered to, whilst
I at any rate have fifty pounds."
"I had thought of that, and I have considered that if I can't appeal
to your honour I can trust to your--well, shrewdness we'll call
it--not to lose five hundred pounds in prospect, and also make a
bitter enemy of a man who is willing to be an extremely useful
friend."
"Stop, listen!" said Troy in a whisper.
A light pit-pat was audible upon the road just above them.
"By George--'tis she," he continued. "I must go on and meet her."
"She--who?"
"Bathsheba."
"Bathsheba--out alone at this time o' night!" said Boldwood in
amazement, and starting up. "Why must you meet her?"
"She was expecting me to-night--and I must now speak to her, and wish
her good-bye, according to your wish."
"I don't see the necessity of speaking."
"It can do no harm--and she'll be wandering about looking for me if
I don't. You shall hear all I say to her. It will help you in your
love-making when I am gone."
"Your tone is mocking."
"Oh no. And remember this, if she does not know what has become of
me, she will think more about me than if I tell her flatly I have
come to give her up."
"Will you confine your words to that one point?--Shall I hear every
word you say?"
"Every word. Now sit still there, and hold my carpet bag for me, and
mark what you hear."
The light footstep came closer, halting occasionally, as if the
walker listened for a sound. Troy whistled a double note in a soft,
fluty tone.
"Come to that, is it!" murmured Boldwood, uneasily.
"You promised silence," said Troy.
"I promise again."
Troy stepped forward.
"Frank, dearest, is that you?" The tones were Bathsheba's.
"O God!" said Boldwood.
"Yes," said Troy to her.
"How late you are," she continued, tenderly. "Did you come by the
carrier? I listened and heard his wheels entering the village, but
it was some time ago, and I had almost given you up, Frank."
"I was sure to come," said Frank. "You knew I should, did you not?"
"Well, I thought you would," she said, playfully; "and, Frank, it
is so lucky! There's not a soul in my house but me to-night. I've
packed them all off so nobody on earth will know of your visit to
your lady's bower. Liddy wanted to go to her grandfather's to tell
him about her holiday, and I said she might stay with them till
to-morrow--when you'll be gone again."
"Capital," said Troy. "But, dear me, I had better go back for my
bag, because my slippers and brush and comb are in it; you run home
whilst I fetch it, and I'll promise to be in your parlour in ten
minutes."
"Yes." She turned and tripped up the hill again.
During the progress of this dialogue there was a nervous twitching
of Boldwood's tightly closed lips, and his face became bathed in a
clammy dew. He now started forward towards Troy. Troy turned to
him and took up the bag.
"Shall I tell her I have come to give her up and cannot marry her?"
said the soldier, mockingly.
"No, no; wait a minute. I want to say more to you--more to you!"
said Boldwood, in a hoarse whisper.
"Now," said Troy, "you see my dilemma. Perhaps I am a bad man--the
victim of my impulses--led away to do what I ought to leave undone.
I can't, however, marry them both. And I have two reasons for
choosing Fanny. First, I like her best upon the whole, and second,
you make it worth my while."
At the same instant Boldwood sprang upon him, and held him by the
neck. Troy felt Boldwood's grasp slowly tightening. The move was
absolutely unexpected.
"A moment," he gasped. "You are injuring her you love!"
"Well, what do you mean?" said the farmer.
"Give me breath," said Troy.
Boldwood loosened his hand, saying, "By Heaven, I've a mind to kill
you!"
"And ruin her."
"Save her."
"Oh, how can she be saved now, unless I marry her?"
Boldwood groaned. He reluctantly released the soldier, and flung him
back against the hedge. "Devil, you torture me!" said he.
Troy rebounded like a ball, and was about to make a dash at the
farmer; but he checked himself, saying lightly--
"It is not worth while to measure my strength with you. Indeed it
is a barbarous way of settling a quarrel. I shall shortly leave the
army because of the same conviction. Now after that revelation of
how the land lies with Bathsheba, 'twould be a mistake to kill me,
would it not?"
"'Twould be a mistake to kill you," repeated Boldwood, mechanically,
with a bowed head.
"Better kill yourself."
"Far better."
"I'm glad you see it."
"Troy, make her your wife, and don't act upon what I arranged just
now. The alternative is dreadful, but take Bathsheba; I give her up!
She must love you indeed to sell soul and body to you so utterly as
she has done. Wretched woman--deluded woman--you are, Bathsheba!"
"But about Fanny?"
"Bathsheba is a woman well to do," continued Boldwood, in nervous
anxiety, "and, Troy, she will make a good wife; and, indeed, she is
worth your hastening on your marriage with her!"
"But she has a will--not to say a temper, and I shall be a mere slave
to her. I could do anything with poor Fanny Robin."
"Troy," said Boldwood, imploringly, "I'll do anything for you, only
don't desert her; pray don't desert her, Troy."
"Which, poor Fanny?"
"No; Bathsheba Everdene. Love her best! Love her tenderly! How
shall I get you to see how advantageous it will be to you to secure
her at once?"
"I don't wish to secure her in any new way."
Boldwood's arm moved spasmodically towards Troy's person again. He
repressed the instinct, and his form drooped as with pain.
Troy went on--
"I shall soon purchase my discharge, and then--"
"But I wish you to hasten on this marriage! It will be better for
you both. You love each other, and you must let me help you to do
it."
"How?"
"Why, by settling the five hundred on Bathsheba instead of Fanny, to
enable you to marry at once. No; she wouldn't have it of me. I'll
pay it down to you on the wedding-day."
Troy paused in secret amazement at Boldwood's wild infatuation. He
carelessly said, "And am I to have anything now?"
"Yes, if you wish to. But I have not much additional money with me.
I did not expect this; but all I have is yours."
Boldwood, more like a somnambulist than a wakeful man, pulled out the
large canvas bag he carried by way of a purse, and searched it.
"I have twenty-one pounds more with me," he said. "Two notes and a
sovereign. But before I leave you I must have a paper signed--"
"Pay me the money, and we'll go straight to her parlour, and make any
arrangement you please to secure my compliance with your wishes. But
she must know nothing of this cash business."
"Nothing, nothing," said Boldwood, hastily. "Here is the sum, and
if you'll come to my house we'll write out the agreement for the
remainder, and the terms also."
"First we'll call upon her."
"But why? Come with me to-night, and go with me to-morrow to the
surrogate's."
"But she must be consulted; at any rate informed."
"Very well; go on."
They went up the hill to Bathsheba's house. When they stood at the
entrance, Troy said, "Wait here a moment." Opening the door, he
glided inside, leaving the door ajar.
Boldwood waited. In two minutes a light appeared in the passage.
Boldwood then saw that the chain had been fastened across the door.
Troy appeared inside, carrying a bedroom candlestick.
"What, did you think I should break in?" said Boldwood,
contemptuously.
"Oh, no, it is merely my humour to secure things. Will you read this
a moment? I'll hold the light."
Troy handed a folded newspaper through the slit between door and
doorpost, and put the candle close. "That's the paragraph," he said,
placing his finger on a line.
Boldwood looked and read--
MARRIAGES.
On the 17th inst., at St. Ambrose's Church, Bath, by the
Rev. G. Mincing, B.A., Francis Troy, only son of the late
Edward Troy, Esq., M.D., of Weatherbury, and sergeant with
Dragoon Guards, to Bathsheba, only surviving daughter of
the late Mr. John Everdene, of Casterbridge.
"This may be called Fort meeting Feeble, hey, Boldwood?" said Troy.
A low gurgle of derisive laughter followed the words.
The paper fell from Boldwood's hands. Troy continued--
"Fifty pounds to marry Fanny. Good. Twenty-one pounds not to marry
Fanny, but Bathsheba. Good. Finale: already Bathsheba's husband.
Now, Boldwood, yours is the ridiculous fate which always attends
interference between a man and his wife. And another word. Bad as I
am, I am not such a villain as to make the marriage or misery of any
woman a matter of huckster and sale. Fanny has long ago left me. I
don't know where she is. I have searched everywhere. Another word
yet. You say you love Bathsheba; yet on the merest apparent evidence
you instantly believe in her dishonour. A fig for such love! Now
that I've taught you a lesson, take your money back again."
"I will not; I will not!" said Boldwood, in a hiss.
"Anyhow I won't have it," said Troy, contemptuously. He wrapped the
packet of gold in the notes, and threw the whole into the road.
Boldwood shook his clenched fist at him. "You juggler of Satan! You
black hound! But I'll punish you yet; mark me, I'll punish you yet!"
Another peal of laughter. Troy then closed the door, and locked
himself in.
Throughout the whole of that night Boldwood's dark form might have
been seen walking about the hills and downs of Weatherbury like an
unhappy Shade in the Mournful Fields by Acheron.
| 11,181 | Chapters 31 to 34 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000853/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/maddingcrowd/section6/ | Bathsheba leaves one evening soon afterward with the intention of visiting Liddy. She has written to Boldwood to refuse him and does not want to see him when he returns from his trip. Troy is in Bath and is planning to return to Weatherbury in the next day or two. On her way to Liddy's, Bathsheba runs into Boldwood, who has received her letter but will not accept her refusal. The two of them have a heated discussion, in which he reminds her of the valentine she sent, and she tries to persuade him that it meant nothing. Finally, she claims that she lacks warmth. Boldwood responds by telling her that he knows she loves Troy, and he chastises her for being "dazzled by brass and scarlet. " She admits that she does love Troy and has kissed him. He flies into a jealous rage, declaring, "I pray God he may not come into my sight for I may be tempted beyond myself." Bathsheba fears greatly for Troy. Chapter 32 opens in the perspective of the wife of one of Bathsheba's farm laborers, a woman by the name of Maryann Money. After Bathsheba has left, Maryann sees someone take a horse from the stable. Thinking it is a thief she alerts Gabriel and Coggan, and the two set off after the rider. When they finally catch up to him or her, after a long chase, they discover it is Bathsheba, secretly following Troy to Bath. They agree not to tell anyone what they have seen, but Gabriel warns Bathsheba that women generally should not travel alone at night. The chapter ends with a summary of the events from Bathsheba's perspective, explaining that she was so frightened by Boldwood's words that she determined to warn Troy not to return to Weatherbury. The next chapter spans two weeks at the farm during the oak harvest. No news of Bathsheba comes, except when Cainy Ball, one of the farm hands, comes back from seeing a doctor in Bath. He tells a group of farm workers that he saw the mistress enter a park arm-in-arm with a soldier. That night Gabriel hears voices and realizes that Liddy and Bathsheba have returned. Boldwood is also walking nearby, and he sees Sergeant Troy return to the carriage house. Boldwood tries to bribe Troy to marry Fanny Robin and leave Bathsheba alone. Troy claims to agree to the bribe but persuades Boldwood to wait and overhear his conversation with Bathsheba first, whom he now awaits. She comes and Boldwood hears her invite Troy back to the house, and she calls him by his first name, Frank. At this, Boldwood abandons all hope, thinking she has now lost all sense of propriety. When Bathsheba has gone back to the house, Boldwood tells Troy he will now pay him to marry Bathsheba rather than Fanny, reasoning that marriage will be more honorable than the current state of affairs. At this, however, Troy brings Boldwood back to the farm and shows him a newspaper announcement revealing that he and Bathsheba are, in fact, already married. He refuses Boldwood's money but has utterly humiliated him. Boldwood wanders the fields all night after Troy locks him out of the house. | Commentary Aside from advancing the plot with the off-stage marriage of Bathsheba and Troy, this short section provides crucial insights into the characters of Bathsheba, Boldwood, and Troy. Having shown us the effect of a series of meetings with Troy on Bathsheba's feelings, Hardy now takes Troy away and shows us how his absence affects her. Interestingly, very little of this section is shown from her point of view. Instead, we see her behavior as it strikes people who know her only distantly, such as Maryann Money and the farm workers. Chapter 32 is a particularly good example. Maryann watches someone take the horse from the stables and has no idea that Bathsheba would act so rashly as to ride to Bath at night without telling anyone. Thus, rather than seeing the series of decisions that lead up to her strange act, we see the act from afar. Hardy's use of perspective here makes the strange irrationality of Bathsheba's actions much more clear to us than it would be if we were inside Bathsheba's consciousness. Hardy does not allow us to sympathize with her but rather asks us to evaluate her behavior; the information with which he provides us gives us little choice but to judge this once strong and independent woman as increasingly foolish. A similar transformation occurs in Boldwood, as shown in particular through his desperate dealings with Troy. Troy has some perspective and is emotionally removed enough from the situation to manipulate Boldwood and utterly humiliate the man who once was above all weakness. After showing him the wedding announcement, Troy mocks him, calling him ridiculous. This scene reveals a cruel and heartless aspect of Troy's character that makes the reader fear for Bathsheba. Cainy Ball's report about Bath is a comic scene, in which the farm laborers serve a dual role, acting both as a kind of Greek chorus, commenting on what has happened, and also as a kind of comic relief. | 538 | 326 | [
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5,658 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/21.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Lord Jim/section_20_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapter 21 | chapter 21 | null | {"name": "Chapter 21", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim30.asp", "summary": "Marlow starts the second part of Jim's story with a description of Patusan, an extremely isolated island in Malaya that is controlled by warring forces. Patusan has a trading post owned by Stein and presently managed by Cornelius, a cunning, dishonest, and wretched man. Stein wants to send Jim to Patusan to replace Cornelius. When Marlow tells Jim the plan, he does not express his feelings, but it is quite clear that he likes the idea. Marlow then flashes forward two years. He goes to visit Jim in Patusan and is delighted to see how well his friend is doing as the resident manager of the outpost. It is obvious that Jim feels successful; he has mastered his self-defeating romanticism.", "analysis": "Notes The choice of Patusan as Jim's place of rehabilitation is significant. It is an island so remote that most merchants do not even know about it. It offers the perfect setting for Jim to be able to live without fear of discovery; here there will be no mention of the Patna. The description of Patusan is beautiful. It is a small island divided by a valley separating two hills facing each other. The fissure between the hills symbolizes the split in Jim's being, his romantic side vs. his real side. The setting of the Patusan isle also has a symbolic meaning. The fissured hill with the moon floating out of the chasm is the symbol of Jim's fate; he is to be lonely and separated not only from his own kind but also from his own self. But he will leave his earthly failings behind and start afresh in this unearthly place."} |
'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!'
| 2,395 | Chapter 21 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim30.asp | Marlow starts the second part of Jim's story with a description of Patusan, an extremely isolated island in Malaya that is controlled by warring forces. Patusan has a trading post owned by Stein and presently managed by Cornelius, a cunning, dishonest, and wretched man. Stein wants to send Jim to Patusan to replace Cornelius. When Marlow tells Jim the plan, he does not express his feelings, but it is quite clear that he likes the idea. Marlow then flashes forward two years. He goes to visit Jim in Patusan and is delighted to see how well his friend is doing as the resident manager of the outpost. It is obvious that Jim feels successful; he has mastered his self-defeating romanticism. | Notes The choice of Patusan as Jim's place of rehabilitation is significant. It is an island so remote that most merchants do not even know about it. It offers the perfect setting for Jim to be able to live without fear of discovery; here there will be no mention of the Patna. The description of Patusan is beautiful. It is a small island divided by a valley separating two hills facing each other. The fissure between the hills symbolizes the split in Jim's being, his romantic side vs. his real side. The setting of the Patusan isle also has a symbolic meaning. The fissured hill with the moon floating out of the chasm is the symbol of Jim's fate; he is to be lonely and separated not only from his own kind but also from his own self. But he will leave his earthly failings behind and start afresh in this unearthly place. | 120 | 153 | [
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110 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/07.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_2_part_1.txt | Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 7 | chapter 7 | null | {"name": "CHAPTER 7", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD17.asp", "summary": "On the day of her departure, Tess dresses in her best clothes at the insistence of her mother, who is still dreaming about her daughter marrying Alec. Joan is delighted with Tess's appearance and feels confident that it will be difficult for Alec to ignore her beauty. Tess's younger brothers and sisters are jubilant about the thought of their sister marrying a gentleman. When Tess is ready to leave, Joan begins to worry about sending her daughter away. She walks with Tess for awhile, and some of the children follow along. As she approaches the cart that will take her luggage, Tess bids her family a quick good- bye. She then looks up and sees Alec, who has come for her. When she climbs up beside him, she can still see her family in the distance. As she thinks about their needs, Tess knows that she is doing the correct thing by going to Trantridge. It is now her family that is uncertain; they are unhappy and tearful about her departure. For the first time, Joan is apprehensive about sending her away with a stranger and regrets not having made inquiries about him.", "analysis": "Notes Joan is fully aware of her family's plight in life. She also knows that Tess' rustic beauty is the only thing to save them from poverty. When Tess tells her mother about the D'Urberville's son, Joan thinks that Alec must have great admiration for her daughter. She, therefore, insists that Tess dress in her best clothes to go to Trantridge in order to impress Alec further. She wants her daughter to wed this wealthy young man, for matrimony is the most convenient way of gaining wealth and status. A D'Urberville marriage would benefit the whole family. Unfortunately, Joan is not sending Tess away to a marriage to Alec; instead, she her daughter will soon endure a seduction by this cruel man. It is important to note Joan's misgivings during the chapter. At first she thinks it is wonderful that Tess is going to Trantridge. Then she is saddened by the thought of losing her daughter. Finally, she feels guilty and nervous about sending Tess away with a stranger that she knows nothing about. Joan's misgivings are well founded and serve as a flashback to the feelings Tess has had upon meeting Alec. Joan's feelings also foreshadow the future trouble that Alec will cause"} |
On the morning appointed for her departure Tess was awake before
dawn--at the marginal minute of the dark when the grove is still
mute, save for one prophetic bird who sings with a clear-voiced
conviction that he at least knows the correct time of day, the rest
preserving silence as if equally convinced that he is mistaken. She
remained upstairs packing till breakfast-time, and then came down in
her ordinary week-day clothes, her Sunday apparel being carefully
folded in her box.
Her mother expostulated. "You will never set out to see your folks
without dressing up more the dand than that?"
"But I am going to work!" said Tess.
"Well, yes," said Mrs Durbeyfield; and in a private tone, "at first
there mid be a little pretence o't ... But I think it will be wiser
of 'ee to put your best side outward," she added.
"Very well; I suppose you know best," replied Tess with calm
abandonment.
And to please her parent the girl put herself quite in Joan's hands,
saying serenely--"Do what you like with me, mother."
Mrs Durbeyfield was only too delighted at this tractability.
First she fetched a great basin, and washed Tess's hair with such
thoroughness that when dried and brushed it looked twice as much as
at other times. She tied it with a broader pink ribbon than usual.
Then she put upon her the white frock that Tess had worn at the
club-walking, the airy fulness of which, supplementing her enlarged
_coiffure_, imparted to her developing figure an amplitude which
belied her age, and might cause her to be estimated as a woman when
she was not much more than a child.
"I declare there's a hole in my stocking-heel!" said Tess.
"Never mind holes in your stockings--they don't speak! When I was a
maid, so long as I had a pretty bonnet the devil might ha' found me
in heels."
Her mother's pride in the girl's appearance led her to step back,
like a painter from his easel, and survey her work as a whole.
"You must zee yourself!" she cried. "It is much better than you was
t'other day."
As the looking-glass was only large enough to reflect a very small
portion of Tess's person at one time, Mrs Durbeyfield hung a black
cloak outside the casement, and so made a large reflector of the
panes, as it is the wont of bedecking cottagers to do. After this
she went downstairs to her husband, who was sitting in the lower
room.
"I'll tell 'ee what 'tis, Durbeyfield," said she exultingly; "he'll
never have the heart not to love her. But whatever you do, don't zay
too much to Tess of his fancy for her, and this chance she has got.
She is such an odd maid that it mid zet her against him, or against
going there, even now. If all goes well, I shall certainly be for
making some return to pa'son at Stagfoot Lane for telling us--dear,
good man!"
However, as the moment for the girl's setting out drew nigh, when the
first excitement of the dressing had passed off, a slight misgiving
found place in Joan Durbeyfield's mind. It prompted the matron to
say that she would walk a little way--as far as to the point where
the acclivity from the valley began its first steep ascent to
the outer world. At the top Tess was going to be met with the
spring-cart sent by the Stoke-d'Urbervilles, and her box had already
been wheeled ahead towards this summit by a lad with trucks, to be in
readiness.
Seeing their mother put on her bonnet, the younger children clamoured
to go with her.
"I do want to walk a little-ways wi' Sissy, now she's going to marry
our gentleman-cousin, and wear fine cloze!"
"Now," said Tess, flushing and turning quickly, "I'll hear no more o'
that! Mother, how could you ever put such stuff into their heads?"
"Going to work, my dears, for our rich relation, and help get enough
money for a new horse," said Mrs Durbeyfield pacifically.
"Goodbye, father," said Tess, with a lumpy throat.
"Goodbye, my maid," said Sir John, raising his head from his breast
as he suspended his nap, induced by a slight excess this morning in
honour of the occasion. "Well, I hope my young friend will like such
a comely sample of his own blood. And tell'n, Tess, that being sunk,
quite, from our former grandeur, I'll sell him the title--yes, sell
it--and at no onreasonable figure."
"Not for less than a thousand pound!" cried Lady Durbeyfield.
"Tell'n--I'll take a thousand pound. Well, I'll take less, when
I come to think o't. He'll adorn it better than a poor lammicken
feller like myself can. Tell'n he shall hae it for a hundred. But
I won't stand upon trifles--tell'n he shall hae it for fifty--for
twenty pound! Yes, twenty pound--that's the lowest. Dammy, family
honour is family honour, and I won't take a penny less!"
Tess's eyes were too full and her voice too choked to utter the
sentiments that were in her. She turned quickly, and went out.
So the girls and their mother all walked together, a child on each
side of Tess, holding her hand and looking at her meditatively from
time to time, as at one who was about to do great things; her mother
just behind with the smallest; the group forming a picture of honest
beauty flanked by innocence, and backed by simple-souled vanity.
They followed the way till they reached the beginning of the ascent,
on the crest of which the vehicle from Trantridge was to receive her,
this limit having been fixed to save the horse the labour of the last
slope. Far away behind the first hills the cliff-like dwellings
of Shaston broke the line of the ridge. Nobody was visible in the
elevated road which skirted the ascent save the lad whom they had
sent on before them, sitting on the handle of the barrow that
contained all Tess's worldly possessions.
"Bide here a bit, and the cart will soon come, no doubt," said Mrs
Durbeyfield. "Yes, I see it yonder!"
It had come--appearing suddenly from behind the forehead of the
nearest upland, and stopping beside the boy with the barrow. Her
mother and the children thereupon decided to go no farther, and
bidding them a hasty goodbye, Tess bent her steps up the hill.
They saw her white shape draw near to the spring-cart, on which her
box was already placed. But before she had quite reached it another
vehicle shot out from a clump of trees on the summit, came round the
bend of the road there, passed the luggage-cart, and halted beside
Tess, who looked up as if in great surprise.
Her mother perceived, for the first time, that the second vehicle was
not a humble conveyance like the first, but a spick-and-span gig or
dog-cart, highly varnished and equipped. The driver was a young man
of three- or four-and-twenty, with a cigar between his teeth; wearing
a dandy cap, drab jacket, breeches of the same hue, white neckcloth,
stick-up collar, and brown driving-gloves--in short, he was the
handsome, horsey young buck who had visited Joan a week or two before
to get her answer about Tess.
Mrs Durbeyfield clapped her hands like a child. Then she looked
down, then stared again. Could she be deceived as to the meaning of
this?
"Is dat the gentleman-kinsman who'll make Sissy a lady?" asked the
youngest child.
Meanwhile the muslined form of Tess could be seen standing still,
undecided, beside this turn-out, whose owner was talking to her.
Her seeming indecision was, in fact, more than indecision: it was
misgiving. She would have preferred the humble cart. The young
man dismounted, and appeared to urge her to ascend. She turned her
face down the hill to her relatives, and regarded the little group.
Something seemed to quicken her to a determination; possibly the
thought that she had killed Prince. She suddenly stepped up; he
mounted beside her, and immediately whipped on the horse. In a
moment they had passed the slow cart with the box, and disappeared
behind the shoulder of the hill.
Directly Tess was out of sight, and the interest of the matter as a
drama was at an end, the little ones' eyes filled with tears. The
youngest child said, "I wish poor, poor Tess wasn't gone away to be a
lady!" and, lowering the corners of his lips, burst out crying. The
new point of view was infectious, and the next child did likewise,
and then the next, till the whole three of them wailed loud.
There were tears also in Joan Durbeyfield's eyes as she turned to
go home. But by the time she had got back to the village she was
passively trusting to the favour of accident. However, in bed that
night she sighed, and her husband asked her what was the matter.
"Oh, I don't know exactly," she said. "I was thinking that perhaps
it would ha' been better if Tess had not gone."
"Oughtn't ye to have thought of that before?"
"Well, 'tis a chance for the maid--Still, if 'twere the doing again,
I wouldn't let her go till I had found out whether the gentleman
is really a good-hearted young man and choice over her as his
kinswoman."
"Yes, you ought, perhaps, to ha' done that," snored Sir John.
Joan Durbeyfield always managed to find consolation somewhere: "Well,
as one of the genuine stock, she ought to make her way with 'en, if
she plays her trump card aright. And if he don't marry her afore he
will after. For that he's all afire wi' love for her any eye can
see."
"What's her trump card? Her d'Urberville blood, you mean?"
"No, stupid; her face--as 'twas mine."
| 1,532 | CHAPTER 7 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD17.asp | On the day of her departure, Tess dresses in her best clothes at the insistence of her mother, who is still dreaming about her daughter marrying Alec. Joan is delighted with Tess's appearance and feels confident that it will be difficult for Alec to ignore her beauty. Tess's younger brothers and sisters are jubilant about the thought of their sister marrying a gentleman. When Tess is ready to leave, Joan begins to worry about sending her daughter away. She walks with Tess for awhile, and some of the children follow along. As she approaches the cart that will take her luggage, Tess bids her family a quick good- bye. She then looks up and sees Alec, who has come for her. When she climbs up beside him, she can still see her family in the distance. As she thinks about their needs, Tess knows that she is doing the correct thing by going to Trantridge. It is now her family that is uncertain; they are unhappy and tearful about her departure. For the first time, Joan is apprehensive about sending her away with a stranger and regrets not having made inquiries about him. | Notes Joan is fully aware of her family's plight in life. She also knows that Tess' rustic beauty is the only thing to save them from poverty. When Tess tells her mother about the D'Urberville's son, Joan thinks that Alec must have great admiration for her daughter. She, therefore, insists that Tess dress in her best clothes to go to Trantridge in order to impress Alec further. She wants her daughter to wed this wealthy young man, for matrimony is the most convenient way of gaining wealth and status. A D'Urberville marriage would benefit the whole family. Unfortunately, Joan is not sending Tess away to a marriage to Alec; instead, she her daughter will soon endure a seduction by this cruel man. It is important to note Joan's misgivings during the chapter. At first she thinks it is wonderful that Tess is going to Trantridge. Then she is saddened by the thought of losing her daughter. Finally, she feels guilty and nervous about sending Tess away with a stranger that she knows nothing about. Joan's misgivings are well founded and serve as a flashback to the feelings Tess has had upon meeting Alec. Joan's feelings also foreshadow the future trouble that Alec will cause | 193 | 204 | [
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110 | false | novelguide | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/27.txt | finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_4_part_3.txt | Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter xxvii | chapter xxvii | null | {"name": "Chapter XXVII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase4-chapter25-34", "summary": "When Angel returns to the dairy, Tess is waking up from the afternoon nap, required during the long summer working hours. Struck by her beauty, he asks her to marry him. She becomes visibly agitated, tells him that she loves him, but that it's out of the question for her to marry him: \"Oh, Mr. Clare--I cannot be your wife\". He dismisses her answer and tells her to take her time but never lets up in persuading her otherwise. Despite her protests, Tess knows that that she cannot ultimately refuse him", "analysis": ""} |
An up-hill and down-hill ride of twenty-odd miles through a garish
mid-day atmosphere brought him in the afternoon to a detached knoll
a mile or two west of Talbothays, whence he again looked into that
green trough of sappiness and humidity, the valley of the Var or
Froom. Immediately he began to descend from the upland to the fat
alluvial soil below, the atmosphere grew heavier; the languid perfume
of the summer fruits, the mists, the hay, the flowers, formed therein
a vast pool of odour which at this hour seemed to make the animals,
the very bees and butterflies drowsy. Clare was now so familiar with
the spot that he knew the individual cows by their names when, a long
distance off, he saw them dotted about the meads. It was with a
sense of luxury that he recognized his power of viewing life here
from its inner side, in a way that had been quite foreign to him in
his student-days; and, much as he loved his parents, he could not
help being aware that to come here, as now, after an experience of
home-life, affected him like throwing off splints and bandages; even
the one customary curb on the humours of English rural societies
being absent in this place, Talbothays having no resident landlord.
Not a human being was out of doors at the dairy. The denizens were
all enjoying the usual afternoon nap of an hour or so which the
exceedingly early hours kept in summer-time rendered a necessity.
At the door the wood-hooped pails, sodden and bleached by infinite
scrubbings, hung like hats on a stand upon the forked and peeled limb
of an oak fixed there for that purpose; all of them ready and dry
for the evening milking. Angel entered, and went through the silent
passages of the house to the back quarters, where he listened for a
moment. Sustained snores came from the cart-house, where some of
the men were lying down; the grunt and squeal of sweltering pigs
arose from the still further distance. The large-leaved rhubarb and
cabbage plants slept too, their broad limp surfaces hanging in the
sun like half-closed umbrellas.
He unbridled and fed his horse, and as he re-entered the house the
clock struck three. Three was the afternoon skimming-hour; and, with
the stroke, Clare heard the creaking of the floor-boards above, and
then the touch of a descending foot on the stairs. It was Tess's,
who in another moment came down before his eyes.
She had not heard him enter, and hardly realized his presence there.
She was yawning, and he saw the red interior of her mouth as if it
had been a snake's. She had stretched one arm so high above her
coiled-up cable of hair that he could see its satin delicacy above
the sunburn; her face was flushed with sleep, and her eyelids hung
heavy over their pupils. The brim-fulness of her nature breathed
from her. It was a moment when a woman's soul is more incarnate than
at any other time; when the most spiritual beauty bespeaks itself
flesh; and sex takes the outside place in the presentation.
Then those eyes flashed brightly through their filmy heaviness,
before the remainder of her face was well awake. With an oddly
compounded look of gladness, shyness, and surprise, she exclaimed--"O
Mr Clare! How you frightened me--I--"
There had not at first been time for her to think of the changed
relations which his declaration had introduced; but the full sense of
the matter rose up in her face when she encountered Clare's tender
look as he stepped forward to the bottom stair.
"Dear, darling Tessy!" he whispered, putting his arm round her, and
his face to her flushed cheek. "Don't, for Heaven's sake, Mister me
any more. I have hastened back so soon because of you!"
Tess's excitable heart beat against his by way of reply; and there
they stood upon the red-brick floor of the entry, the sun slanting in
by the window upon his back, as he held her tightly to his breast;
upon her inclining face, upon the blue veins of her temple, upon her
naked arm, and her neck, and into the depths of her hair. Having
been lying down in her clothes she was warm as a sunned cat. At
first she would not look straight up at him, but her eyes soon
lifted, and his plumbed the deepness of the ever-varying pupils, with
their radiating fibrils of blue, and black, and gray, and violet,
while she regarded him as Eve at her second waking might have
regarded Adam.
"I've got to go a-skimming," she pleaded, "and I have on'y old Deb to
help me to-day. Mrs Crick is gone to market with Mr Crick, and Retty
is not well, and the others are gone out somewhere, and won't be home
till milking."
As they retreated to the milk-house Deborah Fyander appeared on the
stairs.
"I have come back, Deborah," said Mr Clare, upwards. "So I can help
Tess with the skimming; and, as you are very tired, I am sure, you
needn't come down till milking-time."
Possibly the Talbothays milk was not very thoroughly skimmed that
afternoon. Tess was in a dream wherein familiar objects appeared
as having light and shade and position, but no particular outline.
Every time she held the skimmer under the pump to cool it for the
work her hand trembled, the ardour of his affection being so palpable
that she seemed to flinch under it like a plant in too burning a sun.
Then he pressed her again to his side, and when she had done running
her forefinger round the leads to cut off the cream-edge, he cleaned
it in nature's way; for the unconstrained manners of Talbothays dairy
came convenient now.
"I may as well say it now as later, dearest," he resumed gently. "I
wish to ask you something of a very practical nature, which I have
been thinking of ever since that day last week in the meads. I shall
soon want to marry, and, being a farmer, you see I shall require for
my wife a woman who knows all about the management of farms. Will
you be that woman, Tessy?"
He put it that way that she might not think he had yielded to an
impulse of which his head would disapprove.
She turned quite careworn. She had bowed to the inevitable result of
proximity, the necessity of loving him; but she had not calculated
upon this sudden corollary, which, indeed, Clare had put before her
without quite meaning himself to do it so soon. With pain that was
like the bitterness of dissolution she murmured the words of her
indispensable and sworn answer as an honourable woman.
"O Mr Clare--I cannot be your wife--I cannot be!"
The sound of her own decision seemed to break Tess's very heart, and
she bowed her face in her grief.
"But, Tess!" he said, amazed at her reply, and holding her still more
greedily close. "Do you say no? Surely you love me?"
"O yes, yes! And I would rather be yours than anybody's in the
world," returned the sweet and honest voice of the distressed girl.
"But I CANNOT marry you!"
"Tess," he said, holding her at arm's length, "you are engaged to
marry some one else!"
"No, no!"
"Then why do you refuse me?"
"I don't want to marry! I have not thought of doing it. I cannot!
I only want to love you."
"But why?"
Driven to subterfuge, she stammered--
"Your father is a parson, and your mother wouldn' like you to marry
such as me. She will want you to marry a lady."
"Nonsense--I have spoken to them both. That was partly why I went
home."
"I feel I cannot--never, never!" she echoed.
"Is it too sudden to be asked thus, my Pretty?"
"Yes--I did not expect it."
"If you will let it pass, please, Tessy, I will give you time," he
said. "It was very abrupt to come home and speak to you all at once.
I'll not allude to it again for a while."
She again took up the shining skimmer, held it beneath the pump, and
began anew. But she could not, as at other times, hit the exact
under-surface of the cream with the delicate dexterity required, try
as she might; sometimes she was cutting down into the milk, sometimes
in the air. She could hardly see, her eyes having filled with two
blurring tears drawn forth by a grief which, to this her best friend
and dear advocate, she could never explain.
"I can't skim--I can't!" she said, turning away from him.
Not to agitate and hinder her longer, the considerate Clare began
talking in a more general way:
You quite misapprehend my parents. They are the most simple-mannered
people alive, and quite unambitious. They are two of the few
remaining Evangelical school. Tessy, are you an Evangelical?"
"I don't know."
"You go to church very regularly, and our parson here is not very
High, they tell me."
Tess's ideas on the views of the parish clergyman, whom she heard
every week, seemed to be rather more vague than Clare's, who had
never heard him at all.
"I wish I could fix my mind on what I hear there more firmly than I
do," she remarked as a safe generality. "It is often a great sorrow
to me."
She spoke so unaffectedly that Angel was sure in his heart that his
father could not object to her on religious grounds, even though she
did not know whether her principles were High, Low or Broad. He
himself knew that, in reality, the confused beliefs which she held,
apparently imbibed in childhood, were, if anything, Tractarian as to
phraseology, and Pantheistic as to essence. Confused or otherwise,
to disturb them was his last desire:
Leave thou thy sister, when she prays,
Her early Heaven, her happy views;
Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse
A life that leads melodious days.
He had occasionally thought the counsel less honest than musical; but
he gladly conformed to it now.
He spoke further of the incidents of his visit, of his father's mode
of life, of his zeal for his principles; she grew serener, and the
undulations disappeared from her skimming; as she finished one lead
after another he followed her, and drew the plugs for letting down
the milk.
"I fancied you looked a little downcast when you came in," she
ventured to observe, anxious to keep away from the subject of
herself.
"Yes--well, my father had been talking a good deal to me of his
troubles and difficulties, and the subject always tends to depress
me. He is so zealous that he gets many snubs and buffetings from
people of a different way of thinking from himself, and I don't
like to hear of such humiliations to a man of his age, the more
particularly as I don't think earnestness does any good when carried
so far. He has been telling me of a very unpleasant scene in
which he took part quite recently. He went as the deputy of some
missionary society to preach in the neighbourhood of Trantridge, a
place forty miles from here, and made it his business to expostulate
with a lax young cynic he met with somewhere about there--son of some
landowner up that way--and who has a mother afflicted with blindness.
My father addressed himself to the gentleman point-blank, and there
was quite a disturbance. It was very foolish of my father, I
must say, to intrude his conversation upon a stranger when the
probabilities were so obvious that it would be useless. But whatever
he thinks to be his duty, that he'll do, in season or out of season;
and, of course, he makes many enemies, not only among the absolutely
vicious, but among the easy-going, who hate being bothered. He says
he glories in what happened, and that good may be done indirectly;
but I wish he would not wear himself out now he is getting old, and
would leave such pigs to their wallowing."
Tess's look had grown hard and worn, and her ripe mouth tragical; but
she no longer showed any tremulousness. Clare's revived thoughts of
his father prevented his noticing her particularly; and so they went
on down the white row of liquid rectangles till they had finished
and drained them off, when the other maids returned, and took their
pails, and Deb came to scald out the leads for the new milk. As
Tess withdrew to go afield to the cows he said to her softly--
"And my question, Tessy?"
"O no--no!" replied she with grave hopelessness, as one who had
heard anew the turmoil of her own past in the allusion to Alec
d'Urberville. "It CAN'T be!"
She went out towards the mead, joining the other milkmaids with
a bound, as if trying to make the open air drive away her sad
constraint. All the girls drew onward to the spot where the cows
were grazing in the farther mead, the bevy advancing with the bold
grace of wild animals--the reckless, unchastened motion of women
accustomed to unlimited space--in which they abandoned themselves to
the air as a swimmer to the wave. It seemed natural enough to him
now that Tess was again in sight to choose a mate from unconstrained
Nature, and not from the abodes of Art.
| 2,119 | Chapter XXVII | https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase4-chapter25-34 | When Angel returns to the dairy, Tess is waking up from the afternoon nap, required during the long summer working hours. Struck by her beauty, he asks her to marry him. She becomes visibly agitated, tells him that she loves him, but that it's out of the question for her to marry him: "Oh, Mr. Clare--I cannot be your wife". He dismisses her answer and tells her to take her time but never lets up in persuading her otherwise. Despite her protests, Tess knows that that she cannot ultimately refuse him | null | 91 | 1 | [
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5,658 | true | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_4_to_5.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/Lord Jim/section_1_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapters 4-5 | chapters 4-5 | null | {"name": "Chapters 4-5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-4-5", "summary": "The narrative jumps ahead a month or so, creating suspense regarding actually occurred on the Patna. Jim is now being questioned about the incident, via the official Inquiry of a police court in an unnamed English port town. He experiences an intense distance between the \"facts\" pursued by the assessors--one with \"thoughtful blue eyes\" and the other \"heavy, scornful\"--and his actual experience. Jim believes there was a collision with a \"water-logged wreck,\" which created a \"big hole below the waterline\" . Jim says he was fearful of a great mob panic and certain the steamer would sink like a \"lump of lead,\" and he now attempts to justify his actions and emotions at the time of the incident. For the reader, the real story is still cloaked in narrative mystery. As Jim scans the audience from the witness box, his eyes meet those of another man--who proves to be Marlow. The narrative cuts to Marlow on a \"verandah draped in motionless foliage and crowned with flowers\" . He now lifts the thread of the preceding narrative by remarking, \"My eyes met his for the first time at that inquiry,\" and he points out the notoriety of the affair, how it had been the subject of much talk . Near the harbor office, he sees the four men involved in the incident along the quay--his \"first view\" of Jim. In the hospital visiting one of his men, Marlow realizes that one of the castaways from the Patna is a patient, a man with a \"drooping white moustache\" . Tempted by the possibility of a firsthand account of the affair, Marlow inquires gently. The man asserts, \"I saw her go down.\" He seems delusional with his visions of reptiles filling up the ship. Marlow concludes that the man's account is not material to the inquiry.", "analysis": "The narrative has jumped ahead in time and, while creating dramatic suspense, it also marks the beginning of Conrad's inventive \"piecing together\" of the story of Jim. As the storyline leaps from the moment of strange vibration beneath the steamship to Jim's place on the witness stand, and then as he is questioned about the occurrence, the reader wonders what happened on the ship. Did Jim prove his mettle, and what was the fate of the hundreds of Muslim passengers on board? Despite the reader's position as inquirer, the narrator's perspective is omniscient, since the reader is told what is actually going on in Jim's mind as he offers his testimony about the facts. The disparity Jim experiences between the facts that the inquiry requires him to tell and his memory of the actual experience is crucial, and this difference is a fundamental problem that obsessively characterizes much of Conrad's work. Slim, cold facts can seldom provide more than a skeletal frame for any story or event or person. The rest of the picture is far more ambiguous and flexible, involving emotions, memory, and perception. These items can have a distorting effect on the facts, but they lend fullness to the understanding. Conrad apparently suggests that despite the risk of distortion, relaying the depth of experience is perhaps the best way to convey human truths. The narrative experiences a profound shift in perspective from the moment Jim looks out from his witness box, and at this point Marlow appears in the reader's eye. The change happens at the moment their eyes first touch. Jim, the reader learns, has experienced a feeling of kindred spirit or of some kind of intelligent and understanding communion, as though he knows Marlow already. This moment of recognition foreshadows the close relationship that will form between them, and it reinforces the repeated statement to be made by Marlow that Jim \"is one of us.\" The glimpse of solidarity at that moment is important to Jim, whose mental state is not unlike that of a \"prisoner\" or a \"wayfarer lost in a wilderness.\" Though the reader is in suspense regarding the fate of the ship and its passengers, as well as how Jim has come to be in the witness box, the reader is led to a sense of trust in Marlow, precisely because of Jim's initial impression. From there, Marlow becomes the teller of the story, sitting at a verandah before an audience, relating how Jim's eyes first met his during the inquiry. Marlow's perspective on Jim is both sympathetic and critical. When the novel shifts entirely into Marlow's voice, we infer that it is really Conrad's in a new guise, providing a kind of border-sphere around Jim's story."} |
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.
'Oh yes. I attended the inquiry,' he would say, 'and to this day I
haven't left off wondering why I went. I am willing to believe each of
us has a guardian angel, if you fellows will concede to me that each of
us has a familiar devil as well. I want you to own up, because I don't
like to feel exceptional in any way, and I know I have him--the devil,
I mean. I haven't seen him, of course, but I go upon circumstantial
evidence. He is there right enough, and, being malicious, he lets me in
for that kind of thing. What kind of thing, you ask? Why, the inquiry
thing, the yellow-dog thing--you wouldn't think a mangy, native tyke
would be allowed to trip up people in the verandah of a magistrate's
court, would you?--the kind of thing that by devious, unexpected, truly
diabolical ways causes me to run up against men with soft spots, with
hard spots, with hidden plague spots, by Jove! and loosens their tongues
at the sight of me for their infernal confidences; as though, forsooth,
I had no confidences to make to myself, as though--God help me!--I
didn't have enough confidential information about myself to harrow my
own soul till the end of my appointed time. And what I have done to be
thus favoured I want to know. I declare I am as full of my own concerns
as the next man, and I have as much memory as the average pilgrim in
this valley, so you see I am not particularly fit to be a receptacle of
confessions. Then why? Can't tell--unless it be to make time pass away
after dinner. Charley, my dear chap, your dinner was extremely good, and
in consequence these men here look upon a quiet rubber as a tumultuous
occupation. They wallow in your good chairs and think to themselves,
"Hang exertion. Let that Marlow talk."
'Talk? So be it. And it's easy enough to talk of Master Jim, after a
good spread, two hundred feet above the sea-level, with a box of decent
cigars handy, on a blessed evening of freshness and starlight that would
make the best of us forget we are only on sufferance here and got to
pick our way in cross lights, watching every precious minute and every
irremediable step, trusting we shall manage yet to go out decently in
the end--but not so sure of it after all--and with dashed little help to
expect from those we touch elbows with right and left. Of course there
are men here and there to whom the whole of life is like an after-dinner
hour with a cigar; easy, pleasant, empty, perhaps enlivened by some
fable of strife to be forgotten before the end is told--before the end
is told--even if there happens to be any end to it.
'My eyes met his for the first time at that inquiry. You must know
that everybody connected in any way with the sea was there, because the
affair had been notorious for days, ever since that mysterious cable
message came from Aden to start us all cackling. I say mysterious,
because it was so in a sense though it contained a naked fact, about
as naked and ugly as a fact can well be. The whole waterside talked
of nothing else. First thing in the morning as I was dressing in my
state-room, I would hear through the bulkhead my Parsee Dubash jabbering
about the Patna with the steward, while he drank a cup of tea,
by favour, in the pantry. No sooner on shore I would meet some
acquaintance, and the first remark would be, "Did you ever hear of
anything to beat this?" and according to his kind the man would smile
cynically, or look sad, or let out a swear or two. Complete strangers
would accost each other familiarly, just for the sake of easing their
minds on the subject: every confounded loafer in the town came in for
a harvest of drinks over this affair: you heard of it in the harbour
office, at every ship-broker's, at your agent's, from whites, from
natives, from half-castes, from the very boatmen squatting half naked on
the stone steps as you went up--by Jove! There was some indignation, not
a few jokes, and no end of discussions as to what had become of them,
you know. This went on for a couple of weeks or more, and the opinion
that whatever was mysterious in this affair would turn out to be tragic
as well, began to prevail, when one fine morning, as I was standing
in the shade by the steps of the harbour office, I perceived four men
walking towards me along the quay. I wondered for a while where that
queer lot had sprung from, and suddenly, I may say, I shouted to myself,
"Here they are!"
'There they were, sure enough, three of them as large as life, and one
much larger of girth than any living man has a right to be, just landed
with a good breakfast inside of them from an outward-bound Dale Line
steamer that had come in about an hour after sunrise. There could be no
mistake; I spotted the jolly skipper of the Patna at the first glance:
the fattest man in the whole blessed tropical belt clear round that good
old earth of ours. Moreover, nine months or so before, I had come
across him in Samarang. His steamer was loading in the Roads, and he was
abusing the tyrannical institutions of the German empire, and soaking
himself in beer all day long and day after day in De Jongh's back-shop,
till De Jongh, who charged a guilder for every bottle without as much
as the quiver of an eyelid, would beckon me aside, and, with his little
leathery face all puckered up, declare confidentially, "Business is
business, but this man, captain, he make me very sick. Tfui!"
'I was looking at him from the shade. He was hurrying on a little in
advance, and the sunlight beating on him brought out his bulk in a
startling way. He made me think of a trained baby elephant walking
on hind-legs. He was extravagantly gorgeous too--got up in a soiled
sleeping-suit, bright green and deep orange vertical stripes, with a
pair of ragged straw slippers on his bare feet, and somebody's cast-off
pith hat, very dirty and two sizes too small for him, tied up with a
manilla rope-yarn on the top of his big head. You understand a man like
that hasn't the ghost of a chance when it comes to borrowing clothes.
Very well. On he came in hot haste, without a look right or left, passed
within three feet of me, and in the innocence of his heart went on
pelting upstairs into the harbour office to make his deposition, or
report, or whatever you like to call it.
'It appears he addressed himself in the first instance to the principal
shipping-master. Archie Ruthvel had just come in, and, as his story
goes, was about to begin his arduous day by giving a dressing-down to
his chief clerk. Some of you might have known him--an obliging little
Portuguese half-caste with a miserably skinny neck, and always on the
hop to get something from the shipmasters in the way of eatables--a
piece of salt pork, a bag of biscuits, a few potatoes, or what not. One
voyage, I recollect, I tipped him a live sheep out of the remnant of my
sea-stock: not that I wanted him to do anything for me--he couldn't,
you know--but because his childlike belief in the sacred right to
perquisites quite touched my heart. It was so strong as to be almost
beautiful. The race--the two races rather--and the climate . . .
However, never mind. I know where I have a friend for life.
'Well, Ruthvel says he was giving him a severe lecture--on official
morality, I suppose--when he heard a kind of subdued commotion at his
back, and turning his head he saw, in his own words, something round and
enormous, resembling a sixteen-hundred-weight sugar-hogshead wrapped in
striped flannelette, up-ended in the middle of the large floor space
in the office. He declares he was so taken aback that for quite an
appreciable time he did not realise the thing was alive, and sat still
wondering for what purpose and by what means that object had been
transported in front of his desk. The archway from the ante-room was
crowded with punkah-pullers, sweepers, police peons, the coxswain and
crew of the harbour steam-launch, all craning their necks and almost
climbing on each other's backs. Quite a riot. By that time the fellow
had managed to tug and jerk his hat clear of his head, and advanced with
slight bows at Ruthvel, who told me the sight was so discomposing that
for some time he listened, quite unable to make out what that apparition
wanted. It spoke in a voice harsh and lugubrious but intrepid, and
little by little it dawned upon Archie that this was a development of
the Patna case. He says that as soon as he understood who it was before
him he felt quite unwell--Archie is so sympathetic and easily upset--but
pulled himself together and shouted "Stop! I can't listen to you. You
must go to the Master Attendant. I can't possibly listen to you. Captain
Elliot is the man you want to see. This way, this way." He jumped
up, ran round that long counter, pulled, shoved: the other let him,
surprised but obedient at first, and only at the door of the private
office some sort of animal instinct made him hang back and snort like
a frightened bullock. "Look here! what's up? Let go! Look here!" Archie
flung open the door without knocking. "The master of the Patna, sir,"
he shouts. "Go in, captain." He saw the old man lift his head from some
writing so sharp that his nose-nippers fell off, banged the door to, and
fled to his desk, where he had some papers waiting for his signature:
but he says the row that burst out in there was so awful that he
couldn't collect his senses sufficiently to remember the spelling of
his own name. Archie's the most sensitive shipping-master in the two
hemispheres. He declares he felt as though he had thrown a man to a
hungry lion. No doubt the noise was great. I heard it down below, and I
have every reason to believe it was heard clear across the Esplanade as
far as the band-stand. Old father Elliot had a great stock of words and
could shout--and didn't mind who he shouted at either. He would have
shouted at the Viceroy himself. As he used to tell me: "I am as high as
I can get; my pension is safe. I've a few pounds laid by, and if they
don't like my notions of duty I would just as soon go home as not. I am
an old man, and I have always spoken my mind. All I care for now is to
see my girls married before I die." He was a little crazy on that
point. His three daughters were awfully nice, though they resembled him
amazingly, and on the mornings he woke up with a gloomy view of their
matrimonial prospects the office would read it in his eye and tremble,
because, they said, he was sure to have somebody for breakfast. However,
that morning he did not eat the renegade, but, if I may be allowed to
carry on the metaphor, chewed him up very small, so to speak, and--ah!
ejected him again.
'Thus in a very few moments I saw his monstrous bulk descend in haste
and stand still on the outer steps. He had stopped close to me for the
purpose of profound meditation: his large purple cheeks quivered. He
was biting his thumb, and after a while noticed me with a sidelong vexed
look. The other three chaps that had landed with him made a little group
waiting at some distance. There was a sallow-faced, mean little chap
with his arm in a sling, and a long individual in a blue flannel coat,
as dry as a chip and no stouter than a broomstick, with drooping grey
moustaches, who looked about him with an air of jaunty imbecility. The
third was an upstanding, broad-shouldered youth, with his hands in his
pockets, turning his back on the other two who appeared to be talking
together earnestly. He stared across the empty Esplanade. A ramshackle
gharry, all dust and venetian blinds, pulled up short opposite the
group, and the driver, throwing up his right foot over his knee, gave
himself up to the critical examination of his toes. The young chap,
making no movement, not even stirring his head, just stared into the
sunshine. This was my first view of Jim. He looked as unconcerned and
unapproachable as only the young can look. There he stood, clean-limbed,
clean-faced, firm on his feet, as promising a boy as the sun ever shone
on; and, looking at him, knowing all he knew and a little more too, I
was as angry as though I had detected him trying to get something out of
me by false pretences. He had no business to look so sound. I thought
to myself--well, if this sort can go wrong like that . . . and I felt
as though I could fling down my hat and dance on it from sheer
mortification, as I once saw the skipper of an Italian barque do because
his duffer of a mate got into a mess with his anchors when making a
flying moor in a roadstead full of ships. I asked myself, seeing him
there apparently so much at ease--is he silly? is he callous? He seemed
ready to start whistling a tune. And note, I did not care a rap about
the behaviour of the other two. Their persons somehow fitted the tale
that was public property, and was going to be the subject of an official
inquiry. "That old mad rogue upstairs called me a hound," said the
captain of the Patna. I can't tell whether he recognised me--I rather
think he did; but at any rate our glances met. He glared--I smiled;
hound was the very mildest epithet that had reached me through the open
window. "Did he?" I said from some strange inability to hold my tongue.
He nodded, bit his thumb again, swore under his breath: then lifting his
head and looking at me with sullen and passionate impudence--"Bah! the
Pacific is big, my friendt. You damned Englishmen can do your worst; I
know where there's plenty room for a man like me: I am well aguaindt
in Apia, in Honolulu, in . . ." He paused reflectively, while without
effort I could depict to myself the sort of people he was "aguaindt"
with in those places. I won't make a secret of it that I had been
"aguaindt" with not a few of that sort myself. There are times when
a man must act as though life were equally sweet in any company. I've
known such a time, and, what's more, I shan't now pretend to pull a long
face over my necessity, because a good many of that bad company from
want of moral--moral--what shall I say?--posture, or from some other
equally profound cause, were twice as instructive and twenty times more
amusing than the usual respectable thief of commerce you fellows ask
to sit at your table without any real necessity--from habit, from
cowardice, from good-nature, from a hundred sneaking and inadequate
reasons.
'"You Englishmen are all rogues," went on my patriotic Flensborg or
Stettin Australian. I really don't recollect now what decent little
port on the shores of the Baltic was defiled by being the nest of that
precious bird. "What are you to shout? Eh? You tell me? You no better
than other people, and that old rogue he make Gottam fuss with me." His
thick carcass trembled on its legs that were like a pair of pillars; it
trembled from head to foot. "That's what you English always make--make
a tam' fuss--for any little thing, because I was not born in your
tam' country. Take away my certificate. Take it. I don't want the
certificate. A man like me don't want your verfluchte certificate. I
shpit on it." He spat. "I vill an Amerigan citizen begome," he cried,
fretting and fuming and shuffling his feet as if to free his ankles from
some invisible and mysterious grasp that would not let him get away
from that spot. He made himself so warm that the top of his bullet head
positively smoked. Nothing mysterious prevented me from going away:
curiosity is the most obvious of sentiments, and it held me there to see
the effect of a full information upon that young fellow who, hands
in pockets, and turning his back upon the sidewalk, gazed across the
grass-plots of the Esplanade at the yellow portico of the Malabar Hotel
with the air of a man about to go for a walk as soon as his friend is
ready. That's how he looked, and it was odious. I waited to see him
overwhelmed, confounded, pierced through and through, squirming like an
impaled beetle--and I was half afraid to see it too--if you understand
what I mean. Nothing more awful than to watch a man who has been found
out, not in a crime but in a more than criminal weakness. The commonest
sort of fortitude prevents us from becoming criminals in a legal sense;
it is from weakness unknown, but perhaps suspected, as in some parts of
the world you suspect a deadly snake in every bush--from weakness
that may lie hidden, watched or unwatched, prayed against or manfully
scorned, repressed or maybe ignored more than half a lifetime, not one
of us is safe. We are snared into doing things for which we get called
names, and things for which we get hanged, and yet the spirit may well
survive--survive the condemnation, survive the halter, by Jove! And
there are things--they look small enough sometimes too--by which some of
us are totally and completely undone. I watched the youngster there.
I liked his appearance; I knew his appearance; he came from the right
place; he was one of us. He stood there for all the parentage of his
kind, for men and women by no means clever or amusing, but whose very
existence is based upon honest faith, and upon the instinct of courage.
I don't mean military courage, or civil courage, or any special kind of
courage. I mean just that inborn ability to look temptations straight in
the face--a readiness unintellectual enough, goodness knows, but without
pose--a power of resistance, don't you see, ungracious if you like, but
priceless--an unthinking and blessed stiffness before the outward and
inward terrors, before the might of nature and the seductive corruption
of men--backed by a faith invulnerable to the strength of facts, to the
contagion of example, to the solicitation of ideas. Hang ideas! They are
tramps, vagabonds, knocking at the back-door of your mind, each taking
a little of your substance, each carrying away some crumb of that belief
in a few simple notions you must cling to if you want to live decently
and would like to die easy!
'This has nothing to do with Jim, directly; only he was outwardly so
typical of that good, stupid kind we like to feel marching right and
left of us in life, of the kind that is not disturbed by the vagaries of
intelligence and the perversions of--of nerves, let us say. He was the
kind of fellow you would, on the strength of his looks, leave in charge
of the deck--figuratively and professionally speaking. I say I would,
and I ought to know. Haven't I turned out youngsters enough in my time,
for the service of the Red Rag, to the craft of the sea, to the craft
whose whole secret could be expressed in one short sentence, and yet
must be driven afresh every day into young heads till it becomes the
component part of every waking thought--till it is present in every
dream of their young sleep! The sea has been good to me, but when I
remember all these boys that passed through my hands, some grown up now
and some drowned by this time, but all good stuff for the sea, I don't
think I have done badly by it either. Were I to go home to-morrow, I bet
that before two days passed over my head some sunburnt young chief mate
would overtake me at some dock gateway or other, and a fresh deep voice
speaking above my hat would ask: "Don't you remember me, sir? Why!
little So-and-so. Such and such a ship. It was my first voyage." And I
would remember a bewildered little shaver, no higher than the back of
this chair, with a mother and perhaps a big sister on the quay, very
quiet but too upset to wave their handkerchiefs at the ship that glides
out gently between the pier-heads; or perhaps some decent middle-aged
father who had come early with his boy to see him off, and stays all the
morning, because he is interested in the windlass apparently, and stays
too long, and has got to scramble ashore at last with no time at all
to say good-bye. The mud pilot on the poop sings out to me in a drawl,
"Hold her with the check line for a moment, Mister Mate. There's a
gentleman wants to get ashore. . . . Up with you, sir. Nearly got
carried off to Talcahuano, didn't you? Now's your time; easy does
it. . . . All right. Slack away again forward there." The tugs, smoking
like the pit of perdition, get hold and churn the old river into fury;
the gentleman ashore is dusting his knees--the benevolent steward has
shied his umbrella after him. All very proper. He has offered his bit of
sacrifice to the sea, and now he may go home pretending he thinks
nothing of it; and the little willing victim shall be very sea-sick
before next morning. By-and-by, when he has learned all the little
mysteries and the one great secret of the craft, he shall be fit to live
or die as the sea may decree; and the man who had taken a hand in this
fool game, in which the sea wins every toss, will be pleased to have his
back slapped by a heavy young hand, and to hear a cheery sea-puppy
voice: "Do you remember me, sir? The little So-and-so."
'I tell you this is good; it tells you that once in your life at least
you had gone the right way to work. I have been thus slapped, and I have
winced, for the slap was heavy, and I have glowed all day long and gone
to bed feeling less lonely in the world by virtue of that hearty thump.
Don't I remember the little So-and-so's! I tell you I ought to know the
right kind of looks. I would have trusted the deck to that youngster on
the strength of a single glance, and gone to sleep with both eyes--and,
by Jove! it wouldn't have been safe. There are depths of horror in that
thought. He looked as genuine as a new sovereign, but there was some
infernal alloy in his metal. How much? The least thing--the least
drop of something rare and accursed; the least drop!--but he made
you--standing there with his don't-care-hang air--he made you wonder
whether perchance he were nothing more rare than brass.
'I couldn't believe it. I tell you I wanted to see him squirm for
the honour of the craft. The other two no-account chaps spotted their
captain, and began to move slowly towards us. They chatted together as
they strolled, and I did not care any more than if they had not been
visible to the naked eye. They grinned at each other--might have been
exchanging jokes, for all I know. I saw that with one of them it was a
case of a broken arm; and as to the long individual with grey moustaches
he was the chief engineer, and in various ways a pretty notorious
personality. They were nobodies. They approached. The skipper gazed
in an inanimate way between his feet: he seemed to be swollen to an
unnatural size by some awful disease, by the mysterious action of an
unknown poison. He lifted his head, saw the two before him waiting,
opened his mouth with an extraordinary, sneering contortion of his
puffed face--to speak to them, I suppose--and then a thought seemed to
strike him. His thick, purplish lips came together without a sound, he
went off in a resolute waddle to the gharry and began to jerk at the
door-handle with such a blind brutality of impatience that I expected to
see the whole concern overturned on its side, pony and all. The driver,
shaken out of his meditation over the sole of his foot, displayed at
once all the signs of intense terror, and held with both hands, looking
round from his box at this vast carcass forcing its way into his
conveyance. The little machine shook and rocked tumultuously, and the
crimson nape of that lowered neck, the size of those straining thighs,
the immense heaving of that dingy, striped green-and-orange back, the
whole burrowing effort of that gaudy and sordid mass, troubled one's
sense of probability with a droll and fearsome effect, like one of those
grotesque and distinct visions that scare and fascinate one in a fever.
He disappeared. I half expected the roof to split in two, the little box
on wheels to burst open in the manner of a ripe cotton-pod--but it only
sank with a click of flattened springs, and suddenly one venetian blind
rattled down. His shoulders reappeared, jammed in the small opening; his
head hung out, distended and tossing like a captive balloon, perspiring,
furious, spluttering. He reached for the gharry-wallah with vicious
flourishes of a fist as dumpy and red as a lump of raw meat. He roared
at him to be off, to go on. Where? Into the Pacific, perhaps. The driver
lashed; the pony snorted, reared once, and darted off at a gallop.
Where? To Apia? To Honolulu? He had 6000 miles of tropical belt to
disport himself in, and I did not hear the precise address. A snorting
pony snatched him into "Ewigkeit" in the twinkling of an eye, and I
never saw him again; and, what's more, I don't know of anybody that ever
had a glimpse of him after he departed from my knowledge sitting inside
a ramshackle little gharry that fled round the corner in a white smother
of dust. He departed, disappeared, vanished, absconded; and absurdly
enough it looked as though he had taken that gharry with him, for
never again did I come across a sorrel pony with a slit ear and a
lackadaisical Tamil driver afflicted by a sore foot. The Pacific is
indeed big; but whether he found a place for a display of his talents
in it or not, the fact remains he had flown into space like a witch on a
broomstick. The little chap with his arm in a sling started to run after
the carriage, bleating, "Captain! I say, Captain! I sa-a-ay!"--but after
a few steps stopped short, hung his head, and walked back slowly. At the
sharp rattle of the wheels the young fellow spun round where he stood.
He made no other movement, no gesture, no sign, and remained facing in
the new direction after the gharry had swung out of sight.
'All this happened in much less time than it takes to tell, since I am
trying to interpret for you into slow speech the instantaneous effect of
visual impressions. Next moment the half-caste clerk, sent by Archie
to look a little after the poor castaways of the Patna, came upon the
scene. He ran out eager and bareheaded, looking right and left, and
very full of his mission. It was doomed to be a failure as far as the
principal person was concerned, but he approached the others with fussy
importance, and, almost immediately, found himself involved in a violent
altercation with the chap that carried his arm in a sling, and who
turned out to be extremely anxious for a row. He wasn't going to be
ordered about--"not he, b'gosh." He wouldn't be terrified with a pack
of lies by a cocky half-bred little quill-driver. He was not going to be
bullied by "no object of that sort," if the story were true "ever so"!
He bawled his wish, his desire, his determination to go to bed. "If you
weren't a God-forsaken Portuguee," I heard him yell, "you would know
that the hospital is the right place for me." He pushed the fist of
his sound arm under the other's nose; a crowd began to collect; the
half-caste, flustered, but doing his best to appear dignified, tried to
explain his intentions. I went away without waiting to see the end.
'But it so happened that I had a man in the hospital at the time, and
going there to see about him the day before the opening of the Inquiry,
I saw in the white men's ward that little chap tossing on his back, with
his arm in splints, and quite light-headed. To my great surprise the
other one, the long individual with drooping white moustache, had also
found his way there. I remembered I had seen him slinking away during
the quarrel, in a half prance, half shuffle, and trying very hard not
to look scared. He was no stranger to the port, it seems, and in his
distress was able to make tracks straight for Mariani's billiard-room
and grog-shop near the bazaar. That unspeakable vagabond, Mariani, who
had known the man and had ministered to his vices in one or two other
places, kissed the ground, in a manner of speaking, before him, and
shut him up with a supply of bottles in an upstairs room of his infamous
hovel. It appears he was under some hazy apprehension as to his personal
safety, and wished to be concealed. However, Mariani told me a long time
after (when he came on board one day to dun my steward for the price
of some cigars) that he would have done more for him without asking
any questions, from gratitude for some unholy favour received very
many years ago--as far as I could make out. He thumped twice his brawny
chest, rolled enormous black-and-white eyes glistening with tears:
"Antonio never forget--Antonio never forget!" What was the precise
nature of the immoral obligation I never learned, but be it what it may,
he had every facility given him to remain under lock and key, with a
chair, a table, a mattress in a corner, and a litter of fallen plaster
on the floor, in an irrational state of funk, and keeping up his pecker
with such tonics as Mariani dispensed. This lasted till the evening of
the third day, when, after letting out a few horrible screams, he found
himself compelled to seek safety in flight from a legion of centipedes.
He burst the door open, made one leap for dear life down the crazy
little stairway, landed bodily on Mariani's stomach, picked himself up,
and bolted like a rabbit into the streets. The police plucked him off
a garbage-heap in the early morning. At first he had a notion they were
carrying him off to be hanged, and fought for liberty like a hero, but
when I sat down by his bed he had been very quiet for two days. His lean
bronzed head, with white moustaches, looked fine and calm on the pillow,
like the head of a war-worn soldier with a child-like soul, had it not
been for a hint of spectral alarm that lurked in the blank glitter of
his glance, resembling a nondescript form of a terror crouching silently
behind a pane of glass. He was so extremely calm, that I began to
indulge in the eccentric hope of hearing something explanatory of the
famous affair from his point of view. Why I longed to go grubbing into
the deplorable details of an occurrence which, after all, concerned me
no more than as a member of an obscure body of men held together by a
community of inglorious toil and by fidelity to a certain standard of
conduct, I can't explain. You may call it an unhealthy curiosity if you
like; but I have a distinct notion I wished to find something. Perhaps,
unconsciously, I hoped I would find that something, some profound and
redeeming cause, some merciful explanation, some convincing shadow of an
excuse. I see well enough now that I hoped for the impossible--for the
laying of what is the most obstinate ghost of man's creation, of the
uneasy doubt uprising like a mist, secret and gnawing like a worm, and
more chilling than the certitude of death--the doubt of the sovereign
power enthroned in a fixed standard of conduct. It is the hardest thing
to stumble against; it is the thing that breeds yelling panics and good
little quiet villainies; it's the true shadow of calamity. Did I believe
in a miracle? and why did I desire it so ardently? Was it for my own
sake that I wished to find some shadow of an excuse for that young
fellow whom I had never seen before, but whose appearance alone added a
touch of personal concern to the thoughts suggested by the knowledge of
his weakness--made it a thing of mystery and terror--like a hint of a
destructive fate ready for us all whose youth--in its day--had resembled
his youth? I fear that such was the secret motive of my prying. I was,
and no mistake, looking for a miracle. The only thing that at
this distance of time strikes me as miraculous is the extent of my
imbecility. I positively hoped to obtain from that battered and shady
invalid some exorcism against the ghost of doubt. I must have been
pretty desperate too, for, without loss of time, after a few indifferent
and friendly sentences which he answered with languid readiness, just as
any decent sick man would do, I produced the word Patna wrapped up in a
delicate question as in a wisp of floss silk. I was delicate selfishly;
I did not want to startle him; I had no solicitude for him; I was not
furious with him and sorry for him: his experience was of no importance,
his redemption would have had no point for me. He had grown old in minor
iniquities, and could no longer inspire aversion or pity. He repeated
Patna? interrogatively, seemed to make a short effort of memory, and
said: "Quite right. I am an old stager out here. I saw her go down." I
made ready to vent my indignation at such a stupid lie, when he added
smoothly, "She was full of reptiles."
'This made me pause. What did he mean? The unsteady phantom of terror
behind his glassy eyes seemed to stand still and look into mine
wistfully. "They turned me out of my bunk in the middle watch to look
at her sinking," he pursued in a reflective tone. His voice sounded
alarmingly strong all at once. I was sorry for my folly. There was
no snowy-winged coif of a nursing sister to be seen flitting in the
perspective of the ward; but away in the middle of a long row of empty
iron bedsteads an accident case from some ship in the Roads sat up brown
and gaunt with a white bandage set rakishly on the forehead. Suddenly my
interesting invalid shot out an arm thin like a tentacle and clawed
my shoulder. "Only my eyes were good enough to see. I am famous for my
eyesight. That's why they called me, I expect. None of them was quick
enough to see her go, but they saw that she was gone right enough, and
sang out together--like this." . . . A wolfish howl searched the very
recesses of my soul. "Oh! make 'im dry up," whined the accident case
irritably. "You don't believe me, I suppose," went on the other, with
an air of ineffable conceit. "I tell you there are no such eyes as mine
this side of the Persian Gulf. Look under the bed."
'Of course I stooped instantly. I defy anybody not to have done so.
"What can you see?" he asked. "Nothing," I said, feeling awfully ashamed
of myself. He scrutinised my face with wild and withering contempt.
"Just so," he said, "but if I were to look I could see--there's no eyes
like mine, I tell you." Again he clawed, pulling at me downwards in his
eagerness to relieve himself by a confidential communication. "Millions
of pink toads. There's no eyes like mine. Millions of pink toads. It's
worse than seeing a ship sink. I could look at sinking ships and smoke
my pipe all day long. Why don't they give me back my pipe? I would get
a smoke while I watched these toads. The ship was full of them. They've
got to be watched, you know." He winked facetiously. The perspiration
dripped on him off my head, my drill coat clung to my wet back: the
afternoon breeze swept impetuously over the row of bedsteads, the stiff
folds of curtains stirred perpendicularly, rattling on brass rods, the
covers of empty beds blew about noiselessly near the bare floor all
along the line, and I shivered to the very marrow. The soft wind of the
tropics played in that naked ward as bleak as a winter's gale in an old
barn at home. "Don't you let him start his hollering, mister," hailed
from afar the accident case in a distressed angry shout that came
ringing between the walls like a quavering call down a tunnel. The
clawing hand hauled at my shoulder; he leered at me knowingly. "The ship
was full of them, you know, and we had to clear out on the strict Q.T.,"
he whispered with extreme rapidity. "All pink. All pink--as big as
mastiffs, with an eye on the top of the head and claws all round their
ugly mouths. Ough! Ough!" Quick jerks as of galvanic shocks disclosed
under the flat coverlet the outlines of meagre and agitated legs; he let
go my shoulder and reached after something in the air; his body trembled
tensely like a released harp-string; and while I looked down, the
spectral horror in him broke through his glassy gaze. Instantly his face
of an old soldier, with its noble and calm outlines, became decomposed
before my eyes by the corruption of stealthy cunning, of an abominable
caution and of desperate fear. He restrained a cry--"Ssh! what are they
doing now down there?" he asked, pointing to the floor with fantastic
precautions of voice and gesture, whose meaning, borne upon my mind in a
lurid flash, made me very sick of my cleverness. "They are all asleep,"
I answered, watching him narrowly. That was it. That's what he wanted
to hear; these were the exact words that could calm him. He drew a long
breath. "Ssh! Quiet, steady. I am an old stager out here. I know them
brutes. Bash in the head of the first that stirs. There's too many of
them, and she won't swim more than ten minutes." He panted again. "Hurry
up," he yelled suddenly, and went on in a steady scream: "They are all
awake--millions of them. They are trampling on me! Wait! Oh, wait!
I'll smash them in heaps like flies. Wait for me! Help! H-e-elp!" An
interminable and sustained howl completed my discomfiture. I saw in
the distance the accident case raise deplorably both his hands to his
bandaged head; a dresser, aproned to the chin showed himself in the
vista of the ward, as if seen in the small end of a telescope. I
confessed myself fairly routed, and without more ado, stepping out
through one of the long windows, escaped into the outside gallery. The
howl pursued me like a vengeance. I turned into a deserted landing, and
suddenly all became very still and quiet around me, and I descended
the bare and shiny staircase in a silence that enabled me to compose my
distracted thoughts. Down below I met one of the resident surgeons
who was crossing the courtyard and stopped me. "Been to see your man,
Captain? I think we may let him go to-morrow. These fools have no
notion of taking care of themselves, though. I say, we've got the chief
engineer of that pilgrim ship here. A curious case. D.T.'s of the worst
kind. He has been drinking hard in that Greek's or Italian's grog-shop
for three days. What can you expect? Four bottles of that kind of brandy
a day, I am told. Wonderful, if true. Sheeted with boiler-iron inside I
should think. The head, ah! the head, of course, gone, but the curious
part is there's some sort of method in his raving. I am trying to
find out. Most unusual--that thread of logic in such a delirium.
Traditionally he ought to see snakes, but he doesn't. Good old
tradition's at a discount nowadays. Eh! His--er--visions are batrachian.
Ha! ha! No, seriously, I never remember being so interested in a case
of jim-jams before. He ought to be dead, don't you know, after such a
festive experiment. Oh! he is a tough object. Four-and-twenty years of
the tropics too. You ought really to take a peep at him. Noble-looking
old boozer. Most extraordinary man I ever met--medically, of course.
Won't you?"
'I have been all along exhibiting the usual polite signs of interest,
but now assuming an air of regret I murmured of want of time, and shook
hands in a hurry. "I say," he cried after me; "he can't attend that
inquiry. Is his evidence material, you think?"
'"Not in the least," I called back from the gateway.' | 8,243 | Chapters 4-5 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-4-5 | The narrative jumps ahead a month or so, creating suspense regarding actually occurred on the Patna. Jim is now being questioned about the incident, via the official Inquiry of a police court in an unnamed English port town. He experiences an intense distance between the "facts" pursued by the assessors--one with "thoughtful blue eyes" and the other "heavy, scornful"--and his actual experience. Jim believes there was a collision with a "water-logged wreck," which created a "big hole below the waterline" . Jim says he was fearful of a great mob panic and certain the steamer would sink like a "lump of lead," and he now attempts to justify his actions and emotions at the time of the incident. For the reader, the real story is still cloaked in narrative mystery. As Jim scans the audience from the witness box, his eyes meet those of another man--who proves to be Marlow. The narrative cuts to Marlow on a "verandah draped in motionless foliage and crowned with flowers" . He now lifts the thread of the preceding narrative by remarking, "My eyes met his for the first time at that inquiry," and he points out the notoriety of the affair, how it had been the subject of much talk . Near the harbor office, he sees the four men involved in the incident along the quay--his "first view" of Jim. In the hospital visiting one of his men, Marlow realizes that one of the castaways from the Patna is a patient, a man with a "drooping white moustache" . Tempted by the possibility of a firsthand account of the affair, Marlow inquires gently. The man asserts, "I saw her go down." He seems delusional with his visions of reptiles filling up the ship. Marlow concludes that the man's account is not material to the inquiry. | The narrative has jumped ahead in time and, while creating dramatic suspense, it also marks the beginning of Conrad's inventive "piecing together" of the story of Jim. As the storyline leaps from the moment of strange vibration beneath the steamship to Jim's place on the witness stand, and then as he is questioned about the occurrence, the reader wonders what happened on the ship. Did Jim prove his mettle, and what was the fate of the hundreds of Muslim passengers on board? Despite the reader's position as inquirer, the narrator's perspective is omniscient, since the reader is told what is actually going on in Jim's mind as he offers his testimony about the facts. The disparity Jim experiences between the facts that the inquiry requires him to tell and his memory of the actual experience is crucial, and this difference is a fundamental problem that obsessively characterizes much of Conrad's work. Slim, cold facts can seldom provide more than a skeletal frame for any story or event or person. The rest of the picture is far more ambiguous and flexible, involving emotions, memory, and perception. These items can have a distorting effect on the facts, but they lend fullness to the understanding. Conrad apparently suggests that despite the risk of distortion, relaying the depth of experience is perhaps the best way to convey human truths. The narrative experiences a profound shift in perspective from the moment Jim looks out from his witness box, and at this point Marlow appears in the reader's eye. The change happens at the moment their eyes first touch. Jim, the reader learns, has experienced a feeling of kindred spirit or of some kind of intelligent and understanding communion, as though he knows Marlow already. This moment of recognition foreshadows the close relationship that will form between them, and it reinforces the repeated statement to be made by Marlow that Jim "is one of us." The glimpse of solidarity at that moment is important to Jim, whose mental state is not unlike that of a "prisoner" or a "wayfarer lost in a wilderness." Though the reader is in suspense regarding the fate of the ship and its passengers, as well as how Jim has come to be in the witness box, the reader is led to a sense of trust in Marlow, precisely because of Jim's initial impression. From there, Marlow becomes the teller of the story, sitting at a verandah before an audience, relating how Jim's eyes first met his during the inquiry. Marlow's perspective on Jim is both sympathetic and critical. When the novel shifts entirely into Marlow's voice, we infer that it is really Conrad's in a new guise, providing a kind of border-sphere around Jim's story. | 303 | 465 | [
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28,054 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/91.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_90_part_0.txt | The Brothers Karamazov.book 12.chapter 12 | book 12, chapter 12 | null | {"name": "Book 12, Chapter 12", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-12-chapter-12", "summary": "In this portion of his speech, Fetyukovich sets out to establish a plausible explanation for Smerdyakov as Fyodor's murderer. After dismissing Grigory's testimony , Fetyukovich proceeds to tell the court about his own impressions on meeting Smerdyakov. In contrast to the prosecutor's description of Smerdyakov as a weak, bullied man, Fetyukovich paints a picture of him as a wily, spiteful man who knew exactly what he was doing when he set up Dmitri. Fetyukovich then points out that Smerdyakov had plenty of time to commit Fyodor's murder between the time Dmitri attacked Grigory and the time Grigory fully recovered consciousness. At this point Fetyukovich takes on a \"heartfelt\" voice, in contrast to the calm, sensible way he had proceeded thus far.", "analysis": ""} | Chapter XII. And There Was No Murder Either
"Allow me, gentlemen of the jury, to remind you that a man's life is at
stake and that you must be careful. We have heard the prosecutor himself
admit that until to-day he hesitated to accuse the prisoner of a full and
conscious premeditation of the crime; he hesitated till he saw that fatal
drunken letter which was produced in court to-day. 'All was done as
written.' But, I repeat again, he was running to her, to seek her, solely
to find out where she was. That's a fact that can't be disputed. Had she
been at home, he would not have run away, but would have remained at her
side, and so would not have done what he promised in the letter. He ran
unexpectedly and accidentally, and by that time very likely he did not
even remember his drunken letter. 'He snatched up the pestle,' they say,
and you will remember how a whole edifice of psychology was built on that
pestle--why he was bound to look at that pestle as a weapon, to snatch it
up, and so on, and so on. A very commonplace idea occurs to me at this
point: What if that pestle had not been in sight, had not been lying on
the shelf from which it was snatched by the prisoner, but had been put
away in a cupboard? It would not have caught the prisoner's eye, and he
would have run away without a weapon, with empty hands, and then he would
certainly not have killed any one. How then can I look upon the pestle as
a proof of premeditation?
"Yes, but he talked in the taverns of murdering his father, and two days
before, on the evening when he wrote his drunken letter, he was quiet and
only quarreled with a shopman in the tavern, because a Karamazov could not
help quarreling, forsooth! But my answer to that is, that, if he was
planning such a murder in accordance with his letter, he certainly would
not have quarreled even with a shopman, and probably would not have gone
into the tavern at all, because a person plotting such a crime seeks quiet
and retirement, seeks to efface himself, to avoid being seen and heard,
and that not from calculation, but from instinct. Gentlemen of the jury,
the psychological method is a two-edged weapon, and we, too, can use it.
As for all this shouting in taverns throughout the month, don't we often
hear children, or drunkards coming out of taverns shout, 'I'll kill you'?
but they don't murder any one. And that fatal letter--isn't that simply
drunken irritability, too? Isn't that simply the shout of the brawler
outside the tavern, 'I'll kill you! I'll kill the lot of you!' Why not,
why could it not be that? What reason have we to call that letter 'fatal'
rather than absurd? Because his father has been found murdered, because a
witness saw the prisoner running out of the garden with a weapon in his
hand, and was knocked down by him: therefore, we are told, everything was
done as he had planned in writing, and the letter was not 'absurd,' but
'fatal.'
"Now, thank God! we've come to the real point: 'since he was in the
garden, he must have murdered him.' In those few words: 'since he _was_,
then he _must_' lies the whole case for the prosecution. He was there, so
he must have. And what if there is no _must_ about it, even if he was
there? Oh, I admit that the chain of evidence--the coincidences--are really
suggestive. But examine all these facts separately, regardless of their
connection. Why, for instance, does the prosecution refuse to admit the
truth of the prisoner's statement that he ran away from his father's
window? Remember the sarcasms in which the prosecutor indulged at the
expense of the respectful and 'pious' sentiments which suddenly came over
the murderer. But what if there were something of the sort, a feeling of
religious awe, if not of filial respect? 'My mother must have been praying
for me at that moment,' were the prisoner's words at the preliminary
inquiry, and so he ran away as soon as he convinced himself that Madame
Svyetlov was not in his father's house. 'But he could not convince himself
by looking through the window,' the prosecutor objects. But why couldn't
he? Why? The window opened at the signals given by the prisoner. Some word
might have been uttered by Fyodor Pavlovitch, some exclamation which
showed the prisoner that she was not there. Why should we assume
everything as we imagine it, as we make up our minds to imagine it? A
thousand things may happen in reality which elude the subtlest
imagination.
" 'Yes, but Grigory saw the door open and so the prisoner certainly was in
the house, therefore he killed him.' Now about that door, gentlemen of the
jury.... Observe that we have only the statement of one witness as to that
door, and he was at the time in such a condition, that-- But supposing the
door was open; supposing the prisoner has lied in denying it, from an
instinct of self-defense, natural in his position; supposing he did go
into the house--well, what then? How does it follow that because he was
there he committed the murder? He might have dashed in, run through the
rooms; might have pushed his father away; might have struck him; but as
soon as he had made sure Madame Svyetlov was not there, he may have run
away rejoicing that she was not there and that he had not killed his
father. And it was perhaps just because he had escaped from the temptation
to kill his father, because he had a clear conscience and was rejoicing at
not having killed him, that he was capable of a pure feeling, the feeling
of pity and compassion, and leapt off the fence a minute later to the
assistance of Grigory after he had, in his excitement, knocked him down.
"With terrible eloquence the prosecutor has described to us the dreadful
state of the prisoner's mind at Mokroe when love again lay before him
calling him to new life, while love was impossible for him because he had
his father's bloodstained corpse behind him and beyond that
corpse--retribution. And yet the prosecutor allowed him love, which he
explained, according to his method, talking about his drunken condition,
about a criminal being taken to execution, about it being still far off,
and so on and so on. But again I ask, Mr. Prosecutor, have you not
invented a new personality? Is the prisoner so coarse and heartless as to
be able to think at that moment of love and of dodges to escape
punishment, if his hands were really stained with his father's blood? No,
no, no! As soon as it was made plain to him that she loved him and called
him to her side, promising him new happiness, oh! then, I protest he must
have felt the impulse to suicide doubled, trebled, and must have killed
himself, if he had his father's murder on his conscience. Oh, no! he would
not have forgotten where his pistols lay! I know the prisoner: the savage,
stony heartlessness ascribed to him by the prosecutor is inconsistent with
his character. He would have killed himself, that's certain. He did not
kill himself just because 'his mother's prayers had saved him,' and he was
innocent of his father's blood. He was troubled, he was grieving that
night at Mokroe only about old Grigory and praying to God that the old man
would recover, that his blow had not been fatal, and that he would not
have to suffer for it. Why not accept such an interpretation of the facts?
What trustworthy proof have we that the prisoner is lying?
"But we shall be told at once again, 'There is his father's corpse! If he
ran away without murdering him, who did murder him?' Here, I repeat, you
have the whole logic of the prosecution. Who murdered him, if not he?
There's no one to put in his place.
"Gentlemen of the jury, is that really so? Is it positively, actually true
that there is no one else at all? We've heard the prosecutor count on his
fingers all the persons who were in that house that night. They were five
in number; three of them, I agree, could not have been responsible--the
murdered man himself, old Grigory, and his wife. There are left then the
prisoner and Smerdyakov, and the prosecutor dramatically exclaims that the
prisoner pointed to Smerdyakov because he had no one else to fix on, that
had there been a sixth person, even a phantom of a sixth person, he would
have abandoned the charge against Smerdyakov at once in shame and have
accused that other. But, gentlemen of the jury, why may I not draw the
very opposite conclusion? There are two persons--the prisoner and
Smerdyakov. Why can I not say that you accuse my client, simply because
you have no one else to accuse? And you have no one else only because you
have determined to exclude Smerdyakov from all suspicion.
"It's true, indeed, Smerdyakov is accused only by the prisoner, his two
brothers, and Madame Svyetlov. But there are others who accuse him: there
are vague rumors of a question, of a suspicion, an obscure report, a
feeling of expectation. Finally, we have the evidence of a combination of
facts very suggestive, though, I admit, inconclusive. In the first place
we have precisely on the day of the catastrophe that fit, for the
genuineness of which the prosecutor, for some reason, has felt obliged to
make a careful defense. Then Smerdyakov's sudden suicide on the eve of the
trial. Then the equally startling evidence given in court to-day by the
elder of the prisoner's brothers, who had believed in his guilt, but has
to-day produced a bundle of notes and proclaimed Smerdyakov as the
murderer. Oh, I fully share the court's and the prosecutor's conviction
that Ivan Karamazov is suffering from brain fever, that his statement may
really be a desperate effort, planned in delirium, to save his brother by
throwing the guilt on the dead man. But again Smerdyakov's name is
pronounced, again there is a suggestion of mystery. There is something
unexplained, incomplete. And perhaps it may one day be explained. But we
won't go into that now. Of that later.
"The court has resolved to go on with the trial, but, meantime, I might
make a few remarks about the character-sketch of Smerdyakov drawn with
subtlety and talent by the prosecutor. But while I admire his talent I
cannot agree with him. I have visited Smerdyakov, I have seen him and
talked to him, and he made a very different impression on me. He was weak
in health, it is true; but in character, in spirit, he was by no means the
weak man the prosecutor has made him out to be. I found in him no trace of
the timidity on which the prosecutor so insisted. There was no simplicity
about him, either. I found in him, on the contrary, an extreme
mistrustfulness concealed under a mask of _naivete_, and an intelligence
of considerable range. The prosecutor was too simple in taking him for
weak-minded. He made a very definite impression on me: I left him with the
conviction that he was a distinctly spiteful creature, excessively
ambitious, vindictive, and intensely envious. I made some inquiries: he
resented his parentage, was ashamed of it, and would clench his teeth when
he remembered that he was the son of 'stinking Lizaveta.' He was
disrespectful to the servant Grigory and his wife, who had cared for him
in his childhood. He cursed and jeered at Russia. He dreamed of going to
France and becoming a Frenchman. He used often to say that he hadn't the
means to do so. I fancy he loved no one but himself and had a strangely
high opinion of himself. His conception of culture was limited to good
clothes, clean shirt-fronts and polished boots. Believing himself to be
the illegitimate son of Fyodor Pavlovitch (there is evidence of this), he
might well have resented his position, compared with that of his master's
legitimate sons. They had everything, he nothing. They had all the rights,
they had the inheritance, while he was only the cook. He told me himself
that he had helped Fyodor Pavlovitch to put the notes in the envelope. The
destination of that sum--a sum which would have made his career--must have
been hateful to him. Moreover, he saw three thousand roubles in new
rainbow-colored notes. (I asked him about that on purpose.) Oh, beware of
showing an ambitious and envious man a large sum of money at once! And it
was the first time he had seen so much money in the hands of one man. The
sight of the rainbow-colored notes may have made a morbid impression on
his imagination, but with no immediate results.
"The talented prosecutor, with extraordinary subtlety, sketched for us all
the arguments for and against the hypothesis of Smerdyakov's guilt, and
asked us in particular what motive he had in feigning a fit. But he may
not have been feigning at all, the fit may have happened quite naturally,
but it may have passed off quite naturally, and the sick man may have
recovered, not completely perhaps, but still regaining consciousness, as
happens with epileptics.
"The prosecutor asks at what moment could Smerdyakov have committed the
murder. But it is very easy to point out that moment. He might have waked
up from deep sleep (for he was only asleep--an epileptic fit is always
followed by a deep sleep) at that moment when the old Grigory shouted at
the top of his voice 'Parricide!' That shout in the dark and stillness may
have waked Smerdyakov whose sleep may have been less sound at the moment:
he might naturally have waked up an hour before.
"Getting out of bed, he goes almost unconsciously and with no definite
motive towards the sound to see what's the matter. His head is still
clouded with his attack, his faculties are half asleep; but, once in the
garden, he walks to the lighted windows and he hears terrible news from
his master, who would be, of course, glad to see him. His mind sets to
work at once. He hears all the details from his frightened master, and
gradually in his disordered brain there shapes itself an idea--terrible,
but seductive and irresistibly logical. To kill the old man, take the
three thousand, and throw all the blame on to his young master. A terrible
lust of money, of booty, might seize upon him as he realized his security
from detection. Oh! these sudden and irresistible impulses come so often
when there is a favorable opportunity, and especially with murderers who
have had no idea of committing a murder beforehand. And Smerdyakov may
have gone in and carried out his plan. With what weapon? Why, with any
stone picked up in the garden. But what for, with what object? Why, the
three thousand which means a career for him. Oh, I am not contradicting
myself--the money may have existed. And perhaps Smerdyakov alone knew where
to find it, where his master kept it. And the covering of the money--the
torn envelope on the floor?
"Just now, when the prosecutor was explaining his subtle theory that only
an inexperienced thief like Karamazov would have left the envelope on the
floor, and not one like Smerdyakov, who would have avoided leaving a piece
of evidence against himself, I thought as I listened that I was hearing
something very familiar, and, would you believe it, I have heard that very
argument, that very conjecture, of how Karamazov would have behaved,
precisely two days before, from Smerdyakov himself. What's more, it struck
me at the time. I fancied that there was an artificial simplicity about
him; that he was in a hurry to suggest this idea to me that I might fancy
it was my own. He insinuated it, as it were. Did he not insinuate the same
idea at the inquiry and suggest it to the talented prosecutor?
"I shall be asked, 'What about the old woman, Grigory's wife? She heard
the sick man moaning close by, all night.' Yes, she heard it, but that
evidence is extremely unreliable. I knew a lady who complained bitterly
that she had been kept awake all night by a dog in the yard. Yet the poor
beast, it appeared, had only yelped once or twice in the night. And that's
natural. If any one is asleep and hears a groan he wakes up, annoyed at
being waked, but instantly falls asleep again. Two hours later, again a
groan, he wakes up and falls asleep again; and the same thing again two
hours later--three times altogether in the night. Next morning the sleeper
wakes up and complains that some one has been groaning all night and
keeping him awake. And it is bound to seem so to him: the intervals of two
hours of sleep he does not remember, he only remembers the moments of
waking, so he feels he has been waked up all night.
"But why, why, asks the prosecutor, did not Smerdyakov confess in his last
letter? Why did his conscience prompt him to one step and not to both?
But, excuse me, conscience implies penitence, and the suicide may not have
felt penitence, but only despair. Despair and penitence are two very
different things. Despair may be vindictive and irreconcilable, and the
suicide, laying his hands on himself, may well have felt redoubled hatred
for those whom he had envied all his life.
"Gentlemen of the jury, beware of a miscarriage of justice! What is there
unlikely in all I have put before you just now? Find the error in my
reasoning; find the impossibility, the absurdity. And if there is but a
shade of possibility, but a shade of probability in my propositions, do
not condemn him. And is there only a shade? I swear by all that is sacred,
I fully believe in the explanation of the murder I have just put forward.
What troubles me and makes me indignant is that of all the mass of facts
heaped up by the prosecution against the prisoner, there is not a single
one certain and irrefutable. And yet the unhappy man is to be ruined by
the accumulation of these facts. Yes, the accumulated effect is awful: the
blood, the blood dripping from his fingers, the bloodstained shirt, the
dark night resounding with the shout 'Parricide!' and the old man falling
with a broken head. And then the mass of phrases, statements, gestures,
shouts! Oh! this has so much influence, it can so bias the mind; but,
gentlemen of the jury, can it bias your minds? Remember, you have been
given absolute power to bind and to loose, but the greater the power, the
more terrible its responsibility.
"I do not draw back one iota from what I have said just now, but suppose
for one moment I agreed with the prosecution that my luckless client had
stained his hands with his father's blood. This is only hypothesis, I
repeat; I never for one instant doubt of his innocence. But, so be it, I
assume that my client is guilty of parricide. Even so, hear what I have to
say. I have it in my heart to say something more to you, for I feel that
there must be a great conflict in your hearts and minds.... Forgive my
referring to your hearts and minds, gentlemen of the jury, but I want to
be truthful and sincere to the end. Let us all be sincere!"
At this point the speech was interrupted by rather loud applause. The last
words, indeed, were pronounced with a note of such sincerity that every
one felt that he really might have something to say, and that what he was
about to say would be of the greatest consequence. But the President,
hearing the applause, in a loud voice threatened to clear the court if
such an incident were repeated. Every sound was hushed and Fetyukovitch
began in a voice full of feeling quite unlike the tone he had used
hitherto.
| 3,152 | Book 12, Chapter 12 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-12-chapter-12 | In this portion of his speech, Fetyukovich sets out to establish a plausible explanation for Smerdyakov as Fyodor's murderer. After dismissing Grigory's testimony , Fetyukovich proceeds to tell the court about his own impressions on meeting Smerdyakov. In contrast to the prosecutor's description of Smerdyakov as a weak, bullied man, Fetyukovich paints a picture of him as a wily, spiteful man who knew exactly what he was doing when he set up Dmitri. Fetyukovich then points out that Smerdyakov had plenty of time to commit Fyodor's murder between the time Dmitri attacked Grigory and the time Grigory fully recovered consciousness. At this point Fetyukovich takes on a "heartfelt" voice, in contrast to the calm, sensible way he had proceeded thus far. | null | 121 | 1 | [
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107 | false | cliffnotes | all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/25.txt | finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_24_part_0.txt | Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 25 | chapter 25 | null | {"name": "Chapter 25", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-25", "summary": "\"Idiosyncrasy and vicissitude had combined to stamp Sergeant Troy as an exceptional being. He was a man to whom memories were an incumbrance, and anticipations a superfluity. Simply feeling, considering, and caring for what was before his eyes, he was vulnerable only in the present. . . . With him the past was yesterday; the future, tomorrow; never, the day after.\" Troy was \"moderately truthful\" to men, but lied to and flattered women. \"He had been known to observe casually that in dealing with womankind the only alternative to flattery was cursing and swearing. There was no third method. 'Treat them fairly, and you are a lost man,' he would say.\" Bathsheba was relieved by Boldwood's absence. She was surveying the haymaking in her fields when she noticed a red uniform behind a wagon. The sergeant had \"come haymaking for pleasure; and nobody could deny that he was doing the mistress of the farm real knight-service by his voluntary contribution of his labour at a busy time.\" As soon as Bathsheba appeared, Troy put down his fork, gathered his riding crop, and came toward her. Bathsheba blushed and lowered her eyes.", "analysis": "Sergeant Troy is an undeniably charming liar who gives no thought to the harm his words may cause. When we remember Bathsheba's unthinking acts -- her treatment of Oak, her valentine to Boldwood -- we cannot help but feel some satisfaction that she has finally met her match -- and more."} |
THE NEW ACQUAINTANCE DESCRIBED
Idiosyncrasy and vicissitude had combined to stamp Sergeant Troy as
an exceptional being.
He was a man to whom memories were an incumbrance, and anticipations
a superfluity. Simply feeling, considering, and caring for what was
before his eyes, he was vulnerable only in the present. His outlook
upon time was as a transient flash of the eye now and then: that
projection of consciousness into days gone by and to come, which
makes the past a synonym for the pathetic and the future a word
for circumspection, was foreign to Troy. With him the past was
yesterday; the future, to-morrow; never, the day after.
On this account he might, in certain lights, have been regarded as
one of the most fortunate of his order. For it may be argued with
great plausibility that reminiscence is less an endowment than a
disease, and that expectation in its only comfortable form--that of
absolute faith--is practically an impossibility; whilst in the form
of hope and the secondary compounds, patience, impatience, resolve,
curiosity, it is a constant fluctuation between pleasure and pain.
Sergeant Troy, being entirely innocent of the practice of
expectation, was never disappointed. To set against this negative
gain there may have been some positive losses from a certain
narrowing of the higher tastes and sensations which it entailed. But
limitation of the capacity is never recognized as a loss by the loser
therefrom: in this attribute moral or aesthetic poverty contrasts
plausibly with material, since those who suffer do not mind it,
whilst those who mind it soon cease to suffer. It is not a denial
of anything to have been always without it, and what Troy had never
enjoyed he did not miss; but, being fully conscious that what sober
people missed he enjoyed, his capacity, though really less, seemed
greater than theirs.
He was moderately truthful towards men, but to women lied like
a Cretan--a system of ethics above all others calculated to win
popularity at the first flush of admission into lively society; and
the possibility of the favour gained being transitory had reference
only to the future.
He never passed the line which divides the spruce vices from the
ugly; and hence, though his morals had hardly been applauded,
disapproval of them had frequently been tempered with a smile. This
treatment had led to his becoming a sort of regrater of other men's
gallantries, to his own aggrandizement as a Corinthian, rather than
to the moral profit of his hearers.
His reason and his propensities had seldom any reciprocating
influence, having separated by mutual consent long ago: thence it
sometimes happened that, while his intentions were as honourable as
could be wished, any particular deed formed a dark background which
threw them into fine relief. The sergeant's vicious phases being the
offspring of impulse, and his virtuous phases of cool meditation, the
latter had a modest tendency to be oftener heard of than seen.
Troy was full of activity, but his activities were less of a
locomotive than a vegetative nature; and, never being based upon
any original choice of foundation or direction, they were exercised
on whatever object chance might place in their way. Hence, whilst
he sometimes reached the brilliant in speech because that was
spontaneous, he fell below the commonplace in action, from inability
to guide incipient effort. He had a quick comprehension and
considerable force of character; but, being without the power to
combine them, the comprehension became engaged with trivialities
whilst waiting for the will to direct it, and the force wasted itself
in useless grooves through unheeding the comprehension.
He was a fairly well-educated man for one of middle class--
exceptionally well educated for a common soldier. He spoke fluently
and unceasingly. He could in this way be one thing and seem another:
for instance, he could speak of love and think of dinner; call on the
husband to look at the wife; be eager to pay and intend to owe.
The wondrous power of flattery in _passados_ at woman is a perception
so universal as to be remarked upon by many people almost as
automatically as they repeat a proverb, or say that they are
Christians and the like, without thinking much of the enormous
corollaries which spring from the proposition. Still less is it
acted upon for the good of the complemental being alluded to.
With the majority such an opinion is shelved with all those trite
aphorisms which require some catastrophe to bring their tremendous
meanings thoroughly home. When expressed with some amount of
reflectiveness it seems co-ordinate with a belief that this flattery
must be reasonable to be effective. It is to the credit of men that
few attempt to settle the question by experiment, and it is for
their happiness, perhaps, that accident has never settled it for
them. Nevertheless, that a male dissembler who by deluging her with
untenable fictions charms the female wisely, may acquire powers
reaching to the extremity of perdition, is a truth taught to many by
unsought and wringing occurrences. And some profess to have attained
to the same knowledge by experiment as aforesaid, and jauntily
continue their indulgence in such experiments with terrible effect.
Sergeant Troy was one.
He had been known to observe casually that in dealing with womankind
the only alternative to flattery was cursing and swearing. There was
no third method. "Treat them fairly, and you are a lost man." he
would say.
This person's public appearance in Weatherbury promptly followed his
arrival there. A week or two after the shearing, Bathsheba, feeling
a nameless relief of spirits on account of Boldwood's absence,
approached her hayfields and looked over the hedge towards the
haymakers. They consisted in about equal proportions of gnarled and
flexuous forms, the former being the men, the latter the women, who
wore tilt bonnets covered with nankeen, which hung in a curtain upon
their shoulders. Coggan and Mark Clark were mowing in a less forward
meadow, Clark humming a tune to the strokes of his scythe, to
which Jan made no attempt to keep time with his. In the first mead
they were already loading hay, the women raking it into cocks and
windrows, and the men tossing it upon the waggon.
From behind the waggon a bright scarlet spot emerged, and went on
loading unconcernedly with the rest. It was the gallant sergeant,
who had come haymaking for pleasure; and nobody could deny that
he was doing the mistress of the farm real knight-service by this
voluntary contribution of his labour at a busy time.
As soon as she had entered the field Troy saw her, and sticking his
pitchfork into the ground and picking up his crop or cane, he came
forward. Bathsheba blushed with half-angry embarrassment, and
adjusted her eyes as well as her feet to the direct line of her path.
| 1,064 | Chapter 25 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-25 | "Idiosyncrasy and vicissitude had combined to stamp Sergeant Troy as an exceptional being. He was a man to whom memories were an incumbrance, and anticipations a superfluity. Simply feeling, considering, and caring for what was before his eyes, he was vulnerable only in the present. . . . With him the past was yesterday; the future, tomorrow; never, the day after." Troy was "moderately truthful" to men, but lied to and flattered women. "He had been known to observe casually that in dealing with womankind the only alternative to flattery was cursing and swearing. There was no third method. 'Treat them fairly, and you are a lost man,' he would say." Bathsheba was relieved by Boldwood's absence. She was surveying the haymaking in her fields when she noticed a red uniform behind a wagon. The sergeant had "come haymaking for pleasure; and nobody could deny that he was doing the mistress of the farm real knight-service by his voluntary contribution of his labour at a busy time." As soon as Bathsheba appeared, Troy put down his fork, gathered his riding crop, and came toward her. Bathsheba blushed and lowered her eyes. | Sergeant Troy is an undeniably charming liar who gives no thought to the harm his words may cause. When we remember Bathsheba's unthinking acts -- her treatment of Oak, her valentine to Boldwood -- we cannot help but feel some satisfaction that she has finally met her match -- and more. | 191 | 51 | [
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5,658 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/39.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_38_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapter 39 | chapter 39 | null | {"name": "Chapter 39", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-39", "summary": "Dain Waris, son of Doramin, leads the first attack against Brown, but can't defeat him entirely. Meanwhile, Jim is away in the countryside while all this is going on. The Patusanians hold a council of war, at which everyone has competing plans and interests. It's clear that Jim's leadership is needed. Rajah Allang, who is playing both sides, decides to team up with Brown to defeat Jim, so he sends his advisor, Kassin, to meet with Brown. Kassim brings along Cornelius to act as an interpreter. The two of them make their pitch to Brown, who decides that Patusan sounds all right, and that he should take the island entirely for himself. While the double-crossers all have a powwow, Dain Waris quietly sends canoes downstream to trap Brown. Sneaky.", "analysis": ""} | '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.'
| 2,271 | Chapter 39 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-39 | Dain Waris, son of Doramin, leads the first attack against Brown, but can't defeat him entirely. Meanwhile, Jim is away in the countryside while all this is going on. The Patusanians hold a council of war, at which everyone has competing plans and interests. It's clear that Jim's leadership is needed. Rajah Allang, who is playing both sides, decides to team up with Brown to defeat Jim, so he sends his advisor, Kassin, to meet with Brown. Kassim brings along Cornelius to act as an interpreter. The two of them make their pitch to Brown, who decides that Patusan sounds all right, and that he should take the island entirely for himself. While the double-crossers all have a powwow, Dain Waris quietly sends canoes downstream to trap Brown. Sneaky. | null | 129 | 1 | [
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1,756 | true | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/1756-chapters/act_i.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/Uncle Vanya/section_0_part_0.txt | Uncle Vanya.act i | act i | null | {"name": "Act I", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180409044821/http://www.gradesaver.com/uncle-vanya/study-guide/summary-act-i", "summary": "The scene is a garden with a country house in the distance. It is mid-afternoon. Marina, an elderly woman, is knitting. Michael Astrov, a doctor, approaches her. Marina asks if he would like a drink, and Astrov declines. She reminisces about when he first came to these parts, and comments that he looks much older now. Astrov sighs that he is overworked and surrounded by the oddest people, which makes one turn odd themselves. He feels that he still has his wits, but he rues that he cares for nothing and no one. He does kiss her head, though, and smiles that he is fond of her. Astrov continues to talk about what he's seen, particularly a typhus epidemic and how, when he got home, a railwayman was brought in and died right on his table. The weight of guilt at not being able to save the man crushes him; he laments that, when he and everyone else is gone hundreds of years from now, people will not remember them. Marina comforts him by saying that God will remember. Voynitsky , looking disheveled and sleepy after a nap, joins them. He complains that since the professor and his wife arrived, the house has been turned upside down. Sonya works and he does nothing, but the schedule is completely different. Marina adds her complaints about the professor's whims and how she has to put the samovar on at random hours. Astrov asks how long they are staying; Vanya jokes wryly that they will be there for a hundred years. The professor, Serebryakov, his young and lovely second wife Helen, his daughter Sonya from his first marriage , and Telegin, an elderly landowner and Sonya's godfather, come down into the garden and join them. Serebryakov compliments the scenery and then asks for tea to be sent to the study. He, his wife, and his daughter retire into the house. Vanya mocks the professor's excessive clothing on this warm day, but he gushes over Helen's beauty. Astrov tries to get Vanya to talk about what is going on in the house now, and Vanya only grumbles that he is lazy and that his mother complains all day and gets her head in a tizzy about women's rights. As for the professor, he suffers from a myriad of ailments but spends his time writing and living off his first wife's estate. He knows nothing about the art he writes about, and he seems to get too many lucky breaks. Vanya adds that his brother-in-law simply writes about things that all smart people already know--\"in other words he's spent twenty-five years chasing his own shadow\" . Astrov comments that perhaps Vanya is jealous, and Vanya laughs blackly that of course he is. He doesn't understand Serebryakov's success with women: he married Vanya's sister; his mother still likes him; and now he is married to the beautiful Helen. Astrov asks if Helen is faithful to Serebryakov, and remarks that it seems incredibly ridiculous. Telegin whines that Vanya shouldn't criticize someone who is faithful to a spouse because being unfaithful could lead to being unfaithful to one's country. Vanya, irritated, tells him to be quiet. Telegin tearfully tells them of his own wife's unfaithfulness. Now, however, she has lost her looks and her lover is dead: she has nothing, while he still has his pride. Sonya and Helen return along with Mrs. Voynitsky, and Sonya hurriedly asks Marina if she can see what new visitors to the house want. Astrov tells Helen that he's come to see her husband but she says that he is fine now. Astrov decides to stay the night; Sonya tells him she is glad, and that he can eat with them. Telegin volunteers that the samovar is cold now, and Helen, referring to him as \"Mr. Galetin,\" tells him not to worry. He corrects her, and Sonya tells Helen that Telegin is a great help to them here. Mrs. Voynitsky speaks up to tell her son about a pamphlet from Kharkov, and how it is odd because the man reversed his opinions. Vanya rolls his eyes and says they ought to stop talking about pamphlets. Mrs. Voynitsky is offended by her son's behavior, but Vanya does not care. He is forty-seven and no longer feels like he knows what to do with himself, and he cannot sleep at night because he is angry and frustrated with his wasted life. His mother chides him that he is the only one to blame and that if he wanted to do something, he should have done it. Vanya scoffs that they aren't all \"non-stop writing machines like the learned professor\" . Sonya begs them to stop bickering, and they fall silent. Helen comments that it is a perfect day. Vanya retorts that it is a perfect day to hang oneself. When Marina returns, she tells Sonya that the village people wanted to talk about the wasted land. A laborer comes up to them asking for the doctor because there is an issue at the factory. Grumbling, Astrov gets up to leave. He addresses Sonya and Helen, telling them that there is a government forest reserve next to his estate and that it is somewhat of a showpiece. If they want to come, he says, he will show them around. Helen smiles that she has heard of his fondness for forestry work, and asks if it interferes with his \"real business\" . Astrov wryly asks what life's real business really is, but comments that forestry is interesting work. Helen is surprised someone as young as he is so interested in something as dull as trees. Sonya interjects and says that it is very interesting, and that Astrov is trying to save the forest from destruction. She explains that Astrov always says, \"forest are the glory of our earth, that they teach man to appreciate beauty and give him a sense of grandeur\" . Vanya laughs and says he'll keep burning his logs and building wooden barns. Astrov responds that, yes, he can cut timber, but why ruin all the forests? Russia is losing millions of trees and the scenery has changed. Man is not a creator but merely a destroyer: he ruins forests and rivers, wildlife is destroyed, the climate is changing, and everything grows uglier. Astrov is proud of what he has saved. Sonya walks him out, asking when he will return. Helen and Vanya start walking and she chastises him for his rudeness and for the way he treats her husband. He comments that he hates him, and then he muses that she seems to move as if she were bored and life were too much. She admits that she is bored but that men always feel sorry for women because they have a demon of destruction in them and feel upset when they see a woman who doesn't belong to them. She pauses and comments that Sonya is obviously in love with the doctor and that, although he is high-strung, he is attractive. He does not seem to like her, she muses, but she and Vanya get along so well because they are both \"abysmal bores\" . Vanya feverishly proclaims his love for her, but she shushes him and tells him that he is simply too much. Telegin plays the guitar in the background.", "analysis": "Chekhov's Uncle Vanya is comprised of four acts. Although the subtitle of the play suggests it will concern \"scenes of country life,\" that's only partially accurate. The play is indeed set on a country estate at the end of the 19th century, but there are few scenes that provide any insight into what the lived experience of people in the Russian countryside might be. Instead, the play is mostly concerned with the squabbles, complaints, and thwarted dreams of the middle-class characters. By the end of the play, little to nothing has happened; everything returns to the status quo. Even a dramatic attempted murder ends with the proverbial whimper rather than a bang. For theatergoers at the time of its staging, this was remarkably aberrant. As scholar Ronald Hingley notes in his introduction to an edition of Chekhov's plays, \"we shall do better to look neither for tragedy nor comedy, but to realize that we have entered a strange anti-climactic, anti-romantic, anti-dramatic world such has never existed on the stage before Chekhov, a world with its own laws, its own dimensions, its own brand of humor.\" Rosamund Bartlett described it as a \"play about a group of unremarkable individuals who seemingly randomly enter and leave, after holding desultory conversations which invariably degenerate into arguments\" and \"is neither tragedy nor farce.\" What, then, is Uncle Vanya about? Despite its lack of a traditional plot structure, the play does establish a few points of contention. In Act I, we meet Astrov, a country doctor who is bitterly aware of the intellectual limitations of his job. He expresses derision of the people whom he treats and wonders if anyone will ever remember the work he did. However, unlike Vanya, he manages to exhibit some feeling, telling Marina about a man he could not save and how \"I felt guilty as if I'd murdered the man\" . Astrov also extols the merits of his forestry reserve, offering an impassioned account of how Russians do not create but only destroy, and how this destruction results in both devastation of the environment and the Russian character. Astrov's labors are noble, but he does not succeed in convincing anyone else that his work invites emulation. If the title didn't already suggest it, it becomes clear that the play really belongs to Voynitsky, or Vanya. Vanya struggles with both his life as a whole and with the particular dynamic that results from Serebryakov and Helen being at the estate in person; their presence provokes and exacerbates his general feelings of unhappiness, lack of fulfillment, and exhaustion. Although Vanya normally works hard on the estate, being face-to-face with his brother-in-law and Helen renders him only able to \"sleep, eat, and drink\" . He is bitterly jealous of Serebryakov--not only for the women he attracts, but also for the fact that Serebryakov has been successful as a writer and scholar while he, Vanya, has not done anything of note. Vanya excoriates the lack of originality in Serebryakov's ideas and claims that he is \"totally obscure\" and \" spent twenty-five years chasing his own shadow\" . Ironically, one of the things that Vanya has in common with Serebryakov is his fixation on his age. Vanya bemoans the fact that he is almost fifty, whining \"I can't sleep at night for frustration and anger at the stupid way I've wasted time when I might have had everything I can't have now because I'm too old\" . Towards the end of the play, he even claims that he could have been a Dostoevsky or Schopenhauer if not for Serebryakov's diversion of his talents. In response to the first statement, Vanya's mother rightfully chastises him\" \"You're forgetting that principles on their own don't mean anything. You should have done something\" . Mrs. Voynitsky's advice could be applied to nearly all the characters, as they are prone to blaming others for their problems without taking into account their own behavior. Chekhov isn't entirely dismissive of them, though, and renders them both critically and sympathetically. They are prisoners of societal expectations, their own characteristics and viewpoints, and the vapidity of parochial existence."} | ACT I
A country house on a terrace. In front of it a garden. In an avenue of
trees, under an old poplar, stands a table set for tea, with a samovar,
etc. Some benches and chairs stand near the table. On one of them is
lying a guitar. A hammock is swung near the table. It is three o'clock
in the afternoon of a cloudy day.
MARINA, a quiet, grey-haired, little old woman, is sitting at the table
knitting a stocking.
ASTROFF is walking up and down near her.
MARINA. [Pouring some tea into a glass] Take a little tea, my son.
ASTROFF. [Takes the glass from her unwillingly] Somehow, I don't seem to
want any.
MARINA. Then will you have a little vodka instead?
ASTROFF. No, I don't drink vodka every day, and besides, it is too hot
now. [A pause] Tell me, nurse, how long have we known each other?
MARINA. [Thoughtfully] Let me see, how long is it? Lord--help me to
remember. You first came here, into our parts--let me think--when was
it? Sonia's mother was still alive--it was two winters before she died;
that was eleven years ago--[thoughtfully] perhaps more.
ASTROFF. Have I changed much since then?
MARINA. Oh, yes. You were handsome and young then, and now you are an
old man and not handsome any more. You drink, too.
ASTROFF. Yes, ten years have made me another man. And why? Because I am
overworked. Nurse, I am on my feet from dawn till dusk. I know no rest;
at night I tremble under my blankets for fear of being dragged out to
visit some one who is sick; I have toiled without repose or a day's
freedom since I have known you; could I help growing old? And then,
existence is tedious, anyway; it is a senseless, dirty business, this
life, and goes heavily. Every one about here is silly, and after
living with them for two or three years one grows silly oneself. It is
inevitable. [Twisting his moustache] See what a long moustache I have
grown. A foolish, long moustache. Yes, I am as silly as the rest, nurse,
but not as stupid; no, I have not grown stupid. Thank God, my brain is
not addled yet, though my feelings have grown numb. I ask nothing, I
need nothing, I love no one, unless it is yourself alone. [He kisses her
head] I had a nurse just like you when I was a child.
MARINA. Don't you want a bite of something to eat?
ASTROFF. No. During the third week of Lent I went to the epidemic at
Malitskoi. It was eruptive typhoid. The peasants were all lying side by
side in their huts, and the calves and pigs were running about the floor
among the sick. Such dirt there was, and smoke! Unspeakable! I slaved
among those people all day, not a crumb passed my lips, but when I got
home there was still no rest for me; a switchman was carried in from the
railroad; I laid him on the operating table and he went and died in
my arms under chloroform, and then my feelings that should have been
deadened awoke again, my conscience tortured me as if I had killed the
man. I sat down and closed my eyes--like this--and thought: will our
descendants two hundred years from now, for whom we are breaking the
road, remember to give us a kind word? No, nurse, they will forget.
MARINA. Man is forgetful, but God remembers.
ASTROFF. Thank you for that. You have spoken the truth.
Enter VOITSKI from the house. He has been asleep after dinner and
looks rather dishevelled. He sits down on the bench and straightens his
collar.
VOITSKI. H'm. Yes. [A pause] Yes.
ASTROFF. Have you been asleep?
VOITSKI. Yes, very much so. [He yawns] Ever since the Professor and his
wife have come, our daily life seems to have jumped the track. I sleep
at the wrong time, drink wine, and eat all sorts of messes for luncheon
and dinner. It isn't wholesome. Sonia and I used to work together and
never had an idle moment, but now Sonia works alone and I only eat and
drink and sleep. Something is wrong.
MARINA. [Shaking her head] Such a confusion in the house! The Professor
gets up at twelve, the samovar is kept boiling all the morning, and
everything has to wait for him. Before they came we used to have dinner
at one o'clock, like everybody else, but now we have it at seven. The
Professor sits up all night writing and reading, and suddenly, at two
o'clock, there goes the bell! Heavens, what is that? The Professor wants
some tea! Wake the servants, light the samovar! Lord, what disorder!
ASTROFF. Will they be here long?
VOITSKI. A hundred years! The Professor has decided to make his home
here.
MARINA. Look at this now! The samovar has been on the table for two
hours, and they are all out walking!
VOITSKI. All right, don't get excited; here they come.
Voices are heard approaching. SEREBRAKOFF, HELENA, SONIA, and TELEGIN
come in from the depths of the garden, returning from their walk.
SEREBRAKOFF. Superb! Superb! What beautiful views!
TELEGIN. They are wonderful, your Excellency.
SONIA. To-morrow we shall go into the woods, shall we, papa?
VOITSKI. Ladies and gentlemen, tea is ready.
SEREBRAKOFF. Won't you please be good enough to send my tea into the
library? I still have some work to finish.
SONIA. I am sure you will love the woods.
HELENA, SEREBRAKOFF, and SONIA go into the house. TELEGIN sits down at
the table beside MARINA.
VOITSKI. There goes our learned scholar on a hot, sultry day like this,
in his overcoat and goloshes and carrying an umbrella!
ASTROFF. He is trying to take good care of his health.
VOITSKI. How lovely she is! How lovely! I have never in my life seen a
more beautiful woman.
TELEGIN. Do you know, Marina, that as I walk in the fields or in
the shady garden, as I look at this table here, my heart swells with
unbounded happiness. The weather is enchanting, the birds are singing,
we are all living in peace and contentment--what more could the soul
desire? [Takes a glass of tea.]
VOITSKI. [Dreaming] Such eyes--a glorious woman!
ASTROFF. Come, Ivan, tell us something.
VOITSKI. [Indolently] What shall I tell you?
ASTROFF. Haven't you any news for us?
VOITSKI. No, it is all stale. I am just the same as usual, or perhaps
worse, because I have become lazy. I don't do anything now but croak
like an old raven. My mother, the old magpie, is still chattering about
the emancipation of woman, with one eye on her grave and the other on
her learned books, in which she is always looking for the dawn of a new
life.
ASTROFF. And the Professor?
VOITSKI. The Professor sits in his library from morning till night, as
usual--
"Straining the mind, wrinkling the brow,
We write, write, write,
Without respite
Or hope of praise in the future or now."
Poor paper! He ought to write his autobiography; he would make a
really splendid subject for a book! Imagine it, the life of a retired
professor, as stale as a piece of hardtack, tortured by gout, headaches,
and rheumatism, his liver bursting with jealousy and envy, living on the
estate of his first wife, although he hates it, because he can't afford
to live in town. He is everlastingly whining about his hard lot, though,
as a matter of fact, he is extraordinarily lucky. He is the son of
a common deacon and has attained the professor's chair, become the
son-in-law of a senator, is called "your Excellency," and so on. But
I'll tell you something; the man has been writing on art for twenty-five
years, and he doesn't know the very first thing about it. For
twenty-five years he has been chewing on other men's thoughts about
realism, naturalism, and all such foolishness; for twenty-five years he
has been reading and writing things that clever men have long known and
stupid ones are not interested in; for twenty-five years he has been
making his imaginary mountains out of molehills. And just think of the
man's self-conceit and presumption all this time! For twenty-five years
he has been masquerading in false clothes and has now retired absolutely
unknown to any living soul; and yet see him! stalking across the earth
like a demi-god!
ASTROFF. I believe you envy him.
VOITSKI. Yes, I do. Look at the success he has had with women! Don Juan
himself was not more favoured. His first wife, who was my sister, was
a beautiful, gentle being, as pure as the blue heaven there above us,
noble, great-hearted, with more admirers than he has pupils, and she
loved him as only beings of angelic purity can love those who are as
pure and beautiful as themselves. His mother-in-law, my mother, adores
him to this day, and he still inspires a sort of worshipful awe in her.
His second wife is, as you see, a brilliant beauty; she married him in
his old age and has surrendered all the glory of her beauty and freedom
to him. Why? What for?
ASTROFF. Is she faithful to him?
VOITSKI. Yes, unfortunately she is.
ASTROFF. Why unfortunately?
VOITSKI. Because such fidelity is false and unnatural, root and branch.
It sounds well, but there is no logic in it. It is thought immoral for a
woman to deceive an old husband whom she hates, but quite moral for her
to strangle her poor youth in her breast and banish every vital desire
from her heart.
TELEGIN. [In a tearful voice] Vanya, I don't like to hear you talk so.
Listen, Vanya; every one who betrays husband or wife is faithless, and
could also betray his country.
VOITSKI. [Crossly] Turn off the tap, Waffles.
TELEGIN. No, allow me, Vanya. My wife ran away with a lover on the day
after our wedding, because my exterior was unprepossessing. I have never
failed in my duty since then. I love her and am true to her to this day.
I help her all I can and have given my fortune to educate the daughter
of herself and her lover. I have forfeited my happiness, but I have kept
my pride. And she? Her youth has fled, her beauty has faded according to
the laws of nature, and her lover is dead. What has she kept?
HELENA and SONIA come in; after them comes MME. VOITSKAYA carrying a
book. She sits down and begins to read. Some one hands her a glass of
tea which she drinks without looking up.
SONIA. [Hurriedly, to the nurse] There are some peasants waiting out
there. Go and see what they want. I shall pour the tea. [Pours out some
glasses of tea.]
MARINA goes out. HELENA takes a glass and sits drinking in the hammock.
ASTROFF. I have come to see your husband. You wrote me that he had
rheumatism and I know not what else, and that he was very ill, but he
appears to be as lively as a cricket.
HELENA. He had a fit of the blues yesterday evening and complained of
pains in his legs, but he seems all right again to-day.
ASTROFF. And I galloped over here twenty miles at break-neck speed! No
matter, though, it is not the first time. Once here, however, I am going
to stay until to-morrow, and at any rate sleep _quantum satis._
SONIA. Oh, splendid! You so seldom spend the night with us. Have you had
dinner yet?
ASTROFF. No.
SONIA. Good. So you will have it with us. We dine at seven now. [Drinks
her tea] This tea is cold!
TELEGIN. Yes, the samovar has grown cold.
HELENA. Don't mind, Monsieur Ivan, we will drink cold tea, then.
TELEGIN. I beg your pardon, my name is not Ivan, but Ilia, ma'am--Ilia
Telegin, or Waffles, as I am sometimes called on account of my
pock-marked face. I am Sonia's godfather, and his Excellency, your
husband, knows me very well. I now live with you, ma'am, on this estate,
and perhaps you will be so good as to notice that I dine with you every
day.
SONIA. He is our great help, our right-hand man. [Tenderly] Dear
godfather, let me pour you some tea.
MME. VOITSKAYA. Oh! Oh!
SONIA. What is it, grandmother?
MME. VOITSKAYA. I forgot to tell Alexander--I have lost my memory--I
received a letter to-day from Paul Alexevitch in Kharkoff. He has sent
me a new pamphlet.
ASTROFF. Is it interesting?
MME. VOITSKAYA. Yes, but strange. He refutes the very theories which he
defended seven years ago. It is appalling!
VOITSKI. There is nothing appalling about it. Drink your tea, mamma.
MME. VOITSKAYA. It seems you never want to listen to what I have to say.
Pardon me, Jean, but you have changed so in the last year that I
hardly know you. You used to be a man of settled convictions and had an
illuminating personality----
VOITSKI. Oh, yes. I had an illuminating personality, which illuminated
no one. [A pause] I had an illuminating personality! You couldn't say
anything more biting. I am forty-seven years old. Until last year I
endeavoured, as you do now, to blind my eyes by your pedantry to the
truths of life. But now--Oh, if you only knew! If you knew how I lie
awake at night, heartsick and angry, to think how stupidly I have wasted
my time when I might have been winning from life everything which my old
age now forbids.
SONIA. Uncle Vanya, how dreary!
MME. VOITSKAYA. [To her son] You speak as if your former convictions
were somehow to blame, but you yourself, not they, were at fault. You
have forgotten that a conviction, in itself, is nothing but a dead
letter. You should have done something.
VOITSKI. Done something! Not every man is capable of being a writer
_perpetuum mobile_ like your Herr Professor.
MME. VOITSKAYA. What do you mean by that?
SONIA. [Imploringly] Mother! Uncle Vanya! I entreat you!
VOITSKI. I am silent. I apologise and am silent. [A pause.]
HELENA. What a fine day! Not too hot. [A pause.]
VOITSKI. A fine day to hang oneself.
TELEGIN tunes the guitar. MARINA appears near the house, calling the
chickens.
MARINA. Chick, chick, chick!
SONIA. What did the peasants want, nurse?
MARINA. The same old thing, the same old nonsense. Chick, chick, chick!
SONIA. Why are you calling the chickens?
MARINA. The speckled hen has disappeared with her chicks. I am afraid
the crows have got her.
TELEGIN plays a polka. All listen in silence. Enter WORKMAN.
WORKMAN. Is the doctor here? [To ASTROFF] Excuse me, sir, but I have
been sent to fetch you.
ASTROFF. Where are you from?
WORKMAN. The factory.
ASTROFF. [Annoyed] Thank you. There is nothing for it, then, but to go.
[Looking around him for his cap] Damn it, this is annoying!
SONIA. Yes, it is too bad, really. You must come back to dinner from the
factory.
ASTROFF. No, I won't be able to do that. It will be too late. Now where,
where--[To the WORKMAN] Look here, my man, get me a glass of vodka, will
you? [The WORKMAN goes out] Where--where--[Finds his cap] One of the
characters in Ostroff's plays is a man with a long moustache and short
wits, like me. However, let me bid you good-bye, ladies and gentlemen.
[To HELENA] I should be really delighted if you would come to see me
some day with Miss Sonia. My estate is small, but if you are interested
in such things I should like to show you a nursery and seed-bed whose
like you will not find within a thousand miles of here. My place is
surrounded by government forests. The forester is old and always ailing,
so I superintend almost all the work myself.
HELENA. I have always heard that you were very fond of the woods. Of
course one can do a great deal of good by helping to preserve them, but
does not that work interfere with your real calling?
ASTROFF. God alone knows what a man's real calling is.
HELENA. And do you find it interesting?
ASTROFF. Yes, very.
VOITSKI. [Sarcastically] Oh, extremely!
HELENA. You are still young, not over thirty-six or seven, I should say,
and I suspect that the woods do not interest you as much as you say they
do. I should think you would find them monotonous.
SONIA. No, the work is thrilling. Dr. Astroff watches over the old woods
and sets out new plantations every year, and he has already received a
diploma and a bronze medal. If you will listen to what he can tell you,
you will agree with him entirely. He says that forests are the ornaments
of the earth, that they teach mankind to understand beauty and attune
his mind to lofty sentiments. Forests temper a stern climate, and in
countries where the climate is milder, less strength is wasted in the
battle with nature, and the people are kind and gentle. The inhabitants
of such countries are handsome, tractable, sensitive, graceful in speech
and gesture. Their philosophy is joyous, art and science blossom among
them, their treatment of women is full of exquisite nobility----
VOITSKI. [Laughing] Bravo! Bravo! All that is very pretty, but it is
also unconvincing. So, my friend [To ASTROFF] you must let me go on
burning firewood in my stoves and building my sheds of planks.
ASTROFF. You can burn peat in your stoves and build your sheds of stone.
Oh, I don't object, of course, to cutting wood from necessity, but why
destroy the forests? The woods of Russia are trembling under the blows
of the axe. Millions of trees have perished. The homes of the wild
animals and birds have been desolated; the rivers are shrinking, and
many beautiful landscapes are gone forever. And why? Because men are too
lazy and stupid to stoop down and pick up their fuel from the ground.
[To HELENA] Am I not right, Madame? Who but a stupid barbarian could
burn so much beauty in his stove and destroy that which he cannot make?
Man is endowed with reason and the power to create, so that he may
increase that which has been given him, but until now he has not
created, but demolished. The forests are disappearing, the rivers are
running dry, the game is exterminated, the climate is spoiled, and the
earth becomes poorer and uglier every day. [To VOITSKI] I read irony in
your eye; you do not take what I am saying seriously, and--and--after
all, it may very well be nonsense. But when I pass peasant-forests
that I have preserved from the axe, or hear the rustling of the young
plantations set out with my own hands, I feel as if I had had some small
share in improving the climate, and that if mankind is happy a thousand
years from now I will have been a little bit responsible for their
happiness. When I plant a little birch tree and then see it budding
into young green and swaying in the wind, my heart swells with pride and
I--[Sees the WORKMAN, who is bringing him a glass of vodka on a tray]
however--[He drinks] I must be off. Probably it is all nonsense, anyway.
Good-bye.
He goes toward the house. SONIA takes his arm and goes with him.
SONIA. When are you coming to see us again?
ASTROFF. I can't say.
SONIA. In a month?
ASTROFF and SONIA go into the house. HELENA and VOITSKI walk over to the
terrace.
HELENA. You have behaved shockingly again. Ivan, what sense was there
in teasing your mother and talking about _perpetuum mobile?_ And at
breakfast you quarreled with Alexander again. Really, your behaviour is
too petty.
VOITSKI. But if I hate him?
HELENA. You hate Alexander without reason; he is like every one else,
and no worse than you are.
VOITSKI. If you could only see your face, your gestures! Oh, how tedious
your life must be.
HELENA. It is tedious, yes, and dreary! You all abuse my husband and
look on me with compassion; you think, "Poor woman, she is married to
an old man." How well I understand your compassion! As Astroff said just
now, see how you thoughtlessly destroy the forests, so that there will
soon be none left. So you also destroy mankind, and soon fidelity and
purity and self-sacrifice will have vanished with the woods. Why cannot
you look calmly at a woman unless she is yours? Because, the doctor
was right, you are all possessed by a devil of destruction; you have no
mercy on the woods or the birds or on women or on one another.
VOITSKI. I don't like your philosophy.
HELENA. That doctor has a sensitive, weary face--an interesting face.
Sonia evidently likes him, and she is in love with him, and I can
understand it. This is the third time he has been here since I have
come, and I have not had a real talk with him yet or made much of him.
He thinks I am disagreeable. Do you know, Ivan, the reason you and I are
such friends? I think it is because we are both lonely and unfortunate.
Yes, unfortunate. Don't look at me in that way, I don't like it.
VOITSKI. How can I look at you otherwise when I love you? You are my
joy, my life, and my youth. I know that my chances of being loved in
return are infinitely small, do not exist, but I ask nothing of you.
Only let me look at you, listen to your voice--
HELENA. Hush, some one will overhear you.
[They go toward the house.]
VOITSKI. [Following her] Let me speak to you of my love, do not drive me
away, and this alone will be my greatest happiness!
HELENA. Ah! This is agony!
TELEGIN strikes the strings of his guitar and plays a polka. MME.
VOITSKAYA writes something on the leaves of her pamphlet.
The curtain falls.
| 3,372 | Act I | https://web.archive.org/web/20180409044821/http://www.gradesaver.com/uncle-vanya/study-guide/summary-act-i | The scene is a garden with a country house in the distance. It is mid-afternoon. Marina, an elderly woman, is knitting. Michael Astrov, a doctor, approaches her. Marina asks if he would like a drink, and Astrov declines. She reminisces about when he first came to these parts, and comments that he looks much older now. Astrov sighs that he is overworked and surrounded by the oddest people, which makes one turn odd themselves. He feels that he still has his wits, but he rues that he cares for nothing and no one. He does kiss her head, though, and smiles that he is fond of her. Astrov continues to talk about what he's seen, particularly a typhus epidemic and how, when he got home, a railwayman was brought in and died right on his table. The weight of guilt at not being able to save the man crushes him; he laments that, when he and everyone else is gone hundreds of years from now, people will not remember them. Marina comforts him by saying that God will remember. Voynitsky , looking disheveled and sleepy after a nap, joins them. He complains that since the professor and his wife arrived, the house has been turned upside down. Sonya works and he does nothing, but the schedule is completely different. Marina adds her complaints about the professor's whims and how she has to put the samovar on at random hours. Astrov asks how long they are staying; Vanya jokes wryly that they will be there for a hundred years. The professor, Serebryakov, his young and lovely second wife Helen, his daughter Sonya from his first marriage , and Telegin, an elderly landowner and Sonya's godfather, come down into the garden and join them. Serebryakov compliments the scenery and then asks for tea to be sent to the study. He, his wife, and his daughter retire into the house. Vanya mocks the professor's excessive clothing on this warm day, but he gushes over Helen's beauty. Astrov tries to get Vanya to talk about what is going on in the house now, and Vanya only grumbles that he is lazy and that his mother complains all day and gets her head in a tizzy about women's rights. As for the professor, he suffers from a myriad of ailments but spends his time writing and living off his first wife's estate. He knows nothing about the art he writes about, and he seems to get too many lucky breaks. Vanya adds that his brother-in-law simply writes about things that all smart people already know--"in other words he's spent twenty-five years chasing his own shadow" . Astrov comments that perhaps Vanya is jealous, and Vanya laughs blackly that of course he is. He doesn't understand Serebryakov's success with women: he married Vanya's sister; his mother still likes him; and now he is married to the beautiful Helen. Astrov asks if Helen is faithful to Serebryakov, and remarks that it seems incredibly ridiculous. Telegin whines that Vanya shouldn't criticize someone who is faithful to a spouse because being unfaithful could lead to being unfaithful to one's country. Vanya, irritated, tells him to be quiet. Telegin tearfully tells them of his own wife's unfaithfulness. Now, however, she has lost her looks and her lover is dead: she has nothing, while he still has his pride. Sonya and Helen return along with Mrs. Voynitsky, and Sonya hurriedly asks Marina if she can see what new visitors to the house want. Astrov tells Helen that he's come to see her husband but she says that he is fine now. Astrov decides to stay the night; Sonya tells him she is glad, and that he can eat with them. Telegin volunteers that the samovar is cold now, and Helen, referring to him as "Mr. Galetin," tells him not to worry. He corrects her, and Sonya tells Helen that Telegin is a great help to them here. Mrs. Voynitsky speaks up to tell her son about a pamphlet from Kharkov, and how it is odd because the man reversed his opinions. Vanya rolls his eyes and says they ought to stop talking about pamphlets. Mrs. Voynitsky is offended by her son's behavior, but Vanya does not care. He is forty-seven and no longer feels like he knows what to do with himself, and he cannot sleep at night because he is angry and frustrated with his wasted life. His mother chides him that he is the only one to blame and that if he wanted to do something, he should have done it. Vanya scoffs that they aren't all "non-stop writing machines like the learned professor" . Sonya begs them to stop bickering, and they fall silent. Helen comments that it is a perfect day. Vanya retorts that it is a perfect day to hang oneself. When Marina returns, she tells Sonya that the village people wanted to talk about the wasted land. A laborer comes up to them asking for the doctor because there is an issue at the factory. Grumbling, Astrov gets up to leave. He addresses Sonya and Helen, telling them that there is a government forest reserve next to his estate and that it is somewhat of a showpiece. If they want to come, he says, he will show them around. Helen smiles that she has heard of his fondness for forestry work, and asks if it interferes with his "real business" . Astrov wryly asks what life's real business really is, but comments that forestry is interesting work. Helen is surprised someone as young as he is so interested in something as dull as trees. Sonya interjects and says that it is very interesting, and that Astrov is trying to save the forest from destruction. She explains that Astrov always says, "forest are the glory of our earth, that they teach man to appreciate beauty and give him a sense of grandeur" . Vanya laughs and says he'll keep burning his logs and building wooden barns. Astrov responds that, yes, he can cut timber, but why ruin all the forests? Russia is losing millions of trees and the scenery has changed. Man is not a creator but merely a destroyer: he ruins forests and rivers, wildlife is destroyed, the climate is changing, and everything grows uglier. Astrov is proud of what he has saved. Sonya walks him out, asking when he will return. Helen and Vanya start walking and she chastises him for his rudeness and for the way he treats her husband. He comments that he hates him, and then he muses that she seems to move as if she were bored and life were too much. She admits that she is bored but that men always feel sorry for women because they have a demon of destruction in them and feel upset when they see a woman who doesn't belong to them. She pauses and comments that Sonya is obviously in love with the doctor and that, although he is high-strung, he is attractive. He does not seem to like her, she muses, but she and Vanya get along so well because they are both "abysmal bores" . Vanya feverishly proclaims his love for her, but she shushes him and tells him that he is simply too much. Telegin plays the guitar in the background. | Chekhov's Uncle Vanya is comprised of four acts. Although the subtitle of the play suggests it will concern "scenes of country life," that's only partially accurate. The play is indeed set on a country estate at the end of the 19th century, but there are few scenes that provide any insight into what the lived experience of people in the Russian countryside might be. Instead, the play is mostly concerned with the squabbles, complaints, and thwarted dreams of the middle-class characters. By the end of the play, little to nothing has happened; everything returns to the status quo. Even a dramatic attempted murder ends with the proverbial whimper rather than a bang. For theatergoers at the time of its staging, this was remarkably aberrant. As scholar Ronald Hingley notes in his introduction to an edition of Chekhov's plays, "we shall do better to look neither for tragedy nor comedy, but to realize that we have entered a strange anti-climactic, anti-romantic, anti-dramatic world such has never existed on the stage before Chekhov, a world with its own laws, its own dimensions, its own brand of humor." Rosamund Bartlett described it as a "play about a group of unremarkable individuals who seemingly randomly enter and leave, after holding desultory conversations which invariably degenerate into arguments" and "is neither tragedy nor farce." What, then, is Uncle Vanya about? Despite its lack of a traditional plot structure, the play does establish a few points of contention. In Act I, we meet Astrov, a country doctor who is bitterly aware of the intellectual limitations of his job. He expresses derision of the people whom he treats and wonders if anyone will ever remember the work he did. However, unlike Vanya, he manages to exhibit some feeling, telling Marina about a man he could not save and how "I felt guilty as if I'd murdered the man" . Astrov also extols the merits of his forestry reserve, offering an impassioned account of how Russians do not create but only destroy, and how this destruction results in both devastation of the environment and the Russian character. Astrov's labors are noble, but he does not succeed in convincing anyone else that his work invites emulation. If the title didn't already suggest it, it becomes clear that the play really belongs to Voynitsky, or Vanya. Vanya struggles with both his life as a whole and with the particular dynamic that results from Serebryakov and Helen being at the estate in person; their presence provokes and exacerbates his general feelings of unhappiness, lack of fulfillment, and exhaustion. Although Vanya normally works hard on the estate, being face-to-face with his brother-in-law and Helen renders him only able to "sleep, eat, and drink" . He is bitterly jealous of Serebryakov--not only for the women he attracts, but also for the fact that Serebryakov has been successful as a writer and scholar while he, Vanya, has not done anything of note. Vanya excoriates the lack of originality in Serebryakov's ideas and claims that he is "totally obscure" and " spent twenty-five years chasing his own shadow" . Ironically, one of the things that Vanya has in common with Serebryakov is his fixation on his age. Vanya bemoans the fact that he is almost fifty, whining "I can't sleep at night for frustration and anger at the stupid way I've wasted time when I might have had everything I can't have now because I'm too old" . Towards the end of the play, he even claims that he could have been a Dostoevsky or Schopenhauer if not for Serebryakov's diversion of his talents. In response to the first statement, Vanya's mother rightfully chastises him" "You're forgetting that principles on their own don't mean anything. You should have done something" . Mrs. Voynitsky's advice could be applied to nearly all the characters, as they are prone to blaming others for their problems without taking into account their own behavior. Chekhov isn't entirely dismissive of them, though, and renders them both critically and sympathetically. They are prisoners of societal expectations, their own characteristics and viewpoints, and the vapidity of parochial existence. | 1,221 | 686 | [
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28,054 | false | sparknotes | all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/85.txt | finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_14_part_6.txt | The Brothers Karamazov.book 12.chapter 6 | book 12, chapter 6 | null | {"name": "book 12, Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section15/", "summary": "The Prosecutor's Speech. Characterizations When order is restored, the lawyers give their closing speeches. The prosecutor, Kirrillovich, runs down the facts of the case", "analysis": ""} | Chapter VI. The Prosecutor's Speech. Sketches Of Character
Ippolit Kirillovitch began his speech, trembling with nervousness, with
cold sweat on his forehead, feeling hot and cold all over by turns. He
described this himself afterwards. He regarded this speech as his _chef-
d'oeuvre_, the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of his whole life, as his swan-song. He died,
it is true, nine months later of rapid consumption, so that he had the
right, as it turned out, to compare himself to a swan singing his last
song. He had put his whole heart and all the brain he had into that
speech. And poor Ippolit Kirillovitch unexpectedly revealed that at least
some feeling for the public welfare and "the eternal question" lay
concealed in him. Where his speech really excelled was in its sincerity.
He genuinely believed in the prisoner's guilt; he was accusing him not as
an official duty only, and in calling for vengeance he quivered with a
genuine passion "for the security of society." Even the ladies in the
audience, though they remained hostile to Ippolit Kirillovitch, admitted
that he made an extraordinary impression on them. He began in a breaking
voice, but it soon gained strength and filled the court to the end of his
speech. But as soon as he had finished, he almost fainted.
"Gentlemen of the jury," began the prosecutor, "this case has made a stir
throughout Russia. But what is there to wonder at, what is there so
peculiarly horrifying in it for us? We are so accustomed to such crimes!
That's what's so horrible, that such dark deeds have ceased to horrify us.
What ought to horrify us is that we are so accustomed to it, and not this
or that isolated crime. What are the causes of our indifference, our
lukewarm attitude to such deeds, to such signs of the times, ominous of an
unenviable future? Is it our cynicism, is it the premature exhaustion of
intellect and imagination in a society that is sinking into decay, in
spite of its youth? Is it that our moral principles are shattered to their
foundations, or is it, perhaps, a complete lack of such principles among
us? I cannot answer such questions; nevertheless they are disturbing, and
every citizen not only must, but ought to be harassed by them. Our newborn
and still timid press has done good service to the public already, for
without it we should never have heard of the horrors of unbridled violence
and moral degradation which are continually made known by the press, not
merely to those who attend the new jury courts established in the present
reign, but to every one. And what do we read almost daily? Of things
beside which the present case grows pale, and seems almost commonplace.
But what is most important is that the majority of our national crimes of
violence bear witness to a widespread evil, now so general among us that
it is difficult to contend against it.
"One day we see a brilliant young officer of high society, at the very
outset of his career, in a cowardly underhand way, without a pang of
conscience, murdering an official who had once been his benefactor, and
the servant girl, to steal his own I.O.U. and what ready money he could
find on him; 'it will come in handy for my pleasures in the fashionable
world and for my career in the future.' After murdering them, he puts
pillows under the head of each of his victims; he goes away. Next, a young
hero 'decorated for bravery' kills the mother of his chief and benefactor,
like a highwayman, and to urge his companions to join him he asserts that
'she loves him like a son, and so will follow all his directions and take
no precautions.' Granted that he is a monster, yet I dare not say in these
days that he is unique. Another man will not commit the murder, but will
feel and think like him, and is as dishonorable in soul. In silence, alone
with his conscience, he asks himself perhaps, 'What is honor, and isn't
the condemnation of bloodshed a prejudice?'
"Perhaps people will cry out against me that I am morbid, hysterical, that
it is a monstrous slander, that I am exaggerating. Let them say so--and
heavens! I should be the first to rejoice if it were so! Oh, don't believe
me, think of me as morbid, but remember my words; if only a tenth, if only
a twentieth part of what I say is true--even so it's awful! Look how our
young people commit suicide, without asking themselves Hamlet's question
what there is beyond, without a sign of such a question, as though all
that relates to the soul and to what awaits us beyond the grave had long
been erased in their minds and buried under the sands. Look at our vice,
at our profligates. Fyodor Pavlovitch, the luckless victim in the present
case, was almost an innocent babe compared with many of them. And yet we
all knew him, 'he lived among us!'...
"Yes, one day perhaps the leading intellects of Russia and of Europe will
study the psychology of Russian crime, for the subject is worth it. But
this study will come later, at leisure, when all the tragic topsy-turvydom
of to-day is farther behind us, so that it's possible to examine it with
more insight and more impartiality than I can do. Now we are either
horrified or pretend to be horrified, though we really gloat over the
spectacle, and love strong and eccentric sensations which tickle our
cynical, pampered idleness. Or, like little children, we brush the
dreadful ghosts away and hide our heads in the pillow so as to return to
our sports and merriment as soon as they have vanished. But we must one
day begin life in sober earnest, we must look at ourselves as a society;
it's time we tried to grasp something of our social position, or at least
to make a beginning in that direction.
"A great writer(9) of the last epoch, comparing Russia to a swift troika
galloping to an unknown goal, exclaims, 'Oh, troika, birdlike troika, who
invented thee!' and adds, in proud ecstasy, that all the peoples of the
world stand aside respectfully to make way for the recklessly galloping
troika to pass. That may be, they may stand aside, respectfully or no, but
in my poor opinion the great writer ended his book in this way either in
an access of childish and naive optimism, or simply in fear of the
censorship of the day. For if the troika were drawn by his heroes,
Sobakevitch, Nozdryov, Tchitchikov, it could reach no rational goal,
whoever might be driving it. And those were the heroes of an older
generation, ours are worse specimens still...."
At this point Ippolit Kirillovitch's speech was interrupted by applause.
The liberal significance of this simile was appreciated. The applause was,
it's true, of brief duration, so that the President did not think it
necessary to caution the public, and only looked severely in the direction
of the offenders. But Ippolit Kirillovitch was encouraged; he had never
been applauded before! He had been all his life unable to get a hearing,
and now he suddenly had an opportunity of securing the ear of all Russia.
"What, after all, is this Karamazov family, which has gained such an
unenviable notoriety throughout Russia?" he continued. "Perhaps I am
exaggerating, but it seems to me that certain fundamental features of the
educated class of to-day are reflected in this family picture--only, of
course, in miniature, 'like the sun in a drop of water.' Think of that
unhappy, vicious, unbridled old man, who has met with such a melancholy
end, the head of a family! Beginning life of noble birth, but in a poor
dependent position, through an unexpected marriage he came into a small
fortune. A petty knave, a toady and buffoon, of fairly good, though
undeveloped, intelligence, he was, above all, a moneylender, who grew
bolder with growing prosperity. His abject and servile characteristics
disappeared, his malicious and sarcastic cynicism was all that remained.
On the spiritual side he was undeveloped, while his vitality was
excessive. He saw nothing in life but sensual pleasure, and he brought his
children up to be the same. He had no feelings for his duties as a father.
He ridiculed those duties. He left his little children to the servants,
and was glad to be rid of them, forgot about them completely. The old
man's maxim was _Apres moi le deluge_. He was an example of everything
that is opposed to civic duty, of the most complete and malignant
individualism. 'The world may burn for aught I care, so long as I am all
right,' and he was all right; he was content, he was eager to go on living
in the same way for another twenty or thirty years. He swindled his own
son and spent his money, his maternal inheritance, on trying to get his
mistress from him. No, I don't intend to leave the prisoner's defense
altogether to my talented colleague from Petersburg. I will speak the
truth myself, I can well understand what resentment he had heaped up in
his son's heart against him.
"But enough, enough of that unhappy old man; he has paid the penalty. Let
us remember, however, that he was a father, and one of the typical fathers
of to-day. Am I unjust, indeed, in saying that he is typical of many
modern fathers? Alas! many of them only differ in not openly professing
such cynicism, for they are better educated, more cultured, but their
philosophy is essentially the same as his. Perhaps I am a pessimist, but
you have agreed to forgive me. Let us agree beforehand, you need not
believe me, but let me speak. Let me say what I have to say, and remember
something of my words.
"Now for the children of this father, this head of a family. One of them
is the prisoner before us, all the rest of my speech will deal with him.
Of the other two I will speak only cursorily.
"The elder is one of those modern young men of brilliant education and
vigorous intellect, who has lost all faith in everything. He has denied
and rejected much already, like his father. We have all heard him, he was
a welcome guest in local society. He never concealed his opinions, quite
the contrary in fact, which justifies me in speaking rather openly of him
now, of course, not as an individual, but as a member of the Karamazov
family. Another personage closely connected with the case died here by his
own hand last night. I mean an afflicted idiot, formerly the servant, and
possibly the illegitimate son, of Fyodor Pavlovitch, Smerdyakov. At the
preliminary inquiry, he told me with hysterical tears how the young Ivan
Karamazov had horrified him by his spiritual audacity. 'Everything in the
world is lawful according to him, and nothing must be forbidden in the
future--that is what he always taught me.' I believe that idiot was driven
out of his mind by this theory, though, of course, the epileptic attacks
from which he suffered, and this terrible catastrophe, have helped to
unhinge his faculties. But he dropped one very interesting observation,
which would have done credit to a more intelligent observer, and that is,
indeed, why I've mentioned it: 'If there is one of the sons that is like
Fyodor Pavlovitch in character, it is Ivan Fyodorovitch.'
"With that remark I conclude my sketch of his character, feeling it
indelicate to continue further. Oh, I don't want to draw any further
conclusions and croak like a raven over the young man's future. We've seen
to-day in this court that there are still good impulses in his young
heart, that family feeling has not been destroyed in him by lack of faith
and cynicism, which have come to him rather by inheritance than by the
exercise of independent thought.
"Then the third son. Oh, he is a devout and modest youth, who does not
share his elder brother's gloomy and destructive theory of life. He has
sought to cling to the 'ideas of the people,' or to what goes by that name
in some circles of our intellectual classes. He clung to the monastery,
and was within an ace of becoming a monk. He seems to me to have betrayed
unconsciously, and so early, that timid despair which leads so many in our
unhappy society, who dread cynicism and its corrupting influences, and
mistakenly attribute all the mischief to European enlightenment, to return
to their 'native soil,' as they say, to the bosom, so to speak, of their
mother earth, like frightened children, yearning to fall asleep on the
withered bosom of their decrepit mother, and to sleep there for ever, only
to escape the horrors that terrify them.
"For my part I wish the excellent and gifted young man every success; I
trust that his youthful idealism and impulse towards the ideas of the
people may never degenerate, as often happens, on the moral side into
gloomy mysticism, and on the political into blind chauvinism--two elements
which are even a greater menace to Russia than the premature decay, due to
misunderstanding and gratuitous adoption of European ideas, from which his
elder brother is suffering."
Two or three people clapped their hands at the mention of chauvinism and
mysticism. Ippolit Kirillovitch had been, indeed, carried away by his own
eloquence. All this had little to do with the case in hand, to say nothing
of the fact of its being somewhat vague, but the sickly and consumptive
man was overcome by the desire to express himself once in his life. People
said afterwards that he was actuated by unworthy motives in his criticism
of Ivan, because the latter had on one or two occasions got the better of
him in argument, and Ippolit Kirillovitch, remembering it, tried now to
take his revenge. But I don't know whether it was true. All this was only
introductory, however, and the speech passed to more direct consideration
of the case.
"But to return to the eldest son," Ippolit Kirillovitch went on. "He is
the prisoner before us. We have his life and his actions, too, before us;
the fatal day has come and all has been brought to the surface. While his
brothers seem to stand for 'Europeanism' and 'the principles of the
people,' he seems to represent Russia as she is. Oh, not all Russia, not
all! God preserve us, if it were! Yet, here we have her, our mother
Russia, the very scent and sound of her. Oh, he is spontaneous, he is a
marvelous mingling of good and evil, he is a lover of culture and
Schiller, yet he brawls in taverns and plucks out the beards of his boon
companions. Oh, he, too, can be good and noble, but only when all goes
well with him. What is more, he can be carried off his feet, positively
carried off his feet by noble ideals, but only if they come of themselves,
if they fall from heaven for him, if they need not be paid for. He
dislikes paying for anything, but is very fond of receiving, and that's so
with him in everything. Oh, give him every possible good in life (he
couldn't be content with less), and put no obstacle in his way, and he
will show that he, too, can be noble. He is not greedy, no, but he must
have money, a great deal of money, and you will see how generously, with
what scorn of filthy lucre, he will fling it all away in the reckless
dissipation of one night. But if he has not money, he will show what he is
ready to do to get it when he is in great need of it. But all this later,
let us take events in their chronological order.
"First, we have before us a poor abandoned child, running about the back-
yard 'without boots on his feet,' as our worthy and esteemed fellow
citizen, of foreign origin, alas! expressed it just now. I repeat it
again, I yield to no one the defense of the criminal. I am here to accuse
him, but to defend him also. Yes, I, too, am human; I, too, can weigh the
influence of home and childhood on the character. But the boy grows up and
becomes an officer; for a duel and other reckless conduct he is exiled to
one of the remote frontier towns of Russia. There he led a wild life as an
officer. And, of course, he needed money, money before all things, and so
after prolonged disputes he came to a settlement with his father, and the
last six thousand was sent him. A letter is in existence in which he
practically gives up his claim to the rest and settles his conflict with
his father over the inheritance on the payment of this six thousand.
"Then came his meeting with a young girl of lofty character and brilliant
education. Oh, I do not venture to repeat the details; you have only just
heard them. Honor, self-sacrifice were shown there, and I will be silent.
The figure of the young officer, frivolous and profligate, doing homage to
true nobility and a lofty ideal, was shown in a very sympathetic light
before us. But the other side of the medal was unexpectedly turned to us
immediately after in this very court. Again I will not venture to
conjecture why it happened so, but there were causes. The same lady,
bathed in tears of long-concealed indignation, alleged that he, he of all
men, had despised her for her action, which, though incautious, reckless
perhaps, was still dictated by lofty and generous motives. He, he, the
girl's betrothed, looked at her with that smile of mockery, which was more
insufferable from him than from any one. And knowing that he had already
deceived her (he had deceived her, believing that she was bound to endure
everything from him, even treachery), she intentionally offered him three
thousand roubles, and clearly, too clearly, let him understand that she
was offering him money to deceive her. 'Well, will you take it or not, are
you so lost to shame?' was the dumb question in her scrutinizing eyes. He
looked at her, saw clearly what was in her mind (he's admitted here before
you that he understood it all), appropriated that three thousand
unconditionally, and squandered it in two days with the new object of his
affections.
"What are we to believe then? The first legend of the young officer
sacrificing his last farthing in a noble impulse of generosity and doing
reverence to virtue, or this other revolting picture? As a rule, between
two extremes one has to find the mean, but in the present case this is not
true. The probability is that in the first case he was genuinely noble,
and in the second as genuinely base. And why? Because he was of the broad
Karamazov character--that's just what I am leading up to--capable of
combining the most incongruous contradictions, and capable of the greatest
heights and of the greatest depths. Remember the brilliant remark made by
a young observer who has seen the Karamazov family at close quarters--Mr.
Rakitin: 'The sense of their own degradation is as essential to those
reckless, unbridled natures as the sense of their lofty generosity.' And
that's true, they need continually this unnatural mixture. Two extremes at
the same moment, or they are miserable and dissatisfied and their
existence is incomplete. They are wide, wide as mother Russia; they
include everything and put up with everything.
"By the way, gentlemen of the jury, we've just touched upon that three
thousand roubles, and I will venture to anticipate things a little. Can
you conceive that a man like that, on receiving that sum and in such a
way, at the price of such shame, such disgrace, such utter degradation,
could have been capable that very day of setting apart half that sum, that
very day, and sewing it up in a little bag, and would have had the
firmness of character to carry it about with him for a whole month
afterwards, in spite of every temptation and his extreme need of it!
Neither in drunken debauchery in taverns, nor when he was flying into the
country, trying to get from God knows whom, the money so essential to him
to remove the object of his affections from being tempted by his father,
did he bring himself to touch that little bag! Why, if only to avoid
abandoning his mistress to the rival of whom he was so jealous, he would
have been certain to have opened that bag and to have stayed at home to
keep watch over her, and to await the moment when she would say to him at
last 'I am yours,' and to fly with her far from their fatal surroundings.
"But no, he did not touch his talisman, and what is the reason he gives
for it? The chief reason, as I have just said, was that when she would
say, 'I am yours, take me where you will,' he might have the wherewithal
to take her. But that first reason, in the prisoner's own words, was of
little weight beside the second. While I have that money on me, he said, I
am a scoundrel, not a thief, for I can always go to my insulted betrothed,
and, laying down half the sum I have fraudulently appropriated, I can
always say to her, 'You see, I've squandered half your money, and shown I
am a weak and immoral man, and, if you like, a scoundrel' (I use the
prisoner's own expressions), 'but though I am a scoundrel, I am not a
thief, for if I had been a thief, I shouldn't have brought you back this
half of the money, but should have taken it as I did the other half!' A
marvelous explanation! This frantic, but weak man, who could not resist
the temptation of accepting the three thousand roubles at the price of
such disgrace, this very man suddenly develops the most stoical firmness,
and carries about a thousand roubles without daring to touch it. Does that
fit in at all with the character we have analyzed? No, and I venture to
tell you how the real Dmitri Karamazov would have behaved in such
circumstances, if he really had brought himself to put away the money.
"At the first temptation--for instance, to entertain the woman with whom he
had already squandered half the money--he would have unpicked his little
bag and have taken out some hundred roubles, for why should he have taken
back precisely half the money, that is, fifteen hundred roubles? why not
fourteen hundred? He could just as well have said then that he was not a
thief, because he brought back fourteen hundred roubles. Then another time
he would have unpicked it again and taken out another hundred, and then a
third, and then a fourth, and before the end of the month he would have
taken the last note but one, feeling that if he took back only a hundred
it would answer the purpose, for a thief would have stolen it all. And
then he would have looked at this last note, and have said to himself,
'It's really not worth while to give back one hundred; let's spend that,
too!' That's how the real Dmitri Karamazov, as we know him, would have
behaved. One cannot imagine anything more incongruous with the actual fact
than this legend of the little bag. Nothing could be more inconceivable.
But we shall return to that later."
After touching upon what had come out in the proceedings concerning the
financial relations of father and son, and arguing again and again that it
was utterly impossible, from the facts known, to determine which was in
the wrong, Ippolit Kirillovitch passed to the evidence of the medical
experts in reference to Mitya's fixed idea about the three thousand owing
him.
| 3,728 | book 12, Chapter 6 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section15/ | The Prosecutor's Speech. Characterizations When order is restored, the lawyers give their closing speeches. The prosecutor, Kirrillovich, runs down the facts of the case | null | 24 | 1 | [
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110 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/02.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_1_part_0.txt | Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 2 | chapter 2 | null | {"name": "Phase I: \"The Maiden,\" Chapter Two", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-2", "summary": "The chapter opens with a description of the \"Vale of Blakemore or Blackmoor\" , where the village of Marlott is situated. The narrator gives us a historical, as well as a geographical and topographical, description of the area. Apparently the valley used to be covered by an ancient forest, most of which has since been cleared for farming, but occasional bits of the ancient woods survive here and there. The ancient customs associated with the forest still survive in the valley in some form or another. The May-Day dance survives in the form of the club-walking mentioned in the previous chapter. The club-walkers are all women, because the custom is a holdover from the ancient festival to the earth goddess, which was traditionally celebrated by women. The group includes women of all ages, from teenagers to old women, but the majority of them are young. The women are parading around the outskirts of the town as part of the celebration. As they pass the Pure Drop Inn , one of the women points out Jack Durbeyfield riding home in a carriage to his daughter, Tess. Tess is described for the first time: she's a very pretty girl, wearing white like the others, but with a red ribbon in her hair. Jack Durbeyfield is reclining in the carriage, waving to anyone who happens to be watching him, chanting, \"I've-got-a-great-family-vault-at-Kingsbere--and-knighted-fore-fathers-in-lead-coffins-there!\" . Tess is understandably embarrassed by her father's behavior, and tries to excuse it to her friends by saying that he must have gotten a ride home because he was tired. Her friends laugh and say that he got a ride home because he was drunk . Tess is hurt by their snide remarks, and they feel bad and leave her alone about it. Jack Durbeyfield rides on, and no one sees anything more of him. The women arrive at the open space where they dance at the end of the parade, but at first dance only with each other, since most of the local men are still working. A few random passers-by gather around and think about joining in the dance. Three of these are a group of brothers \"of a superior class,\" who are on a walking tour of the valley . They watch the women dancing, and ask a few of the other spectators what the festival is. The older two brothers are ready to move on, but the youngest seems amused at the group of women dancing without male partners, and starts to enter the field. His brothers ask him what he's doing--his name is \"Angel.\" Angel says he's going to join them for a moment, and suggests that his brothers do likewise. They aren't interested--they want to keep going so that they'll make it to their next stop before dark, and one of the brothers particularly wants to leave time to read the next chapter of the book he brought with him: A Counterblast to Agnosticism. Angel says he'll catch up with his brothers--they're named Felix and Cuthbert--after a quick dance. They agree, and leave the spot. Angel is quickly approached by one of the boldest of the young women--she tells him that the young men of the village haven't arrived yet, and that he would be welcome to pick and choose from among the women there until the village men arrive. Angel is overwhelmed by the choices, and picks almost the first pretty girl he sees. It isn't Tess. Other young men from the village arrive soon afterwards, and start dancing with other women, but Tess's feelings are hurt by the strange young man's neglect. As Angel leaves to catch up with his brothers, he looks back and sees Tess standing a little apart from the rest of the group, looking sad. She looks so lovely and so reproachful, that he regrets not having danced with her or at least having asked her name. But Angel can't help it now, and so moves on to catch up with his brothers.", "analysis": ""} |
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.
| 2,463 | Phase I: "The Maiden," Chapter Two | https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-2 | The chapter opens with a description of the "Vale of Blakemore or Blackmoor" , where the village of Marlott is situated. The narrator gives us a historical, as well as a geographical and topographical, description of the area. Apparently the valley used to be covered by an ancient forest, most of which has since been cleared for farming, but occasional bits of the ancient woods survive here and there. The ancient customs associated with the forest still survive in the valley in some form or another. The May-Day dance survives in the form of the club-walking mentioned in the previous chapter. The club-walkers are all women, because the custom is a holdover from the ancient festival to the earth goddess, which was traditionally celebrated by women. The group includes women of all ages, from teenagers to old women, but the majority of them are young. The women are parading around the outskirts of the town as part of the celebration. As they pass the Pure Drop Inn , one of the women points out Jack Durbeyfield riding home in a carriage to his daughter, Tess. Tess is described for the first time: she's a very pretty girl, wearing white like the others, but with a red ribbon in her hair. Jack Durbeyfield is reclining in the carriage, waving to anyone who happens to be watching him, chanting, "I've-got-a-great-family-vault-at-Kingsbere--and-knighted-fore-fathers-in-lead-coffins-there!" . Tess is understandably embarrassed by her father's behavior, and tries to excuse it to her friends by saying that he must have gotten a ride home because he was tired. Her friends laugh and say that he got a ride home because he was drunk . Tess is hurt by their snide remarks, and they feel bad and leave her alone about it. Jack Durbeyfield rides on, and no one sees anything more of him. The women arrive at the open space where they dance at the end of the parade, but at first dance only with each other, since most of the local men are still working. A few random passers-by gather around and think about joining in the dance. Three of these are a group of brothers "of a superior class," who are on a walking tour of the valley . They watch the women dancing, and ask a few of the other spectators what the festival is. The older two brothers are ready to move on, but the youngest seems amused at the group of women dancing without male partners, and starts to enter the field. His brothers ask him what he's doing--his name is "Angel." Angel says he's going to join them for a moment, and suggests that his brothers do likewise. They aren't interested--they want to keep going so that they'll make it to their next stop before dark, and one of the brothers particularly wants to leave time to read the next chapter of the book he brought with him: A Counterblast to Agnosticism. Angel says he'll catch up with his brothers--they're named Felix and Cuthbert--after a quick dance. They agree, and leave the spot. Angel is quickly approached by one of the boldest of the young women--she tells him that the young men of the village haven't arrived yet, and that he would be welcome to pick and choose from among the women there until the village men arrive. Angel is overwhelmed by the choices, and picks almost the first pretty girl he sees. It isn't Tess. Other young men from the village arrive soon afterwards, and start dancing with other women, but Tess's feelings are hurt by the strange young man's neglect. As Angel leaves to catch up with his brothers, he looks back and sees Tess standing a little apart from the rest of the group, looking sad. She looks so lovely and so reproachful, that he regrets not having danced with her or at least having asked her name. But Angel can't help it now, and so moves on to catch up with his brothers. | null | 664 | 1 | [
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28,054 | false | sparknotes | all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/33.txt | finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_5_part_3.txt | The Brothers Karamazov.book 5.chapter 2 | book 5, chapter 2 | null | {"name": "book 5, Chapter 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section6/", "summary": "Smerdyakov with a Guitar Alyosha thinks about Dmitri's violent and passionate behavior, and decides to try to help his brother rather than return to Zosima's bedside in the monastery as he longs to do. Alyosha notes that Dmitri seems to be avoiding him, so Alyosha decides to stake out the gazebo that he knows Dmitri often visits to watch for Grushenka. There, Alyosha overhears Smerdyakov playing a guitar and singing a song for the housekeeper's daughter. Alyosha tentatively interrupts this scene and asks Smerdyakov if he knows where Dmitri has gone. Smerdyakov says that Dmitri has gone to meet Ivan at a restaurant", "analysis": ""} | Chapter II. Smerdyakov With A Guitar
He had no time to lose indeed. Even while he was saying good-by to Lise,
the thought had struck him that he must attempt some stratagem to find his
brother Dmitri, who was evidently keeping out of his way. It was getting
late, nearly three o'clock. Alyosha's whole soul turned to the monastery,
to his dying saint, but the necessity of seeing Dmitri outweighed
everything. The conviction that a great inevitable catastrophe was about
to happen grew stronger in Alyosha's mind with every hour. What that
catastrophe was, and what he would say at that moment to his brother, he
could perhaps not have said definitely. "Even if my benefactor must die
without me, anyway I won't have to reproach myself all my life with the
thought that I might have saved something and did not, but passed by and
hastened home. If I do as I intend, I shall be following his great
precept."
His plan was to catch his brother Dmitri unawares, to climb over the
fence, as he had the day before, get into the garden and sit in the
summer-house. If Dmitri were not there, thought Alyosha, he would not
announce himself to Foma or the women of the house, but would remain
hidden in the summer-house, even if he had to wait there till evening. If,
as before, Dmitri were lying in wait for Grushenka to come, he would be
very likely to come to the summer-house. Alyosha did not, however, give
much thought to the details of his plan, but resolved to act upon it, even
if it meant not getting back to the monastery that day.
Everything happened without hindrance, he climbed over the hurdle almost
in the same spot as the day before, and stole into the summer-house
unseen. He did not want to be noticed. The woman of the house and Foma
too, if he were here, might be loyal to his brother and obey his
instructions, and so refuse to let Alyosha come into the garden, or might
warn Dmitri that he was being sought and inquired for.
There was no one in the summer-house. Alyosha sat down and began to wait.
He looked round the summer-house, which somehow struck him as a great deal
more ancient than before. Though the day was just as fine as yesterday, it
seemed a wretched little place this time. There was a circle on the table,
left no doubt from the glass of brandy having been spilt the day before.
Foolish and irrelevant ideas strayed about his mind, as they always do in
a time of tedious waiting. He wondered, for instance, why he had sat down
precisely in the same place as before, why not in the other seat. At last
he felt very depressed--depressed by suspense and uncertainty. But he had
not sat there more than a quarter of an hour, when he suddenly heard the
thrum of a guitar somewhere quite close. People were sitting, or had only
just sat down, somewhere in the bushes not more than twenty paces away.
Alyosha suddenly recollected that on coming out of the summer-house the
day before, he had caught a glimpse of an old green low garden-seat among
the bushes on the left, by the fence. The people must be sitting on it
now. Who were they?
A man's voice suddenly began singing in a sugary falsetto, accompanying
himself on the guitar:
With invincible force
I am bound to my dear.
O Lord, have mercy
On her and on me!
On her and on me!
On her and on me!
The voice ceased. It was a lackey's tenor and a lackey's song. Another
voice, a woman's, suddenly asked insinuatingly and bashfully, though with
mincing affectation:
"Why haven't you been to see us for so long, Pavel Fyodorovitch? Why do
you always look down upon us?"
"Not at all," answered a man's voice politely, but with emphatic dignity.
It was clear that the man had the best of the position, and that the woman
was making advances. "I believe the man must be Smerdyakov," thought
Alyosha, "from his voice. And the lady must be the daughter of the house
here, who has come from Moscow, the one who wears the dress with a tail
and goes to Marfa for soup."
"I am awfully fond of verses of all kinds, if they rhyme," the woman's
voice continued. "Why don't you go on?"
The man sang again:
What do I care for royal wealth
If but my dear one be in health?
Lord have mercy
On her and on me!
On her and on me!
On her and on me!
"It was even better last time," observed the woman's voice. "You sang 'If
my darling be in health'; it sounded more tender. I suppose you've
forgotten to-day."
"Poetry is rubbish!" said Smerdyakov curtly.
"Oh, no! I am very fond of poetry."
"So far as it's poetry, it's essential rubbish. Consider yourself, who
ever talks in rhyme? And if we were all to talk in rhyme, even though it
were decreed by government, we shouldn't say much, should we? Poetry is no
good, Marya Kondratyevna."
"How clever you are! How is it you've gone so deep into everything?" The
woman's voice was more and more insinuating.
"I could have done better than that. I could have known more than that, if
it had not been for my destiny from my childhood up. I would have shot a
man in a duel if he called me names because I am descended from a filthy
beggar and have no father. And they used to throw it in my teeth in
Moscow. It had reached them from here, thanks to Grigory Vassilyevitch.
Grigory Vassilyevitch blames me for rebelling against my birth, but I
would have sanctioned their killing me before I was born that I might not
have come into the world at all. They used to say in the market, and your
mamma too, with great lack of delicacy, set off telling me that her hair
was like a mat on her head, and that she was short of five foot by a wee
bit. Why talk of a wee bit while she might have said 'a little bit,' like
every one else? She wanted to make it touching, a regular peasant's
feeling. Can a Russian peasant be said to feel, in comparison with an
educated man? He can't be said to have feeling at all, in his ignorance.
From my childhood up when I hear 'a wee bit,' I am ready to burst with
rage. I hate all Russia, Marya Kondratyevna."
"If you'd been a cadet in the army, or a young hussar, you wouldn't have
talked like that, but would have drawn your saber to defend all Russia."
"I don't want to be a hussar, Marya Kondratyevna, and, what's more, I
should like to abolish all soldiers."
"And when an enemy comes, who is going to defend us?"
"There's no need of defense. In 1812 there was a great invasion of Russia
by Napoleon, first Emperor of the French, father of the present one, and
it would have been a good thing if they had conquered us. A clever nation
would have conquered a very stupid one and annexed it. We should have had
quite different institutions."
"Are they so much better in their own country than we are? I wouldn't
change a dandy I know of for three young Englishmen," observed Marya
Kondratyevna tenderly, doubtless accompanying her words with a most
languishing glance.
"That's as one prefers."
"But you are just like a foreigner--just like a most gentlemanly foreigner.
I tell you that, though it makes me bashful."
"If you care to know, the folks there and ours here are just alike in
their vice. They are swindlers, only there the scoundrel wears polished
boots and here he grovels in filth and sees no harm in it. The Russian
people want thrashing, as Fyodor Pavlovitch said very truly yesterday,
though he is mad, and all his children."
"You said yourself you had such a respect for Ivan Fyodorovitch."
"But he said I was a stinking lackey. He thinks that I might be unruly. He
is mistaken there. If I had a certain sum in my pocket, I would have left
here long ago. Dmitri Fyodorovitch is lower than any lackey in his
behavior, in his mind, and in his poverty. He doesn't know how to do
anything, and yet he is respected by every one. I may be only a soup-
maker, but with luck I could open a cafe restaurant in Petrovka, in
Moscow, for my cookery is something special, and there's no one in Moscow,
except the foreigners, whose cookery is anything special. Dmitri
Fyodorovitch is a beggar, but if he were to challenge the son of the first
count in the country, he'd fight him. Though in what way is he better than
I am? For he is ever so much stupider than I am. Look at the money he has
wasted without any need!"
"It must be lovely, a duel," Marya Kondratyevna observed suddenly.
"How so?"
"It must be so dreadful and so brave, especially when young officers with
pistols in their hands pop at one another for the sake of some lady. A
perfect picture! Ah, if only girls were allowed to look on, I'd give
anything to see one!"
"It's all very well when you are firing at some one, but when he is firing
straight in your mug, you must feel pretty silly. You'd be glad to run
away, Marya Kondratyevna."
"You don't mean you would run away?" But Smerdyakov did not deign to
reply. After a moment's silence the guitar tinkled again, and he sang
again in the same falsetto:
Whatever you may say,
I shall go far away.
Life will be bright and gay
In the city far away.
I shall not grieve,
I shall not grieve at all,
I don't intend to grieve at all.
Then something unexpected happened. Alyosha suddenly sneezed. They were
silent. Alyosha got up and walked towards them. He found Smerdyakov
dressed up and wearing polished boots, his hair pomaded, and perhaps
curled. The guitar lay on the garden-seat. His companion was the daughter
of the house, wearing a light-blue dress with a train two yards long. She
was young and would not have been bad-looking, but that her face was so
round and terribly freckled.
"Will my brother Dmitri soon be back?" asked Alyosha with as much
composure as he could.
Smerdyakov got up slowly; Marya Kondratyevna rose too.
"How am I to know about Dmitri Fyodorovitch? It's not as if I were his
keeper," answered Smerdyakov quietly, distinctly, and superciliously.
"But I simply asked whether you do know?" Alyosha explained.
"I know nothing of his whereabouts and don't want to."
"But my brother told me that you let him know all that goes on in the
house, and promised to let him know when Agrafena Alexandrovna comes."
Smerdyakov turned a deliberate, unmoved glance upon him.
"And how did you get in this time, since the gate was bolted an hour ago?"
he asked, looking at Alyosha.
"I came in from the back-alley, over the fence, and went straight to the
summer-house. I hope you'll forgive me," he added, addressing Marya
Kondratyevna. "I was in a hurry to find my brother."
"Ach, as though we could take it amiss in you!" drawled Marya
Kondratyevna, flattered by Alyosha's apology. "For Dmitri Fyodorovitch
often goes to the summer-house in that way. We don't know he is here and
he is sitting in the summer-house."
"I am very anxious to find him, or to learn from you where he is now.
Believe me, it's on business of great importance to him."
"He never tells us," lisped Marya Kondratyevna.
"Though I used to come here as a friend," Smerdyakov began again, "Dmitri
Fyodorovitch has pestered me in a merciless way even here by his incessant
questions about the master. 'What news?' he'll ask. 'What's going on in
there now? Who's coming and going?' and can't I tell him something more.
Twice already he's threatened me with death."
"With death?" Alyosha exclaimed in surprise.
"Do you suppose he'd think much of that, with his temper, which you had a
chance of observing yourself yesterday? He says if I let Agrafena
Alexandrovna in and she passes the night there, I'll be the first to
suffer for it. I am terribly afraid of him, and if I were not even more
afraid of doing so, I ought to let the police know. God only knows what he
might not do!"
"His honor said to him the other day, 'I'll pound you in a mortar!' "
added Marya Kondratyevna.
"Oh, if it's pounding in a mortar, it may be only talk," observed Alyosha.
"If I could meet him, I might speak to him about that too."
"Well, the only thing I can tell you is this," said Smerdyakov, as though
thinking better of it; "I am here as an old friend and neighbor, and it
would be odd if I didn't come. On the other hand, Ivan Fyodorovitch sent
me first thing this morning to your brother's lodging in Lake Street,
without a letter, but with a message to Dmitri Fyodorovitch to go to dine
with him at the restaurant here, in the market-place. I went, but didn't
find Dmitri Fyodorovitch at home, though it was eight o'clock. 'He's been
here, but he is quite gone,' those were the very words of his landlady.
It's as though there was an understanding between them. Perhaps at this
moment he is in the restaurant with Ivan Fyodorovitch, for Ivan
Fyodorovitch has not been home to dinner and Fyodor Pavlovitch dined alone
an hour ago, and is gone to lie down. But I beg you most particularly not
to speak of me and of what I have told you, for he'd kill me for nothing
at all."
"Brother Ivan invited Dmitri to the restaurant to-day?" repeated Alyosha
quickly.
"That's so."
"The Metropolis tavern in the market-place?"
"The very same."
"That's quite likely," cried Alyosha, much excited. "Thank you,
Smerdyakov; that's important. I'll go there at once."
"Don't betray me," Smerdyakov called after him.
"Oh, no, I'll go to the tavern as though by chance. Don't be anxious."
"But wait a minute, I'll open the gate to you," cried Marya Kondratyevna.
"No; it's a short cut, I'll get over the fence again."
What he had heard threw Alyosha into great agitation. He ran to the
tavern. It was impossible for him to go into the tavern in his monastic
dress, but he could inquire at the entrance for his brothers and call them
down. But just as he reached the tavern, a window was flung open, and his
brother Ivan called down to him from it.
"Alyosha, can't you come up here to me? I shall be awfully grateful."
"To be sure I can, only I don't quite know whether in this dress--"
"But I am in a room apart. Come up the steps; I'll run down to meet you."
A minute later Alyosha was sitting beside his brother. Ivan was alone
dining.
| 2,390 | book 5, Chapter 2 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section6/ | Smerdyakov with a Guitar Alyosha thinks about Dmitri's violent and passionate behavior, and decides to try to help his brother rather than return to Zosima's bedside in the monastery as he longs to do. Alyosha notes that Dmitri seems to be avoiding him, so Alyosha decides to stake out the gazebo that he knows Dmitri often visits to watch for Grushenka. There, Alyosha overhears Smerdyakov playing a guitar and singing a song for the housekeeper's daughter. Alyosha tentatively interrupts this scene and asks Smerdyakov if he knows where Dmitri has gone. Smerdyakov says that Dmitri has gone to meet Ivan at a restaurant | null | 103 | 1 | [
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5,658 | true | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_37_to_39.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/Lord Jim/section_10_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapters 37-39 | chapters 37-39 | null | {"name": "Chapters 37-39", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-37-39", "summary": "The story resumes in Marlow's written form. Marlow explains in his letter that he encountered a man named Brown at the direction of Schomberg . Brown is more than ready to tell his tale. He is a suspicious character, a thief, and a kind of figure of evil. The narrative then cuts back in time, creating additional suspense. Eight months prior to this encounter with Brown in Bangkok, Marlow had gone to visit Stein at his home, where he had found Tamb' Itam, Jim's Malay servant. Marlow had hoped that Jim was not far away, but the Malay had said quietly, \"He would not fight\" . Stein had appeared and told Marlow that the girl Jewel was also there, and that the two had arrived two days earlier. Jewel had said to Marlow, \"He has left me\" . She spoke in grief and shock. \"He is false!\" she cried. Stein protested: \"True!\" . The shock of the events \"seems to have changed their natures. It had turned her passion into stone\" . Tamb' Itam and the Malay boat-driver who had helped them to escape were both \"over-awed by a sense of deep, inexpressible wonder, by the touch of an inscrutable mystery,\" echoing Marlow's own statement to Jim that Jim would always remain a mystery to them . The letter concludes with Marlow's signature. Now, the \"privileged reader\" is able to focus on the \"story\" that Marlow has written of the last events. Brown has led a lawless life as a virtual \"latter-day buccaneer.\" The story went, apparently, that Brown had once run off with the wife of a missionary, a very young girl, who had died of fever on board the ship. The girl had hoped to make a great conversion in the name of her husband. When she died, Brown had wept violently. His shipmate always comments on that scene. Brown had lost his ship on the rocks. Soon after, Brown stole a schooner. His best man, a devoted Solomon Islander, killed two shipkeepers with a long knife, and Brown's sixteen men all rushed off to sea. They planned to cross the Indian Ocean, but were low on supplies and, out of the need to replenish their water and food, headed for Patusan. The big white boat carried the \"assorted scarecrows\" to the Patusan Reach, whence fourteen of them took to the river in a small boat. The headman of the fishing village, by this time, sent a warning to the town, and, when Brown's men arrived to see the flourishing community, shouting men fired from the mosque. There were armed men in the river, blocking their retreat. The natives fired, and Brown's men fired in reply. Brown saw the entrance to a narrow creek and established his men in the little knoll near the Rajah's stockade. As the sun set, they cut down the few trees for protection, and Brown lay on his back, in awe at the immensity of the place. Brown's story turns to consider Jim's absence, although he has not yet met the man. Jim has been gone in the interior for more than a week, while Dain Waris has been leading the fight in his absence. Dain Waris, significantly, is not Jim: \"He was not the visible, tangible incarnation of unfailing truth and of unfailing victory\" . Dain Waris fails to compare favorably with Jim's mythical stature. Jim is the one everyone believes cannot die. He holds the store of gunpowder in Patusan, supplied by Stein, and Jewel takes charge as they wait. The council gathers at Doramin's, and the townspeople are disturbed that the Rajah's boat did not act when it could have. Kassim, the Rajah's diplomat at the meeting, is unreadable. Rumors fly about a large ship and many men. The danger of panic is in the air, and Doramin orders Dain Waris to take an armed party down the river, to make a camp and to blockade the stream with canoes. Doramin seems motivated most by a desire to keep his son out of harm's way. Kassim goes into open communication with Brown, taking Cornelius with him to serve as interpreter. Brown, overjoyed to hear English words, demands food as a guarantee of good faith. The Rajah sends them rice, chillies, and dried fish. It becomes clear that Kassim intends to double-deal, however, given his unhappiness with the order of things and with Jim's power, and given his dislike for Doramin. He asks Brown to quickly send for his big ship and many men, and then to attack and defeat the Bugis settlement before Jim's return. This is where Brown hears about Jim for the first time. He hears the story of Jim's accomplishments, how the whole area is basically his. Brown begins to get the idea of accomplishing something of the same. Cornelius urges him to kill Jim at the first opportunity. The men doze on the stockade, and Brown gazes greedily. Kassim presses Brown for his ship again, and Brown writes the message, \"We are getting on. Big job. Detain the man.\" He sends this message to his two remaining men on the schooner.", "analysis": "Marlow's letter to the \"privileged reader\" provides his sources for the conclusion of the events that help him understand his subject, Jim. First, he describes a man named Brown, who had communicated his part in the story to Marlow in Bangkok. Second, upon a visit to see Stein, Marlow finds Tamb' Itam, who is Jim's servant, and Jewel. From these three characters, along with his own imagination and understanding, Marlow builds the conclusion to the story. Brown's character presents a foil against both Stein's and Jim's romantically charmed lives, particularly by way of the woman he is associated with. She is a missionary's wife who dies of fever, like Stein's wife and daughter. For Brown, however, the woman dies quickly, before there is a chance for Brown to know happiness. The forcefulness of his weeping, a poignant detail that adds depth and mystery to his character, suggests that, for Brown, fortune has always been tough. His \"Eastern bride\" of opportunity, also veiled in the hope of a more spiritual salvation, is lost to him before being realized. Therefore, Brown becomes decrepit, almost without hope, yet has just enough strength and anger at the world to continue to eke his way through it. Jim may very well have descended to resemble such a character, given his anger and frustration and feeling that he had been cheated of some of his opportunities, but Jim differs from Brown in that Jim was lucky enough to have found helpers in both Marlow and Stein. Brown had never come upon someone who had had this kind of encouraging faith in his underlying character. Brown is a significant figure, particularly in comparison with Jim and Brierly. While Brierly had lived the length of his life committed to a particular ideal of honor, his honest recognition of something dishonorable in his heart had led him to commit suicide. Brown, on the other hand, with little comfort or faith in the world, struggles to survive with as much effort as Brierly had struggled in order to live a life of honor. These two characters therefore delineate two paths along which a man may live. Brown's abhorrent character is not unlike that of the crewmen of the Patna, who had leapt from the steamship in an act that privileged personal survival over honor. The reader, by this point, knows that Jim harbors this element within him, but at the same time desires to live a life of honor and ideals. The question presented by the events unfolding before the reader is, therefore: what kind of man is Jim; which path is he following? Stein's character is also a mixture of the impulse to survive with the desire to live by ideals. This tension is expressed by his struggle to begin again--successfully, after the fantastical life of the Malay court falls upon him. He persists. Again, however, note that the parallels between Stein's and Jim's situations are often reversed: if this pattern of reversal continues, we might predict that Jim's end will go the opposite way compared with Stein's. Therefore, when Brown arrives in Patusan, a sinister force has arrived: Brown is not there in order to prove himself capable of achieving romantic ideals, but he arrives in need of water and food. The opposition between the romanticism of Jim and Stein is therefore set against the Darwinian struggle to survive in Brown . Brown's arrival thus has a profoundly destabilizing effect on the community in Patusan. Neither Jim nor his influence is present to adequately protect the community. This lack reveals the degree to which Jim had become the de facto leader, primarily because of his \"racial prestige\" . Dain Waris is truly \"beloved, trusted, and admired,\" but he remains just one of the natives, in their view. According to Marlow, in contrast, \"Jim was one of us,\" and by reiterating this statement, Marlow puts Jim in a superior category: that of Western men, men of good character, men who have remained committed to higher, romantic ideals. Without him, the community does not have such a leader. Marlow thus accentuates Jim's difference from the community of Patusan, recalling his claim that Jim would always remain a mystery to them. The community has found stability and faith in the presence of a great mystery living amongst them. Fortune, however, has intervened. It is only by chance that Jim is not present at Brown's arrival, and the plot line implies that if Dain Waris had not been left to lead, the reaction to Brown might not have been a shower of gunfire, thickening the tension between Patusan and the white newcomers. When Jim had first arrived, in contrast, he had successfully diffused tensions and avoided conflict and death. Dain Waris, however, has reacted hastily. Thus the plot thickens: Brown's arrival becomes an opportunity for the less trustworthy characters in Patusan--Rajah, Kassim, and Cornelius--to make their moves."} | 'It all begins with a remarkable exploit of a man called Brown, who
stole with complete success a Spanish schooner out of a small bay near
Zamboanga. Till I discovered the fellow my information was incomplete,
but most unexpectedly I did come upon him a few hours before he gave up
his arrogant ghost. Fortunately he was willing and able to talk between
the choking fits of asthma, and his racked body writhed with malicious
exultation at the bare thought of Jim. He exulted thus at the idea that
he had "paid out the stuck-up beggar after all." He gloated over his
action. I had to bear the sunken glare of his fierce crow-footed eyes if
I wanted to know; and so I bore it, reflecting how much certain forms
of evil are akin to madness, derived from intense egoism, inflamed by
resistance, tearing the soul to pieces, and giving factitious vigour to
the body. The story also reveals unsuspected depths of cunning in the
wretched Cornelius, whose abject and intense hate acts like a subtle
inspiration, pointing out an unerring way towards revenge.
'"I could see directly I set my eyes on him what sort of a fool he was,"
gasped the dying Brown. "He a man! Hell! He was a hollow sham. As if he
couldn't have said straight out, 'Hands off my plunder!' blast him! That
would have been like a man! Rot his superior soul! He had me there--but
he hadn't devil enough in him to make an end of me. Not he! A thing like
that letting me off as if I wasn't worth a kick! . . ." Brown struggled
desperately for breath. . . . "Fraud. . . . Letting me off. . . . And
so I did make an end of him after all. . . ." He choked again. . . . "I
expect this thing'll kill me, but I shall die easy now. You . . . you
here . . . I don't know your name--I would give you a five-pound note
if--if I had it--for the news--or my name's not Brown. . . ." He grinned
horribly. . . . "Gentleman Brown."
'He said all these things in profound gasps, staring at me with his
yellow eyes out of a long, ravaged, brown face; he jerked his left arm;
a pepper-and-salt matted beard hung almost into his lap; a dirty ragged
blanket covered his legs. I had found him out in Bankok through that
busybody Schomberg, the hotel-keeper, who had, confidentially, directed
me where to look. It appears that a sort of loafing, fuddled vagabond--a
white man living amongst the natives with a Siamese woman--had
considered it a great privilege to give a shelter to the last days of
the famous Gentleman Brown. While he was talking to me in the wretched
hovel, and, as it were, fighting for every minute of his life, the
Siamese woman, with big bare legs and a stupid coarse face, sat in a
dark corner chewing betel stolidly. Now and then she would get up for
the purpose of shooing a chicken away from the door. The whole hut shook
when she walked. An ugly yellow child, naked and pot-bellied like a
little heathen god, stood at the foot of the couch, finger in mouth,
lost in a profound and calm contemplation of the dying man.
'He talked feverishly; but in the middle of a word, perhaps, an
invisible hand would take him by the throat, and he would look at me
dumbly with an expression of doubt and anguish. He seemed to fear that
I would get tired of waiting and go away, leaving him with his tale
untold, with his exultation unexpressed. He died during the night, I
believe, but by that time I had nothing more to learn.
'So much as to Brown, for the present.
'Eight months before this, coming into Samarang, I went as usual to see
Stein. On the garden side of the house a Malay on the verandah greeted
me shyly, and I remembered that I had seen him in Patusan, in Jim's
house, amongst other Bugis men who used to come in the evening to talk
interminably over their war reminiscences and to discuss State affairs.
Jim had pointed him out to me once as a respectable petty trader owning
a small seagoing native craft, who had showed himself "one of the best
at the taking of the stockade." I was not very surprised to see him,
since any Patusan trader venturing as far as Samarang would naturally
find his way to Stein's house. I returned his greeting and passed on. At
the door of Stein's room I came upon another Malay in whom I recognised
Tamb' Itam.
'I asked him at once what he was doing there; it occurred to me that
Jim might have come on a visit. I own I was pleased and excited at the
thought. Tamb' Itam looked as if he did not know what to say. "Is Tuan
Jim inside?" I asked impatiently. "No," he mumbled, hanging his head
for a moment, and then with sudden earnestness, "He would not fight. He
would not fight," he repeated twice. As he seemed unable to say anything
else, I pushed him aside and went in.
'Stein, tall and stooping, stood alone in the middle of the room between
the rows of butterfly cases. "Ach! is it you, my friend?" he said
sadly, peering through his glasses. A drab sack-coat of alpaca hung,
unbuttoned, down to his knees. He had a Panama hat on his head, and
there were deep furrows on his pale cheeks. "What's the matter now?"
I asked nervously. "There's Tamb' Itam there. . . ." "Come and see the
girl. Come and see the girl. She is here," he said, with a half-hearted
show of activity. I tried to detain him, but with gentle obstinacy he
would take no notice of my eager questions. "She is here, she is here,"
he repeated, in great perturbation. "They came here two days ago. An old
man like me, a stranger--sehen Sie--cannot do much. . . . Come this way.
. . . Young hearts are unforgiving. . . ." I could see he was in utmost
distress. . . . "The strength of life in them, the cruel strength of
life. . . ." He mumbled, leading me round the house; I followed him,
lost in dismal and angry conjectures. At the door of the drawing-room he
barred my way. "He loved her very much," he said interrogatively, and
I only nodded, feeling so bitterly disappointed that I would not trust
myself to speak. "Very frightful," he murmured. "She can't understand
me. I am only a strange old man. Perhaps you . . . she knows you. Talk
to her. We can't leave it like this. Tell her to forgive him. It was
very frightful." "No doubt," I said, exasperated at being in the dark;
"but have you forgiven him?" He looked at me queerly. "You shall hear,"
he said, and opening the door, absolutely pushed me in.
'You know Stein's big house and the two immense reception-rooms,
uninhabited and uninhabitable, clean, full of solitude and of shining
things that look as if never beheld by the eye of man? They are cool
on the hottest days, and you enter them as you would a scrubbed cave
underground. I passed through one, and in the other I saw the girl
sitting at the end of a big mahogany table, on which she rested her
head, the face hidden in her arms. The waxed floor reflected her dimly
as though it had been a sheet of frozen water. The rattan screens were
down, and through the strange greenish gloom made by the foliage of the
trees outside a strong wind blew in gusts, swaying the long draperies
of windows and doorways. Her white figure seemed shaped in snow; the
pendent crystals of a great chandelier clicked above her head like
glittering icicles. She looked up and watched my approach. I was chilled
as if these vast apartments had been the cold abode of despair.
'She recognised me at once, and as soon as I had stopped, looking down
at her: "He has left me," she said quietly; "you always leave us--for
your own ends." Her face was set. All the heat of life seemed withdrawn
within some inaccessible spot in her breast. "It would have been easy to
die with him," she went on, and made a slight weary gesture as if giving
up the incomprehensible. "He would not! It was like a blindness--and yet
it was I who was speaking to him; it was I who stood before his eyes;
it was at me that he looked all the time! Ah! you are hard, treacherous,
without truth, without compassion. What makes you so wicked? Or is it
that you are all mad?"
'I took her hand; it did not respond, and when I dropped it, it hung
down to the floor. That indifference, more awful than tears, cries, and
reproaches, seemed to defy time and consolation. You felt that nothing
you could say would reach the seat of the still and benumbing pain.
'Stein had said, "You shall hear." I did hear. I heard it all, listening
with amazement, with awe, to the tones of her inflexible weariness.
She could not grasp the real sense of what she was telling me, and her
resentment filled me with pity for her--for him too. I stood rooted to
the spot after she had finished. Leaning on her arm, she stared with
hard eyes, and the wind passed in gusts, the crystals kept on clicking
in the greenish gloom. She went on whispering to herself: "And yet he
was looking at me! He could see my face, hear my voice, hear my grief!
When I used to sit at his feet, with my cheek against his knee and his
hand on my head, the curse of cruelty and madness was already within
him, waiting for the day. The day came! . . . and before the sun had
set he could not see me any more--he was made blind and deaf and without
pity, as you all are. He shall have no tears from me. Never, never. Not
one tear. I will not! He went away from me as if I had been worse than
death. He fled as if driven by some accursed thing he had heard or seen
in his sleep. . . ."
'Her steady eyes seemed to strain after the shape of a man torn out of
her arms by the strength of a dream. She made no sign to my silent bow.
I was glad to escape.
'I saw her once again, the same afternoon. On leaving her I had gone
in search of Stein, whom I could not find indoors; and I wandered out,
pursued by distressful thoughts, into the gardens, those famous gardens
of Stein, in which you can find every plant and tree of tropical
lowlands. I followed the course of the canalised stream, and sat for
a long time on a shaded bench near the ornamental pond, where some
waterfowl with clipped wings were diving and splashing noisily. The
branches of casuarina trees behind me swayed lightly, incessantly,
reminding me of the soughing of fir trees at home.
'This mournful and restless sound was a fit accompaniment to my
meditations. She had said he had been driven away from her by a
dream,--and there was no answer one could make her--there seemed to be
no forgiveness for such a transgression. And yet is not mankind itself,
pushing on its blind way, driven by a dream of its greatness and
its power upon the dark paths of excessive cruelty and of excessive
devotion? And what is the pursuit of truth, after all?
'When I rose to get back to the house I caught sight of Stein's drab
coat through a gap in the foliage, and very soon at a turn of the path
I came upon him walking with the girl. Her little hand rested on his
forearm, and under the broad, flat rim of his Panama hat he bent over
her, grey-haired, paternal, with compassionate and chivalrous deference.
I stood aside, but they stopped, facing me. His gaze was bent on the
ground at his feet; the girl, erect and slight on his arm, stared
sombrely beyond my shoulder with black, clear, motionless eyes.
"Schrecklich," he murmured. "Terrible! Terrible! What can one do?" He
seemed to be appealing to me, but her youth, the length of the days
suspended over her head, appealed to me more; and suddenly, even as I
realised that nothing could be said, I found myself pleading his cause
for her sake. "You must forgive him," I concluded, and my own voice
seemed to me muffled, lost in un irresponsive deaf immensity. "We all
want to be forgiven," I added after a while.
'"What have I done?" she asked with her lips only.
'"You always mistrusted him," I said.
'"He was like the others," she pronounced slowly.
'"Not like the others," I protested, but she continued evenly, without
any feeling--
'"He was false." And suddenly Stein broke in. "No! no! no! My poor
child! . . ." He patted her hand lying passively on his sleeve. "No! no!
Not false! True! True! True!" He tried to look into her stony face. "You
don't understand. Ach! Why you do not understand? . . . Terrible," he
said to me. "Some day she _shall_ understand."
'"Will you explain?" I asked, looking hard at him. They moved on.
'I watched them. Her gown trailed on the path, her black hair fell
loose. She walked upright and light by the side of the tall man, whose
long shapeless coat hung in perpendicular folds from the stooping
shoulders, whose feet moved slowly. They disappeared beyond that
spinney (you may remember) where sixteen different kinds of bamboo grow
together, all distinguishable to the learned eye. For my part, I was
fascinated by the exquisite grace and beauty of that fluted grove,
crowned with pointed leaves and feathery heads, the lightness, the
vigour, the charm as distinct as a voice of that unperplexed luxuriating
life. I remember staying to look at it for a long time, as one would
linger within reach of a consoling whisper. The sky was pearly grey. It
was one of those overcast days so rare in the tropics, in which memories
crowd upon one, memories of other shores, of other faces.
'I drove back to town the same afternoon, taking with me Tamb' Itam
and the other Malay, in whose seagoing craft they had escaped in the
bewilderment, fear, and gloom of the disaster. The shock of it seemed to
have changed their natures. It had turned her passion into stone, and
it made the surly taciturn Tamb' Itam almost loquacious. His surliness,
too, was subdued into puzzled humility, as though he had seen the
failure of a potent charm in a supreme moment. The Bugis trader, a shy
hesitating man, was very clear in the little he had to say. Both were
evidently over-awed by a sense of deep inexpressible wonder, by the
touch of an inscrutable mystery.'
There with Marlow's signature the letter proper ended. The privileged
reader screwed up his lamp, and solitary above the billowy roofs of the
town, like a lighthouse-keeper above the sea, he turned to the pages of
the story.
'It all begins, as I've told you, with the man called Brown,' ran the
opening sentence of Marlow's narrative. 'You who have knocked about the
Western Pacific must have heard of him. He was the show ruffian on the
Australian coast--not that he was often to be seen there, but because
he was always trotted out in the stories of lawless life a visitor from
home is treated to; and the mildest of these stories which were told
about him from Cape York to Eden Bay was more than enough to hang a man
if told in the right place. They never failed to let you know, too,
that he was supposed to be the son of a baronet. Be it as it may, it is
certain he had deserted from a home ship in the early gold-digging days,
and in a few years became talked about as the terror of this or that
group of islands in Polynesia. He would kidnap natives, he would strip
some lonely white trader to the very pyjamas he stood in, and after he
had robbed the poor devil, he would as likely as not invite him to fight
a duel with shot-guns on the beach--which would have been fair enough
as these things go, if the other man hadn't been by that time already
half-dead with fright. Brown was a latter-day buccaneer, sorry enough,
like his more celebrated prototypes; but what distinguished him from
his contemporary brother ruffians, like Bully Hayes or the mellifluous
Pease, or that perfumed, Dundreary-whiskered, dandified scoundrel known
as Dirty Dick, was the arrogant temper of his misdeeds and a vehement
scorn for mankind at large and for his victims in particular. The
others were merely vulgar and greedy brutes, but he seemed moved by some
complex intention. He would rob a man as if only to demonstrate his poor
opinion of the creature, and he would bring to the shooting or maiming
of some quiet, unoffending stranger a savage and vengeful earnestness
fit to terrify the most reckless of desperadoes. In the days of his
greatest glory he owned an armed barque, manned by a mixed crew of
Kanakas and runaway whalers, and boasted, I don't know with what truth,
of being financed on the quiet by a most respectable firm of copra
merchants. Later on he ran off--it was reported--with the wife of a
missionary, a very young girl from Clapham way, who had married the
mild, flat-footed fellow in a moment of enthusiasm, and, suddenly
transplanted to Melanesia, lost her bearings somehow. It was a dark
story. She was ill at the time he carried her off, and died on board his
ship. It is said--as the most wonderful put of the tale--that over her
body he gave way to an outburst of sombre and violent grief. His luck
left him, too, very soon after. He lost his ship on some rocks off
Malaita, and disappeared for a time as though he had gone down with her.
He is heard of next at Nuka-Hiva, where he bought an old French schooner
out of Government service. What creditable enterprise he might have had
in view when he made that purchase I can't say, but it is evident that
what with High Commissioners, consuls, men-of-war, and international
control, the South Seas were getting too hot to hold gentlemen of his
kidney. Clearly he must have shifted the scene of his operations farther
west, because a year later he plays an incredibly audacious, but not a
very profitable part, in a serio-comic business in Manila Bay, in which
a peculating governor and an absconding treasurer are the principal
figures; thereafter he seems to have hung around the Philippines in his
rotten schooner battling with un adverse fortune, till at last, running
his appointed course, he sails into Jim's history, a blind accomplice of
the Dark Powers.
'His tale goes that when a Spanish patrol cutter captured him he was
simply trying to run a few guns for the insurgents. If so, then I can't
understand what he was doing off the south coast of Mindanao. My belief,
however, is that he was blackmailing the native villages along the
coast. The principal thing is that the cutter, throwing a guard on
board, made him sail in company towards Zamboanga. On the way, for some
reason or other, both vessels had to call at one of these new Spanish
settlements--which never came to anything in the end--where there was
not only a civil official in charge on shore, but a good stout coasting
schooner lying at anchor in the little bay; and this craft, in every way
much better than his own, Brown made up his mind to steal.
'He was down on his luck--as he told me himself. The world he had
bullied for twenty years with fierce, aggressive disdain, had yielded
him nothing in the way of material advantage except a small bag of
silver dollars, which was concealed in his cabin so that "the devil
himself couldn't smell it out." And that was all--absolutely all. He
was tired of his life, and not afraid of death. But this man, who would
stake his existence on a whim with a bitter and jeering recklessness,
stood in mortal fear of imprisonment. He had an unreasoning cold-sweat,
nerve-shaking, blood-to-water-turning sort of horror at the bare
possibility of being locked up--the sort of terror a superstitious man
would feel at the thought of being embraced by a spectre. Therefore the
civil official who came on board to make a preliminary investigation
into the capture, investigated arduously all day long, and only went
ashore after dark, muffled up in a cloak, and taking great care not to
let Brown's little all clink in its bag. Afterwards, being a man of his
word, he contrived (the very next evening, I believe) to send off
the Government cutter on some urgent bit of special service. As her
commander could not spare a prize crew, he contented himself by taking
away before he left all the sails of Brown's schooner to the very last
rag, and took good care to tow his two boats on to the beach a couple of
miles off.
'But in Brown's crew there was a Solomon Islander, kidnapped in his
youth and devoted to Brown, who was the best man of the whole gang. That
fellow swam off to the coaster--five hundred yards or so--with the end
of a warp made up of all the running gear unrove for the purpose. The
water was smooth, and the bay dark, "like the inside of a cow," as Brown
described it. The Solomon Islander clambered over the bulwarks with the
end of the rope in his teeth. The crew of the coaster--all Tagals--were
ashore having a jollification in the native village. The two shipkeepers
left on board woke up suddenly and saw the devil. It had glittering eyes
and leaped quick as lightning about the deck. They fell on their knees,
paralysed with fear, crossing themselves and mumbling prayers. With
a long knife he found in the caboose the Solomon Islander, without
interrupting their orisons, stabbed first one, then the other; with the
same knife he set to sawing patiently at the coir cable till suddenly it
parted under the blade with a splash. Then in the silence of the bay
he let out a cautious shout, and Brown's gang, who meantime had been
peering and straining their hopeful ears in the darkness, began to
pull gently at their end of the warp. In less than five minutes the two
schooners came together with a slight shock and a creak of spars.
'Brown's crowd transferred themselves without losing an instant, taking
with them their firearms and a large supply of ammunition. They were
sixteen in all: two runaway blue-jackets, a lanky deserter from a Yankee
man-of-war, a couple of simple, blond Scandinavians, a mulatto of sorts,
one bland Chinaman who cooked--and the rest of the nondescript spawn
of the South Seas. None of them cared; Brown bent them to his will, and
Brown, indifferent to gallows, was running away from the spectre of
a Spanish prison. He didn't give them the time to trans-ship enough
provisions; the weather was calm, the air was charged with dew, and when
they cast off the ropes and set sail to a faint off-shore draught there
was no flutter in the damp canvas; their old schooner seemed to detach
itself gently from the stolen craft and slip away silently, together
with the black mass of the coast, into the night.
'They got clear away. Brown related to me in detail their passage down
the Straits of Macassar. It is a harrowing and desperate story. They
were short of food and water; they boarded several native craft and got
a little from each. With a stolen ship Brown did not dare to put into
any port, of course. He had no money to buy anything, no papers to show,
and no lie plausible enough to get him out again. An Arab barque, under
the Dutch flag, surprised one night at anchor off Poulo Laut, yielded a
little dirty rice, a bunch of bananas, and a cask of water; three days
of squally, misty weather from the north-east shot the schooner across
the Java Sea. The yellow muddy waves drenched that collection of hungry
ruffians. They sighted mail-boats moving on their appointed routes;
passed well-found home ships with rusty iron sides anchored in the
shallow sea waiting for a change of weather or the turn of the tide; an
English gunboat, white and trim, with two slim masts, crossed their bows
one day in the distance; and on another occasion a Dutch corvette, black
and heavily sparred, loomed up on their quarter, steaming dead slow
in the mist. They slipped through unseen or disregarded, a wan,
sallow-faced band of utter outcasts, enraged with hunger and hunted by
fear. Brown's idea was to make for Madagascar, where he expected, on
grounds not altogether illusory, to sell the schooner in Tamatave, and
no questions asked, or perhaps obtain some more or less forged papers
for her. Yet before he could face the long passage across the Indian
Ocean food was wanted--water too.
'Perhaps he had heard of Patusan--or perhaps he just only happened to
see the name written in small letters on the chart--probably that of a
largish village up a river in a native state, perfectly defenceless, far
from the beaten tracks of the sea and from the ends of submarine cables.
He had done that kind of thing before--in the way of business;
and this now was an absolute necessity, a question of life and
death--or rather of liberty. Of liberty! He was sure to get
provisions--bullocks--rice--sweet-potatoes. The sorry gang licked
their chops. A cargo of produce for the schooner perhaps could be
extorted--and, who knows?--some real ringing coined money! Some of these
chiefs and village headmen can be made to part freely. He told me he
would have roasted their toes rather than be baulked. I believe him. His
men believed him too. They didn't cheer aloud, being a dumb pack, but
made ready wolfishly.
'Luck served him as to weather. A few days of calm would have brought
unmentionable horrors on board that schooner, but with the help of land
and sea breezes, in less than a week after clearing the Sunda Straits,
he anchored off the Batu Kring mouth within a pistol-shot of the fishing
village.
'Fourteen of them packed into the schooner's long-boat (which was big,
having been used for cargo-work) and started up the river, while two
remained in charge of the schooner with food enough to keep starvation
off for ten days. The tide and wind helped, and early one afternoon the
big white boat under a ragged sail shouldered its way before the sea
breeze into Patusan Reach, manned by fourteen assorted scarecrows
glaring hungrily ahead, and fingering the breech-blocks of cheap rifles.
Brown calculated upon the terrifying surprise of his appearance. They
sailed in with the last of the flood; the Rajah's stockade gave no sign;
the first houses on both sides of the stream seemed deserted. A few
canoes were seen up the reach in full flight. Brown was astonished at
the size of the place. A profound silence reigned. The wind dropped
between the houses; two oars were got out and the boat held on
up-stream, the idea being to effect a lodgment in the centre of the town
before the inhabitants could think of resistance.
'It seems, however, that the headman of the fishing village at Batu
Kring had managed to send off a timely warning. When the long-boat came
abreast of the mosque (which Doramin had built: a structure with gables
and roof finials of carved coral) the open space before it was full of
people. A shout went up, and was followed by a clash of gongs all up the
river. From a point above two little brass 6-pounders were discharged,
and the round-shot came skipping down the empty reach, spurting
glittering jets of water in the sunshine. In front of the mosque a
shouting lot of men began firing in volleys that whipped athwart the
current of the river; an irregular, rolling fusillade was opened on the
boat from both banks, and Brown's men replied with a wild, rapid fire.
The oars had been got in.
'The turn of the tide at high water comes on very quickly in that river,
and the boat in mid-stream, nearly hidden in smoke, began to drift back
stern foremost. Along both shores the smoke thickened also, lying below
the roofs in a level streak as you may see a long cloud cutting the
slope of a mountain. A tumult of war-cries, the vibrating clang
of gongs, the deep snoring of drums, yells of rage, crashes of
volley-firing, made an awful din, in which Brown sat confounded but
steady at the tiller, working himself into a fury of hate and rage
against those people who dared to defend themselves. Two of his men
had been wounded, and he saw his retreat cut off below the town by some
boats that had put off from Tunku Allang's stockade. There were six of
them, full of men. While he was thus beset he perceived the entrance of
the narrow creek (the same which Jim had jumped at low water). It was
then brim full. Steering the long-boat in, they landed, and, to make a
long story short, they established themselves on a little knoll about
900 yards from the stockade, which, in fact, they commanded from that
position. The slopes of the knoll were bare, but there were a few trees
on the summit. They went to work cutting these down for a breastwork,
and were fairly intrenched before dark; meantime the Rajah's boats
remained in the river with curious neutrality. When the sun set the glue
of many brushwood blazes lighted on the river-front, and between the
double line of houses on the land side threw into black relief the
roofs, the groups of slender palms, the heavy clumps of fruit trees.
Brown ordered the grass round his position to be fired; a low ring of
thin flames under the slow ascending smoke wriggled rapidly down the
slopes of the knoll; here and there a dry bush caught with a tall,
vicious roar. The conflagration made a clear zone of fire for the rifles
of the small party, and expired smouldering on the edge of the forests
and along the muddy bank of the creek. A strip of jungle luxuriating in
a damp hollow between the knoll and the Rajah's stockade stopped it
on that side with a great crackling and detonations of bursting bamboo
stems. The sky was sombre, velvety, and swarming with stars. The
blackened ground smoked quietly with low creeping wisps, till a little
breeze came on and blew everything away. Brown expected an attack to
be delivered as soon as the tide had flowed enough again to enable the
war-boats which had cut off his retreat to enter the creek. At any rate
he was sure there would be an attempt to carry off his long-boat,
which lay below the hill, a dark high lump on the feeble sheen of a wet
mud-flat. But no move of any sort was made by the boats in the river.
Over the stockade and the Rajah's buildings Brown saw their lights on
the water. They seemed to be anchored across the stream. Other lights
afloat were moving in the reach, crossing and recrossing from side to
side. There were also lights twinkling motionless upon the long walls of
houses up the reach, as far as the bend, and more still beyond, others
isolated inland. The loom of the big fires disclosed buildings, roofs,
black piles as far as he could see. It was an immense place. The
fourteen desperate invaders lying flat behind the felled trees raised
their chins to look over at the stir of that town that seemed to extend
up-river for miles and swarm with thousands of angry men. They did not
speak to each other. Now and then they would hear a loud yell, or a
single shot rang out, fired very far somewhere. But round their position
everything was still, dark, silent. They seemed to be forgotten, as if
the excitement keeping awake all the population had nothing to do with
them, as if they had been dead already.'
'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.'
| 7,346 | Chapters 37-39 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-37-39 | The story resumes in Marlow's written form. Marlow explains in his letter that he encountered a man named Brown at the direction of Schomberg . Brown is more than ready to tell his tale. He is a suspicious character, a thief, and a kind of figure of evil. The narrative then cuts back in time, creating additional suspense. Eight months prior to this encounter with Brown in Bangkok, Marlow had gone to visit Stein at his home, where he had found Tamb' Itam, Jim's Malay servant. Marlow had hoped that Jim was not far away, but the Malay had said quietly, "He would not fight" . Stein had appeared and told Marlow that the girl Jewel was also there, and that the two had arrived two days earlier. Jewel had said to Marlow, "He has left me" . She spoke in grief and shock. "He is false!" she cried. Stein protested: "True!" . The shock of the events "seems to have changed their natures. It had turned her passion into stone" . Tamb' Itam and the Malay boat-driver who had helped them to escape were both "over-awed by a sense of deep, inexpressible wonder, by the touch of an inscrutable mystery," echoing Marlow's own statement to Jim that Jim would always remain a mystery to them . The letter concludes with Marlow's signature. Now, the "privileged reader" is able to focus on the "story" that Marlow has written of the last events. Brown has led a lawless life as a virtual "latter-day buccaneer." The story went, apparently, that Brown had once run off with the wife of a missionary, a very young girl, who had died of fever on board the ship. The girl had hoped to make a great conversion in the name of her husband. When she died, Brown had wept violently. His shipmate always comments on that scene. Brown had lost his ship on the rocks. Soon after, Brown stole a schooner. His best man, a devoted Solomon Islander, killed two shipkeepers with a long knife, and Brown's sixteen men all rushed off to sea. They planned to cross the Indian Ocean, but were low on supplies and, out of the need to replenish their water and food, headed for Patusan. The big white boat carried the "assorted scarecrows" to the Patusan Reach, whence fourteen of them took to the river in a small boat. The headman of the fishing village, by this time, sent a warning to the town, and, when Brown's men arrived to see the flourishing community, shouting men fired from the mosque. There were armed men in the river, blocking their retreat. The natives fired, and Brown's men fired in reply. Brown saw the entrance to a narrow creek and established his men in the little knoll near the Rajah's stockade. As the sun set, they cut down the few trees for protection, and Brown lay on his back, in awe at the immensity of the place. Brown's story turns to consider Jim's absence, although he has not yet met the man. Jim has been gone in the interior for more than a week, while Dain Waris has been leading the fight in his absence. Dain Waris, significantly, is not Jim: "He was not the visible, tangible incarnation of unfailing truth and of unfailing victory" . Dain Waris fails to compare favorably with Jim's mythical stature. Jim is the one everyone believes cannot die. He holds the store of gunpowder in Patusan, supplied by Stein, and Jewel takes charge as they wait. The council gathers at Doramin's, and the townspeople are disturbed that the Rajah's boat did not act when it could have. Kassim, the Rajah's diplomat at the meeting, is unreadable. Rumors fly about a large ship and many men. The danger of panic is in the air, and Doramin orders Dain Waris to take an armed party down the river, to make a camp and to blockade the stream with canoes. Doramin seems motivated most by a desire to keep his son out of harm's way. Kassim goes into open communication with Brown, taking Cornelius with him to serve as interpreter. Brown, overjoyed to hear English words, demands food as a guarantee of good faith. The Rajah sends them rice, chillies, and dried fish. It becomes clear that Kassim intends to double-deal, however, given his unhappiness with the order of things and with Jim's power, and given his dislike for Doramin. He asks Brown to quickly send for his big ship and many men, and then to attack and defeat the Bugis settlement before Jim's return. This is where Brown hears about Jim for the first time. He hears the story of Jim's accomplishments, how the whole area is basically his. Brown begins to get the idea of accomplishing something of the same. Cornelius urges him to kill Jim at the first opportunity. The men doze on the stockade, and Brown gazes greedily. Kassim presses Brown for his ship again, and Brown writes the message, "We are getting on. Big job. Detain the man." He sends this message to his two remaining men on the schooner. | Marlow's letter to the "privileged reader" provides his sources for the conclusion of the events that help him understand his subject, Jim. First, he describes a man named Brown, who had communicated his part in the story to Marlow in Bangkok. Second, upon a visit to see Stein, Marlow finds Tamb' Itam, who is Jim's servant, and Jewel. From these three characters, along with his own imagination and understanding, Marlow builds the conclusion to the story. Brown's character presents a foil against both Stein's and Jim's romantically charmed lives, particularly by way of the woman he is associated with. She is a missionary's wife who dies of fever, like Stein's wife and daughter. For Brown, however, the woman dies quickly, before there is a chance for Brown to know happiness. The forcefulness of his weeping, a poignant detail that adds depth and mystery to his character, suggests that, for Brown, fortune has always been tough. His "Eastern bride" of opportunity, also veiled in the hope of a more spiritual salvation, is lost to him before being realized. Therefore, Brown becomes decrepit, almost without hope, yet has just enough strength and anger at the world to continue to eke his way through it. Jim may very well have descended to resemble such a character, given his anger and frustration and feeling that he had been cheated of some of his opportunities, but Jim differs from Brown in that Jim was lucky enough to have found helpers in both Marlow and Stein. Brown had never come upon someone who had had this kind of encouraging faith in his underlying character. Brown is a significant figure, particularly in comparison with Jim and Brierly. While Brierly had lived the length of his life committed to a particular ideal of honor, his honest recognition of something dishonorable in his heart had led him to commit suicide. Brown, on the other hand, with little comfort or faith in the world, struggles to survive with as much effort as Brierly had struggled in order to live a life of honor. These two characters therefore delineate two paths along which a man may live. Brown's abhorrent character is not unlike that of the crewmen of the Patna, who had leapt from the steamship in an act that privileged personal survival over honor. The reader, by this point, knows that Jim harbors this element within him, but at the same time desires to live a life of honor and ideals. The question presented by the events unfolding before the reader is, therefore: what kind of man is Jim; which path is he following? Stein's character is also a mixture of the impulse to survive with the desire to live by ideals. This tension is expressed by his struggle to begin again--successfully, after the fantastical life of the Malay court falls upon him. He persists. Again, however, note that the parallels between Stein's and Jim's situations are often reversed: if this pattern of reversal continues, we might predict that Jim's end will go the opposite way compared with Stein's. Therefore, when Brown arrives in Patusan, a sinister force has arrived: Brown is not there in order to prove himself capable of achieving romantic ideals, but he arrives in need of water and food. The opposition between the romanticism of Jim and Stein is therefore set against the Darwinian struggle to survive in Brown . Brown's arrival thus has a profoundly destabilizing effect on the community in Patusan. Neither Jim nor his influence is present to adequately protect the community. This lack reveals the degree to which Jim had become the de facto leader, primarily because of his "racial prestige" . Dain Waris is truly "beloved, trusted, and admired," but he remains just one of the natives, in their view. According to Marlow, in contrast, "Jim was one of us," and by reiterating this statement, Marlow puts Jim in a superior category: that of Western men, men of good character, men who have remained committed to higher, romantic ideals. Without him, the community does not have such a leader. Marlow thus accentuates Jim's difference from the community of Patusan, recalling his claim that Jim would always remain a mystery to them. The community has found stability and faith in the presence of a great mystery living amongst them. Fortune, however, has intervened. It is only by chance that Jim is not present at Brown's arrival, and the plot line implies that if Dain Waris had not been left to lead, the reaction to Brown might not have been a shower of gunfire, thickening the tension between Patusan and the white newcomers. When Jim had first arrived, in contrast, he had successfully diffused tensions and avoided conflict and death. Dain Waris, however, has reacted hastily. Thus the plot thickens: Brown's arrival becomes an opportunity for the less trustworthy characters in Patusan--Rajah, Kassim, and Cornelius--to make their moves. | 855 | 847 | [
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1,232 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/11.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The Prince/section_11_part_0.txt | The Prince.chapter 11 | chapter 11 | null | {"name": "Chapter 11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210420060055/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/prince-machiavelli/summary/chapter-11", "summary": "We've arrived at the last type of state. Hurrah! But if the book is only half done, what's the rest of it about? Don't worry: it's coming. Church states are awesome because no matter what you do, you can't lose them. You don't have to defend them, or even govern them. It is totally a sweet deal being pope. Now, Machiavelli is just a little bit sarcastic when he says that, \"since Church states depend on forces beyond the reach of human reason, I shall say no more about them,\" but continues to talk about them for a couple of pages . Recently, the church has been getting more and more earthly power. We're not talking angels here, we're talking war popes. This sounds a bit weird to us, since we can't imagine Pope John Paul or Benedict XVI going all Rambo on someone, but these were hard core biker popes back in Machiavelli's day. Apparently the whole aggro-pope thing snuck up on Europe and no one noticed that they were getting so powerful that they could boss France around. We get it. They are popes. They're supposed to be goody two-shoes; plus, they only rule for like ten years. What can get done in that amount of time? Well, everything changed when Cesare Borgia's dad, Pope Alexander VI, came on the scene. He was darned determined to get his kid some land, and he did. Sure, that land was reabsorbed into the pope's territory, but oh well. So, when Julius, the next pope, took over, the church was stronger than ever. Machiavelli ends this chapter with some pretty blatant flattery to Pope Leo, the pope at the time, and the uncle of the prince Machiavelli was writing to. Tricky.", "analysis": ""} |
It only remains now to speak of ecclesiastical principalities, touching
which all difficulties are prior to getting possession, because they
are acquired either by capacity or good fortune, and they can be held
without either; for they are sustained by the ancient ordinances of
religion, which are so all-powerful, and of such a character that the
principalities may be held no matter how their princes behave and live.
These princes alone have states and do not defend them; and they have
subjects and do not rule them; and the states, although unguarded, are
not taken from them, and the subjects, although not ruled, do not care,
and they have neither the desire nor the ability to alienate themselves.
Such principalities only are secure and happy. But being upheld by
powers, to which the human mind cannot reach, I shall speak no more of
them, because, being exalted and maintained by God, it would be the act
of a presumptuous and rash man to discuss them.
Nevertheless, if any one should ask of me how comes it that the
Church has attained such greatness in temporal power, seeing that from
Alexander backwards the Italian potentates (not only those who have been
called potentates, but every baron and lord, though the smallest)
have valued the temporal power very slightly--yet now a king of France
trembles before it, and it has been able to drive him from Italy, and
to ruin the Venetians--although this may be very manifest, it does not
appear to me superfluous to recall it in some measure to memory.
Before Charles, King of France, passed into Italy,(*) this country was
under the dominion of the Pope, the Venetians, the King of Naples, the
Duke of Milan, and the Florentines. These potentates had two principal
anxieties: the one, that no foreigner should enter Italy under arms; the
other, that none of themselves should seize more territory. Those about
whom there was the most anxiety were the Pope and the Venetians. To
restrain the Venetians the union of all the others was necessary, as it
was for the defence of Ferrara; and to keep down the Pope they made use
of the barons of Rome, who, being divided into two factions, Orsini and
Colonnesi, had always a pretext for disorder, and, standing with arms in
their hands under the eyes of the Pontiff, kept the pontificate weak and
powerless. And although there might arise sometimes a courageous pope,
such as Sixtus, yet neither fortune nor wisdom could rid him of these
annoyances. And the short life of a pope is also a cause of weakness;
for in the ten years, which is the average life of a pope, he can with
difficulty lower one of the factions; and if, so to speak, one people
should almost destroy the Colonnesi, another would arise hostile to the
Orsini, who would support their opponents, and yet would not have time
to ruin the Orsini. This was the reason why the temporal powers of the
pope were little esteemed in Italy.
(*) Charles VIII invaded Italy in 1494.
Alexander the Sixth arose afterwards, who of all the pontiffs that
have ever been showed how a pope with both money and arms was able to
prevail; and through the instrumentality of the Duke Valentino, and by
reason of the entry of the French, he brought about all those things
which I have discussed above in the actions of the duke. And although
his intention was not to aggrandize the Church, but the duke,
nevertheless, what he did contributed to the greatness of the Church,
which, after his death and the ruin of the duke, became the heir to all
his labours.
Pope Julius came afterwards and found the Church strong, possessing all
the Romagna, the barons of Rome reduced to impotence, and, through the
chastisements of Alexander, the factions wiped out; he also found
the way open to accumulate money in a manner such as had never been
practised before Alexander's time. Such things Julius not only followed,
but improved upon, and he intended to gain Bologna, to ruin the
Venetians, and to drive the French out of Italy. All of these
enterprises prospered with him, and so much the more to his credit,
inasmuch as he did everything to strengthen the Church and not any
private person. He kept also the Orsini and Colonnesi factions within
the bounds in which he found them; and although there was among them
some mind to make disturbance, nevertheless he held two things firm: the
one, the greatness of the Church, with which he terrified them; and the
other, not allowing them to have their own cardinals, who caused the
disorders among them. For whenever these factions have their cardinals
they do not remain quiet for long, because cardinals foster the factions
in Rome and out of it, and the barons are compelled to support them, and
thus from the ambitions of prelates arise disorders and tumults among
the barons. For these reasons his Holiness Pope Leo(*) found the
pontificate most powerful, and it is to be hoped that, if others made it
great in arms, he will make it still greater and more venerated by his
goodness and infinite other virtues.
| 805 | Chapter 11 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210420060055/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/prince-machiavelli/summary/chapter-11 | We've arrived at the last type of state. Hurrah! But if the book is only half done, what's the rest of it about? Don't worry: it's coming. Church states are awesome because no matter what you do, you can't lose them. You don't have to defend them, or even govern them. It is totally a sweet deal being pope. Now, Machiavelli is just a little bit sarcastic when he says that, "since Church states depend on forces beyond the reach of human reason, I shall say no more about them," but continues to talk about them for a couple of pages . Recently, the church has been getting more and more earthly power. We're not talking angels here, we're talking war popes. This sounds a bit weird to us, since we can't imagine Pope John Paul or Benedict XVI going all Rambo on someone, but these were hard core biker popes back in Machiavelli's day. Apparently the whole aggro-pope thing snuck up on Europe and no one noticed that they were getting so powerful that they could boss France around. We get it. They are popes. They're supposed to be goody two-shoes; plus, they only rule for like ten years. What can get done in that amount of time? Well, everything changed when Cesare Borgia's dad, Pope Alexander VI, came on the scene. He was darned determined to get his kid some land, and he did. Sure, that land was reabsorbed into the pope's territory, but oh well. So, when Julius, the next pope, took over, the church was stronger than ever. Machiavelli ends this chapter with some pretty blatant flattery to Pope Leo, the pope at the time, and the uncle of the prince Machiavelli was writing to. Tricky. | null | 290 | 1 | [
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174 | true | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/chapters_12_to_13.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_8_part_0.txt | The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapters 12-13 | chapters 12-13 | null | {"name": "Chapters 12 & 13", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421171214/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/study-guide/summary-chapters-12-and-13", "summary": "Late one night, Dorian runs into Basil Hallward on the street. Basil is delighted to see him, as he has been searching for Dorian all night, wanting to say goodbye before leaving on a six month trip to Paris. Basil has several hours before his train leaves, and the two adjourn to Dorian's home. The painter tells Dorian that he has been worried because \"the most dreadful things are being said against in London.\" Dorian is annoyed, and tells his friend that he doesn't care for gossip, but makes no effort to defend himself. Disconcerted by his friend's apathy, Basil goes on to assure Dorian that, vicious and damning as many of the rumors are, he doesn't believe them because he trusts that Dorian is a good person, and that \"sin is a thing that writes itself across a man's face. It cannot be concealed.\" Dorian looks as young and innocent as ever, and Basil believes his eyes. Once the artist begins listing the names of people whom Dorian is said to have led astray, Dorian rebukes him, saying that he doesn't know what he's talking about, and warning him to mind his own business. He argues that no person is without sin or temptation, and that corruption is not a thing that can be taught. Dorian only feels responsible for showing people their true selves. During their discussion, Basil remarks that he feels as if he doesn't know Dorian at all, and that in order to know him \"I should have to see your soul.\" This sends Dorian into an odd state of defensive paranoia. Laughing, he tells Basil that \"You shall see yourself tonight!\" Basil is confused and frightened by Dorian's words. He wants his friend to deny the charges against him, and is unsure whether Dorian's refusal to do so amounts to an admission that they are, in fact, true. To answer all of Basil's doubts, Dorian invites the painter upstairs, to view his \"diary\". They ascend the stairs in Dorian's house, and enter the attic. Dorian tells Basil to open the curtain if he wishes to see his soul. Basil, thinking his friend is mad, hesitates, and Dorian reveals the painting himself. The artist is horrified, and at first doesn't even recognize Dorian in \"the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him.\" He refuses to believe that it's actually his own painting, thinking it to be some \"foul parody,\" until he recognizes the frame, and finds his own signature at the bottom. Dorian observes Basil's horrified reaction with apathy, and reminds him of the wish he made years ago at the painter's studio, right after the portrait had been completed. Basil is overwhelmed by disgust, unsure of what to believe, and exclaims that Dorian must have been a devil all along, and that if this picture accurately reflects the man's soul, that he \"must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!\" He urges Dorian to repent, to try and save his soul, at which point \"an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips.\" In a frenzy, Dorian grabs a knife and plunges it into Basil's neck, stabbing him repeatedly, and then holds him down until he stops struggling and dies, a pool of blood spreading out across the table and weaving through the feet of his chair. Dorian is surprised at the ease with which he performed the murder. He feels relieved by the thought that the man \"who had painted the fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due, had gone out of his life.\" He leaves the attic and determines that he will be able to get away with his crime, since Basil was supposed to leave for Paris that night, and since no one knew of his visit. He will destroy Basil's bag and overcoat, but in order to get rid of the body, he must call on Alan Campbell.", "analysis": "Basil speaks at length about Dorian's alleged sins, but never actually states what these sins are, only saying that Dorian's \"name was implicated in the most terrible confession I'd ever read.\" This propensity for only indirectly acknowledging the breaking of social taboos is an interesting tendency found in Victorian society, one shared by the narrator of Dorian Gray. We have read that there are rumors of Dorian's misdeeds but unless we witness them first-hand, as we do the murder, we never learn what they actually are. Like Basil, we can only assume the worst, based on the hideousness of the portrait. That Wilde chooses to portray Dorian's transgressions in such a manner is worth noting. The narrator is clearly omniscient: he certainly appears capable of informing us about what, exactly, Dorian has done to spark so much gossip and disdain, but by only hinting at the nature of Dorian's transgressions, Wilde establishes a palpable sense of their illicitness, leading the reader to look for clues while also reinforcing the sense of Dorian's degradation. Basil's condemnation of Dorian's sins, and his fervent desire for Dorian to repent, indicate a religiosity in the artist that was absent in our last encounter with him. Basil has acquired a sharply refined ethical sensibility. This may explain the decline in his artistic output, since Wilde states in the preface that \"An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.\" This \"unpardonable mannerism\" is partially responsible for Dorian's murderous rage, as it offends his artistic sensibility, which is the only claim to purity that he now feels justified in clinging to. We are, however, told that the murder is prompted most directly by the portrait itself: \"an uncontrollable feeling of hatred...came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas.\" The image confronts Dorian with his shameful life, and Dorian blames Basil, the painter, for the pain that he feels. When the artist confronts Dorian, it is too much for him to bear, and he is driven to murder by \"the mad passions of a hunted animal.\" Ever since he first encountered Lord Henry, Dorian has made a point of surrendering to his passions. Now, even the urge towards murderous violence cannot be checked. Try as he might in later chapters, he is never able to write off this crime as simply another new and exciting \"artistic\" experience, as he was able to do with Sibyl's death. Violent images involving knives are found in several instances throughout the novel: in addition to Basil's murder, they are found when Basil threatens to destroy the portrait in chapter 2, and when Dorian reflects that he has killed Sibyl as if he had \"cut her little throat with a knife\" in chapter 8."} |
It was on the ninth of November, the eve of his own thirty-eighth
birthday, as he often remembered afterwards.
He was walking home about eleven o'clock from Lord Henry's, where he
had been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the night was cold
and foggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street,
a man passed him in the mist, walking very fast and with the collar of
his grey ulster turned up. He had a bag in his hand. Dorian
recognized him. It was Basil Hallward. A strange sense of fear, for
which he could not account, came over him. He made no sign of
recognition and went on quickly in the direction of his own house.
But Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him first stopping on the
pavement and then hurrying after him. In a few moments, his hand was
on his arm.
"Dorian! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for
you in your library ever since nine o'clock. Finally I took pity on
your tired servant and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. I am
off to Paris by the midnight train, and I particularly wanted to see
you before I left. I thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as
you passed me. But I wasn't quite sure. Didn't you recognize me?"
"In this fog, my dear Basil? Why, I can't even recognize Grosvenor
Square. I believe my house is somewhere about here, but I don't feel
at all certain about it. I am sorry you are going away, as I have not
seen you for ages. But I suppose you will be back soon?"
"No: I am going to be out of England for six months. I intend to take
a studio in Paris and shut myself up till I have finished a great
picture I have in my head. However, it wasn't about myself I wanted to
talk. Here we are at your door. Let me come in for a moment. I have
something to say to you."
"I shall be charmed. But won't you miss your train?" said Dorian Gray
languidly as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his
latch-key.
The lamplight struggled out through the fog, and Hallward looked at his
watch. "I have heaps of time," he answered. "The train doesn't go
till twelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. In fact, I was on my
way to the club to look for you, when I met you. You see, I shan't
have any delay about luggage, as I have sent on my heavy things. All I
have with me is in this bag, and I can easily get to Victoria in twenty
minutes."
Dorian looked at him and smiled. "What a way for a fashionable painter
to travel! A Gladstone bag and an ulster! Come in, or the fog will
get into the house. And mind you don't talk about anything serious.
Nothing is serious nowadays. At least nothing should be."
Hallward shook his head, as he entered, and followed Dorian into the
library. There was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open
hearth. The lamps were lit, and an open Dutch silver spirit-case
stood, with some siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, on
a little marqueterie table.
"You see your servant made me quite at home, Dorian. He gave me
everything I wanted, including your best gold-tipped cigarettes. He is
a most hospitable creature. I like him much better than the Frenchman
you used to have. What has become of the Frenchman, by the bye?"
Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I believe he married Lady Radley's
maid, and has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker.
Anglomania is very fashionable over there now, I hear. It seems silly
of the French, doesn't it? But--do you know?--he was not at all a bad
servant. I never liked him, but I had nothing to complain about. One
often imagines things that are quite absurd. He was really very
devoted to me and seemed quite sorry when he went away. Have another
brandy-and-soda? Or would you like hock-and-seltzer? I always take
hock-and-seltzer myself. There is sure to be some in the next room."
"Thanks, I won't have anything more," said the painter, taking his cap
and coat off and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the
corner. "And now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously.
Don't frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me."
"What is it all about?" cried Dorian in his petulant way, flinging
himself down on the sofa. "I hope it is not about myself. I am tired
of myself to-night. I should like to be somebody else."
"It is about yourself," answered Hallward in his grave deep voice, "and
I must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an hour."
Dorian sighed and lit a cigarette. "Half an hour!" he murmured.
"It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your own
sake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that
the most dreadful things are being said against you in London."
"I don't wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other
people, but scandals about myself don't interest me. They have not got
the charm of novelty."
"They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his
good name. You don't want people to talk of you as something vile and
degraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all
that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind
you, I don't believe these rumours at all. At least, I can't believe
them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man's
face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices.
There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows
itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the
moulding of his hands even. Somebody--I won't mention his name, but
you know him--came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had
never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the
time, though I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant
price. I refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers
that I hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied
about him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure,
bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth--I can't
believe anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you
never come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I
hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I
don't know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of
Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so
many gentlemen in London will neither go to your house or invite you to
theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner
last week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, in
connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the
Dudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most
artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl
should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the
same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked
him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody.
It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There
was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were
his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England
with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian
Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent's only son and
his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James's Street. He
seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of
Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would
associate with him?"
"Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing,"
said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt
in his voice. "You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it.
It is because I know everything about his life, not because he knows
anything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could
his record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth.
Did I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent's
silly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If
Adrian Singleton writes his friend's name across a bill, am I his
keeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air
their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper
about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try
and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with
the people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to
have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him.
And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead
themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land
of the hypocrite."
"Dorian," cried Hallward, "that is not the question. England is bad
enough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason
why I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to
judge of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to
lose all sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them
with a madness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You
led them there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as
you are smiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry
are inseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should
not have made his sister's name a by-word."
"Take care, Basil. You go too far."
"I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met
Lady Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there
a single decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the
park? Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then
there are other stories--stories that you have been seen creeping at
dawn out of dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest
dens in London. Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heard
them, I laughed. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. What
about your country-house and the life that is led there? Dorian, you
don't know what is said about you. I won't tell you that I don't want
to preach to you. I remember Harry saying once that every man who
turned himself into an amateur curate for the moment always began by
saying that, and then proceeded to break his word. I do want to preach
to you. I want you to lead such a life as will make the world respect
you. I want you to have a clean name and a fair record. I want you to
get rid of the dreadful people you associate with. Don't shrug your
shoulders like that. Don't be so indifferent. You have a wonderful
influence. Let it be for good, not for evil. They say that you
corrupt every one with whom you become intimate, and that it is quite
sufficient for you to enter a house for shame of some kind to follow
after. I don't know whether it is so or not. How should I know? But
it is said of you. I am told things that it seems impossible to doubt.
Lord Gloucester was one of my greatest friends at Oxford. He showed me
a letter that his wife had written to him when she was dying alone in
her villa at Mentone. Your name was implicated in the most terrible
confession I ever read. I told him that it was absurd--that I knew you
thoroughly and that you were incapable of anything of the kind. Know
you? I wonder do I know you? Before I could answer that, I should
have to see your soul."
"To see my soul!" muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa and
turning almost white from fear.
"Yes," answered Hallward gravely, and with deep-toned sorrow in his
voice, "to see your soul. But only God can do that."
A bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man. "You
shall see it yourself, to-night!" he cried, seizing a lamp from the
table. "Come: it is your own handiwork. Why shouldn't you look at
it? You can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you choose.
Nobody would believe you. If they did believe you, they would like me
all the better for it. I know the age better than you do, though you
will prate about it so tediously. Come, I tell you. You have
chattered enough about corruption. Now you shall look on it face to
face."
There was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. He stamped
his foot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. He felt a
terrible joy at the thought that some one else was to share his secret,
and that the man who had painted the portrait that was the origin of
all his shame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the
hideous memory of what he had done.
"Yes," he continued, coming closer to him and looking steadfastly into
his stern eyes, "I shall show you my soul. You shall see the thing
that you fancy only God can see."
Hallward started back. "This is blasphemy, Dorian!" he cried. "You
must not say things like that. They are horrible, and they don't mean
anything."
"You think so?" He laughed again.
"I know so. As for what I said to you to-night, I said it for your
good. You know I have been always a stanch friend to you."
"Don't touch me. Finish what you have to say."
A twisted flash of pain shot across the painter's face. He paused for
a moment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. After all, what
right had he to pry into the life of Dorian Gray? If he had done a
tithe of what was rumoured about him, how much he must have suffered!
Then he straightened himself up, and walked over to the fire-place, and
stood there, looking at the burning logs with their frostlike ashes and
their throbbing cores of flame.
"I am waiting, Basil," said the young man in a hard clear voice.
He turned round. "What I have to say is this," he cried. "You must
give me some answer to these horrible charges that are made against
you. If you tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning to
end, I shall believe you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them! Can't you see
what I am going through? My God! don't tell me that you are bad, and
corrupt, and shameful."
Dorian Gray smiled. There was a curl of contempt in his lips. "Come
upstairs, Basil," he said quietly. "I keep a diary of my life from day
to day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written. I shall
show it to you if you come with me."
"I shall come with you, Dorian, if you wish it. I see I have missed my
train. That makes no matter. I can go to-morrow. But don't ask me to
read anything to-night. All I want is a plain answer to my question."
"That shall be given to you upstairs. I could not give it here. You
will not have to read long."
He passed out of the room and began the ascent, Basil Hallward
following close behind. They walked softly, as men do instinctively at
night. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. A
rising wind made some of the windows rattle.
When they reached the top landing, Dorian set the lamp down on the
floor, and taking out the key, turned it in the lock. "You insist on
knowing, Basil?" he asked in a low voice.
"Yes."
"I am delighted," he answered, smiling. Then he added, somewhat
harshly, "You are the one man in the world who is entitled to know
everything about me. You have had more to do with my life than you
think"; and, taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. A
cold current of air passed them, and the light shot up for a moment in
a flame of murky orange. He shuddered. "Shut the door behind you," he
whispered, as he placed the lamp on the table.
Hallward glanced round him with a puzzled expression. The room looked
as if it had not been lived in for years. A faded Flemish tapestry, a
curtained picture, an old Italian _cassone_, and an almost empty
book-case--that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and
a table. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was
standing on the mantelshelf, he saw that the whole place was covered
with dust and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ran scuffling
behind the wainscoting. There was a damp odour of mildew.
"So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw that
curtain back, and you will see mine."
The voice that spoke was cold and cruel. "You are mad, Dorian, or
playing a part," muttered Hallward, frowning.
"You won't? Then I must do it myself," said the young man, and he tore
the curtain from its rod and flung it on the ground.
An exclamation of horror broke from the painter's lips as he saw in the
dim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. There was
something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing.
Good heavens! it was Dorian Gray's own face that he was looking at!
The horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that
marvellous beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and
some scarlet on the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept something
of the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet
completely passed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat.
Yes, it was Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed to
recognize his own brushwork, and the frame was his own design. The
idea was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle,
and held it to the picture. In the left-hand corner was his own name,
traced in long letters of bright vermilion.
It was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire. He had never
done that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as
if his blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His
own picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned and
looked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched,
and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand
across his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat.
The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him with
that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are
absorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. There was neither
real sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the
spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken
the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so.
"What does this mean?" cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded
shrill and curious in his ears.
"Years ago, when I was a boy," said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in
his hand, "you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my
good looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who
explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me
that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment that, even
now, I don't know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you
would call it a prayer...."
"I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is
impossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The
paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the
thing is impossible."
"Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the
window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass.
"You told me you had destroyed it."
"I was wrong. It has destroyed me."
"I don't believe it is my picture."
"Can't you see your ideal in it?" said Dorian bitterly.
"My ideal, as you call it..."
"As you called it."
"There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such
an ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr."
"It is the face of my soul."
"Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a
devil."
"Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian with a
wild gesture of despair.
Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If it
is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life,
why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you
to be!" He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The
surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was
from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come.
Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were
slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery
grave was not so fearful.
His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and
lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then
he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table
and buried his face in his hands.
"Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no
answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray,
Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say in
one's boyhood? 'Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins.
Wash away our iniquities.' Let us say that together. The prayer of
your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be
answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You
worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished."
Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed
eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered.
"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot
remember a prayer. Isn't there a verse somewhere, 'Though your sins be
as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow'?"
"Those words mean nothing to me now."
"Hush! Don't say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My
God! Don't you see that accursed thing leering at us?"
Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable
feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had
been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his
ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal
stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table,
more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced
wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest
that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a
knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord,
and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it,
passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized
it and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going
to rise. He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that
is behind the ear, crushing the man's head down on the table and
stabbing again and again.
There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking
with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively,
waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him
twice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on
the floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then
he threw the knife on the table, and listened.
He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He
opened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely
quiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the
balustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness.
Then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in
as he did so.
The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with
bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been
for the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool that was
slowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was
simply asleep.
How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking
over to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. The wind
had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock's
tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down and saw the
policeman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on
the doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom
gleamed at the corner and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl
was creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and
then she stopped and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse
voice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She
stumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the square. The
gas-lamps flickered and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their
black iron branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing the
window behind him.
Having reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. He did not
even glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole
thing was not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted the
fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due had gone out of his
life. That was enough.
Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish
workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished
steel, and studded with coarse turquoises. Perhaps it might be missed
by his servant, and questions would be asked. He hesitated for a
moment, then he turned back and took it from the table. He could not
help seeing the dead thing. How still it was! How horribly white the
long hands looked! It was like a dreadful wax image.
Having locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs. The
woodwork creaked and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He stopped
several times and waited. No: everything was still. It was merely
the sound of his own footsteps.
When he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner.
They must be hidden away somewhere. He unlocked a secret press that
was in the wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curious
disguises, and put them into it. He could easily burn them afterwards.
Then he pulled out his watch. It was twenty minutes to two.
He sat down and began to think. Every year--every month, almost--men
were strangled in England for what he had done. There had been a
madness of murder in the air. Some red star had come too close to the
earth.... And yet, what evidence was there against him? Basil Hallward
had left the house at eleven. No one had seen him come in again. Most
of the servants were at Selby Royal. His valet had gone to bed....
Paris! Yes. It was to Paris that Basil had gone, and by the midnight
train, as he had intended. With his curious reserved habits, it would
be months before any suspicions would be roused. Months! Everything
could be destroyed long before then.
A sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat and went
out into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of
the policeman on the pavement outside and seeing the flash of the
bull's-eye reflected in the window. He waited and held his breath.
After a few moments he drew back the latch and slipped out, shutting
the door very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. In
about five minutes his valet appeared, half-dressed and looking very
drowsy.
"I am sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis," he said, stepping in;
"but I had forgotten my latch-key. What time is it?"
"Ten minutes past two, sir," answered the man, looking at the clock and
blinking.
"Ten minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nine
to-morrow. I have some work to do."
"All right, sir."
"Did any one call this evening?"
"Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and then he went away
to catch his train."
"Oh! I am sorry I didn't see him. Did he leave any message?"
"No, sir, except that he would write to you from Paris, if he did not
find you at the club."
"That will do, Francis. Don't forget to call me at nine to-morrow."
"No, sir."
The man shambled down the passage in his slippers.
Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table and passed into the
library. For a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room,
biting his lip and thinking. Then he took down the Blue Book from one
of the shelves and began to turn over the leaves. "Alan Campbell, 152,
Hertford Street, Mayfair." Yes; that was the man he wanted.
| 5,162 | Chapters 12 & 13 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210421171214/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/study-guide/summary-chapters-12-and-13 | Late one night, Dorian runs into Basil Hallward on the street. Basil is delighted to see him, as he has been searching for Dorian all night, wanting to say goodbye before leaving on a six month trip to Paris. Basil has several hours before his train leaves, and the two adjourn to Dorian's home. The painter tells Dorian that he has been worried because "the most dreadful things are being said against in London." Dorian is annoyed, and tells his friend that he doesn't care for gossip, but makes no effort to defend himself. Disconcerted by his friend's apathy, Basil goes on to assure Dorian that, vicious and damning as many of the rumors are, he doesn't believe them because he trusts that Dorian is a good person, and that "sin is a thing that writes itself across a man's face. It cannot be concealed." Dorian looks as young and innocent as ever, and Basil believes his eyes. Once the artist begins listing the names of people whom Dorian is said to have led astray, Dorian rebukes him, saying that he doesn't know what he's talking about, and warning him to mind his own business. He argues that no person is without sin or temptation, and that corruption is not a thing that can be taught. Dorian only feels responsible for showing people their true selves. During their discussion, Basil remarks that he feels as if he doesn't know Dorian at all, and that in order to know him "I should have to see your soul." This sends Dorian into an odd state of defensive paranoia. Laughing, he tells Basil that "You shall see yourself tonight!" Basil is confused and frightened by Dorian's words. He wants his friend to deny the charges against him, and is unsure whether Dorian's refusal to do so amounts to an admission that they are, in fact, true. To answer all of Basil's doubts, Dorian invites the painter upstairs, to view his "diary". They ascend the stairs in Dorian's house, and enter the attic. Dorian tells Basil to open the curtain if he wishes to see his soul. Basil, thinking his friend is mad, hesitates, and Dorian reveals the painting himself. The artist is horrified, and at first doesn't even recognize Dorian in "the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him." He refuses to believe that it's actually his own painting, thinking it to be some "foul parody," until he recognizes the frame, and finds his own signature at the bottom. Dorian observes Basil's horrified reaction with apathy, and reminds him of the wish he made years ago at the painter's studio, right after the portrait had been completed. Basil is overwhelmed by disgust, unsure of what to believe, and exclaims that Dorian must have been a devil all along, and that if this picture accurately reflects the man's soul, that he "must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" He urges Dorian to repent, to try and save his soul, at which point "an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips." In a frenzy, Dorian grabs a knife and plunges it into Basil's neck, stabbing him repeatedly, and then holds him down until he stops struggling and dies, a pool of blood spreading out across the table and weaving through the feet of his chair. Dorian is surprised at the ease with which he performed the murder. He feels relieved by the thought that the man "who had painted the fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due, had gone out of his life." He leaves the attic and determines that he will be able to get away with his crime, since Basil was supposed to leave for Paris that night, and since no one knew of his visit. He will destroy Basil's bag and overcoat, but in order to get rid of the body, he must call on Alan Campbell. | Basil speaks at length about Dorian's alleged sins, but never actually states what these sins are, only saying that Dorian's "name was implicated in the most terrible confession I'd ever read." This propensity for only indirectly acknowledging the breaking of social taboos is an interesting tendency found in Victorian society, one shared by the narrator of Dorian Gray. We have read that there are rumors of Dorian's misdeeds but unless we witness them first-hand, as we do the murder, we never learn what they actually are. Like Basil, we can only assume the worst, based on the hideousness of the portrait. That Wilde chooses to portray Dorian's transgressions in such a manner is worth noting. The narrator is clearly omniscient: he certainly appears capable of informing us about what, exactly, Dorian has done to spark so much gossip and disdain, but by only hinting at the nature of Dorian's transgressions, Wilde establishes a palpable sense of their illicitness, leading the reader to look for clues while also reinforcing the sense of Dorian's degradation. Basil's condemnation of Dorian's sins, and his fervent desire for Dorian to repent, indicate a religiosity in the artist that was absent in our last encounter with him. Basil has acquired a sharply refined ethical sensibility. This may explain the decline in his artistic output, since Wilde states in the preface that "An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style." This "unpardonable mannerism" is partially responsible for Dorian's murderous rage, as it offends his artistic sensibility, which is the only claim to purity that he now feels justified in clinging to. We are, however, told that the murder is prompted most directly by the portrait itself: "an uncontrollable feeling of hatred...came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas." The image confronts Dorian with his shameful life, and Dorian blames Basil, the painter, for the pain that he feels. When the artist confronts Dorian, it is too much for him to bear, and he is driven to murder by "the mad passions of a hunted animal." Ever since he first encountered Lord Henry, Dorian has made a point of surrendering to his passions. Now, even the urge towards murderous violence cannot be checked. Try as he might in later chapters, he is never able to write off this crime as simply another new and exciting "artistic" experience, as he was able to do with Sibyl's death. Violent images involving knives are found in several instances throughout the novel: in addition to Basil's murder, they are found when Basil threatens to destroy the portrait in chapter 2, and when Dorian reflects that he has killed Sibyl as if he had "cut her little throat with a knife" in chapter 8. | 681 | 476 | [
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5,658 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/01.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_0_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapter 1 | chapter 1 | null | {"name": "Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-1", "summary": "Meet Jim, a young guy who works as a \"water-clerk\" at various ports in Southeast Asia. That means that he helps ships get situated with fresh drinking water and other supplies before they head out to sea. Jim is good-looking and fairly popular, but people don't seem to know much about him. Good thing our narrator is in the know, and can give us the details. Flashback alert: Jim grew up in a parsonage in England. Because he was a younger brother, he had no shot at inheriting his family's land, so he opted to become a sailor. Maybe he saw this gem and couldn't resist joining up. The early part of Jim's career goes pretty well, except for one night when he misses an opportunity to help rescue some people at sea.", "analysis": ""} | He was an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built, and he
advanced straight at you with a slight stoop of the shoulders, head
forward, and a fixed from-under stare which made you think of a charging
bull. His voice was deep, loud, and his manner displayed a kind of
dogged self-assertion which had nothing aggressive in it. It seemed
a necessity, and it was directed apparently as much at himself as at
anybody else. He was spotlessly neat, apparelled in immaculate white
from shoes to hat, and in the various Eastern ports where he got his
living as ship-chandler's water-clerk he was very popular.
A water-clerk need not pass an examination in anything under the sun,
but he must have Ability in the abstract and demonstrate it practically.
His work consists in racing under sail, steam, or oars against other
water-clerks for any ship about to anchor, greeting her captain
cheerily, forcing upon him a card--the business card of the
ship-chandler--and on his first visit on shore piloting him firmly but
without ostentation to a vast, cavern-like shop which is full of things
that are eaten and drunk on board ship; where you can get everything
to make her seaworthy and beautiful, from a set of chain-hooks for her
cable to a book of gold-leaf for the carvings of her stern; and where
her commander is received like a brother by a ship-chandler he has never
seen before. There is a cool parlour, easy-chairs, bottles, cigars,
writing implements, a copy of harbour regulations, and a warmth of
welcome that melts the salt of a three months' passage out of a seaman's
heart. The connection thus begun is kept up, as long as the ship remains
in harbour, by the daily visits of the water-clerk. To the captain he
is faithful like a friend and attentive like a son, with the patience
of Job, the unselfish devotion of a woman, and the jollity of a boon
companion. Later on the bill is sent in. It is a beautiful and humane
occupation. Therefore good water-clerks are scarce. When a water-clerk
who possesses Ability in the abstract has also the advantage of having
been brought up to the sea, he is worth to his employer a lot of money
and some humouring. Jim had always good wages and as much humouring
as would have bought the fidelity of a fiend. Nevertheless, with black
ingratitude he would throw up the job suddenly and depart. To his
employers the reasons he gave were obviously inadequate. They said
'Confounded fool!' as soon as his back was turned. This was their
criticism on his exquisite sensibility.
To the white men in the waterside business and to the captains of ships
he was just Jim--nothing more. He had, of course, another name, but he
was anxious that it should not be pronounced. His incognito, which had
as many holes as a sieve, was not meant to hide a personality but a
fact. When the fact broke through the incognito he would leave
suddenly the seaport where he happened to be at the time and go to
another--generally farther east. He kept to seaports because he was a
seaman in exile from the sea, and had Ability in the abstract, which is
good for no other work but that of a water-clerk. He retreated in good
order towards the rising sun, and the fact followed him casually but
inevitably. Thus in the course of years he was known successively in
Bombay, in Calcutta, in Rangoon, in Penang, in Batavia--and in each of
these halting-places was just Jim the water-clerk. Afterwards, when his
keen perception of the Intolerable drove him away for good from seaports
and white men, even into the virgin forest, the Malays of the jungle
village, where he had elected to conceal his deplorable faculty, added a
word to the monosyllable of his incognito. They called him Tuan Jim: as
one might say--Lord Jim.
Originally he came from a parsonage. Many commanders of fine
merchant-ships come from these abodes of piety and peace. Jim's father
possessed such certain knowledge of the Unknowable as made for the
righteousness of people in cottages without disturbing the ease of mind
of those whom an unerring Providence enables to live in mansions. The
little church on a hill had the mossy greyness of a rock seen through a
ragged screen of leaves. It had stood there for centuries, but the trees
around probably remembered the laying of the first stone. Below, the
red front of the rectory gleamed with a warm tint in the midst of
grass-plots, flower-beds, and fir-trees, with an orchard at the back,
a paved stable-yard to the left, and the sloping glass of greenhouses
tacked along a wall of bricks. The living had belonged to the family for
generations; but Jim was one of five sons, and when after a course of
light holiday literature his vocation for the sea had declared itself,
he was sent at once to a 'training-ship for officers of the mercantile
marine.'
He learned there a little trigonometry and how to cross top-gallant
yards. He was generally liked. He had the third place in navigation
and pulled stroke in the first cutter. Having a steady head with an
excellent physique, he was very smart aloft. His station was in the
fore-top, and often from there he looked down, with the contempt of a
man destined to shine in the midst of dangers, at the peaceful multitude
of roofs cut in two by the brown tide of the stream, while scattered
on the outskirts of the surrounding plain the factory chimneys rose
perpendicular against a grimy sky, each slender like a pencil, and
belching out smoke like a volcano. He could see the big ships departing,
the broad-beamed ferries constantly on the move, the little boats
floating far below his feet, with the hazy splendour of the sea in the
distance, and the hope of a stirring life in the world of adventure.
On the lower deck in the babel of two hundred voices he would forget
himself, and beforehand live in his mind the sea-life of light
literature. He saw himself saving people from sinking ships, cutting
away masts in a hurricane, swimming through a surf with a line; or as a
lonely castaway, barefooted and half naked, walking on uncovered reefs
in search of shellfish to stave off starvation. He confronted savages on
tropical shores, quelled mutinies on the high seas, and in a small boat
upon the ocean kept up the hearts of despairing men--always an example
of devotion to duty, and as unflinching as a hero in a book.
'Something's up. Come along.'
He leaped to his feet. The boys were streaming up the ladders. Above
could be heard a great scurrying about and shouting, and when he got
through the hatchway he stood still--as if confounded.
It was the dusk of a winter's day. The gale had freshened since noon,
stopping the traffic on the river, and now blew with the strength of a
hurricane in fitful bursts that boomed like salvoes of great guns firing
over the ocean. The rain slanted in sheets that flicked and subsided,
and between whiles Jim had threatening glimpses of the tumbling tide,
the small craft jumbled and tossing along the shore, the motionless
buildings in the driving mist, the broad ferry-boats pitching
ponderously at anchor, the vast landing-stages heaving up and down and
smothered in sprays. The next gust seemed to blow all this away. The
air was full of flying water. There was a fierce purpose in the gale, a
furious earnestness in the screech of the wind, in the brutal tumult of
earth and sky, that seemed directed at him, and made him hold his breath
in awe. He stood still. It seemed to him he was whirled around.
He was jostled. 'Man the cutter!' Boys rushed past him. A coaster
running in for shelter had crashed through a schooner at anchor, and one
of the ship's instructors had seen the accident. A mob of boys clambered
on the rails, clustered round the davits. 'Collision. Just ahead of us.
Mr. Symons saw it.' A push made him stagger against the mizzen-mast, and
he caught hold of a rope. The old training-ship chained to her moorings
quivered all over, bowing gently head to wind, and with her scanty
rigging humming in a deep bass the breathless song of her youth at sea.
'Lower away!' He saw the boat, manned, drop swiftly below the rail,
and rushed after her. He heard a splash. 'Let go; clear the falls!' He
leaned over. The river alongside seethed in frothy streaks. The cutter
could be seen in the falling darkness under the spell of tide and wind,
that for a moment held her bound, and tossing abreast of the ship.
A yelling voice in her reached him faintly: 'Keep stroke, you young
whelps, if you want to save anybody! Keep stroke!' And suddenly she
lifted high her bow, and, leaping with raised oars over a wave, broke
the spell cast upon her by the wind and tide.
Jim felt his shoulder gripped firmly. 'Too late, youngster.' The captain
of the ship laid a restraining hand on that boy, who seemed on the
point of leaping overboard, and Jim looked up with the pain of conscious
defeat in his eyes. The captain smiled sympathetically. 'Better luck
next time. This will teach you to be smart.'
A shrill cheer greeted the cutter. She came dancing back half full of
water, and with two exhausted men washing about on her bottom boards.
The tumult and the menace of wind and sea now appeared very contemptible
to Jim, increasing the regret of his awe at their inefficient menace.
Now he knew what to think of it. It seemed to him he cared nothing for
the gale. He could affront greater perils. He would do so--better than
anybody. Not a particle of fear was left. Nevertheless he brooded apart
that evening while the bowman of the cutter--a boy with a face like
a girl's and big grey eyes--was the hero of the lower deck. Eager
questioners crowded round him. He narrated: 'I just saw his head
bobbing, and I dashed my boat-hook in the water. It caught in his
breeches and I nearly went overboard, as I thought I would, only old
Symons let go the tiller and grabbed my legs--the boat nearly swamped.
Old Symons is a fine old chap. I don't mind a bit him being grumpy with
us. He swore at me all the time he held my leg, but that was only his
way of telling me to stick to the boat-hook. Old Symons is awfully
excitable--isn't he? No--not the little fair chap--the other, the big
one with a beard. When we pulled him in he groaned, "Oh, my leg! oh,
my leg!" and turned up his eyes. Fancy such a big chap fainting like
a girl. Would any of you fellows faint for a jab with a boat-hook?--I
wouldn't. It went into his leg so far.' He showed the boat-hook, which
he had carried below for the purpose, and produced a sensation. 'No,
silly! It was not his flesh that held him--his breeches did. Lots of
blood, of course.'
Jim thought it a pitiful display of vanity. The gale had ministered to
a heroism as spurious as its own pretence of terror. He felt angry with
the brutal tumult of earth and sky for taking him unawares and checking
unfairly a generous readiness for narrow escapes. Otherwise he was
rather glad he had not gone into the cutter, since a lower achievement
had served the turn. He had enlarged his knowledge more than those who
had done the work. When all men flinched, then--he felt sure--he alone
would know how to deal with the spurious menace of wind and seas. He
knew what to think of it. Seen dispassionately, it seemed contemptible.
He could detect no trace of emotion in himself, and the final effect of
a staggering event was that, unnoticed and apart from the noisy crowd of
boys, he exulted with fresh certitude in his avidity for adventure, and
in a sense of many-sided courage.
| 1,877 | Chapter 1 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-1 | Meet Jim, a young guy who works as a "water-clerk" at various ports in Southeast Asia. That means that he helps ships get situated with fresh drinking water and other supplies before they head out to sea. Jim is good-looking and fairly popular, but people don't seem to know much about him. Good thing our narrator is in the know, and can give us the details. Flashback alert: Jim grew up in a parsonage in England. Because he was a younger brother, he had no shot at inheriting his family's land, so he opted to become a sailor. Maybe he saw this gem and couldn't resist joining up. The early part of Jim's career goes pretty well, except for one night when he misses an opportunity to help rescue some people at sea. | null | 133 | 1 | [
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107 | false | cliffnotes | all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/28.txt | finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_27_part_0.txt | Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 28 | chapter 28 | null | {"name": "Chapter 28", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-28", "summary": "At eight o'clock that midsummer evening, Bathsheba appeared in the fern hollow amid the soft, green, shoulder-high fronds. She paused, changed her mind, and was halfway home again before she caught sight of a red coat approaching. She considered Troy's disappointment were she not to appear, and she ran back to the hollow. When she reached the verge of a pit in the midst of the ferns, she saw Troy standing at the bottom and looking toward her. Troy's performance with the sword was precise and filled with bravado. It grew a bit frightening. He pretended the girl was the enemy and brandished his sword about her so realistically that she imagined herself run through. It was a dexterous feat. As a final tour-de-force, he said, \"That outer loose lock of hair wants tidying. . . . Wait: I'll do it for you.\" \"An area of silver shone on her right side; the sword had descended. The lock dropped to the ground.\" Next Troy speared a caterpillar that had settled upon Bathsheba's bosom. Only then did Troy admit that the sword was razor-sharp. \"You have been within half an inch of being pared alive two hundred and ninety-five times.\" Then the man stopped to pick up the lock of Bathsheba's hair. He tucked it inside his coat. Softly he announced that he had to leave. He disappeared, and, overcome by tumultuous emotion, \"aflame to the very hollows of her feet,\" Bathsheba wept, feeling \"like one who has sinned a great sin.\" \"The circumstances had been the gentle dip of Troy's mouth downwards upon her own. He had kissed her.\"", "analysis": "Troy is so completely in command of his sword and so perfectly confident of his skill that he does not hesitate to risk Bathsheba's life for the sake of his performance. His actions have utterly overwhelmed Bathsheba: \"She felt powerless to withstand or deny him.\" We must not overlook Hardy's own showmanship. He creates a sensuous chapter, with the lush setting, textures, colors, and lighting all playing their parts. He does a masterful job of describing the flashing of lights and the lightning speed of Troy's every move. Hardy was interested in dramatics and here uses his sense of effective staging."} |
THE HOLLOW AMID THE FERNS
The hill opposite Bathsheba's dwelling extended, a mile off, into an
uncultivated tract of land, dotted at this season with tall thickets
of brake fern, plump and diaphanous from recent rapid growth, and
radiant in hues of clear and untainted green.
At eight o'clock this midsummer evening, whilst the bristling ball
of gold in the west still swept the tips of the ferns with its long,
luxuriant rays, a soft brushing-by of garments might have been heard
among them, and Bathsheba appeared in their midst, their soft,
feathery arms caressing her up to her shoulders. She paused, turned,
went back over the hill and half-way to her own door, whence she cast
a farewell glance upon the spot she had just left, having resolved
not to remain near the place after all.
She saw a dim spot of artificial red moving round the shoulder of the
rise. It disappeared on the other side.
She waited one minute--two minutes--thought of Troy's disappointment
at her non-fulfilment of a promised engagement, till she again ran
along the field, clambered over the bank, and followed the original
direction. She was now literally trembling and panting at this her
temerity in such an errant undertaking; her breath came and went
quickly, and her eyes shone with an infrequent light. Yet go she
must. She reached the verge of a pit in the middle of the ferns.
Troy stood in the bottom, looking up towards her.
"I heard you rustling through the fern before I saw you," he said,
coming up and giving her his hand to help her down the slope.
The pit was a saucer-shaped concave, naturally formed, with a top
diameter of about thirty feet, and shallow enough to allow the
sunshine to reach their heads. Standing in the centre, the sky
overhead was met by a circular horizon of fern: this grew nearly to
the bottom of the slope and then abruptly ceased. The middle within
the belt of verdure was floored with a thick flossy carpet of moss
and grass intermingled, so yielding that the foot was half-buried
within it.
"Now," said Troy, producing the sword, which, as he raised it into
the sunlight, gleamed a sort of greeting, like a living thing,
"first, we have four right and four left cuts; four right and four
left thrusts. Infantry cuts and guards are more interesting than
ours, to my mind; but they are not so swashing. They have seven
cuts and three thrusts. So much as a preliminary. Well, next, our
cut one is as if you were sowing your corn--so." Bathsheba saw a
sort of rainbow, upside down in the air, and Troy's arm was still
again. "Cut two, as if you were hedging--so. Three, as if you were
reaping--so. Four, as if you were threshing--in that way. Then the
same on the left. The thrusts are these: one, two, three, four,
right; one, two, three, four, left." He repeated them. "Have 'em
again?" he said. "One, two--"
She hurriedly interrupted: "I'd rather not; though I don't mind your
twos and fours; but your ones and threes are terrible!"
"Very well. I'll let you off the ones and threes. Next, cuts,
points and guards altogether." Troy duly exhibited them. "Then
there's pursuing practice, in this way." He gave the movements as
before. "There, those are the stereotyped forms. The infantry have
two most diabolical upward cuts, which we are too humane to use.
Like this--three, four."
"How murderous and bloodthirsty!"
"They are rather deathly. Now I'll be more interesting, and let you
see some loose play--giving all the cuts and points, infantry and
cavalry, quicker than lightning, and as promiscuously--with just
enough rule to regulate instinct and yet not to fetter it. You are
my antagonist, with this difference from real warfare, that I shall
miss you every time by one hair's breadth, or perhaps two. Mind you
don't flinch, whatever you do."
"I'll be sure not to!" she said invincibly.
He pointed to about a yard in front of him.
Bathsheba's adventurous spirit was beginning to find some grains of
relish in these highly novel proceedings. She took up her position
as directed, facing Troy.
"Now just to learn whether you have pluck enough to let me do what I
wish, I'll give you a preliminary test."
He flourished the sword by way of introduction number two, and the
next thing of which she was conscious was that the point and blade of
the sword were darting with a gleam towards her left side, just above
her hip; then of their reappearance on her right side, emerging as
it were from between her ribs, having apparently passed through her
body. The third item of consciousness was that of seeing the same
sword, perfectly clean and free from blood held vertically in Troy's
hand (in the position technically called "recover swords"). All was
as quick as electricity.
"Oh!" she cried out in affright, pressing her hand to her side. "Have
you run me through?--no, you have not! Whatever have you done!"
"I have not touched you," said Troy, quietly. "It was mere sleight
of hand. The sword passed behind you. Now you are not afraid, are
you? Because if you are I can't perform. I give my word that I will
not only not hurt you, but not once touch you."
"I don't think I am afraid. You are quite sure you will not hurt
me?"
"Quite sure."
"Is the sword very sharp?"
"O no--only stand as still as a statue. Now!"
In an instant the atmosphere was transformed to Bathsheba's eyes.
Beams of light caught from the low sun's rays, above, around, in
front of her, well-nigh shut out earth and heaven--all emitted in
the marvellous evolutions of Troy's reflecting blade, which seemed
everywhere at once, and yet nowhere specially. These circling gleams
were accompanied by a keen rush that was almost a whistling--also
springing from all sides of her at once. In short, she was enclosed
in a firmament of light, and of sharp hisses, resembling a sky-full
of meteors close at hand.
Never since the broadsword became the national weapon had there been
more dexterity shown in its management than by the hands of Sergeant
Troy, and never had he been in such splendid temper for the
performance as now in the evening sunshine among the ferns with
Bathsheba. It may safely be asserted with respect to the closeness
of his cuts, that had it been possible for the edge of the sword to
leave in the air a permanent substance wherever it flew past, the
space left untouched would have been almost a mould of Bathsheba's
figure.
Behind the luminous streams of this _aurora militaris_, she could see
the hue of Troy's sword arm, spread in a scarlet haze over the space
covered by its motions, like a twanged harpstring, and behind all
Troy himself, mostly facing her; sometimes, to show the rear cuts,
half turned away, his eye nevertheless always keenly measuring
her breadth and outline, and his lips tightly closed in sustained
effort. Next, his movements lapsed slower, and she could see them
individually. The hissing of the sword had ceased, and he stopped
entirely.
"That outer loose lock of hair wants tidying," he said, before she
had moved or spoken. "Wait: I'll do it for you."
An arc of silver shone on her right side: the sword had descended.
The lock dropped to the ground.
"Bravely borne!" said Troy. "You didn't flinch a shade's thickness.
Wonderful in a woman!"
"It was because I didn't expect it. Oh, you have spoilt my hair!"
"Only once more."
"No--no! I am afraid of you--indeed I am!" she cried.
"I won't touch you at all--not even your hair. I am only going to
kill that caterpillar settling on you. Now: still!"
It appeared that a caterpillar had come from the fern and chosen the
front of her bodice as his resting place. She saw the point glisten
towards her bosom, and seemingly enter it. Bathsheba closed her eyes
in the full persuasion that she was killed at last. However, feeling
just as usual, she opened them again.
"There it is, look," said the sergeant, holding his sword before her
eyes.
The caterpillar was spitted upon its point.
"Why, it is magic!" said Bathsheba, amazed.
"Oh no--dexterity. I merely gave point to your bosom where the
caterpillar was, and instead of running you through checked the
extension a thousandth of an inch short of your surface."
"But how could you chop off a curl of my hair with a sword that has
no edge?"
"No edge! This sword will shave like a razor. Look here."
He touched the palm of his hand with the blade, and then, lifting it,
showed her a thin shaving of scarf-skin dangling therefrom.
"But you said before beginning that it was blunt and couldn't cut
me!"
"That was to get you to stand still, and so make sure of your safety.
The risk of injuring you through your moving was too great not to
force me to tell you a fib to escape it."
She shuddered. "I have been within an inch of my life, and didn't
know it!"
"More precisely speaking, you have been within half an inch of being
pared alive two hundred and ninety-five times."
"Cruel, cruel, 'tis of you!"
"You have been perfectly safe, nevertheless. My sword never errs."
And Troy returned the weapon to the scabbard.
Bathsheba, overcome by a hundred tumultuous feelings resulting from
the scene, abstractedly sat down on a tuft of heather.
"I must leave you now," said Troy, softly. "And I'll venture to take
and keep this in remembrance of you."
She saw him stoop to the grass, pick up the winding lock which he
had severed from her manifold tresses, twist it round his fingers,
unfasten a button in the breast of his coat, and carefully put
it inside. She felt powerless to withstand or deny him. He was
altogether too much for her, and Bathsheba seemed as one who, facing
a reviving wind, finds it blow so strongly that it stops the breath.
He drew near and said, "I must be leaving you."
He drew nearer still. A minute later and she saw his scarlet form
disappear amid the ferny thicket, almost in a flash, like a brand
swiftly waved.
That minute's interval had brought the blood beating into her face,
set her stinging as if aflame to the very hollows of her feet, and
enlarged emotion to a compass which quite swamped thought. It had
brought upon her a stroke resulting, as did that of Moses in Horeb,
in a liquid stream--here a stream of tears. She felt like one who
has sinned a great sin.
The circumstance had been the gentle dip of Troy's mouth downwards
upon her own. He had kissed her.
| 1,710 | Chapter 28 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-28 | At eight o'clock that midsummer evening, Bathsheba appeared in the fern hollow amid the soft, green, shoulder-high fronds. She paused, changed her mind, and was halfway home again before she caught sight of a red coat approaching. She considered Troy's disappointment were she not to appear, and she ran back to the hollow. When she reached the verge of a pit in the midst of the ferns, she saw Troy standing at the bottom and looking toward her. Troy's performance with the sword was precise and filled with bravado. It grew a bit frightening. He pretended the girl was the enemy and brandished his sword about her so realistically that she imagined herself run through. It was a dexterous feat. As a final tour-de-force, he said, "That outer loose lock of hair wants tidying. . . . Wait: I'll do it for you." "An area of silver shone on her right side; the sword had descended. The lock dropped to the ground." Next Troy speared a caterpillar that had settled upon Bathsheba's bosom. Only then did Troy admit that the sword was razor-sharp. "You have been within half an inch of being pared alive two hundred and ninety-five times." Then the man stopped to pick up the lock of Bathsheba's hair. He tucked it inside his coat. Softly he announced that he had to leave. He disappeared, and, overcome by tumultuous emotion, "aflame to the very hollows of her feet," Bathsheba wept, feeling "like one who has sinned a great sin." "The circumstances had been the gentle dip of Troy's mouth downwards upon her own. He had kissed her." | Troy is so completely in command of his sword and so perfectly confident of his skill that he does not hesitate to risk Bathsheba's life for the sake of his performance. His actions have utterly overwhelmed Bathsheba: "She felt powerless to withstand or deny him." We must not overlook Hardy's own showmanship. He creates a sensuous chapter, with the lush setting, textures, colors, and lighting all playing their parts. He does a masterful job of describing the flashing of lights and the lightning speed of Troy's every move. Hardy was interested in dramatics and here uses his sense of effective staging. | 269 | 101 | [
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161 | false | novelguide | all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/13.txt | finished_summaries/novelguide/Sense and Sensibility/section_2_part_2.txt | Sense and Sensibility.chapter xiii | chapter xiii | null | {"name": "Chapter XIII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter12-22", "summary": "An outing is planned to the house of a relative of Colonel Brandon. The party consists of the Dashwood sisters, Willoughby, Sir John and Lady Middleton, Colonel Brandon, and Mrs. Jennings. But the visit is called off suddenly when Colonel Brandon receives a letter that means he has to leave for town at once. Willoughby mutters to Marianne that Colonel Brandon has invented this excuse to avoid a pleasure trip. Mrs. Jennings speculates that the Colonel's sudden departure is to do with Miss Williams, whom she believes to be the Colonel's illegitimate daughter. Not wanting to waste an opportunity for a social event, Sir John organizes a carriage drive. Marianne and Willoughby disappear in Willoughby's carriage and return later than everyone else. At dinner, Mrs. Jennings says that she knows that Marianne and Willoughby went to see the house that Marianne will live in one day, Allenham Court. Elinor thinks it improper for them to have visited the house while Mrs. Smith is still living there", "analysis": ""} |
Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from
what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through,
fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for
they did not go at all.
By ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they
were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had
rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky,
and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and
good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the
greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.
While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the
rest there was one for Colonel Brandon;--he took it, looked at the
direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room.
"What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John.
Nobody could tell.
"I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton. "It must be
something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my
breakfast table so suddenly."
In about five minutes he returned.
"No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he
entered the room.
"None at all, ma'am, I thank you."
"Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is
worse."
"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business."
"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a
letter of business? Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear
the truth of it."
"My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying."
"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" said
Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof.
"No, indeed, it is not."
"Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well."
"Whom do you mean, ma'am?" said he, colouring a little.
"Oh! you know who I mean."
"I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton,
"that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which
requires my immediate attendance in town."
"In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town at
this time of year?"
"My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so
agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence
is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell."
What a blow upon them all was this!
"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said
Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?"
He shook his head.
"We must go," said Sir John.--"It shall not be put off when we are so
near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all."
"I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to
delay my journey for one day!"
"If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs.
Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not."
"You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to
defer your journey till our return."
"I cannot afford to lose ONE hour."--
Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, "There
are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of
them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this
trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was
of his own writing."
"I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne.
"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of
old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything. But,
however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the
two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked
up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his
usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell."
Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of
disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be
unavoidable.
"Well, then, when will you come back again?"
"I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as
you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to
Whitwell till you return."
"You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in
my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all."
"Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John. "If he is not here
by the end of the week, I shall go after him."
"Ay, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may
find out what his business is."
"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns. I suppose it is
something he is ashamed of."
Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.
"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John.
"No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post."
"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you
had better change your mind."
"I assure you it is not in my power."
He then took leave of the whole party.
"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this
winter, Miss Dashwood?"
"I am afraid, none at all."
"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to
do."
To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.
"Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know what
you are going about."
He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room.
The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto
restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and
again how provoking it was to be so disappointed.
"I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings
exultingly.
"Can you, ma'am?" said almost every body.
"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure."
"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne.
"What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have
heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a
very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the
young ladies." Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor,
"She is his natural daughter."
"Indeed!"
"Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel
will leave her all his fortune."
When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret
on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as
they were all got together, they must do something by way of being
happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although
happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a
tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The
carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne never
looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the park
very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them
was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return
of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said
only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others
went on the downs.
It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that
every body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the
Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly
twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment.
Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods.
Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had not been long
seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to
Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, "I have found you out in
spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning."
Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray?"--
"Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that we had been out in my
curricle?"
"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined
to find out WHERE you had been to.-- I hope you like your house, Miss
Marianne. It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you,
I hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when
I was there six years ago."
Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed
heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they
had been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr.
Willoughby's groom; and that she had by that method been informed that
they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in
walking about the garden and going all over the house.
Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely
that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house
while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest
acquaintance.
As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it;
and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance
related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry
with her for doubting it.
"Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we
did not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do
yourself?"
"Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with
no other companion than Mr. Willoughby."
"Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to shew
that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to
have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter morning in my
life."
"I am afraid," replied Elinor, "that the pleasantness of an employment
does not always evince its propriety."
"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if
there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been
sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting
wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure."
"But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very
impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of
your own conduct?"
"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of
impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives.
I value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation. I
am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs.
Smith's grounds, or in seeing her house. They will one day be Mr.
Willoughby's, and--"
"If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be
justified in what you have done."
She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her;
and after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her
sister again, and said with great good humour, "Perhaps, Elinor, it WAS
rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted
particularly to shew me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure
you.--There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice
comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would
be delightful. It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides. On
one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a
beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church
and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so
often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be
more forlorn than the furniture,--but if it were newly fitted up--a
couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the
pleasantest summer-rooms in England."
Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others,
she would have described every room in the house with equal delight.
| 1,935 | Chapter XIII | https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter12-22 | An outing is planned to the house of a relative of Colonel Brandon. The party consists of the Dashwood sisters, Willoughby, Sir John and Lady Middleton, Colonel Brandon, and Mrs. Jennings. But the visit is called off suddenly when Colonel Brandon receives a letter that means he has to leave for town at once. Willoughby mutters to Marianne that Colonel Brandon has invented this excuse to avoid a pleasure trip. Mrs. Jennings speculates that the Colonel's sudden departure is to do with Miss Williams, whom she believes to be the Colonel's illegitimate daughter. Not wanting to waste an opportunity for a social event, Sir John organizes a carriage drive. Marianne and Willoughby disappear in Willoughby's carriage and return later than everyone else. At dinner, Mrs. Jennings says that she knows that Marianne and Willoughby went to see the house that Marianne will live in one day, Allenham Court. Elinor thinks it improper for them to have visited the house while Mrs. Smith is still living there | null | 166 | 1 | [
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1,232 | false | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/19.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Prince/section_5_part_4.txt | The Prince.chapter xix | chapter xix | null | {"name": "Chapter XIX", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210417004655/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-prince/study-guide/summary-section-6-chapters-xv-xix", "summary": "\"On Avoiding Contempt and Hatred,\" brings this line of reasoning full circle, noting off the bat that a prince should be sure not to be hated, for conspiracies fail if the prince is loved. A prince should delegate unpleasant jobs to others and keep the pleasant ones - the ones that look good - for himself. France's use of a third judicial force which was not the king's direct responsibility is an example of such a tactic", "analysis": "If The Prince is often characterized as a treatise on unscrupulous politics and a manual of ruthless power games, Chapter XV, \"On the Reasons Why Men Are Praised or Blamed - Especially Princes,\" is a particularly crucial chapter. It is here that Machiavelli directly addresses the question that has been bubbling underneath the surface of his book thus far - namely, to what extent does being good matter? Machiavelli's answer: as long as it contributes to holding onto power. The key notion here is that good is a relative concept; surface virtuosity, of the kind often showcased by rulers, is often but a disguise, and the greatest good lies in the end - the all-inclusive goal of maintaining the state and securing the reins of power. In other words, good is good insofar as it is politically expedient. The categorical crumbles in the face of efficiency, for the latter is the only true barometer. The ends justify the means, and utilitarianism is the dominant mode of reasoning. If a prince needs to indulge a vice to save his state, so be it. \"For if you look at matters carefully,\" Machiavelli writes, \"you will see that something resembling virtue, if you follow it, may be your ruin, while something resembling vice will lead, if you follow it, to your security and well-being.\" One might compare this argument to the thrust of Chapter XIII, \"On Those Who Have Become Princes By Crime,\" which measures when and to what extent a prince's cruelty can be justified. Machiavelli is arguing something far more complex than a call to disregard morality. His example of the generous prince begins as a seemingly hard-lined argument and emerges as a humanist consideration of the faults of man. A prince should not be miserly just for the sake of it; miserliness, by resulting in the safeguarding of funds and greater financial security, winds up helping the people in quite direct ways. It is up to the prince to see beyond short-run desires and superficial appearances and to not give away money he cannot afford to spend just to put on a lovable face and to curry favor, but instead to weather the occasional criticism and plan for the future. It is all about the greater good. Machiavelli sublimates the individualistic treatment of the prince as solitary agent into a larger view of society as contingent on long-term planning and sacrifice. The Prince reads here as less a how-to for the aspiring prince than a social manifesto; Machiavelli puts faith in the people's judgment, arguing that they will come around to loving the miserly prince who saves money out of necessity. As in his earlier distinctions between the common people and the nobles, he emerges as more of a populist and democrat than popular conceptions of The Prince tend to allow for. That said, Chapter XVII, \"On Cruelty and Clemency,\" presents a thoroughly pessimistic view of humanity. Men are inherently \"rotten,\" Machiavelli argues, explaining that they are \"ungrateful, fickle, liars and deceivers, fearful of danger and greedy for gain.\" For this reason, it is safer for a prince to be feared than to be loved: \"love is link of obligation which men, because they are rotten, will break any time they think doing so serves their advantage.\" Fear, on the other hand, \"involves dread of punishment, from which they can never escape.\" As always, Machiavelli tempers what seems at first like a thoroughly cynical position, noting that moderation is the key, and that a prince should try to make himself feared in a way that does not make him hated. More specifically, he should only shed blood when he has good reason to, he should not confiscate property, and he should keep his hands off his subjects' women. Certain lines cannot be crossed. As Machiavelli writes a few pages later, a prince \"should be ready to enter on evil if he has to,\" but he must have to. In any case, virtues are often difficult to define; they are only virtuous insofar as they help people. Virtue for its own sake can be harmful, and for a prince to possess and exercise all virtues at all times is a mistake. Appearances are a different matter: the masses are impressed by the superficial appearance of things so long as the prince's ends are achieved. It matters little, therefore, who the prince really is. Machiavelli closes Chapter XVIII with a reference that deserves mention. \"A certain prince of our own time,\" he writes, \"whom it's just as well not to name, preaches nothing but peace and mutual trust, yet he is the determined enemy of both.\" This seems to be a condemnation, but Machiavelli continues: \"if on several different occasions he had observed either, he would have lost both his reputation and his throne.\" The prince in question is Ferdinand of Spain, and the passage is something of a swipe at him. The first line suggests untempered scorn, while the second modifies this position and recasts Ferdinand as an example of how hypocrisy can be useful. These last few words are perhaps the veil Machiavelli uses to hide a more acute criticism of Ferdinand, who secured his power through often bloodthirsty tactics, expelling the Muslims and Jews from Spain, waging war, and persecuting the masses. These repellent maneuvers, Machiavelli is forced to admit, did work. We can sense here the writer having reached a sort of theoretical impasse: how to both condemn and praise? How to reconcile a need for human goodness with the demands of power and the vicissitudes of international relations? Ferdinand provides a particularly difficult case, since Machiavelli, writing of him as a \"determined enemy\" of peace and trust, seems to disapprove of him, while his own writings provide a framework whereby Ferdinand's actions are thoroughly justifiable. What is perhaps most important is that Machiavelli faces Ferdinand head-on. Contradictions may abound as Machiavelli maps out his philosophy, but he seems to implicitly acknowledge this. The Prince is more than a simplistic argument for cold-heartedness in politics, and these chapters reflect Machiavelli's efforts to grapple with the various problems his more cynical positions engender."} |
Now, concerning the characteristics of which mention is made above, I
have spoken of the more important ones, the others I wish to discuss
briefly under this generality, that the prince must consider, as has
been in part said before, how to avoid those things which will make him
hated or contemptible; and as often as he shall have succeeded he
will have fulfilled his part, and he need not fear any danger in other
reproaches.
It makes him hated above all things, as I have said, to be rapacious,
and to be a violator of the property and women of his subjects, from
both of which he must abstain. And when neither their property nor their
honor is touched, the majority of men live content, and he has only to
contend with the ambition of a few, whom he can curb with ease in many
ways.
It makes him contemptible to be considered fickle, frivolous,
effeminate, mean-spirited, irresolute, from all of which a prince should
guard himself as from a rock; and he should endeavour to show in his
actions greatness, courage, gravity, and fortitude; and in his
private dealings with his subjects let him show that his judgments are
irrevocable, and maintain himself in such reputation that no one can
hope either to deceive him or to get round him.
That prince is highly esteemed who conveys this impression of himself,
and he who is highly esteemed is not easily conspired against; for,
provided it is well known that he is an excellent man and revered by
his people, he can only be attacked with difficulty. For this reason
a prince ought to have two fears, one from within, on account of his
subjects, the other from without, on account of external powers. From
the latter he is defended by being well armed and having good allies,
and if he is well armed he will have good friends, and affairs will
always remain quiet within when they are quiet without, unless they
should have been already disturbed by conspiracy; and even should
affairs outside be disturbed, if he has carried out his preparations and
has lived as I have said, as long as he does not despair, he will resist
every attack, as I said Nabis the Spartan did.
But concerning his subjects, when affairs outside are disturbed he has
only to fear that they will conspire secretly, from which a prince
can easily secure himself by avoiding being hated and despised, and by
keeping the people satisfied with him, which it is most necessary
for him to accomplish, as I said above at length. And one of the most
efficacious remedies that a prince can have against conspiracies is not
to be hated and despised by the people, for he who conspires against
a prince always expects to please them by his removal; but when the
conspirator can only look forward to offending them, he will not have
the courage to take such a course, for the difficulties that confront
a conspirator are infinite. And as experience shows, many have been the
conspiracies, but few have been successful; because he who conspires
cannot act alone, nor can he take a companion except from those whom he
believes to be malcontents, and as soon as you have opened your mind
to a malcontent you have given him the material with which to content
himself, for by denouncing you he can look for every advantage; so that,
seeing the gain from this course to be assured, and seeing the other
to be doubtful and full of dangers, he must be a very rare friend, or a
thoroughly obstinate enemy of the prince, to keep faith with you.
And, to reduce the matter into a small compass, I say that, on the side
of the conspirator, there is nothing but fear, jealousy, prospect of
punishment to terrify him; but on the side of the prince there is the
majesty of the principality, the laws, the protection of friends and
the state to defend him; so that, adding to all these things the
popular goodwill, it is impossible that any one should be so rash as to
conspire. For whereas in general the conspirator has to fear before the
execution of his plot, in this case he has also to fear the sequel to
the crime; because on account of it he has the people for an enemy, and
thus cannot hope for any escape.
Endless examples could be given on this subject, but I will be content
with one, brought to pass within the memory of our fathers. Messer
Annibale Bentivogli, who was prince in Bologna (grandfather of the
present Annibale), having been murdered by the Canneschi, who had
conspired against him, not one of his family survived but Messer
Giovanni,(*) who was in childhood: immediately after his assassination
the people rose and murdered all the Canneschi. This sprung from the
popular goodwill which the house of Bentivogli enjoyed in those days in
Bologna; which was so great that, although none remained there after the
death of Annibale who was able to rule the state, the Bolognese, having
information that there was one of the Bentivogli family in Florence,
who up to that time had been considered the son of a blacksmith, sent to
Florence for him and gave him the government of their city, and it was
ruled by him until Messer Giovanni came in due course to the government.
(*) Giovanni Bentivogli, born in Bologna 1438, died at Milan
1508. He ruled Bologna from 1462 to 1506. Machiavelli's
strong condemnation of conspiracies may get its edge from
his own very recent experience (February 1513), when he had
been arrested and tortured for his alleged complicity in the
Boscoli conspiracy.
For this reason I consider that a prince ought to reckon conspiracies
of little account when his people hold him in esteem; but when it
is hostile to him, and bears hatred towards him, he ought to fear
everything and everybody. And well-ordered states and wise princes have
taken every care not to drive the nobles to desperation, and to keep the
people satisfied and contented, for this is one of the most important
objects a prince can have.
Among the best ordered and governed kingdoms of our times is France, and
in it are found many good institutions on which depend the liberty
and security of the king; of these the first is the parliament and its
authority, because he who founded the kingdom, knowing the ambition of
the nobility and their boldness, considered that a bit to their mouths
would be necessary to hold them in; and, on the other side, knowing the
hatred of the people, founded in fear, against the nobles, he wished to
protect them, yet he was not anxious for this to be the particular care
of the king; therefore, to take away the reproach which he would be
liable to from the nobles for favouring the people, and from the people
for favouring the nobles, he set up an arbiter, who should be one who
could beat down the great and favour the lesser without reproach to the
king. Neither could you have a better or a more prudent arrangement, or
a greater source of security to the king and kingdom. From this one can
draw another important conclusion, that princes ought to leave affairs
of reproach to the management of others, and keep those of grace in
their own hands. And further, I consider that a prince ought to cherish
the nobles, but not so as to make himself hated by the people.
It may appear, perhaps, to some who have examined the lives and deaths
of the Roman emperors that many of them would be an example contrary
to my opinion, seeing that some of them lived nobly and showed great
qualities of soul, nevertheless they have lost their empire or have been
killed by subjects who have conspired against them. Wishing, therefore,
to answer these objections, I will recall the characters of some of the
emperors, and will show that the causes of their ruin were not different
to those alleged by me; at the same time I will only submit for
consideration those things that are noteworthy to him who studies the
affairs of those times.
It seems to me sufficient to take all those emperors who succeeded to
the empire from Marcus the philosopher down to Maximinus; they were
Marcus and his son Commodus, Pertinax, Julian, Severus and his son
Antoninus Caracalla, Macrinus, Heliogabalus, Alexander, and Maximinus.
There is first to note that, whereas in other principalities the
ambition of the nobles and the insolence of the people only have to be
contended with, the Roman emperors had a third difficulty in having to
put up with the cruelty and avarice of their soldiers, a matter so beset
with difficulties that it was the ruin of many; for it was a hard thing
to give satisfaction both to soldiers and people; because the people
loved peace, and for this reason they loved the unaspiring prince,
whilst the soldiers loved the warlike prince who was bold, cruel, and
rapacious, which qualities they were quite willing he should exercise
upon the people, so that they could get double pay and give vent to
their own greed and cruelty. Hence it arose that those emperors were
always overthrown who, either by birth or training, had no great
authority, and most of them, especially those who came new to the
principality, recognizing the difficulty of these two opposing humours,
were inclined to give satisfaction to the soldiers, caring little about
injuring the people. Which course was necessary, because, as princes
cannot help being hated by someone, they ought, in the first place, to
avoid being hated by every one, and when they cannot compass this, they
ought to endeavour with the utmost diligence to avoid the hatred of the
most powerful. Therefore, those emperors who through inexperience had
need of special favour adhered more readily to the soldiers than to
the people; a course which turned out advantageous to them or not,
accordingly as the prince knew how to maintain authority over them.
From these causes it arose that Marcus, Pertinax, and Alexander, being
all men of modest life, lovers of justice, enemies to cruelty, humane,
and benignant, came to a sad end except Marcus; he alone lived and died
honoured, because he had succeeded to the throne by hereditary title,
and owed nothing either to the soldiers or the people; and afterwards,
being possessed of many virtues which made him respected, he always kept
both orders in their places whilst he lived, and was neither hated nor
despised.
But Pertinax was created emperor against the wishes of the soldiers,
who, being accustomed to live licentiously under Commodus, could not
endure the honest life to which Pertinax wished to reduce them; thus,
having given cause for hatred, to which hatred there was added contempt
for his old age, he was overthrown at the very beginning of his
administration. And here it should be noted that hatred is acquired as
much by good works as by bad ones, therefore, as I said before, a prince
wishing to keep his state is very often forced to do evil; for when that
body is corrupt whom you think you have need of to maintain yourself--it
may be either the people or the soldiers or the nobles--you have to
submit to its humours and to gratify them, and then good works will do
you harm.
But let us come to Alexander, who was a man of such great goodness,
that among the other praises which are accorded him is this, that in the
fourteen years he held the empire no one was ever put to death by
him unjudged; nevertheless, being considered effeminate and a man who
allowed himself to be governed by his mother, he became despised, the
army conspired against him, and murdered him.
Turning now to the opposite characters of Commodus, Severus, Antoninus
Caracalla, and Maximinus, you will find them all cruel and rapacious-men
who, to satisfy their soldiers, did not hesitate to commit every kind of
iniquity against the people; and all, except Severus, came to a bad
end; but in Severus there was so much valour that, keeping the soldiers
friendly, although the people were oppressed by him, he reigned
successfully; for his valour made him so much admired in the sight of
the soldiers and people that the latter were kept in a way astonished
and awed and the former respectful and satisfied. And because the
actions of this man, as a new prince, were great, I wish to show
briefly that he knew well how to counterfeit the fox and the lion, which
natures, as I said above, it is necessary for a prince to imitate.
Knowing the sloth of the Emperor Julian, he persuaded the army in
Sclavonia, of which he was captain, that it would be right to go to Rome
and avenge the death of Pertinax, who had been killed by the praetorian
soldiers; and under this pretext, without appearing to aspire to the
throne, he moved the army on Rome, and reached Italy before it was known
that he had started. On his arrival at Rome, the Senate, through fear,
elected him emperor and killed Julian. After this there remained for
Severus, who wished to make himself master of the whole empire, two
difficulties; one in Asia, where Niger, head of the Asiatic army, had
caused himself to be proclaimed emperor; the other in the west where
Albinus was, who also aspired to the throne. And as he considered it
dangerous to declare himself hostile to both, he decided to attack
Niger and to deceive Albinus. To the latter he wrote that, being elected
emperor by the Senate, he was willing to share that dignity with him and
sent him the title of Caesar; and, moreover, that the Senate had made
Albinus his colleague; which things were accepted by Albinus as true.
But after Severus had conquered and killed Niger, and settled oriental
affairs, he returned to Rome and complained to the Senate that Albinus,
little recognizing the benefits that he had received from him, had
by treachery sought to murder him, and for this ingratitude he was
compelled to punish him. Afterwards he sought him out in France, and
took from him his government and life. He who will, therefore, carefully
examine the actions of this man will find him a most valiant lion and
a most cunning fox; he will find him feared and respected by every one,
and not hated by the army; and it need not be wondered at that he, a
new man, was able to hold the empire so well, because his supreme
renown always protected him from that hatred which the people might have
conceived against him for his violence.
But his son Antoninus was a most eminent man, and had very excellent
qualities, which made him admirable in the sight of the people and
acceptable to the soldiers, for he was a warlike man, most enduring
of fatigue, a despiser of all delicate food and other luxuries, which
caused him to be beloved by the armies. Nevertheless, his ferocity and
cruelties were so great and so unheard of that, after endless single
murders, he killed a large number of the people of Rome and all those of
Alexandria. He became hated by the whole world, and also feared by those
he had around him, to such an extent that he was murdered in the midst
of his army by a centurion. And here it must be noted that such-like
deaths, which are deliberately inflicted with a resolved and desperate
courage, cannot be avoided by princes, because any one who does not fear
to die can inflict them; but a prince may fear them the less because
they are very rare; he has only to be careful not to do any grave injury
to those whom he employs or has around him in the service of the state.
Antoninus had not taken this care, but had contumeliously killed a
brother of that centurion, whom also he daily threatened, yet retained
in his bodyguard; which, as it turned out, was a rash thing to do, and
proved the emperor's ruin.
But let us come to Commodus, to whom it should have been very easy to
hold the empire, for, being the son of Marcus, he had inherited it,
and he had only to follow in the footsteps of his father to please his
people and soldiers; but, being by nature cruel and brutal, he gave
himself up to amusing the soldiers and corrupting them, so that he might
indulge his rapacity upon the people; on the other hand, not maintaining
his dignity, often descending to the theatre to compete with gladiators,
and doing other vile things, little worthy of the imperial majesty, he
fell into contempt with the soldiers, and being hated by one party and
despised by the other, he was conspired against and was killed.
It remains to discuss the character of Maximinus. He was a very warlike
man, and the armies, being disgusted with the effeminacy of Alexander,
of whom I have already spoken, killed him and elected Maximinus to the
throne. This he did not possess for long, for two things made him hated
and despised; the one, his having kept sheep in Thrace, which brought
him into contempt (it being well known to all, and considered a great
indignity by every one), and the other, his having at the accession
to his dominions deferred going to Rome and taking possession of the
imperial seat; he had also gained a reputation for the utmost ferocity
by having, through his prefects in Rome and elsewhere in the empire,
practised many cruelties, so that the whole world was moved to anger
at the meanness of his birth and to fear at his barbarity. First Africa
rebelled, then the Senate with all the people of Rome, and all Italy
conspired against him, to which may be added his own army; this latter,
besieging Aquileia and meeting with difficulties in taking it, were
disgusted with his cruelties, and fearing him less when they found so
many against him, murdered him.
I do not wish to discuss Heliogabalus, Macrinus, or Julian, who, being
thoroughly contemptible, were quickly wiped out; but I will bring this
discourse to a conclusion by saying that princes in our times have this
difficulty of giving inordinate satisfaction to their soldiers in a
far less degree, because, notwithstanding one has to give them some
indulgence, that is soon done; none of these princes have armies that
are veterans in the governance and administration of provinces, as were
the armies of the Roman Empire; and whereas it was then more necessary
to give satisfaction to the soldiers than to the people, it is now more
necessary to all princes, except the Turk and the Soldan, to satisfy the
people rather the soldiers, because the people are the more powerful.
From the above I have excepted the Turk, who always keeps round him
twelve thousand infantry and fifteen thousand cavalry on which depend
the security and strength of the kingdom, and it is necessary that,
putting aside every consideration for the people, he should keep them
his friends. The kingdom of the Soldan is similar; being entirely in the
hands of soldiers, it follows again that, without regard to the people,
he must keep them his friends. But you must note that the state of the
Soldan is unlike all other principalities, for the reason that it
is like the Christian pontificate, which cannot be called either an
hereditary or a newly formed principality; because the sons of the old
prince are not the heirs, but he who is elected to that position by
those who have authority, and the sons remain only noblemen. And this
being an ancient custom, it cannot be called a new principality, because
there are none of those difficulties in it that are met with in new
ones; for although the prince is new, the constitution of the state is
old, and it is framed so as to receive him as if he were its hereditary
lord.
But returning to the subject of our discourse, I say that whoever will
consider it will acknowledge that either hatred or contempt has been
fatal to the above-named emperors, and it will be recognized also how
it happened that, a number of them acting in one way and a number
in another, only one in each way came to a happy end and the rest to
unhappy ones. Because it would have been useless and dangerous for
Pertinax and Alexander, being new princes, to imitate Marcus, who
was heir to the principality; and likewise it would have been utterly
destructive to Caracalla, Commodus, and Maximinus to have imitated
Severus, they not having sufficient valour to enable them to tread
in his footsteps. Therefore a prince, new to the principality, cannot
imitate the actions of Marcus, nor, again, is it necessary to follow
those of Severus, but he ought to take from Severus those parts which
are necessary to found his state, and from Marcus those which are proper
and glorious to keep a state that may already be stable and firm.
| 3,308 | Chapter XIX | https://web.archive.org/web/20210417004655/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-prince/study-guide/summary-section-6-chapters-xv-xix | "On Avoiding Contempt and Hatred," brings this line of reasoning full circle, noting off the bat that a prince should be sure not to be hated, for conspiracies fail if the prince is loved. A prince should delegate unpleasant jobs to others and keep the pleasant ones - the ones that look good - for himself. France's use of a third judicial force which was not the king's direct responsibility is an example of such a tactic | If The Prince is often characterized as a treatise on unscrupulous politics and a manual of ruthless power games, Chapter XV, "On the Reasons Why Men Are Praised or Blamed - Especially Princes," is a particularly crucial chapter. It is here that Machiavelli directly addresses the question that has been bubbling underneath the surface of his book thus far - namely, to what extent does being good matter? Machiavelli's answer: as long as it contributes to holding onto power. The key notion here is that good is a relative concept; surface virtuosity, of the kind often showcased by rulers, is often but a disguise, and the greatest good lies in the end - the all-inclusive goal of maintaining the state and securing the reins of power. In other words, good is good insofar as it is politically expedient. The categorical crumbles in the face of efficiency, for the latter is the only true barometer. The ends justify the means, and utilitarianism is the dominant mode of reasoning. If a prince needs to indulge a vice to save his state, so be it. "For if you look at matters carefully," Machiavelli writes, "you will see that something resembling virtue, if you follow it, may be your ruin, while something resembling vice will lead, if you follow it, to your security and well-being." One might compare this argument to the thrust of Chapter XIII, "On Those Who Have Become Princes By Crime," which measures when and to what extent a prince's cruelty can be justified. Machiavelli is arguing something far more complex than a call to disregard morality. His example of the generous prince begins as a seemingly hard-lined argument and emerges as a humanist consideration of the faults of man. A prince should not be miserly just for the sake of it; miserliness, by resulting in the safeguarding of funds and greater financial security, winds up helping the people in quite direct ways. It is up to the prince to see beyond short-run desires and superficial appearances and to not give away money he cannot afford to spend just to put on a lovable face and to curry favor, but instead to weather the occasional criticism and plan for the future. It is all about the greater good. Machiavelli sublimates the individualistic treatment of the prince as solitary agent into a larger view of society as contingent on long-term planning and sacrifice. The Prince reads here as less a how-to for the aspiring prince than a social manifesto; Machiavelli puts faith in the people's judgment, arguing that they will come around to loving the miserly prince who saves money out of necessity. As in his earlier distinctions between the common people and the nobles, he emerges as more of a populist and democrat than popular conceptions of The Prince tend to allow for. That said, Chapter XVII, "On Cruelty and Clemency," presents a thoroughly pessimistic view of humanity. Men are inherently "rotten," Machiavelli argues, explaining that they are "ungrateful, fickle, liars and deceivers, fearful of danger and greedy for gain." For this reason, it is safer for a prince to be feared than to be loved: "love is link of obligation which men, because they are rotten, will break any time they think doing so serves their advantage." Fear, on the other hand, "involves dread of punishment, from which they can never escape." As always, Machiavelli tempers what seems at first like a thoroughly cynical position, noting that moderation is the key, and that a prince should try to make himself feared in a way that does not make him hated. More specifically, he should only shed blood when he has good reason to, he should not confiscate property, and he should keep his hands off his subjects' women. Certain lines cannot be crossed. As Machiavelli writes a few pages later, a prince "should be ready to enter on evil if he has to," but he must have to. In any case, virtues are often difficult to define; they are only virtuous insofar as they help people. Virtue for its own sake can be harmful, and for a prince to possess and exercise all virtues at all times is a mistake. Appearances are a different matter: the masses are impressed by the superficial appearance of things so long as the prince's ends are achieved. It matters little, therefore, who the prince really is. Machiavelli closes Chapter XVIII with a reference that deserves mention. "A certain prince of our own time," he writes, "whom it's just as well not to name, preaches nothing but peace and mutual trust, yet he is the determined enemy of both." This seems to be a condemnation, but Machiavelli continues: "if on several different occasions he had observed either, he would have lost both his reputation and his throne." The prince in question is Ferdinand of Spain, and the passage is something of a swipe at him. The first line suggests untempered scorn, while the second modifies this position and recasts Ferdinand as an example of how hypocrisy can be useful. These last few words are perhaps the veil Machiavelli uses to hide a more acute criticism of Ferdinand, who secured his power through often bloodthirsty tactics, expelling the Muslims and Jews from Spain, waging war, and persecuting the masses. These repellent maneuvers, Machiavelli is forced to admit, did work. We can sense here the writer having reached a sort of theoretical impasse: how to both condemn and praise? How to reconcile a need for human goodness with the demands of power and the vicissitudes of international relations? Ferdinand provides a particularly difficult case, since Machiavelli, writing of him as a "determined enemy" of peace and trust, seems to disapprove of him, while his own writings provide a framework whereby Ferdinand's actions are thoroughly justifiable. What is perhaps most important is that Machiavelli faces Ferdinand head-on. Contradictions may abound as Machiavelli maps out his philosophy, but he seems to implicitly acknowledge this. The Prince is more than a simplistic argument for cold-heartedness in politics, and these chapters reflect Machiavelli's efforts to grapple with the various problems his more cynical positions engender. | 77 | 1,027 | [
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110 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/34.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_13_part_2.txt | Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 34 | chapter 34 | null | {"name": "CHAPTER 34", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD43.asp", "summary": "After the wedding, Angel and Tess go to the D'Urberville mansion as planned. Tess is very upset by the mansion, especially the two life-size portraits of two female D'Urbervilles. Even though Tess tries to act happy and light-hearted betraying her true concerns, Angel regrets bringing his bride to the mansion. The marriage is not off to a good start. In the evening, a package arrives that is addressed to Mrs. Angel Clare. Inside are diamonds and a note from Angel's father. Angel's godmother, Mrs. Pitney, had left the jewels to Angel for his future wife, who she knows will be noble. Once again Tess feels guilty and unworthy to be Angel's wife. When Tess puts the diamonds on, Angel says she is beautiful in them. Jonathan Kail arrives from the dairy with their luggage and distressing news. Retty, one of the milkmaids, has tried to drown herself and Marian, another milkmaid, has been drinking heavily. Tess feels ashamed, for she knows that she is the cause of these actions; the women are miserable because they have lost Angel to Tess. Tess now feels more guilty and miserable than ever. The wedding day is turning from bad to worse. Before retiring for the night, Angel talks to Tess about the importance of good morals and pure character. He then tells Tess that he falls short of his own ideals and confesses his affair in London as he promised he would do. He apologizes that he has failed to tell Tess about his past before the wedding, but he was afraid of losing her. Angel asks Tess to forgive him, which she gladly does. In truth, she is delighted that his confession is very much like the one she needs to make. Encouraged by his confession, Tess tells Angel everything about her troublesome past. It is clear that Angel will not be forgiving like Tess has been. Everything seems to be colored by her confession. Even the diamonds on Tess's neck seems to give \"a sinister wink like a toad's.", "analysis": "Notes The wedding day is a total disaster for Tess. It begins with her finding the unopened letter of confession, followed by Angel's refusal to hear her out. The wedding takes place with Tess feeling terrible that she is marrying under false pretense. When she leaves the church with Angel, a D'Urberville carriage waits for them, reminding her of the past, and a cock crows, foreshadowing ill fate. The D'Urberville mansion is upsetting to Tess, especially the large portraits of her two female ancestors. The news of Retty and Marian upset her further and add to her guilt. Angel also keeps saying how he hates impurity and insists in good morals. Ironically, for Tess the only good news of the day is her husband's confession about having an affair. She is relieved to know that he has sinned, much like herself. It makes her own confession much easier, and Tess feels certain Angel will easily forgive her, just as she has done him. Such is not the case. Angel is horrified at her confession. It is obvious that the news completely changes his feelings for his wife. It is the double standard at work in the worst way"} |
They drove by the level road along the valley to a distance of a few
miles, and, reaching Wellbridge, turned away from the village to the
left, and over the great Elizabethan bridge which gives the place
half its name. Immediately behind it stood the house wherein they
had engaged lodgings, whose exterior features are so well known to
all travellers through the Froom Valley; once portion of a fine
manorial residence, and the property and seat of a d'Urberville, but
since its partial demolition a farmhouse.
"Welcome to one of your ancestral mansions!" said Clare as he handed
her down. But he regretted the pleasantry; it was too near a satire.
On entering they found that, though they had only engaged a couple
of rooms, the farmer had taken advantage of their proposed presence
during the coming days to pay a New Year's visit to some friends,
leaving a woman from a neighbouring cottage to minister to their
few wants. The absoluteness of possession pleased them, and they
realized it as the first moment of their experience under their own
exclusive roof-tree.
But he found that the mouldy old habitation somewhat depressed his
bride. When the carriage was gone they ascended the stairs to wash
their hands, the charwoman showing the way. On the landing Tess
stopped and started.
"What's the matter?" said he.
"Those horrid women!" she answered with a smile. "How they
frightened me."
He looked up, and perceived two life-size portraits on panels built
into the masonry. As all visitors to the mansion are aware, these
paintings represent women of middle age, of a date some two hundred
years ago, whose lineaments once seen can never be forgotten.
The long pointed features, narrow eye, and smirk of the one, so
suggestive of merciless treachery; the bill-hook nose, large
teeth, and bold eye of the other suggesting arrogance to the point
of ferocity, haunt the beholder afterwards in his dreams.
"Whose portraits are those?" asked Clare of the charwoman.
"I have been told by old folk that they were ladies of the
d'Urberville family, the ancient lords of this manor," she said,
"Owing to their being builded into the wall they can't be moved
away."
The unpleasantness of the matter was that, in addition to their
effect upon Tess, her fine features were unquestionably traceable
in these exaggerated forms. He said nothing of this, however, and,
regretting that he had gone out of his way to choose the house for
their bridal time, went on into the adjoining room. The place having
been rather hastily prepared for them, they washed their hands in one
basin. Clare touched hers under the water.
"Which are my fingers and which are yours?" he said, looking up.
"They are very much mixed."
"They are all yours," said she, very prettily, and endeavoured
to be gayer than she was. He had not been displeased with her
thoughtfulness on such an occasion; it was what every sensible woman
would show: but Tess knew that she had been thoughtful to excess,
and struggled against it.
The sun was so low on that short last afternoon of the year that it
shone in through a small opening and formed a golden staff which
stretched across to her skirt, where it made a spot like a paint-mark
set upon her. They went into the ancient parlour to tea, and
here they shared their first common meal alone. Such was their
childishness, or rather his, that he found it interesting to use the
same bread-and-butter plate as herself, and to brush crumbs from her
lips with his own. He wondered a little that she did not enter into
these frivolities with his own zest.
Looking at her silently for a long time; "She is a dear dear Tess,"
he thought to himself, as one deciding on the true construction of
a difficult passage. "Do I realize solemnly enough how utterly and
irretrievably this little womanly thing is the creature of my good
or bad faith and fortune? I think not. I think I could not, unless
I were a woman myself. What I am in worldly estate, she is. What I
become, she must become. What I cannot be, she cannot be. And shall
I ever neglect her, or hurt her, or even forget to consider her? God
forbid such a crime!"
They sat on over the tea-table waiting for their luggage, which the
dairyman had promised to send before it grew dark. But evening began
to close in, and the luggage did not arrive, and they had brought
nothing more than they stood in. With the departure of the sun the
calm mood of the winter day changed. Out of doors there began noises
as of silk smartly rubbed; the restful dead leaves of the preceding
autumn were stirred to irritated resurrection, and whirled about
unwillingly, and tapped against the shutters. It soon began to rain.
"That cock knew the weather was going to change," said Clare.
The woman who had attended upon them had gone home for the night, but
she had placed candles upon the table, and now they lit them. Each
candle-flame drew towards the fireplace.
"These old houses are so draughty," continued Angel, looking at the
flames, and at the grease guttering down the sides. "I wonder where
that luggage is. We haven't even a brush and comb."
"I don't know," she answered, absent-minded.
"Tess, you are not a bit cheerful this evening--not at all as you
used to be. Those harridans on the panels upstairs have unsettled
you. I am sorry I brought you here. I wonder if you really love me,
after all?"
He knew that she did, and the words had no serious intent; but she
was surcharged with emotion, and winced like a wounded animal.
Though she tried not to shed tears, she could not help showing one
or two.
"I did not mean it!" said he, sorry. "You are worried at not having
your things, I know. I cannot think why old Jonathan has not come
with them. Why, it is seven o'clock? Ah, there he is!"
A knock had come to the door, and, there being nobody else to answer
it, Clare went out. He returned to the room with a small package in
his hand.
"It is not Jonathan, after all," he said.
"How vexing!" said Tess.
The packet had been brought by a special messenger, who had arrived
at Talbothays from Emminster Vicarage immediately after the departure
of the married couple, and had followed them hither, being under
injunction to deliver it into nobody's hands but theirs. Clare
brought it to the light. It was less than a foot long, sewed up in
canvas, sealed in red wax with his father's seal, and directed in his
father's hand to "Mrs Angel Clare."
"It is a little wedding-present for you, Tess," said he, handing it
to her. "How thoughtful they are!"
Tess looked a little flustered as she took it.
"I think I would rather have you open it, dearest," said she, turning
over the parcel. "I don't like to break those great seals; they look
so serious. Please open it for me!"
He undid the parcel. Inside was a case of morocco leather, on the
top of which lay a note and a key.
The note was for Clare, in the following words:
MY DEAR SON--
Possibly you have forgotten that on the death of your
godmother, Mrs Pitney, when you were a lad, she--vain,
kind woman that she was--left to me a portion of the
contents of her jewel-case in trust for your wife, if
you should ever have one, as a mark of her affection
for you and whomsoever you should choose. This trust
I have fulfilled, and the diamonds have been locked up
at my banker's ever since. Though I feel it to be a
somewhat incongruous act in the circumstances, I am, as
you will see, bound to hand over the articles to the
woman to whom the use of them for her lifetime will now
rightly belong, and they are therefore promptly sent.
They become, I believe, heirlooms, strictly speaking,
according to the terms of your godmother's will. The
precise words of the clause that refers to this matter
are enclosed.
"I do remember," said Clare; "but I had quite forgotten."
Unlocking the case, they found it to contain a necklace, with
pendant, bracelets, and ear-rings; and also some other small
ornaments.
Tess seemed afraid to touch them at first, but her eyes sparkled for
a moment as much as the stones when Clare spread out the set.
"Are they mine?" she asked incredulously.
"They are, certainly," said he.
He looked into the fire. He remembered how, when he was a lad of
fifteen, his godmother, the Squire's wife--the only rich person
with whom he had ever come in contact--had pinned her faith to his
success; had prophesied a wondrous career for him. There had seemed
nothing at all out of keeping with such a conjectured career in the
storing up of these showy ornaments for his wife and the wives of
her descendants. They gleamed somewhat ironically now. "Yet why?"
he asked himself. It was but a question of vanity throughout; and
if that were admitted into one side of the equation it should be
admitted into the other. His wife was a d'Urberville: whom could
they become better than her?
Suddenly he said with enthusiasm--
"Tess, put them on--put them on!" And he turned from the fire to
help her.
But as if by magic she had already donned them--necklace, ear-rings,
bracelets, and all.
"But the gown isn't right, Tess," said Clare. "It ought to be a low
one for a set of brilliants like that."
"Ought it?" said Tess.
"Yes," said he.
He suggested to her how to tuck in the upper edge of her bodice, so
as to make it roughly approximate to the cut for evening wear; and
when she had done this, and the pendant to the necklace hung isolated
amid the whiteness of her throat, as it was designed to do, he
stepped back to survey her.
"My heavens," said Clare, "how beautiful you are!"
As everybody knows, fine feathers make fine birds; a peasant girl but
very moderately prepossessing to the casual observer in her simple
condition and attire will bloom as an amazing beauty if clothed as a
woman of fashion with the aids that Art can render; while the beauty
of the midnight crush would often cut but a sorry figure if placed
inside the field-woman's wrapper upon a monotonous acreage of
turnips on a dull day. He had never till now estimated the artistic
excellence of Tess's limbs and features.
"If you were only to appear in a ball-room!" he said. "But
no--no, dearest; I think I love you best in the wing-bonnet and
cotton-frock--yes, better than in this, well as you support these
dignities."
Tess's sense of her striking appearance had given her a flush of
excitement, which was yet not happiness.
"I'll take them off," she said, "in case Jonathan should see me.
They are not fit for me, are they? They must be sold, I suppose?"
"Let them stay a few minutes longer. Sell them? Never. It would be
a breach of faith."
Influenced by a second thought she readily obeyed. She had something
to tell, and there might be help in these. She sat down with the
jewels upon her; and they again indulged in conjectures as to where
Jonathan could possibly be with their baggage. The ale they had
poured out for his consumption when he came had gone flat with long
standing.
Shortly after this they began supper, which was already laid on
a side-table. Ere they had finished there was a jerk in the
fire-smoke, the rising skein of which bulged out into the room, as if
some giant had laid his hand on the chimney-top for a moment. It had
been caused by the opening of the outer door. A heavy step was now
heard in the passage, and Angel went out.
"I couldn' make nobody hear at all by knocking," apologized Jonathan
Kail, for it was he at last; "and as't was raining out I opened the
door. I've brought the things, sir."
"I am very glad to see them. But you are very late."
"Well, yes, sir."
There was something subdued in Jonathan Kail's tone which had not
been there in the day, and lines of concern were ploughed upon his
forehead in addition to the lines of years. He continued--
"We've all been gallied at the dairy at what might ha' been a most
terrible affliction since you and your Mis'ess--so to name her
now--left us this a'ternoon. Perhaps you ha'nt forgot the cock's
afternoon crow?"
"Dear me;--what--"
"Well, some says it do mane one thing, and some another; but what's
happened is that poor little Retty Priddle hev tried to drown
herself."
"No! Really! Why, she bade us goodbye with the rest--"
"Yes. Well, sir, when you and your Mis'ess--so to name what she
lawful is--when you two drove away, as I say, Retty and Marian put on
their bonnets and went out; and as there is not much doing now, being
New Year's Eve, and folks mops and brooms from what's inside 'em,
nobody took much notice. They went on to Lew-Everard, where they
had summut to drink, and then on they vamped to Dree-armed Cross,
and there they seemed to have parted, Retty striking across the
water-meads as if for home, and Marian going on to the next village,
where there's another public-house. Nothing more was zeed or heard
o' Retty till the waterman, on his way home, noticed something by the
Great Pool; 'twas her bonnet and shawl packed up. In the water he
found her. He and another man brought her home, thinking a' was
dead; but she fetched round by degrees."
Angel, suddenly recollecting that Tess was overhearing this gloomy
tale, went to shut the door between the passage and the ante-room
to the inner parlour where she was; but his wife, flinging a shawl
round her, had come to the outer room and was listening to the man's
narrative, her eyes resting absently on the luggage and the drops of
rain glistening upon it.
"And, more than this, there's Marian; she's been found dead drunk
by the withy-bed--a girl who hev never been known to touch anything
before except shilling ale; though, to be sure, 'a was always a good
trencher-woman, as her face showed. It seems as if the maids had
all gone out o' their minds!"
"And Izz?" asked Tess.
"Izz is about house as usual; but 'a do say 'a can guess how it
happened; and she seems to be very low in mind about it, poor maid,
as well she mid be. And so you see, sir, as all this happened just
when we was packing your few traps and your Mis'ess's night-rail and
dressing things into the cart, why, it belated me."
"Yes. Well, Jonathan, will you get the trunks upstairs, and drink a
cup of ale, and hasten back as soon as you can, in case you should be
wanted?"
Tess had gone back to the inner parlour, and sat down by the fire,
looking wistfully into it. She heard Jonathan Kail's heavy footsteps
up and down the stairs till he had done placing the luggage, and
heard him express his thanks for the ale her husband took out to him,
and for the gratuity he received. Jonathan's footsteps then died
from the door, and his cart creaked away.
Angel slid forward the massive oak bar which secured the door, and
coming in to where she sat over the hearth, pressed her cheeks
between his hands from behind. He expected her to jump up gaily and
unpack the toilet-gear that she had been so anxious about, but as she
did not rise he sat down with her in the firelight, the candles on
the supper-table being too thin and glimmering to interfere with its
glow.
"I am so sorry you should have heard this sad story about the girls,"
he said. "Still, don't let it depress you. Retty was naturally
morbid, you know."
"Without the least cause," said Tess. "While they who have cause to
be, hide it, and pretend they are not."
This incident had turned the scale for her. They were simple and
innocent girls on whom the unhappiness of unrequited love had fallen;
they had deserved better at the hands of Fate. She had deserved
worse--yet she was the chosen one. It was wicked of her to take all
without paying. She would pay to the uttermost farthing; she would
tell, there and then. This final determination she came to when she
looked into the fire, he holding her hand.
A steady glare from the now flameless embers painted the sides
and back of the fireplace with its colour, and the well-polished
andirons, and the old brass tongs that would not meet. The underside
of the mantel-shelf was flushed with the high-coloured light, and
the legs of the table nearest the fire. Tess's face and neck
reflected the same warmth, which each gem turned into an Aldebaran
or a Sirius--a constellation of white, red, and green flashes, that
interchanged their hues with her every pulsation.
"Do you remember what we said to each other this morning about
telling our faults?" he asked abruptly, finding that she still
remained immovable. "We spoke lightly perhaps, and you may well
have done so. But for me it was no light promise. I want to make
a confession to you, Love."
This, from him, so unexpectedly apposite, had the effect upon her of
a Providential interposition.
"You have to confess something?" she said quickly, and even with
gladness and relief.
"You did not expect it? Ah--you thought too highly of me. Now
listen. Put your head there, because I want you to forgive me, and
not to be indignant with me for not telling you before, as perhaps
I ought to have done."
How strange it was! He seemed to be her double. She did not speak,
and Clare went on--
"I did not mention it because I was afraid of endangering my chance
of you, darling, the great prize of my life--my Fellowship I call
you. My brother's Fellowship was won at his college, mine at
Talbothays Dairy. Well, I would not risk it. I was going to tell
you a month ago--at the time you agreed to be mine, but I could not;
I thought it might frighten you away from me. I put it off; then I
thought I would tell you yesterday, to give you a chance at least of
escaping me. But I did not. And I did not this morning, when you
proposed our confessing our faults on the landing--the sinner that I
was! But I must, now I see you sitting there so solemnly. I wonder
if you will forgive me?"
"O yes! I am sure that--"
"Well, I hope so. But wait a minute. You don't know. To begin at
the beginning. Though I imagine my poor father fears that I am one
of the eternally lost for my doctrines, I am of course, a believer in
good morals, Tess, as much as you. I used to wish to be a teacher of
men, and it was a great disappointment to me when I found I could not
enter the Church. I admired spotlessness, even though I could lay no
claim to it, and hated impurity, as I hope I do now. Whatever one
may think of plenary inspiration, one must heartily subscribe to
these words of Paul: 'Be thou an example--in word, in conversation,
in charity, in spirit, in faith, in purity.' It is the only
safeguard for us poor human beings. '_Integer vitae_,' says a Roman
poet, who is strange company for St Paul--
"The man of upright life, from frailties free,
Stands not in need of Moorish spear or bow.
"Well, a certain place is paved with good intentions, and having felt
all that so strongly, you will see what a terrible remorse it bred
in me when, in the midst of my fine aims for other people, I myself
fell."
He then told her of that time of his life to which allusion has been
made when, tossed about by doubts and difficulties in London, like a
cork on the waves, he plunged into eight-and-forty hours' dissipation
with a stranger.
"Happily I awoke almost immediately to a sense of my folly," he
continued. "I would have no more to say to her, and I came home. I
have never repeated the offence. But I felt I should like to treat
you with perfect frankness and honour, and I could not do so without
telling this. Do you forgive me?"
She pressed his hand tightly for an answer.
"Then we will dismiss it at once and for ever!--too painful as it is
for the occasion--and talk of something lighter."
"O, Angel--I am almost glad--because now YOU can forgive ME! I have
not made my confession. I have a confession, too--remember, I said
so."
"Ah, to be sure! Now then for it, wicked little one."
"Perhaps, although you smile, it is as serious as yours, or more so."
"It can hardly be more serious, dearest."
"It cannot--O no, it cannot!" She jumped up joyfully at the hope.
"No, it cannot be more serious, certainly," she cried, "because 'tis
just the same! I will tell you now."
She sat down again.
Their hands were still joined. The ashes under the grate were lit
by the fire vertically, like a torrid waste. Imagination might have
beheld a Last Day luridness in this red-coaled glow, which fell on
his face and hand, and on hers, peering into the loose hair about her
brow, and firing the delicate skin underneath. A large shadow of her
shape rose upon the wall and ceiling. She bent forward, at which
each diamond on her neck gave a sinister wink like a toad's; and
pressing her forehead against his temple she entered on her story of
her acquaintance with Alec d'Urberville and its results, murmuring
the words without flinching, and with her eyelids drooping down.
END OF PHASE THE FOURTH
Phase the Fifth: The Woman Pays
| 3,568 | CHAPTER 34 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD43.asp | After the wedding, Angel and Tess go to the D'Urberville mansion as planned. Tess is very upset by the mansion, especially the two life-size portraits of two female D'Urbervilles. Even though Tess tries to act happy and light-hearted betraying her true concerns, Angel regrets bringing his bride to the mansion. The marriage is not off to a good start. In the evening, a package arrives that is addressed to Mrs. Angel Clare. Inside are diamonds and a note from Angel's father. Angel's godmother, Mrs. Pitney, had left the jewels to Angel for his future wife, who she knows will be noble. Once again Tess feels guilty and unworthy to be Angel's wife. When Tess puts the diamonds on, Angel says she is beautiful in them. Jonathan Kail arrives from the dairy with their luggage and distressing news. Retty, one of the milkmaids, has tried to drown herself and Marian, another milkmaid, has been drinking heavily. Tess feels ashamed, for she knows that she is the cause of these actions; the women are miserable because they have lost Angel to Tess. Tess now feels more guilty and miserable than ever. The wedding day is turning from bad to worse. Before retiring for the night, Angel talks to Tess about the importance of good morals and pure character. He then tells Tess that he falls short of his own ideals and confesses his affair in London as he promised he would do. He apologizes that he has failed to tell Tess about his past before the wedding, but he was afraid of losing her. Angel asks Tess to forgive him, which she gladly does. In truth, she is delighted that his confession is very much like the one she needs to make. Encouraged by his confession, Tess tells Angel everything about her troublesome past. It is clear that Angel will not be forgiving like Tess has been. Everything seems to be colored by her confession. Even the diamonds on Tess's neck seems to give "a sinister wink like a toad's. | Notes The wedding day is a total disaster for Tess. It begins with her finding the unopened letter of confession, followed by Angel's refusal to hear her out. The wedding takes place with Tess feeling terrible that she is marrying under false pretense. When she leaves the church with Angel, a D'Urberville carriage waits for them, reminding her of the past, and a cock crows, foreshadowing ill fate. The D'Urberville mansion is upsetting to Tess, especially the large portraits of her two female ancestors. The news of Retty and Marian upset her further and add to her guilt. Angel also keeps saying how he hates impurity and insists in good morals. Ironically, for Tess the only good news of the day is her husband's confession about having an affair. She is relieved to know that he has sinned, much like herself. It makes her own confession much easier, and Tess feels certain Angel will easily forgive her, just as she has done him. Such is not the case. Angel is horrified at her confession. It is obvious that the news completely changes his feelings for his wife. It is the double standard at work in the worst way | 338 | 198 | [
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161 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/06.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_5_part_0.txt | Sense and Sensibility.chapter 6 | chapter 6 | null | {"name": "Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-6", "summary": "After a gloomy journey, the Dashwoods arrive at Barton Cottage, their new home. It turns out to be a pretty nice place - it's not that impressive after their former grand abode at Norland, nor is it the romantic, picturesque story-book cottage they'd imagined, but it'll do. The Dashwood servants, who'd arrived earlier to set up the house, manage to cheer up the girls, and everyone actually feels OK about their new living situation. The family goes about its business settling in to the house and making plans for improvements . The next day, the girls meet their landlord/cousin, Sir John Middleton. He's a nice guy - maybe not the most graceful or elegant, but definitely a kind and good-natured man. Sir John's wife, Lady Middleton, is certainly elegant and lovely to look at, but she's not as personable as her husband; she's kind of a cold fish. Fortunately, Lady Middleton brings along the couple's oldest son on their visit to the cottage - and when you've got a bunch of women cooing over a little kid, there's always something to talk about. The Middletons leave, after asking the Dashwoods to dinner at their house, Barton Park, the next day.", "analysis": ""} |
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.
| 1,261 | Chapter 6 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-6 | After a gloomy journey, the Dashwoods arrive at Barton Cottage, their new home. It turns out to be a pretty nice place - it's not that impressive after their former grand abode at Norland, nor is it the romantic, picturesque story-book cottage they'd imagined, but it'll do. The Dashwood servants, who'd arrived earlier to set up the house, manage to cheer up the girls, and everyone actually feels OK about their new living situation. The family goes about its business settling in to the house and making plans for improvements . The next day, the girls meet their landlord/cousin, Sir John Middleton. He's a nice guy - maybe not the most graceful or elegant, but definitely a kind and good-natured man. Sir John's wife, Lady Middleton, is certainly elegant and lovely to look at, but she's not as personable as her husband; she's kind of a cold fish. Fortunately, Lady Middleton brings along the couple's oldest son on their visit to the cottage - and when you've got a bunch of women cooing over a little kid, there's always something to talk about. The Middletons leave, after asking the Dashwoods to dinner at their house, Barton Park, the next day. | null | 200 | 1 | [
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110 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/38.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_14_part_3.txt | Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 37 | chapter 37 | null | {"name": "CHAPTER 37", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD45.asp", "summary": "The night before Tess is to leave, she sees her husband sleep- walking. He assumes her to be dead and places her in a stone coffin after wrapping her up in a sheet and carrying her to the old Abbey church. She handles the situation very boldly and with subtle persuasion brings him back to the house. She does not mention the incident the next morning, and Angel does not seem to remember it. On their way to Marlott the next morning, Tess and Angel visit with the Cricks, but keep their separation a secret from them. When they draw near to Tess's hometown, Angel turns to go. He leaves Tess with a good sum of money, takes the diamonds from her, and then forbids her to approach him in person. He tells her to communicate only through letters until he decides to come for her. Tess agrees to his commands, departs for home, and slips again into her suffering, melancholy mood.", "analysis": "Notes Love survives on mutual trust, and since Tess has broken that trust, Angel has difficulty dealing with her. His sleepwalking expresses his state of mind. His heart refuses to believe that the girl he loves could cause him so much agony. He is convinced that the real Tess is dead; therefore, he subconsciously buries her. It is a far-fetched and melodramatic scene. Tess suffers through the whole incident in silence. Through years of practice, she has learned to accept her punishment gracefully. On the day of their separation, Angel is a picture of practicality. He goes to the dairy and completes his business with Mr. Crick, not mentioning the fact that he and Tess are separating. He accompanies his wife on her journey until they reach the outskirts of Marlott. Then Angel gives her some money, retrieves his diamonds, and tells Tess not to contact him in person, only through letters. He says he will try to accept their situation and will contact her in the future. Tess feels totally devastated and hopeless"} |
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.
| 3,093 | CHAPTER 37 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD45.asp | The night before Tess is to leave, she sees her husband sleep- walking. He assumes her to be dead and places her in a stone coffin after wrapping her up in a sheet and carrying her to the old Abbey church. She handles the situation very boldly and with subtle persuasion brings him back to the house. She does not mention the incident the next morning, and Angel does not seem to remember it. On their way to Marlott the next morning, Tess and Angel visit with the Cricks, but keep their separation a secret from them. When they draw near to Tess's hometown, Angel turns to go. He leaves Tess with a good sum of money, takes the diamonds from her, and then forbids her to approach him in person. He tells her to communicate only through letters until he decides to come for her. Tess agrees to his commands, departs for home, and slips again into her suffering, melancholy mood. | Notes Love survives on mutual trust, and since Tess has broken that trust, Angel has difficulty dealing with her. His sleepwalking expresses his state of mind. His heart refuses to believe that the girl he loves could cause him so much agony. He is convinced that the real Tess is dead; therefore, he subconsciously buries her. It is a far-fetched and melodramatic scene. Tess suffers through the whole incident in silence. Through years of practice, she has learned to accept her punishment gracefully. On the day of their separation, Angel is a picture of practicality. He goes to the dairy and completes his business with Mr. Crick, not mentioning the fact that he and Tess are separating. He accompanies his wife on her journey until they reach the outskirts of Marlott. Then Angel gives her some money, retrieves his diamonds, and tells Tess not to contact him in person, only through letters. He says he will try to accept their situation and will contact her in the future. Tess feels totally devastated and hopeless | 162 | 174 | [
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28,054 | true | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/book_1.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Brothers Karamazov/section_0_part_0.txt | The Brothers Karamazov.book 1.chapter 1-chapter 5 | book 1 | null | {"name": "Book 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422052201/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-brothers-karamazov/study-guide/summary-book-1", "summary": "Fyodor Karamazov and his three sons have just been reunited after many years, and the novel's first chapters concern themselves mostly with the family's backstory. We meet Fyodor, a \"muddle-headed\" eccentric who has led a reckless and selfish life. Though many thought him too impulsive to be crafty, he died with 100,000 rubles, proving that he must have been keen in some ways. He has few friends and many enemies, and he is an enigma to all. He married a fiery, romantic woman named Adelaida, who thought his lifestyle was \"bold.\" After bearing him a son whom they named Dmitri, she ran off with a tutor. Fyodor was crushed by her desertion, but he also relished the idea of his humiliation so much that those who heard him talking about his situation thought that he somehow enjoyed his position as a cuckold. Neglected by his father, young Dmitri fell under the care of various servants and relatives through the years. He grew up \"unruly\" and \"impatient.\" When he was old enough, he joined the military. His impassioned character led him to be demoted for dueling, but he was re-promoted for \"gallantry.\" His extravagant lifestyle had put him far into debt by the time he left the military, and he came home to collect his inheritance from his father. After Adelaida left him, Fyodor married a beautiful innocent named Sofia. He was won by the sixteen-year-old's innocence, and he said of her, \"those innocent eyes of hers slit my soul open like a razor.\" She had two sons, Ivan and Alyosha. Because Fyodor felt that she should be \"indebted to him\" for saving her from a bad situation, he felt justified in treating her cruelly, sleeping with other women in the house, sometimes in front of her. His mistreatment of his young wife eventually led to her having a nervous breakdown. With both parents unsuitable for taking care of their children, General Vorohkov's widow--Sofia's former benefactress--took in the children. She left each of the boys 1,000 rubles for his education. Ivan grew up sullen and quiet, embarrassed about living on charity from others and more embarrassed about his father. He was a fiercely intelligent boy, and he made money by tutoring, freelancing, and reviewing books for money. He wrote a relatively famous article about the ecclesiastical courts that was debated in political and religious circles alike. He came to town rather unexpectedly. The youngest boy, Alyosha, was well-loved by Fyodor. He was popular, fearless of others, and, unlike his brothers, unconcerned with money. Instead of finishing school, he became quite taken with an elder named Father Zossima in the nearby monastery. He decided to join the monastery, and Fyodor gave him his blessing. Alyosha was the sort of boy who believed in miracles, but he was curiously very much a realist. Alyosha was a \"member of the younger generation.\" Many believed that studying under an elder in a monastery was a \"terrible apprenticeship\"--by self-annihilation, one might achieve self-realization. Father Zossima was sixty-five years old and a former officer in the army. He was kind to even the worst sinners, and he was locally famous for his saint-like status. When Alyosha meets his brothers for the first time, he quickly takes a liking to Dmitri. He finds Ivan \"absorbed in something within himself, something very important, that he was pursuing some goal, perhaps a very difficult goal, which left no room for Alyosha in his thoughts.\" Dmitri, however, likes Ivan. Because of the dispute between Dmitri and Fyodor over Dmitri's inheritance, the newly reunited family decides to see Father Zossima to help resolve the issue. Alyosha, who is very close with Father Zossima, fears that the family is going to make a ridiculous scene and treat a serious occasion like a farce. But Dmitri assures his brother that he will act respectfully and calmly and that everything will go fine.", "analysis": "In this first book, the reader gets to know the Karamazovs. The eldest Karamazov is a licentious old curmudgeon and a bad father. Readers begin to wonder how his behavior and treatment of his sons will be reflected in their own personalities and lives. These early chapters serve as introductions, and they do not focus much on the present. Interestingly, Fyodor and his three sons have not been together for some time, so the reader knows that any interactions they have will not be the tried, worn conversations of longtime acquaintances. Instead, it is clear that the conversations the family share will be new and telling of future relationships. There is drama and suspense leading up to the meeting with Father Zossima, for not only will a family dispute be mediated, but all four Karamazovs will be in the same place. This will be the first legitimate gathering at which the reader will see all the Karamazovs. Dmitri seems very much his father's son. His inconsistent nature and his inclination to violence and sex remind the reader very much of Fyodor. Still, he seems to have a noble streak that is absent in Fyodor. Even though he was demoted in the army, he was re-promoted \"for gallantry.\" The disparity between Dmitri's extremes is great. He seems like he will be a loose cannon, and the reader is anxious to see how he will deal with a formal meeting about a hotly-contested issue; he seems capable of both civility and wild rage. Ivan is less obviously observable. He is quieter than his older brother, and he is very much ruled by his intellect, not his viscera. He seems to be very proud, refusing to ask his father for money and working very hard to make it. He and his older brother are also the sons of different mothers, and the significance of this detail is undeniable. It is not entirely clear yet how his personality is different from his brother's because of this fact, though. His mother was an innocent woman, not a passionate woman like Dmitri's mother. Ivan does not seem innocent, for he seems to understand the world enough to find a way to fend for himself. He also seems to understand the concept of reputations, for he is deeply embarrassed by his own father. Dmitri does have a predilection to follow his whims that Ivan does not have. Ivan seems very measured and in control of himself. He is the brother whose story is most concise. Alyosha and Dmitri are described at length, but Ivan has only a small section devoted to him. This is not because he is a lesser character--his role becomes clear later--but because he is more of an enigma. His motivations and actions are not as open and forthright as his brothers'. Dostoevsky thus leads us to want to unlock Ivan's mysterious character. Alyosha seems to be the hero of the novel even at this early stage. In fact, most of the novel will revolve around his experiences, for he is involved in everyone's problems. When a character is described as having very few flaws, jaded modern readers suspect that one of his flaws might hurt him by the end, and we become interested to see how Alyosha might fall. But Alyosha never fully compromises his character. He retains a grand love for all mankind throughout the novel, and any missteps are minimal. He remains likeable and admirable throughout the novel, and his integrity is constant. The three brothers thus may represent three distinct ideologies. Dostoevsky is prone to making his characters embody certain ideas, and at this point in the novel, we can start to make such identifications. While it is very interesting to see how these different \"character-ideologies\" will cope with the situations presented to them, it is even more interesting to see how characters who might seem two-dimensional and clearly pigeonholed will become more complexly human. The introduction to this novel makes every character's future a fascinating one."} | 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.
Chapter II. He Gets Rid Of His Eldest Son
You can easily imagine what a father such a man could be and how he would
bring up his children. His behavior as a father was exactly what might be
expected. He completely abandoned the child of his marriage with Adelaida
Ivanovna, not from malice, nor because of his matrimonial grievances, but
simply because he forgot him. While he was wearying every one with his
tears and complaints, and turning his house into a sink of debauchery, a
faithful servant of the family, Grigory, took the three-year-old Mitya
into his care. If he hadn't looked after him there would have been no one
even to change the baby's little shirt.
It happened moreover that the child's relations on his mother's side
forgot him too at first. His grandfather was no longer living, his widow,
Mitya's grandmother, had moved to Moscow, and was seriously ill, while his
daughters were married, so that Mitya remained for almost a whole year in
old Grigory's charge and lived with him in the servant's cottage. But if
his father had remembered him (he could not, indeed, have been altogether
unaware of his existence) he would have sent him back to the cottage, as
the child would only have been in the way of his debaucheries. But a
cousin of Mitya's mother, Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, happened to return
from Paris. He lived for many years afterwards abroad, but was at that
time quite a young man, and distinguished among the Miuesovs as a man of
enlightened ideas and of European culture, who had been in the capitals
and abroad. Towards the end of his life he became a Liberal of the type
common in the forties and fifties. In the course of his career he had come
into contact with many of the most Liberal men of his epoch, both in
Russia and abroad. He had known Proudhon and Bakunin personally, and in
his declining years was very fond of describing the three days of the
Paris Revolution of February 1848, hinting that he himself had almost
taken part in the fighting on the barricades. This was one of the most
grateful recollections of his youth. He had an independent property of
about a thousand souls, to reckon in the old style. His splendid estate
lay on the outskirts of our little town and bordered on the lands of our
famous monastery, with which Pyotr Alexandrovitch began an endless
lawsuit, almost as soon as he came into the estate, concerning the rights
of fishing in the river or wood-cutting in the forest, I don't know
exactly which. He regarded it as his duty as a citizen and a man of
culture to open an attack upon the "clericals." Hearing all about Adelaida
Ivanovna, whom he, of course, remembered, and in whom he had at one time
been interested, and learning of the existence of Mitya, he intervened, in
spite of all his youthful indignation and contempt for Fyodor Pavlovitch.
He made the latter's acquaintance for the first time, and told him
directly that he wished to undertake the child's education. He used long
afterwards to tell as a characteristic touch, that when he began to speak
of Mitya, Fyodor Pavlovitch looked for some time as though he did not
understand what child he was talking about, and even as though he was
surprised to hear that he had a little son in the house. The story may
have been exaggerated, yet it must have been something like the truth.
Fyodor Pavlovitch was all his life fond of acting, of suddenly playing an
unexpected part, sometimes without any motive for doing so, and even to
his own direct disadvantage, as, for instance, in the present case. This
habit, however, is characteristic of a very great number of people, some
of them very clever ones, not like Fyodor Pavlovitch. Pyotr Alexandrovitch
carried the business through vigorously, and was appointed, with Fyodor
Pavlovitch, joint guardian of the child, who had a small property, a house
and land, left him by his mother. Mitya did, in fact, pass into this
cousin's keeping, but as the latter had no family of his own, and after
securing the revenues of his estates was in haste to return at once to
Paris, he left the boy in charge of one of his cousins, a lady living in
Moscow. It came to pass that, settling permanently in Paris he, too,
forgot the child, especially when the Revolution of February broke out,
making an impression on his mind that he remembered all the rest of his
life. The Moscow lady died, and Mitya passed into the care of one of her
married daughters. I believe he changed his home a fourth time later on. I
won't enlarge upon that now, as I shall have much to tell later of Fyodor
Pavlovitch's firstborn, and must confine myself now to the most essential
facts about him, without which I could not begin my story.
In the first place, this Mitya, or rather Dmitri Fyodorovitch, was the
only one of Fyodor Pavlovitch's three sons who grew up in the belief that
he had property, and that he would be independent on coming of age. He
spent an irregular boyhood and youth. He did not finish his studies at the
gymnasium, he got into a military school, then went to the Caucasus, was
promoted, fought a duel, and was degraded to the ranks, earned promotion
again, led a wild life, and spent a good deal of money. He did not begin
to receive any income from Fyodor Pavlovitch until he came of age, and
until then got into debt. He saw and knew his father, Fyodor Pavlovitch,
for the first time on coming of age, when he visited our neighborhood on
purpose to settle with him about his property. He seems not to have liked
his father. He did not stay long with him, and made haste to get away,
having only succeeded in obtaining a sum of money, and entering into an
agreement for future payments from the estate, of the revenues and value
of which he was unable (a fact worthy of note), upon this occasion, to get
a statement from his father. Fyodor Pavlovitch remarked for the first time
then (this, too, should be noted) that Mitya had a vague and exaggerated
idea of his property. Fyodor Pavlovitch was very well satisfied with this,
as it fell in with his own designs. He gathered only that the young man
was frivolous, unruly, of violent passions, impatient, and dissipated, and
that if he could only obtain ready money he would be satisfied, although
only, of course, for a short time. So Fyodor Pavlovitch began to take
advantage of this fact, sending him from time to time small doles,
installments. In the end, when four years later, Mitya, losing patience,
came a second time to our little town to settle up once for all with his
father, it turned out to his amazement that he had nothing, that it was
difficult to get an account even, that he had received the whole value of
his property in sums of money from Fyodor Pavlovitch, and was perhaps even
in debt to him, that by various agreements into which he had, of his own
desire, entered at various previous dates, he had no right to expect
anything more, and so on, and so on. The young man was overwhelmed,
suspected deceit and cheating, and was almost beside himself. And, indeed,
this circumstance led to the catastrophe, the account of which forms the
subject of my first introductory story, or rather the external side of it.
But before I pass to that story I must say a little of Fyodor Pavlovitch's
other two sons, and of their origin.
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.
Chapter IV. The Third Son, Alyosha
He was only twenty, his brother Ivan was in his twenty-fourth year at the
time, while their elder brother Dmitri was twenty-seven. First of all, I
must explain that this young man, Alyosha, was not a fanatic, and, in my
opinion at least, was not even a mystic. I may as well give my full
opinion from the beginning. He was simply an early lover of humanity, and
that he adopted the monastic life was simply because at that time it
struck him, so to say, as the ideal escape for his soul struggling from
the darkness of worldly wickedness to the light of love. And the reason
this life struck him in this way was that he found in it at that time, as
he thought, an extraordinary being, our celebrated elder, Zossima, to whom
he became attached with all the warm first love of his ardent heart. But I
do not dispute that he was very strange even at that time, and had been so
indeed from his cradle. I have mentioned already, by the way, that though
he lost his mother in his fourth year he remembered her all his life--her
face, her caresses, "as though she stood living before me." Such memories
may persist, as every one knows, from an even earlier age, even from two
years old, but scarcely standing out through a whole lifetime like spots
of light out of darkness, like a corner torn out of a huge picture, which
has all faded and disappeared except that fragment. That is how it was
with him. He remembered one still summer evening, an open window, the
slanting rays of the setting sun (that he recalled most vividly of all);
in a corner of the room the holy image, before it a lighted lamp, and on
her knees before the image his mother, sobbing hysterically with cries and
moans, snatching him up in both arms, squeezing him close till it hurt,
and praying for him to the Mother of God, holding him out in both arms to
the image as though to put him under the Mother's protection ... and
suddenly a nurse runs in and snatches him from her in terror. That was the
picture! And Alyosha remembered his mother's face at that minute. He used
to say that it was frenzied but beautiful as he remembered. But he rarely
cared to speak of this memory to any one. In his childhood and youth he
was by no means expansive, and talked little indeed, but not from shyness
or a sullen unsociability; quite the contrary, from something different,
from a sort of inner preoccupation entirely personal and unconcerned with
other people, but so important to him that he seemed, as it were, to
forget others on account of it. But he was fond of people: he seemed
throughout his life to put implicit trust in people: yet no one ever
looked on him as a simpleton or naive person. There was something about
him which made one feel at once (and it was so all his life afterwards)
that he did not care to be a judge of others--that he would never take it
upon himself to criticize and would never condemn any one for anything. He
seemed, indeed, to accept everything without the least condemnation though
often grieving bitterly: and this was so much so that no one could
surprise or frighten him even in his earliest youth. Coming at twenty to
his father's house, which was a very sink of filthy debauchery, he, chaste
and pure as he was, simply withdrew in silence when to look on was
unbearable, but without the slightest sign of contempt or condemnation.
His father, who had once been in a dependent position, and so was
sensitive and ready to take offense, met him at first with distrust and
sullenness. "He does not say much," he used to say, "and thinks the more."
But soon, within a fortnight indeed, he took to embracing him and kissing
him terribly often, with drunken tears, with sottish sentimentality, yet
he evidently felt a real and deep affection for him, such as he had never
been capable of feeling for any one before.
Every one, indeed, loved this young man wherever he went, and it was so
from his earliest childhood. When he entered the household of his patron
and benefactor, Yefim Petrovitch Polenov, he gained the hearts of all the
family, so that they looked on him quite as their own child. Yet he
entered the house at such a tender age that he could not have acted from
design nor artfulness in winning affection. So that the gift of making
himself loved directly and unconsciously was inherent in him, in his very
nature, so to speak. It was the same at school, though he seemed to be
just one of those children who are distrusted, sometimes ridiculed, and
even disliked by their schoolfellows. He was dreamy, for instance, and
rather solitary. From his earliest childhood he was fond of creeping into
a corner to read, and yet he was a general favorite all the while he was
at school. He was rarely playful or merry, but any one could see at the
first glance that this was not from any sullenness. On the contrary he was
bright and good-tempered. He never tried to show off among his
schoolfellows. Perhaps because of this, he was never afraid of any one,
yet the boys immediately understood that he was not proud of his
fearlessness and seemed to be unaware that he was bold and courageous. He
never resented an insult. It would happen that an hour after the offense
he would address the offender or answer some question with as trustful and
candid an expression as though nothing had happened between them. And it
was not that he seemed to have forgotten or intentionally forgiven the
affront, but simply that he did not regard it as an affront, and this
completely conquered and captivated the boys. He had one characteristic
which made all his schoolfellows from the bottom class to the top want to
mock at him, not from malice but because it amused them. This
characteristic was a wild fanatical modesty and chastity. He could not
bear to hear certain words and certain conversations about women. There
are "certain" words and conversations unhappily impossible to eradicate in
schools. Boys pure in mind and heart, almost children, are fond of talking
in school among themselves, and even aloud, of things, pictures, and
images of which even soldiers would sometimes hesitate to speak. More than
that, much that soldiers have no knowledge or conception of is familiar to
quite young children of our intellectual and higher classes. There is no
moral depravity, no real corrupt inner cynicism in it, but there is the
appearance of it, and it is often looked upon among them as something
refined, subtle, daring, and worthy of imitation. Seeing that Alyosha
Karamazov put his fingers in his ears when they talked of "that," they
used sometimes to crowd round him, pull his hands away, and shout
nastiness into both ears, while he struggled, slipped to the floor, tried
to hide himself without uttering one word of abuse, enduring their insults
in silence. But at last they left him alone and gave up taunting him with
being a "regular girl," and what's more they looked upon it with
compassion as a weakness. He was always one of the best in the class but
was never first.
At the time of Yefim Petrovitch's death Alyosha had two more years to
complete at the provincial gymnasium. The inconsolable widow went almost
immediately after his death for a long visit to Italy with her whole
family, which consisted only of women and girls. Alyosha went to live in
the house of two distant relations of Yefim Petrovitch, ladies whom he had
never seen before. On what terms he lived with them he did not know
himself. It was very characteristic of him, indeed, that he never cared at
whose expense he was living. In that respect he was a striking contrast to
his elder brother Ivan, who struggled with poverty for his first two years
in the university, maintained himself by his own efforts, and had from
childhood been bitterly conscious of living at the expense of his
benefactor. But this strange trait in Alyosha's character must not, I
think, be criticized too severely, for at the slightest acquaintance with
him any one would have perceived that Alyosha was one of those youths,
almost of the type of religious enthusiast, who, if they were suddenly to
come into possession of a large fortune, would not hesitate to give it
away for the asking, either for good works or perhaps to a clever rogue.
In general he seemed scarcely to know the value of money, not, of course,
in a literal sense. When he was given pocket-money, which he never asked
for, he was either terribly careless of it so that it was gone in a
moment, or he kept it for weeks together, not knowing what to do with it.
In later years Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, a man very sensitive on the
score of money and bourgeois honesty, pronounced the following judgment,
after getting to know Alyosha:
"Here is perhaps the one man in the world whom you might leave alone
without a penny, in the center of an unknown town of a million
inhabitants, and he would not come to harm, he would not die of cold and
hunger, for he would be fed and sheltered at once; and if he were not, he
would find a shelter for himself, and it would cost him no effort or
humiliation. And to shelter him would be no burden, but, on the contrary,
would probably be looked on as a pleasure."
He did not finish his studies at the gymnasium. A year before the end of
the course he suddenly announced to the ladies that he was going to see
his father about a plan which had occurred to him. They were sorry and
unwilling to let him go. The journey was not an expensive one, and the
ladies would not let him pawn his watch, a parting present from his
benefactor's family. They provided him liberally with money and even
fitted him out with new clothes and linen. But he returned half the money
they gave him, saying that he intended to go third class. On his arrival
in the town he made no answer to his father's first inquiry why he had
come before completing his studies, and seemed, so they say, unusually
thoughtful. It soon became apparent that he was looking for his mother's
tomb. He practically acknowledged at the time that that was the only
object of his visit. But it can hardly have been the whole reason of it.
It is more probable that he himself did not understand and could not
explain what had suddenly arisen in his soul, and drawn him irresistibly
into a new, unknown, but inevitable path. Fyodor Pavlovitch could not show
him where his second wife was buried, for he had never visited her grave
since he had thrown earth upon her coffin, and in the course of years had
entirely forgotten where she was buried.
Fyodor Pavlovitch, by the way, had for some time previously not been
living in our town. Three or four years after his wife's death he had gone
to the south of Russia and finally turned up in Odessa, where he spent
several years. He made the acquaintance at first, in his own words, "of a
lot of low Jews, Jewesses, and Jewkins," and ended by being received by
"Jews high and low alike." It may be presumed that at this period he
developed a peculiar faculty for making and hoarding money. He finally
returned to our town only three years before Alyosha's arrival. His former
acquaintances found him looking terribly aged, although he was by no means
an old man. He behaved not exactly with more dignity but with more
effrontery. The former buffoon showed an insolent propensity for making
buffoons of others. His depravity with women was not simply what it used
to be, but even more revolting. In a short time he opened a great number
of new taverns in the district. It was evident that he had perhaps a
hundred thousand roubles or not much less. Many of the inhabitants of the
town and district were soon in his debt, and, of course, had given good
security. Of late, too, he looked somehow bloated and seemed more
irresponsible, more uneven, had sunk into a sort of incoherence, used to
begin one thing and go on with another, as though he were letting himself
go altogether. He was more and more frequently drunk. And, if it had not
been for the same servant Grigory, who by that time had aged considerably
too, and used to look after him sometimes almost like a tutor, Fyodor
Pavlovitch might have got into terrible scrapes. Alyosha's arrival seemed
to affect even his moral side, as though something had awakened in this
prematurely old man which had long been dead in his soul.
"Do you know," he used often to say, looking at Alyosha, "that you are
like her, 'the crazy woman' "--that was what he used to call his dead wife,
Alyosha's mother. Grigory it was who pointed out the "crazy woman's" grave
to Alyosha. He took him to our town cemetery and showed him in a remote
corner a cast-iron tombstone, cheap but decently kept, on which were
inscribed the name and age of the deceased and the date of her death, and
below a four-lined verse, such as are commonly used on old-fashioned
middle-class tombs. To Alyosha's amazement this tomb turned out to be
Grigory's doing. He had put it up on the poor "crazy woman's" grave at his
own expense, after Fyodor Pavlovitch, whom he had often pestered about the
grave, had gone to Odessa, abandoning the grave and all his memories.
Alyosha showed no particular emotion at the sight of his mother's grave.
He only listened to Grigory's minute and solemn account of the erection of
the tomb; he stood with bowed head and walked away without uttering a
word. It was perhaps a year before he visited the cemetery again. But this
little episode was not without an influence upon Fyodor Pavlovitch--and a
very original one. He suddenly took a thousand roubles to our monastery to
pay for requiems for the soul of his wife; but not for the second,
Alyosha's mother, the "crazy woman," but for the first, Adelaida Ivanovna,
who used to thrash him. In the evening of the same day he got drunk and
abused the monks to Alyosha. He himself was far from being religious; he
had probably never put a penny candle before the image of a saint. Strange
impulses of sudden feeling and sudden thought are common in such types.
I have mentioned already that he looked bloated. His countenance at this
time bore traces of something that testified unmistakably to the life he
had led. Besides the long fleshy bags under his little, always insolent,
suspicious, and ironical eyes; besides the multitude of deep wrinkles in
his little fat face, the Adam's apple hung below his sharp chin like a
great, fleshy goiter, which gave him a peculiar, repulsive, sensual
appearance; add to that a long rapacious mouth with full lips, between
which could be seen little stumps of black decayed teeth. He slobbered
every time he began to speak. He was fond indeed of making fun of his own
face, though, I believe, he was well satisfied with it. He used
particularly to point to his nose, which was not very large, but very
delicate and conspicuously aquiline. "A regular Roman nose," he used to
say, "with my goiter I've quite the countenance of an ancient Roman
patrician of the decadent period." He seemed proud of it.
Not long after visiting his mother's grave Alyosha suddenly announced that
he wanted to enter the monastery, and that the monks were willing to
receive him as a novice. He explained that this was his strong desire, and
that he was solemnly asking his consent as his father. The old man knew
that the elder Zossima, who was living in the monastery hermitage, had
made a special impression upon his "gentle boy."
"That is the most honest monk among them, of course," he observed, after
listening in thoughtful silence to Alyosha, and seeming scarcely surprised
at his request. "H'm!... So that's where you want to be, my gentle boy?"
He was half drunk, and suddenly he grinned his slow half-drunken grin,
which was not without a certain cunning and tipsy slyness. "H'm!... I had
a presentiment that you would end in something like this. Would you
believe it? You were making straight for it. Well, to be sure you have
your own two thousand. That's a dowry for you. And I'll never desert you,
my angel. And I'll pay what's wanted for you there, if they ask for it.
But, of course, if they don't ask, why should we worry them? What do you
say? You know, you spend money like a canary, two grains a week. H'm!...
Do you know that near one monastery there's a place outside the town where
every baby knows there are none but 'the monks' wives' living, as they are
called. Thirty women, I believe. I have been there myself. You know, it's
interesting in its own way, of course, as a variety. The worst of it is
it's awfully Russian. There are no French women there. Of course they
could get them fast enough, they have plenty of money. If they get to hear
of it they'll come along. Well, there's nothing of that sort here, no
'monks' wives,' and two hundred monks. They're honest. They keep the
fasts. I admit it.... H'm.... So you want to be a monk? And do you know
I'm sorry to lose you, Alyosha; would you believe it, I've really grown
fond of you? Well, it's a good opportunity. You'll pray for us sinners; we
have sinned too much here. I've always been thinking who would pray for
me, and whether there's any one in the world to do it. My dear boy, I'm
awfully stupid about that. You wouldn't believe it. Awfully. You see,
however stupid I am about it, I keep thinking, I keep thinking--from time
to time, of course, not all the while. It's impossible, I think, for the
devils to forget to drag me down to hell with their hooks when I die. Then
I wonder--hooks? Where would they get them? What of? Iron hooks? Where do
they forge them? Have they a foundry there of some sort? The monks in the
monastery probably believe that there's a ceiling in hell, for instance.
Now I'm ready to believe in hell, but without a ceiling. It makes it more
refined, more enlightened, more Lutheran that is. And, after all, what
does it matter whether it has a ceiling or hasn't? But, do you know,
there's a damnable question involved in it? If there's no ceiling there
can be no hooks, and if there are no hooks it all breaks down, which is
unlikely again, for then there would be none to drag me down to hell, and
if they don't drag me down what justice is there in the world? _Il
faudrait les inventer_, those hooks, on purpose for me alone, for, if you
only knew, Alyosha, what a blackguard I am."
"But there are no hooks there," said Alyosha, looking gently and seriously
at his father.
"Yes, yes, only the shadows of hooks, I know, I know. That's how a
Frenchman described hell: '_J'ai bu l'ombre d'un cocher qui avec l'ombre
d'une brosse frottait l'ombre d'une carrosse._' How do you know there are
no hooks, darling? When you've lived with the monks you'll sing a
different tune. But go and get at the truth there, and then come and tell
me. Anyway it's easier going to the other world if one knows what there is
there. Besides, it will be more seemly for you with the monks than here
with me, with a drunken old man and young harlots ... though you're like
an angel, nothing touches you. And I dare say nothing will touch you
there. That's why I let you go, because I hope for that. You've got all
your wits about you. You will burn and you will burn out; you will be
healed and come back again. And I will wait for you. I feel that you're
the only creature in the world who has not condemned me. My dear boy, I
feel it, you know. I can't help feeling it."
And he even began blubbering. He was sentimental. He was wicked and
sentimental.
Chapter V. Elders
Some of my readers may imagine that my young man was a sickly, ecstatic,
poorly developed creature, a pale, consumptive dreamer. On the contrary,
Alyosha was at this time a well-grown, red-cheeked, clear-eyed lad of
nineteen, radiant with health. He was very handsome, too, graceful,
moderately tall, with hair of a dark brown, with a regular, rather long,
oval-shaped face, and wide-set dark gray, shining eyes; he was very
thoughtful, and apparently very serene. I shall be told, perhaps, that red
cheeks are not incompatible with fanaticism and mysticism; but I fancy
that Alyosha was more of a realist than any one. Oh! no doubt, in the
monastery he fully believed in miracles, but, to my thinking, miracles are
never a stumbling-block to the realist. It is not miracles that dispose
realists to belief. The genuine realist, if he is an unbeliever, will
always find strength and ability to disbelieve in the miraculous, and if
he is confronted with a miracle as an irrefutable fact he would rather
disbelieve his own senses than admit the fact. Even if he admits it, he
admits it as a fact of nature till then unrecognized by him. Faith does
not, in the realist, spring from the miracle but the miracle from faith.
If the realist once believes, then he is bound by his very realism to
admit the miraculous also. The Apostle Thomas said that he would not
believe till he saw, but when he did see he said, "My Lord and my God!"
Was it the miracle forced him to believe? Most likely not, but he believed
solely because he desired to believe and possibly he fully believed in his
secret heart even when he said, "I do not believe till I see."
I shall be told, perhaps, that Alyosha was stupid, undeveloped, had not
finished his studies, and so on. That he did not finish his studies is
true, but to say that he was stupid or dull would be a great injustice.
I'll simply repeat what I have said above. He entered upon this path only
because, at that time, it alone struck his imagination and presented
itself to him as offering an ideal means of escape for his soul from
darkness to light. Add to that that he was to some extent a youth of our
last epoch--that is, honest in nature, desiring the truth, seeking for it
and believing in it, and seeking to serve it at once with all the strength
of his soul, seeking for immediate action, and ready to sacrifice
everything, life itself, for it. Though these young men unhappily fail to
understand that the sacrifice of life is, in many cases, the easiest of
all sacrifices, and that to sacrifice, for instance, five or six years of
their seething youth to hard and tedious study, if only to multiply
tenfold their powers of serving the truth and the cause they have set
before them as their goal--such a sacrifice is utterly beyond the strength
of many of them. The path Alyosha chose was a path going in the opposite
direction, but he chose it with the same thirst for swift achievement. As
soon as he reflected seriously he was convinced of the existence of God
and immortality, and at once he instinctively said to himself: "I want to
live for immortality, and I will accept no compromise." In the same way,
if he had decided that God and immortality did not exist, he would at once
have become an atheist and a socialist. For socialism is not merely the
labor question, it is before all things the atheistic question, the
question of the form taken by atheism to-day, the question of the tower of
Babel built without God, not to mount to heaven from earth but to set up
heaven on earth. Alyosha would have found it strange and impossible to go
on living as before. It is written: "Give all that thou hast to the poor
and follow Me, if thou wouldst be perfect."
Alyosha said to himself: "I can't give two roubles instead of 'all,' and
only go to mass instead of 'following Him.' " Perhaps his memories of
childhood brought back our monastery, to which his mother may have taken
him to mass. Perhaps the slanting sunlight and the holy image to which his
poor "crazy" mother had held him up still acted upon his imagination.
Brooding on these things he may have come to us perhaps only to see
whether here he could sacrifice all or only "two roubles," and in the
monastery he met this elder. I must digress to explain what an "elder" is
in Russian monasteries, and I am sorry that I do not feel very competent
to do so. I will try, however, to give a superficial account of it in a
few words. Authorities on the subject assert that the institution of
"elders" is of recent date, not more than a hundred years old in our
monasteries, though in the orthodox East, especially in Sinai and Athos,
it has existed over a thousand years. It is maintained that it existed in
ancient times in Russia also, but through the calamities which overtook
Russia--the Tartars, civil war, the interruption of relations with the East
after the destruction of Constantinople--this institution fell into
oblivion. It was revived among us towards the end of last century by one
of the great "ascetics," as they called him, Paissy Velitchkovsky, and his
disciples. But to this day it exists in few monasteries only, and has
sometimes been almost persecuted as an innovation in Russia. It flourished
especially in the celebrated Kozelski Optin Monastery. When and how it was
introduced into our monastery I cannot say. There had already been three
such elders and Zossima was the last of them. But he was almost dying of
weakness and disease, and they had no one to take his place. The question
for our monastery was an important one, for it had not been distinguished
by anything in particular till then: they had neither relics of saints,
nor wonder-working ikons, nor glorious traditions, nor historical
exploits. It had flourished and been glorious all over Russia through its
elders, to see and hear whom pilgrims had flocked for thousands of miles
from all parts.
What was such an elder? An elder was one who took your soul, your will,
into his soul and his will. When you choose an elder, you renounce your
own will and yield it to him in complete submission, complete self-
abnegation. This novitiate, this terrible school of abnegation, is
undertaken voluntarily, in the hope of self-conquest, of self-mastery, in
order, after a life of obedience, to attain perfect freedom, that is, from
self; to escape the lot of those who have lived their whole life without
finding their true selves in themselves. This institution of elders is not
founded on theory, but was established in the East from the practice of a
thousand years. The obligations due to an elder are not the ordinary
"obedience" which has always existed in our Russian monasteries. The
obligation involves confession to the elder by all who have submitted
themselves to him, and to the indissoluble bond between him and them.
The story is told, for instance, that in the early days of Christianity
one such novice, failing to fulfill some command laid upon him by his
elder, left his monastery in Syria and went to Egypt. There, after great
exploits, he was found worthy at last to suffer torture and a martyr's
death for the faith. When the Church, regarding him as a saint, was
burying him, suddenly, at the deacon's exhortation, "Depart all ye
unbaptized," the coffin containing the martyr's body left its place and
was cast forth from the church, and this took place three times. And only
at last they learnt that this holy man had broken his vow of obedience and
left his elder, and, therefore, could not be forgiven without the elder's
absolution in spite of his great deeds. Only after this could the funeral
take place. This, of course, is only an old legend. But here is a recent
instance.
A monk was suddenly commanded by his elder to quit Athos, which he loved
as a sacred place and a haven of refuge, and to go first to Jerusalem to
do homage to the Holy Places and then to go to the north to Siberia:
"There is the place for thee and not here." The monk, overwhelmed with
sorrow, went to the OEcumenical Patriarch at Constantinople and besought
him to release him from his obedience. But the Patriarch replied that not
only was he unable to release him, but there was not and could not be on
earth a power which could release him except the elder who had himself
laid that duty upon him. In this way the elders are endowed in certain
cases with unbounded and inexplicable authority. That is why in many of
our monasteries the institution was at first resisted almost to
persecution. Meantime the elders immediately began to be highly esteemed
among the people. Masses of the ignorant people as well as men of
distinction flocked, for instance, to the elders of our monastery to
confess their doubts, their sins, and their sufferings, and ask for
counsel and admonition. Seeing this, the opponents of the elders declared
that the sacrament of confession was being arbitrarily and frivolously
degraded, though the continual opening of the heart to the elder by the
monk or the layman had nothing of the character of the sacrament. In the
end, however, the institution of elders has been retained and is becoming
established in Russian monasteries. It is true, perhaps, that this
instrument which had stood the test of a thousand years for the moral
regeneration of a man from slavery to freedom and to moral perfectibility
may be a two-edged weapon and it may lead some not to humility and
complete self-control but to the most Satanic pride, that is, to bondage
and not to freedom.
The elder Zossima was sixty-five. He came of a family of landowners, had
been in the army in early youth, and served in the Caucasus as an officer.
He had, no doubt, impressed Alyosha by some peculiar quality of his soul.
Alyosha lived in the cell of the elder, who was very fond of him and let
him wait upon him. It must be noted that Alyosha was bound by no
obligation and could go where he pleased and be absent for whole days.
Though he wore the monastic dress it was voluntarily, not to be different
from others. No doubt he liked to do so. Possibly his youthful imagination
was deeply stirred by the power and fame of his elder. It was said that so
many people had for years past come to confess their sins to Father
Zossima and to entreat him for words of advice and healing, that he had
acquired the keenest intuition and could tell from an unknown face what a
new-comer wanted, and what was the suffering on his conscience. He
sometimes astounded and almost alarmed his visitors by his knowledge of
their secrets before they had spoken a word.
Alyosha noticed that many, almost all, went in to the elder for the first
time with apprehension and uneasiness, but came out with bright and happy
faces. Alyosha was particularly struck by the fact that Father Zossima was
not at all stern. On the contrary, he was always almost gay. The monks
used to say that he was more drawn to those who were more sinful, and the
greater the sinner the more he loved him. There were, no doubt, up to the
end of his life, among the monks some who hated and envied him, but they
were few in number and they were silent, though among them were some of
great dignity in the monastery, one, for instance, of the older monks
distinguished for his strict keeping of fasts and vows of silence. But the
majority were on Father Zossima's side and very many of them loved him
with all their hearts, warmly and sincerely. Some were almost fanatically
devoted to him, and declared, though not quite aloud, that he was a saint,
that there could be no doubt of it, and, seeing that his end was near,
they anticipated miracles and great glory to the monastery in the
immediate future from his relics. Alyosha had unquestioning faith in the
miraculous power of the elder, just as he had unquestioning faith in the
story of the coffin that flew out of the church. He saw many who came with
sick children or relatives and besought the elder to lay hands on them and
to pray over them, return shortly after--some the next day--and, falling in
tears at the elder's feet, thank him for healing their sick.
Whether they had really been healed or were simply better in the natural
course of the disease was a question which did not exist for Alyosha, for
he fully believed in the spiritual power of his teacher and rejoiced in
his fame, in his glory, as though it were his own triumph. His heart
throbbed, and he beamed, as it were, all over when the elder came out to
the gates of the hermitage into the waiting crowd of pilgrims of the
humbler class who had flocked from all parts of Russia on purpose to see
the elder and obtain his blessing. They fell down before him, wept, kissed
his feet, kissed the earth on which he stood, and wailed, while the women
held up their children to him and brought him the sick "possessed with
devils." The elder spoke to them, read a brief prayer over them, blessed
them, and dismissed them. Of late he had become so weak through attacks of
illness that he was sometimes unable to leave his cell, and the pilgrims
waited for him to come out for several days. Alyosha did not wonder why
they loved him so, why they fell down before him and wept with emotion
merely at seeing his face. Oh! he understood that for the humble soul of
the Russian peasant, worn out by grief and toil, and still more by the
everlasting injustice and everlasting sin, his own and the world's, it was
the greatest need and comfort to find some one or something holy to fall
down before and worship.
"Among us there is sin, injustice, and temptation, but yet, somewhere on
earth there is some one holy and exalted. He has the truth; he knows the
truth; so it is not dead upon the earth; so it will come one day to us,
too, and rule over all the earth according to the promise."
Alyosha knew that this was just how the people felt and even reasoned. He
understood it, but that the elder Zossima was this saint and custodian of
God's truth--of that he had no more doubt than the weeping peasants and the
sick women who held out their children to the elder. The conviction that
after his death the elder would bring extraordinary glory to the monastery
was even stronger in Alyosha than in any one there, and, of late, a kind
of deep flame of inner ecstasy burnt more and more strongly in his heart.
He was not at all troubled at this elder's standing as a solitary example
before him.
"No matter. He is holy. He carries in his heart the secret of renewal for
all: that power which will, at last, establish truth on the earth, and all
men will be holy and love one another, and there will be no more rich nor
poor, no exalted nor humbled, but all will be as the children of God, and
the true Kingdom of Christ will come." That was the dream in Alyosha's
heart.
The arrival of his two brothers, whom he had not known till then, seemed
to make a great impression on Alyosha. He more quickly made friends with
his half-brother Dmitri (though he arrived later) than with his own
brother Ivan. He was extremely interested in his brother Ivan, but when
the latter had been two months in the town, though they had met fairly
often, they were still not intimate. Alyosha was naturally silent, and he
seemed to be expecting something, ashamed about something, while his
brother Ivan, though Alyosha noticed at first that he looked long and
curiously at him, seemed soon to have left off thinking of him. Alyosha
noticed it with some embarrassment. He ascribed his brother's indifference
at first to the disparity of their age and education. But he also wondered
whether the absence of curiosity and sympathy in Ivan might be due to some
other cause entirely unknown to him. He kept fancying that Ivan was
absorbed in something--something inward and important--that he was striving
towards some goal, perhaps very hard to attain, and that that was why he
had no thought for him. Alyosha wondered, too, whether there was not some
contempt on the part of the learned atheist for him--a foolish novice. He
knew for certain that his brother was an atheist. He could not take
offense at this contempt, if it existed; yet, with an uneasy embarrassment
which he did not himself understand, he waited for his brother to come
nearer to him. Dmitri used to speak of Ivan with the deepest respect and
with a peculiar earnestness. From him Alyosha learnt all the details of
the important affair which had of late formed such a close and remarkable
bond between the two elder brothers. Dmitri's enthusiastic references to
Ivan were the more striking in Alyosha's eyes since Dmitri was, compared
with Ivan, almost uneducated, and the two brothers were such a contrast in
personality and character that it would be difficult to find two men more
unlike.
It was at this time that the meeting, or, rather gathering of the members
of this inharmonious family took place in the cell of the elder who had
such an extraordinary influence on Alyosha. The pretext for this gathering
was a false one. It was at this time that the discord between Dmitri and
his father seemed at its acutest stage and their relations had become
insufferably strained. Fyodor Pavlovitch seems to have been the first to
suggest, apparently in joke, that they should all meet in Father Zossima's
cell, and that, without appealing to his direct intervention, they might
more decently come to an understanding under the conciliating influence of
the elder's presence. Dmitri, who had never seen the elder, naturally
supposed that his father was trying to intimidate him, but, as he secretly
blamed himself for his outbursts of temper with his father on several
recent occasions, he accepted the challenge. It must be noted that he was
not, like Ivan, staying with his father, but living apart at the other end
of the town. It happened that Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, who was staying
in the district at the time, caught eagerly at the idea. A Liberal of the
forties and fifties, a freethinker and atheist, he may have been led on by
boredom or the hope of frivolous diversion. He was suddenly seized with
the desire to see the monastery and the holy man. As his lawsuit with the
monastery still dragged on, he made it the pretext for seeing the
Superior, in order to attempt to settle it amicably. A visitor coming with
such laudable intentions might be received with more attention and
consideration than if he came from simple curiosity. Influences from
within the monastery were brought to bear on the elder, who of late had
scarcely left his cell, and had been forced by illness to deny even his
ordinary visitors. In the end he consented to see them, and the day was
fixed.
"Who has made me a judge over them?" was all he said, smilingly, to
Alyosha.
Alyosha was much perturbed when he heard of the proposed visit. Of all the
wrangling, quarrelsome party, Dmitri was the only one who could regard the
interview seriously. All the others would come from frivolous motives,
perhaps insulting to the elder. Alyosha was well aware of that. Ivan and
Miuesov would come from curiosity, perhaps of the coarsest kind, while his
father might be contemplating some piece of buffoonery. Though he said
nothing, Alyosha thoroughly understood his father. The boy, I repeat, was
far from being so simple as every one thought him. He awaited the day with
a heavy heart. No doubt he was always pondering in his mind how the family
discord could be ended. But his chief anxiety concerned the elder. He
trembled for him, for his glory, and dreaded any affront to him,
especially the refined, courteous irony of Miuesov and the supercilious
half-utterances of the highly educated Ivan. He even wanted to venture on
warning the elder, telling him something about them, but, on second
thoughts, said nothing. He only sent word the day before, through a
friend, to his brother Dmitri, that he loved him and expected him to keep
his promise. Dmitri wondered, for he could not remember what he had
promised, but he answered by letter that he would do his utmost not to let
himself be provoked "by vileness," but that, although he had a deep
respect for the elder and for his brother Ivan, he was convinced that the
meeting was either a trap for him or an unworthy farce.
"Nevertheless I would rather bite out my tongue than be lacking in respect
to the sainted man whom you reverence so highly," he wrote in conclusion.
Alyosha was not greatly cheered by the letter.
| 11,405 | Book 1 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210422052201/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-brothers-karamazov/study-guide/summary-book-1 | Fyodor Karamazov and his three sons have just been reunited after many years, and the novel's first chapters concern themselves mostly with the family's backstory. We meet Fyodor, a "muddle-headed" eccentric who has led a reckless and selfish life. Though many thought him too impulsive to be crafty, he died with 100,000 rubles, proving that he must have been keen in some ways. He has few friends and many enemies, and he is an enigma to all. He married a fiery, romantic woman named Adelaida, who thought his lifestyle was "bold." After bearing him a son whom they named Dmitri, she ran off with a tutor. Fyodor was crushed by her desertion, but he also relished the idea of his humiliation so much that those who heard him talking about his situation thought that he somehow enjoyed his position as a cuckold. Neglected by his father, young Dmitri fell under the care of various servants and relatives through the years. He grew up "unruly" and "impatient." When he was old enough, he joined the military. His impassioned character led him to be demoted for dueling, but he was re-promoted for "gallantry." His extravagant lifestyle had put him far into debt by the time he left the military, and he came home to collect his inheritance from his father. After Adelaida left him, Fyodor married a beautiful innocent named Sofia. He was won by the sixteen-year-old's innocence, and he said of her, "those innocent eyes of hers slit my soul open like a razor." She had two sons, Ivan and Alyosha. Because Fyodor felt that she should be "indebted to him" for saving her from a bad situation, he felt justified in treating her cruelly, sleeping with other women in the house, sometimes in front of her. His mistreatment of his young wife eventually led to her having a nervous breakdown. With both parents unsuitable for taking care of their children, General Vorohkov's widow--Sofia's former benefactress--took in the children. She left each of the boys 1,000 rubles for his education. Ivan grew up sullen and quiet, embarrassed about living on charity from others and more embarrassed about his father. He was a fiercely intelligent boy, and he made money by tutoring, freelancing, and reviewing books for money. He wrote a relatively famous article about the ecclesiastical courts that was debated in political and religious circles alike. He came to town rather unexpectedly. The youngest boy, Alyosha, was well-loved by Fyodor. He was popular, fearless of others, and, unlike his brothers, unconcerned with money. Instead of finishing school, he became quite taken with an elder named Father Zossima in the nearby monastery. He decided to join the monastery, and Fyodor gave him his blessing. Alyosha was the sort of boy who believed in miracles, but he was curiously very much a realist. Alyosha was a "member of the younger generation." Many believed that studying under an elder in a monastery was a "terrible apprenticeship"--by self-annihilation, one might achieve self-realization. Father Zossima was sixty-five years old and a former officer in the army. He was kind to even the worst sinners, and he was locally famous for his saint-like status. When Alyosha meets his brothers for the first time, he quickly takes a liking to Dmitri. He finds Ivan "absorbed in something within himself, something very important, that he was pursuing some goal, perhaps a very difficult goal, which left no room for Alyosha in his thoughts." Dmitri, however, likes Ivan. Because of the dispute between Dmitri and Fyodor over Dmitri's inheritance, the newly reunited family decides to see Father Zossima to help resolve the issue. Alyosha, who is very close with Father Zossima, fears that the family is going to make a ridiculous scene and treat a serious occasion like a farce. But Dmitri assures his brother that he will act respectfully and calmly and that everything will go fine. | In this first book, the reader gets to know the Karamazovs. The eldest Karamazov is a licentious old curmudgeon and a bad father. Readers begin to wonder how his behavior and treatment of his sons will be reflected in their own personalities and lives. These early chapters serve as introductions, and they do not focus much on the present. Interestingly, Fyodor and his three sons have not been together for some time, so the reader knows that any interactions they have will not be the tried, worn conversations of longtime acquaintances. Instead, it is clear that the conversations the family share will be new and telling of future relationships. There is drama and suspense leading up to the meeting with Father Zossima, for not only will a family dispute be mediated, but all four Karamazovs will be in the same place. This will be the first legitimate gathering at which the reader will see all the Karamazovs. Dmitri seems very much his father's son. His inconsistent nature and his inclination to violence and sex remind the reader very much of Fyodor. Still, he seems to have a noble streak that is absent in Fyodor. Even though he was demoted in the army, he was re-promoted "for gallantry." The disparity between Dmitri's extremes is great. He seems like he will be a loose cannon, and the reader is anxious to see how he will deal with a formal meeting about a hotly-contested issue; he seems capable of both civility and wild rage. Ivan is less obviously observable. He is quieter than his older brother, and he is very much ruled by his intellect, not his viscera. He seems to be very proud, refusing to ask his father for money and working very hard to make it. He and his older brother are also the sons of different mothers, and the significance of this detail is undeniable. It is not entirely clear yet how his personality is different from his brother's because of this fact, though. His mother was an innocent woman, not a passionate woman like Dmitri's mother. Ivan does not seem innocent, for he seems to understand the world enough to find a way to fend for himself. He also seems to understand the concept of reputations, for he is deeply embarrassed by his own father. Dmitri does have a predilection to follow his whims that Ivan does not have. Ivan seems very measured and in control of himself. He is the brother whose story is most concise. Alyosha and Dmitri are described at length, but Ivan has only a small section devoted to him. This is not because he is a lesser character--his role becomes clear later--but because he is more of an enigma. His motivations and actions are not as open and forthright as his brothers'. Dostoevsky thus leads us to want to unlock Ivan's mysterious character. Alyosha seems to be the hero of the novel even at this early stage. In fact, most of the novel will revolve around his experiences, for he is involved in everyone's problems. When a character is described as having very few flaws, jaded modern readers suspect that one of his flaws might hurt him by the end, and we become interested to see how Alyosha might fall. But Alyosha never fully compromises his character. He retains a grand love for all mankind throughout the novel, and any missteps are minimal. He remains likeable and admirable throughout the novel, and his integrity is constant. The three brothers thus may represent three distinct ideologies. Dostoevsky is prone to making his characters embody certain ideas, and at this point in the novel, we can start to make such identifications. While it is very interesting to see how these different "character-ideologies" will cope with the situations presented to them, it is even more interesting to see how characters who might seem two-dimensional and clearly pigeonholed will become more complexly human. The introduction to this novel makes every character's future a fascinating one. | 648 | 669 | [
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5,658 | true | sparknotes | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_43_to_45.txt | finished_summaries/sparknotes/Lord Jim/section_11_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapters 43-45 | chapters 43 -45 | null | {"name": "Chapters 43 -45", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210126121516/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/lordjim/section12/", "summary": "Swayed by the people's faith in Jim and his own fear of risking his son Dain Waris, Doramin agrees to let Gentleman Brown and his men escape. Preparations are made. Jewel begs an exhausted Jim not to take active command. He tells her that every life in Patusan is his responsibility now, since the people have placed their trust in his opinion. Tamb'Itam is sent downriver to notify Dain Waris that Brown is to be allowed to pass. He takes with him Stein's silver ring as a token of his identity. Jim sends Cornelius to Brown with a note informing him that he will be allowed to go. Cornelius delivers the note, then tells Brown that an armed party headed by Dain Waris, the very man who ambushed Brown initially, waits downstream. Cornelius also tells Brown that there is an alternate river channel that will take him directly behind Dain Waris's camp, and that he, Cornelius, can guide Brown's men down it. Two hours before dawn, in a thick fog, Brown and his men head down the river. Jim calls out that he will try to send them some food. Unbeknownst to those ashore, Cornelius accompanies Brown. When they reach the alternate channel, Cornelius takes over the navigation. Meanwhile, Tamb'Itam reaches Dain Waris's camp with news of the truce. He gives Dain Waris the silver ring, which Dain Waris slips on his finger. A moment later, Gentleman Brown lands his boat behind the camp to take his revenge \"upon the world.\" He and his men open fire. Many fall dead, including Dain Waris, who takes a bullet in the forehead. Brown and his men leave as quickly as they came. Tamb'Itam, who has not been hurt, rushes to his canoe to get the news to Doramin and Jim. At the water's edge, he finds Cornelius struggling to launch a boat and escape. Tamb'Itam strikes him twice, killing him. Marlow digresses for a moment to report that a ship's boat was picked up a month after the massacre in the middle of the Indian Ocean. On board were Brown and two of his men, who claimed that they had been transporting a cargo of sugar when their ship sprung a leak and sunk. The two men died aboard the rescue vehicle; Brown has survived to tell Marlow this story. Returning to the main narrative, Marlow recounts Tamb'Itam's arrival back in Patusan. He finds Jewel, who immediately fears Doramin's wrath for the death of his son. Next he carries the news to Jim, who prepares to go fight. Tamb'Itam reluctantly informs him that he is no longer safe among the people of Patusan. This realization hits Jim hard. Tamb'Itam and Jewel urge Jim to fight for his life. Jim seems not to hear them and orders that the gates of his compound be opened and his men dismissed. Dain Waris's body is brought to Doramin's courtyard. Stein's silver ring is found on his finger. Doramin lets out a bellow and the crowd begins to murmur, realizing that the ring could only have come from Jim. Jim prepares to leave his house. Jewel reminds him of his promise not to leave her, and he tells her that he would no longer be worth having if he didn't leave. He departs for Doramin's. Tamb'Itam recalls the frightful aspect of the sky, and Marlow notes that a cyclone passed near Patusan on that very day. Jim arrives at Doramin's. Approaching the old man, he declares himself sorrowful and unarmed. Doramin stands, sending the silver ring rolling toward Jim. Doramin shoots Jim through the heart, and Jim falls dead. Marlow ends the narrative reiterating the dark, romantic nature of Jim's life and his \"extraordinary success.\" Yet, for Marlow, Jim remains \"inscrutable at heart,\" and the meaning of the narrative is still in question.", "analysis": "Commentary It is Marlow, not Jim, who has the last word on Jim's life, noting simply that \"e is gone, inscrutable at heart. \" The word \"heart\" has been associated with Jim over and over again. He is described both as having a core, or \"heart,\" that is in some way unknowable or confusing, and also as being at the \"heart\" of some vast puzzle. The doubled use of this word points back to some of the earlier incidents of confusion over language and the failure of language to have a definitive meaning. Jim's life has no definitive meaning either. The two \"hearts\" associated with Jim are also suggestive of one of the fundamental problems of the novel: is Jim in fact representative of something larger than himself? Is there an \"us\" that he is \"one of\"? Whether he is at the heart of the inscrutable or merely inscrutable at heart is the fundamental question Marlow must answer. By deferring to Stein, and speaking of Stein's approaching end, and by finishing the narrative in a manuscript rather than in another session of storytelling, Marlow avoids the question. Perhaps it is a question that cannot be answered at all; as Marlow notes, some days Jim seems very real to him, some days Jim seems not to have existed at all. As Marlow notes, Jim has \" away from a living woman to celebrate his pitiless wedding with a shadowy ideal of conduct.\" Marlow thus assigns Jim's story to the realm of romance. The ending of Lord Jim suggests more of a fatal collision between romance and realism than any sort of viable, pure romance, though. Jim's choice of the \"shadowy ideal of conduct\" has led to the deaths of Dain Waris and other men, and to the destruction of Jewel's world. Had Jim not dwelt so fixedly on his failure in the Patna incident, he would have ordered the deaths of Brown and his men, and all would have been well in Patusan. On the other hand, had Jim not dwelt so fixedly on the Patna, he would never have come to Patusan, and arguably not only he but also the people of Patusan are better off for his presence. Idealism and notions of heroism lead to nothing but paradox and sadness. This novel has more in common with Hemingway's tales of damaged and disillusioned men or T.S. Eliot's narratives of the forlorn and impotent than it does with earlier works in which moral upstandingness leads to death with honor, if not a happy ending complete with riches and beautiful women. That this section contains more of the trappings of traditional swashbuckling romance is meant to highlight the contrast. The ending is a mixed one: Jim dies, with a curious mixture of honor and shame, in a manner at least somewhat similar to an old-fashioned hero, while Marlow, like one of Hemingway's protagonists, is left alive, sadder but not necessarily wiser. This is also a section heavier in symbolism than most. The fog which envelops Brown and his men as they head downriver contrasts with the extreme clarity with which Marlow last sees Jim, on the beach with the fishermen. It is also indicative of the amorphous morality of both Brown's and Jim's actions. Brown, after all, thinks he has been double-crossed, based on the information Cornelius has given him. Jim, as we have already seen, is caught in a bind. The night of the Patna's accident was crystal-clear and still; nothing should have obscured Jim's decision-making then. Because he failed then, yet has held on to his ideals, situations no longer have clear solutions. Brown, too, although he seems to be acting logically, is also punished, by being shipwrecked soon afterward and dying a long, drawn-out death. Weather, though, is the primary vehicle for symbolic content. When the fog clears off, Tamb'Itam reports, the sky is in turmoil. Marlow attributes this to a cyclone passing nearby. This is another moment when romance and realism are at odds. In a romantic world, the cyclone would have descended upon Patusan at the moment of Jim's death, symbolizing the disorder in the world that led to the destruction of our hero. In a realistic world, weather would be ordinary and meaningless. The cyclone's close approach suggests a failure of both models; somehow, Jim's death must be given import, yet the issues surrounding it are too muddled and romance too outmoded for the full symbolic performance to occur. This cyclone should be contrasted to the squall that hits the Patna, as well as to the rumored hurricane that wipes out Chester and Robinson's guano-collecting expedition to the Walpole Reef. Here, finally, the storm--the symbol of higher powers or order--fails to impose its meaning."} | '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.'
'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.' | 6,740 | Chapters 43 -45 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210126121516/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/lordjim/section12/ | Swayed by the people's faith in Jim and his own fear of risking his son Dain Waris, Doramin agrees to let Gentleman Brown and his men escape. Preparations are made. Jewel begs an exhausted Jim not to take active command. He tells her that every life in Patusan is his responsibility now, since the people have placed their trust in his opinion. Tamb'Itam is sent downriver to notify Dain Waris that Brown is to be allowed to pass. He takes with him Stein's silver ring as a token of his identity. Jim sends Cornelius to Brown with a note informing him that he will be allowed to go. Cornelius delivers the note, then tells Brown that an armed party headed by Dain Waris, the very man who ambushed Brown initially, waits downstream. Cornelius also tells Brown that there is an alternate river channel that will take him directly behind Dain Waris's camp, and that he, Cornelius, can guide Brown's men down it. Two hours before dawn, in a thick fog, Brown and his men head down the river. Jim calls out that he will try to send them some food. Unbeknownst to those ashore, Cornelius accompanies Brown. When they reach the alternate channel, Cornelius takes over the navigation. Meanwhile, Tamb'Itam reaches Dain Waris's camp with news of the truce. He gives Dain Waris the silver ring, which Dain Waris slips on his finger. A moment later, Gentleman Brown lands his boat behind the camp to take his revenge "upon the world." He and his men open fire. Many fall dead, including Dain Waris, who takes a bullet in the forehead. Brown and his men leave as quickly as they came. Tamb'Itam, who has not been hurt, rushes to his canoe to get the news to Doramin and Jim. At the water's edge, he finds Cornelius struggling to launch a boat and escape. Tamb'Itam strikes him twice, killing him. Marlow digresses for a moment to report that a ship's boat was picked up a month after the massacre in the middle of the Indian Ocean. On board were Brown and two of his men, who claimed that they had been transporting a cargo of sugar when their ship sprung a leak and sunk. The two men died aboard the rescue vehicle; Brown has survived to tell Marlow this story. Returning to the main narrative, Marlow recounts Tamb'Itam's arrival back in Patusan. He finds Jewel, who immediately fears Doramin's wrath for the death of his son. Next he carries the news to Jim, who prepares to go fight. Tamb'Itam reluctantly informs him that he is no longer safe among the people of Patusan. This realization hits Jim hard. Tamb'Itam and Jewel urge Jim to fight for his life. Jim seems not to hear them and orders that the gates of his compound be opened and his men dismissed. Dain Waris's body is brought to Doramin's courtyard. Stein's silver ring is found on his finger. Doramin lets out a bellow and the crowd begins to murmur, realizing that the ring could only have come from Jim. Jim prepares to leave his house. Jewel reminds him of his promise not to leave her, and he tells her that he would no longer be worth having if he didn't leave. He departs for Doramin's. Tamb'Itam recalls the frightful aspect of the sky, and Marlow notes that a cyclone passed near Patusan on that very day. Jim arrives at Doramin's. Approaching the old man, he declares himself sorrowful and unarmed. Doramin stands, sending the silver ring rolling toward Jim. Doramin shoots Jim through the heart, and Jim falls dead. Marlow ends the narrative reiterating the dark, romantic nature of Jim's life and his "extraordinary success." Yet, for Marlow, Jim remains "inscrutable at heart," and the meaning of the narrative is still in question. | Commentary It is Marlow, not Jim, who has the last word on Jim's life, noting simply that "e is gone, inscrutable at heart. " The word "heart" has been associated with Jim over and over again. He is described both as having a core, or "heart," that is in some way unknowable or confusing, and also as being at the "heart" of some vast puzzle. The doubled use of this word points back to some of the earlier incidents of confusion over language and the failure of language to have a definitive meaning. Jim's life has no definitive meaning either. The two "hearts" associated with Jim are also suggestive of one of the fundamental problems of the novel: is Jim in fact representative of something larger than himself? Is there an "us" that he is "one of"? Whether he is at the heart of the inscrutable or merely inscrutable at heart is the fundamental question Marlow must answer. By deferring to Stein, and speaking of Stein's approaching end, and by finishing the narrative in a manuscript rather than in another session of storytelling, Marlow avoids the question. Perhaps it is a question that cannot be answered at all; as Marlow notes, some days Jim seems very real to him, some days Jim seems not to have existed at all. As Marlow notes, Jim has " away from a living woman to celebrate his pitiless wedding with a shadowy ideal of conduct." Marlow thus assigns Jim's story to the realm of romance. The ending of Lord Jim suggests more of a fatal collision between romance and realism than any sort of viable, pure romance, though. Jim's choice of the "shadowy ideal of conduct" has led to the deaths of Dain Waris and other men, and to the destruction of Jewel's world. Had Jim not dwelt so fixedly on his failure in the Patna incident, he would have ordered the deaths of Brown and his men, and all would have been well in Patusan. On the other hand, had Jim not dwelt so fixedly on the Patna, he would never have come to Patusan, and arguably not only he but also the people of Patusan are better off for his presence. Idealism and notions of heroism lead to nothing but paradox and sadness. This novel has more in common with Hemingway's tales of damaged and disillusioned men or T.S. Eliot's narratives of the forlorn and impotent than it does with earlier works in which moral upstandingness leads to death with honor, if not a happy ending complete with riches and beautiful women. That this section contains more of the trappings of traditional swashbuckling romance is meant to highlight the contrast. The ending is a mixed one: Jim dies, with a curious mixture of honor and shame, in a manner at least somewhat similar to an old-fashioned hero, while Marlow, like one of Hemingway's protagonists, is left alive, sadder but not necessarily wiser. This is also a section heavier in symbolism than most. The fog which envelops Brown and his men as they head downriver contrasts with the extreme clarity with which Marlow last sees Jim, on the beach with the fishermen. It is also indicative of the amorphous morality of both Brown's and Jim's actions. Brown, after all, thinks he has been double-crossed, based on the information Cornelius has given him. Jim, as we have already seen, is caught in a bind. The night of the Patna's accident was crystal-clear and still; nothing should have obscured Jim's decision-making then. Because he failed then, yet has held on to his ideals, situations no longer have clear solutions. Brown, too, although he seems to be acting logically, is also punished, by being shipwrecked soon afterward and dying a long, drawn-out death. Weather, though, is the primary vehicle for symbolic content. When the fog clears off, Tamb'Itam reports, the sky is in turmoil. Marlow attributes this to a cyclone passing nearby. This is another moment when romance and realism are at odds. In a romantic world, the cyclone would have descended upon Patusan at the moment of Jim's death, symbolizing the disorder in the world that led to the destruction of our hero. In a realistic world, weather would be ordinary and meaningless. The cyclone's close approach suggests a failure of both models; somehow, Jim's death must be given import, yet the issues surrounding it are too muddled and romance too outmoded for the full symbolic performance to occur. This cyclone should be contrasted to the squall that hits the Patna, as well as to the rumored hurricane that wipes out Chester and Robinson's guano-collecting expedition to the Walpole Reef. Here, finally, the storm--the symbol of higher powers or order--fails to impose its meaning. | 637 | 791 | [
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161 | false | novelguide | all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/20.txt | finished_summaries/novelguide/Sense and Sensibility/section_2_part_9.txt | Sense and Sensibility.chapter xx | chapter xx | null | {"name": "Chapter XX", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter12-22", "summary": "At Barton Park the next day, Charlotte Palmer invites the Dashwood sisters to go to town with them that winter or to stay with her at her house in Cleveland. Her house is close to Willoughby's estate, Combe. Charlotte says that everyone expects Willoughby and Marianne to marry. Elinor says that this is the first she has heard of it", "analysis": ""} |
As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next
day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as
good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most
affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them
again.
"I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor and
Marianne, "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come,
which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must
go, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a
sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the
carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I
would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any
thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again
in town very soon, I hope."
They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.
"Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, "I shall be quite
disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the world for
you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I
am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am
confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public."
They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.
"Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered
the room--"you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to
town this winter."
Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began
complaining of the weather.
"How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes every thing and
every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as
without, by rain. It makes one detest all one's acquaintance. What
the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his
house? How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as
the weather."
The rest of the company soon dropt in.
"I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to
take your usual walk to Allenham today."
Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.
"Oh, don't be so sly before us," said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all
about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think
he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the
country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say."
"Much nearer thirty," said her husband.
"Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but
they say it is a sweet pretty place."
"As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer.
Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her
interest in what was said.
"Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer--"then it must be some other
place that is so pretty I suppose."
When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret
that they were only eight all together.
"My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be
so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?"
"Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before,
that it could not be done? They dined with us last."
"You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon such
ceremony."
"Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer.
"My love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual
laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?"
"I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother
ill-bred."
"Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady,
"you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again.
So there I have the whip hand of you."
Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid
of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her,
as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more
thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs.
Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her
husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was
highly diverted.
"Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is
always out of humour."
Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit
for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he
wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by
finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable
bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly
woman,--but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any
sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it.-- It was rather a wish of
distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of
every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. It was
the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too
common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by
establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach
any one to him except his wife.
"Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I have
got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and
spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do,--and come
while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be!
It will be quite delightful!--My love," applying to her husband, "don't
you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?"
"Certainly," he replied, with a sneer--"I came into Devonshire with no
other view."
"There now,"--said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you
cannot refuse to come."
They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.
"But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all
things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful.
You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay
now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing
against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I
never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very
fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him."
Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the
hardship of such an obligation.
"How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in
Parliament!--won't it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to
see all his letters directed to him with an M.P.--But do you know, he
says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won't. Don't you,
Mr. Palmer?"
Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.
"He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued--"he says it is quite
shocking."
"No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don't palm all
your abuses of languages upon me."
"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him!
Sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he
comes out with something so droll--all about any thing in the world."
She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room,
by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively.
"Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable."
"Well--I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant;
and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can
tell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't
come to Cleveland.--I can't imagine why you should object to it."
Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the
subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as
they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some
more particular account of Willoughby's general character, than could
be gathered from the Middletons' partial acquaintance with him; and she
was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as
might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by
inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether
they were intimately acquainted with him.
"Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;--"Not
that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town.
Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was
at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before;--but I was with my uncle
at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of
him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we
should never have been in the country together. He is very little at
Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr.
Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and
besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very
well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then
I shall have her for a neighbour you know."
"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than
I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match."
"Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks
of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town."
"My dear Mrs. Palmer!"
"Upon my honour I did.--I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in
Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly."
"You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely
you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could
not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should
expect Colonel Brandon to do."
"But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how
it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and
so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and
another, and I said to him, 'So, Colonel, there is a new family come to
Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty,
and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe
Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been
in Devonshire so lately.'"
"And what did the Colonel say?"
"Oh--he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so
from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite
delightful, I declare! When is it to take place?"
"Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?"
"Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but
say fine things of you."
"I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I
think him uncommonly pleasing."
"So do I.--He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should
be so grave and so dull. Mama says HE was in love with your sister
too.-- I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly
ever falls in love with any body."
"Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?" said
Elinor.
"Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are
acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all
think him extremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked than
Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She
is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he
is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and
agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. However, I don't
think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think
you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure,
though we could not get him to own it last night."
Mrs. Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very material;
but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her.
"I am so glad we are got acquainted at last," continued
Charlotte.--"And now I hope we shall always be great friends. You
can't think how much I longed to see you! It is so delightful that you
should live at the cottage! Nothing can be like it, to be sure! And I
am so glad your sister is going to be well married! I hope you will be
a great deal at Combe Magna. It is a sweet place, by all accounts."
"You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?"
"Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married.-- He was a
particular friend of Sir John's. I believe," she added in a low voice,
"he would have been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John
and Lady Middleton wished it very much. But mama did not think the
match good enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to
the Colonel, and we should have been married immediately."
"Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to your mother
before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself?"
"Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would have
liked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it
was before I left school. However, I am much happier as I am. Mr.
Palmer is the kind of man I like."
| 2,280 | Chapter XX | https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter12-22 | At Barton Park the next day, Charlotte Palmer invites the Dashwood sisters to go to town with them that winter or to stay with her at her house in Cleveland. Her house is close to Willoughby's estate, Combe. Charlotte says that everyone expects Willoughby and Marianne to marry. Elinor says that this is the first she has heard of it | null | 60 | 1 | [
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1,130 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/1130-chapters/14.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra/section_13_part_0.txt | The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra.act iii.scene ii | act iii, scene ii | null | {"name": "Act III, Scene ii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-iii-scene-ii", "summary": "Back at Caesar's house in Rome, Enobarbus and Agrippa talk while the rest of the group work out the details of the truce and its aftermath: Pompey has already left, Antony will take Octavia and go back to Athens, Caesar is sad to see them go, and Lepidus is pitifully hung over. Enobarbus and Agrippa go back and forth, gently mocking Lepidus about whether he loves Antony or Caesar better. They decide he's the beetle in the center, and the other two men his wings on either side. Clearly, Lepidus is a joke. Just then, Lepidus, Antony, Caesar, and Octavia enter the scene. They're about to say their big goodbyes before they part ways, and Caesar bids Antony to take care of his sister, whose love will seal the bond between the two men. Octavia bids her brother a teary goodbye, and asks to speak to him in his ear. Hearing her words, Enobarbus and Agrippa worry Caesar will cry, as he wept at Philippi over Brutus. Instead, Caesar responds to Octavia's secret plea that he'll think of her and be in touch often. Caesar gives the couple a final blessing, and all exit.", "analysis": ""} | SCENE II.
Rome. CAESAR'S house
Enter AGRIPPA at one door, ENOBARBUS at another
AGRIPPA. What, are the brothers parted?
ENOBARBUS. They have dispatch'd with Pompey; he is gone;
The other three are sealing. Octavia weeps
To part from Rome; Caesar is sad; and Lepidus,
Since Pompey's feast, as Menas says, is troubled
With the green sickness.
AGRIPPA. 'Tis a noble Lepidus.
ENOBARBUS. A very fine one. O, how he loves Caesar!
AGRIPPA. Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony!
ENOBARBUS. Caesar? Why he's the Jupiter of men.
AGRIPPA. What's Antony? The god of Jupiter.
ENOBARBUS. Spake you of Caesar? How! the nonpareil!
AGRIPPA. O, Antony! O thou Arabian bird!
ENOBARBUS. Would you praise Caesar, say 'Caesar'- go no
further.
AGRIPPA. Indeed, he plied them both with excellent praises.
ENOBARBUS. But he loves Caesar best. Yet he loves Antony.
Hoo! hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets, cannot
Think, speak, cast, write, sing, number- hoo!-
His love to Antony. But as for Caesar,
Kneel down, kneel down, and wonder.
AGRIPPA. Both he loves.
ENOBARBUS. They are his shards, and he their beetle. [Trumpets
within] So-
This is to horse. Adieu, noble Agrippa.
AGRIPPA. Good fortune, worthy soldier, and farewell.
Enter CAESAR, ANTONY, LEPIDUS, and OCTAVIA
ANTONY. No further, sir.
CAESAR. You take from me a great part of myself;
Use me well in't. Sister, prove such a wife
As my thoughts make thee, and as my farthest band
Shall pass on thy approof. Most noble Antony,
Let not the piece of virtue which is set
Betwixt us as the cement of our love
To keep it builded be the ram to batter
The fortress of it; for better might we
Have lov'd without this mean, if on both parts
This be not cherish'd.
ANTONY. Make me not offended
In your distrust.
CAESAR. I have said.
ANTONY. You shall not find,
Though you be therein curious, the least cause
For what you seem to fear. So the gods keep you,
And make the hearts of Romans serve your ends!
We will here part.
CAESAR. Farewell, my dearest sister, fare thee well.
The elements be kind to thee and make
Thy spirits all of comfort! Fare thee well.
OCTAVIA. My noble brother!
ANTONY. The April's in her eyes. It is love's spring,
And these the showers to bring it on. Be cheerful.
OCTAVIA. Sir, look well to my husband's house; and-
CAESAR. What, Octavia?
OCTAVIA. I'll tell you in your ear.
ANTONY. Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can
Her heart inform her tongue- the swan's down feather,
That stands upon the swell at the full of tide,
And neither way inclines.
ENOBARBUS. [Aside to AGRIPPA] Will Caesar weep?
AGRIPPA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] He has a cloud in's face.
ENOBARBUS. [Aside to AGRIPPA] He were the worse for that, were
he a
horse;
So is he, being a man.
AGRIPPA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] Why, Enobarbus,
When Antony found Julius Caesar dead,
He cried almost to roaring; and he wept
When at Philippi he found Brutus slain.
ENOBARBUS. [Aside to AGRIPPA] That year, indeed, he was
troubled
with a rheum;
What willingly he did confound he wail'd,
Believe't- till I weep too.
CAESAR. No, sweet Octavia,
You shall hear from me still; the time shall not
Out-go my thinking on you.
ANTONY. Come, sir, come;
I'll wrestle with you in my strength of love.
Look, here I have you; thus I let you go,
And give you to the gods.
CAESAR. Adieu; be happy!
LEPIDUS. Let all the number of the stars give light
To thy fair way!
CAESAR. Farewell, farewell! [Kisses OCTAVIA]
ANTONY. Farewell! Trumpets sound. Exeunt
ACT_3|SC_3
| 835 | Act III, Scene ii | https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-iii-scene-ii | Back at Caesar's house in Rome, Enobarbus and Agrippa talk while the rest of the group work out the details of the truce and its aftermath: Pompey has already left, Antony will take Octavia and go back to Athens, Caesar is sad to see them go, and Lepidus is pitifully hung over. Enobarbus and Agrippa go back and forth, gently mocking Lepidus about whether he loves Antony or Caesar better. They decide he's the beetle in the center, and the other two men his wings on either side. Clearly, Lepidus is a joke. Just then, Lepidus, Antony, Caesar, and Octavia enter the scene. They're about to say their big goodbyes before they part ways, and Caesar bids Antony to take care of his sister, whose love will seal the bond between the two men. Octavia bids her brother a teary goodbye, and asks to speak to him in his ear. Hearing her words, Enobarbus and Agrippa worry Caesar will cry, as he wept at Philippi over Brutus. Instead, Caesar responds to Octavia's secret plea that he'll think of her and be in touch often. Caesar gives the couple a final blessing, and all exit. | null | 194 | 1 | [
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28,054 | true | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/book_11.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Brothers Karamazov/section_10_part_0.txt | The Brothers Karamazov.book 11.chapter 1-chapter 10 | book 11 | null | {"name": "Book 11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422052201/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-brothers-karamazov/study-guide/summary-book-11", "summary": "A couple of months after Dmitri's arrest, Grushenka is undergoing a heavenly metamorphosis. She tells Alyosha that Dmitri is becoming smitten with Katerina again. She also thinks that Ivan and Dmitri have been talking. She thinks the two brothers are making a plan that they are keeping secret from her. She asks if Alyosha can find out what this secret plan is, and Alyosha, her friend, agrees. Alyosha visits Lise, who is agitated and feeling guilty about her life. She longs to experience God's retribution for her wickedness in life. She has no respect for her fellow human beings or the world around her, and she feels a very destructive impulse toward everyone and everything. As Alyosha leaves, she slams the door on her hand in a pathetic show of self-loathing. Alyosha visits Dmitri in prison. Dmitri tells Alyosha that Rakitin wants to write an expose about Dmitri being the victim of circumstances that led to the inevitable murder of his father. Even though Dmitri did not kill his father, he feels guilty for his reckless lifestyle and, much like Lise, feels a desire to be punished for his immorality. He believes that he will have a new lease on life if only Grushenka can come with him during his exile in Siberia. But he fears that the state will not let Grushenka follow him, and without her, he does not know what he will do. Dmitri tells Alyosha that Ivan has visited him and told him a plan he has made for Dmitri's escape. This is the secret that Grushenka suspected. Dmitri asks Alyosha if he thinks Dmitri is guilty, and Alyosha replies that he has always believed in his brother's innocence. Dmitri greatly appreciates his brother's support. Alyosha next visits Katerina, who has just been visited by Ivan. Katerina tells Alyosha she fears that Ivan is going crazy. He feels responsible for his father's death, and it is tormenting him. Alyosha catches up with Ivan to talk to him. He asks his brother what is troubling him, and Ivan tells Alyosha that Katerina has evidence that damns Dmitri. Alyosha wants to reassure his brother, but he is honest to a fault. Since he is convinced of Dmitri's innocence, he cannot believe that Katerina can have any evidence that proves an innocent man to be guilty. Alyosha also realizes that Ivan feels guilty for their father's death. He tells Ivan that God has given him the task of comforting him. He tells Ivan that he is not responsible for the murder-he is certain by divine knowledge. Ivan does not think that this comfort is founded in logic, however. Ivan is disgusted by Alyosha's talk of God and forgiveness. He asks Alyosha a question about the day Dmitri attacked their father. He asks if Alyosha believed that he wished that Dmitri would kill his father, that \"one beast would devour the other?\" Alyosha admits that he thought his brother was thinking this. Ivan thanks him bitterly and leaves. Ivan feels sick, but his sickness has more to do with Smerdyakov than with Alyosha. Smerdyakov is still in the hospital from his seizure the night of the murder. He says he knows Ivan wished for his father's death, and he stayed out of the way to facilitate this. Ivan, enraged, hits Smerdyakov, but this does not stop the servant from torturing Ivan with his theories. He says that Ivan wanted to leave for Moscow when Fyodor was murdered because he wanted to wash his hands of what he knew would be a messy situation. Ivan tells Smerdyakov he will not report his ability to fake a seizure to the authorities if Smerdyakov will stay silent about their previous conversation before the murder. Smerdyakov says Ivan probably just wanted his inheritance, and this is why he wanted his father dead. Ivan leaves and wrestles with the idea that he may be partly guilty for Fyodor's murder if Smerdyakov did indeed kill Fyodor. He visits Katerina and confesses his contrition to her. She eases his mind by telling him she has a letter from Dmitri saying that Dmitri will kill Fyodor as a last resort to reimburse her. Ivan feels better, thinking it is his brother Dmitri who is the culprit, not Smerdyakov. He leaves, somewhat comforted. But when Ivan talks to Smerdyakov again, Smerdyakov shatters his peace of mind by admitting to the murder. Worse, he tells Ivan that it was Ivan's words that helped him rationalize the act. \"It was you who killed him all right,\" says Smerdyakov. He gives Ivan the 3,000 rubles he stole from Fyodor, and he begins to explain how he murdered the man. He explains how he faked an epileptic seizure the night of the murder . Smerdyakov tells Ivan that it was through their conversations about immorality and the nonexistence of God that he found the strength and rationalization to commit the murder. He explains that, after Dmitri attacked Grigory, Smerdyakov seized the opportunity to commit the murder. He lured Fyodor out of his room by saying Grushenka had come. Then, as Fyodor leaned out the window, he hit him with a paperweight. After Ivan is convinced that Smerdyakov did commit the murder and that it was his words that made the murder possible, he leaves Smerdyakov. When Ivan goes back home, he resolves to tell the court about Smerdyakov's confession during Dmitri's trial. To his chagrin, he finds a devil in his room, who chides Ivan about his wickedness. Blind with tears of rage, Ivan throws a cup at the devil. Alyosha comes to his door and tells Ivan that Smerdyakov has just hanged himself. Ivan's behavior worries Alyosha, but when he asks his brother what is wrong, Ivan is too upset to describe his ordeal with the devil. Alyosha realizes that Ivan is having a nervous breakdown, and he stays with his brother for the night.", "analysis": "Many characters experience intense guilt in the novel. Dmitri feels guilty for his treatment of Katerina, and Grushenka and Lise both express regret for their depravity. Ivan's guilt is even more extreme. He feels responsible for the murder he did not commit. There is a universal longing for catharsis and redemption among the characters in this novel. Though many characters feel contrition for their actions, it is not always clear if they deserve such castigation for their sins. Lise and Grushenka, for instance, are good-hearted girls, and \"wickedness\" is not something that obviously applies to them. Even Ivan, whose guilt is greater than any single character's guilt in the novel, feels guilty for a crime he did not technically commit. Father Zossima has laid out the idea that all men share in the sins of all other men, but many characters in this novel seems to feel the entire burden, not just a share. Ivan does not feel that he shares guilt; he feels that he is the only one responsible for his father's murder. Perhaps the characters all have inflated their own culpability. Dostoevsky puts stock in guilt and suffering. Father Zossima's lesson about men sharing each other's sins is thus somewhat misleading. One man's rightful guilt can be confused for his feelings of guilt, even if these feelings are misplaced. Some characters rationalize their internal turmoil, when in fact they are simply feeling the weight of hard times. Smerdyakov is an exception to this widespread guilt complex. He single-handedly murders Fyodor, yet he does not blame himself at all. Despite the fact that he is the only character technically guilty of this act, he feels the least liability for it. Smerdyakov is an unfeeling aberration. Can the actual act of murder be such a small proportion of the sin of killing a man? This seems counter to Dostoevsky's feelings of murder; characters in Dostoevsky's novels sometimes commit murder because they believe that some people do not deserve to live. They are eventually punished for their sins. For instance, Dostoevsky does not make Fyodor seem sympathetic. He does not make the old Karamazov seem anything but wicked, and his murder seems at worst logical and at best imminent. The only reason his killers feel guilt is because murder is against positive law and divine law. Hence, realizing that these men hardly deserve life is not a sin, but actually taking life is a sin. It follows that Smerdyakov is the only one who is truly responsible for the murder, but everyone else suffers for their part, real or imagined. Dostoevsky does not address the fact that characters like Ivan may be suffering without reason. Dostoevsky brings complexity to the point. He seemingly condemns the act of murder while allowing hateful feelings. He also promotes universal love toward all creatures while simultaneously portraying some characters as despicable beings unworthy of almost any kind of love. Perhaps it is this ambivalence that leads his characters to feel burdened with guilt. One of the most shocking events in the novel occurs when Ivan returns to find a devil in his room. Since no one else sees the devil, we assume it is a figment of Ivan's imagination. The devil is very real to Ivan, however. A devil is a very meaningful symbol in this novel--but not to Ivan. When Father Ferapont sees devils in Zossima's cell after Zossima's death, he is decried as a lunatic. He is religious--but Ivan does not believe in God at all, so why would his subconscious manifest a devil? More importantly, why would Dostoevsky choose to represent Ivan's conscience as a devil? Maybe Ivan is experiencing a religious awakening, realizing that his atheism has been wrong all along. That does not seem quite right, nor is the devil intended to be real. If the novel has a moral center, it is Father Zossima and his teachings, which might permit the reality of devils in the background, yet this is not part of Ivan's ontology. Ivan may be seeing a devil because devils are part of the mythic-religious culture of his town. If devils do exist, Father Ferapont is the only character in the novel who has an accurate conception of the world. Atheists like Ivan do not believe in God at all, and Alyosha and Father Zossima believe in a world of love and caring where devils are not needed; bad people are bad enough. The suggestion that devils do exist is quite a turn, casting doubt on the spiritual and moral center of the novel. Fyodor is not at the extreme anymore, now that devils are among the people. Before this, all signs have led to the view that Father Zossima's teachings are the moral anchor that holds everyone together. If characters stray from this path of love and understanding, they find longing and remorse. If they adhere to it as Alyosha does, they find strength and purpose. But a devil represents not just judgment but also evil, what is often glossed over in Father Zossima's world of sympathy and compassion. Despite the new, more fragile moral center in the novel, Alyosha's faith in his purpose and understanding of the world remain as strong as ever through the end of the novel. Love and understanding continue to help characters find personal salvation. From the point of view of an Ivan, if he could look at the whole story as we do, he might see a subtle implication that a religious lifestyle, even if deluded in some ways, is a decent and helpful one. For someone who is deeply ambivalent about religion, the introduction of a devil produces a complexity that might appeal to a rational mind that sees both good and evil in the world. Loving one's neighbor is a good thing, often producing good results even if one's motivations are misguided, and if there is something more beyond the tangible world, even if one does not understand it, it might seem reasonable to perceive devils as well as angels, a reality at least as complex as the one already on earth. When Dostoevsky brings a devil into Ivan's room, he thus sheds light on some of his own religious questions and ideas."} | 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.
Chapter II. The Injured Foot
The first of these things was at the house of Madame Hohlakov, and he
hurried there to get it over as quickly as possible and not be too late
for Mitya. Madame Hohlakov had been slightly ailing for the last three
weeks: her foot had for some reason swollen up, and though she was not in
bed, she lay all day half-reclining on the couch in her boudoir, in a
fascinating but decorous _deshabille_. Alyosha had once noted with
innocent amusement that, in spite of her illness, Madame Hohlakov had
begun to be rather dressy--top-knots, ribbons, loose wrappers, had made
their appearance, and he had an inkling of the reason, though he dismissed
such ideas from his mind as frivolous. During the last two months the
young official, Perhotin, had become a regular visitor at the house.
Alyosha had not called for four days and he was in haste to go straight to
Lise, as it was with her he had to speak, for Lise had sent a maid to him
the previous day, specially asking him to come to her "about something
very important," a request which, for certain reasons, had interest for
Alyosha. But while the maid went to take his name in to Lise, Madame
Hohlakov heard of his arrival from some one, and immediately sent to beg
him to come to her "just for one minute." Alyosha reflected that it was
better to accede to the mamma's request, or else she would be sending down
to Lise's room every minute that he was there. Madame Hohlakov was lying
on a couch. She was particularly smartly dressed and was evidently in a
state of extreme nervous excitement. She greeted Alyosha with cries of
rapture.
"It's ages, ages, perfect ages since I've seen you! It's a whole week--only
think of it! Ah, but you were here only four days ago, on Wednesday. You
have come to see Lise. I'm sure you meant to slip into her room on tiptoe,
without my hearing you. My dear, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, if you only
knew how worried I am about her! But of that later, though that's the most
important thing, of that later. Dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, I trust you
implicitly with my Lise. Since the death of Father Zossima--God rest his
soul!" (she crossed herself)--"I look upon you as a monk, though you look
charming in your new suit. Where did you find such a tailor in these
parts? No, no, that's not the chief thing--of that later. Forgive me for
sometimes calling you Alyosha; an old woman like me may take liberties,"
she smiled coquettishly; "but that will do later, too. The important thing
is that I shouldn't forget what is important. Please remind me of it
yourself. As soon as my tongue runs away with me, you just say 'the
important thing?' Ach! how do I know now what is of most importance? Ever
since Lise took back her promise--her childish promise, Alexey
Fyodorovitch--to marry you, you've realized, of course, that it was only
the playful fancy of a sick child who had been so long confined to her
chair--thank God, she can walk now!... that new doctor Katya sent for from
Moscow for your unhappy brother, who will to-morrow--But why speak of to-
morrow? I am ready to die at the very thought of to-morrow. Ready to die
of curiosity.... That doctor was with us yesterday and saw Lise.... I paid
him fifty roubles for the visit. But that's not the point, that's not the
point again. You see, I'm mixing everything up. I am in such a hurry. Why
am I in a hurry? I don't understand. It's awful how I seem growing unable
to understand anything. Everything seems mixed up in a sort of tangle. I
am afraid you are so bored you will jump up and run away, and that will be
all I shall see of you. Goodness! Why are we sitting here and no coffee?
Yulia, Glafira, coffee!"
Alyosha made haste to thank her, and said that he had only just had
coffee.
"Where?"
"At Agrafena Alexandrovna's."
"At ... at that woman's? Ah, it's she has brought ruin on every one. I
know nothing about it though. They say she has become a saint, though it's
rather late in the day. She had better have done it before. What use is it
now? Hush, hush, Alexey Fyodorovitch, for I have so much to say to you
that I am afraid I shall tell you nothing. This awful trial ... I shall
certainly go, I am making arrangements. I shall be carried there in my
chair; besides I can sit up. I shall have people with me. And, you know, I
am a witness. How shall I speak, how shall I speak? I don't know what I
shall say. One has to take an oath, hasn't one?"
"Yes; but I don't think you will be able to go."
"I can sit up. Ah, you put me out! Ah! this trial, this savage act, and
then they are all going to Siberia, some are getting married, and all this
so quickly, so quickly, everything's changing, and at last--nothing. All
grow old and have death to look forward to. Well, so be it! I am weary.
This Katya, _cette charmante personne_, has disappointed all my hopes. Now
she is going to follow one of your brothers to Siberia, and your other
brother is going to follow her, and will live in the nearest town, and
they will all torment one another. It drives me out of my mind. Worst of
all--the publicity. The story has been told a million times over in all the
papers in Moscow and Petersburg. Ah! yes, would you believe it, there's a
paragraph that I was 'a dear friend' of your brother's ----, I can't repeat
the horrid word. Just fancy, just fancy!"
"Impossible! Where was the paragraph? What did it say?"
"I'll show you directly. I got the paper and read it yesterday. Here, in
the Petersburg paper _Gossip_. The paper began coming out this year. I am
awfully fond of gossip, and I take it in, and now it pays me out--this is
what gossip comes to! Here it is, here, this passage. Read it."
And she handed Alyosha a sheet of newspaper which had been under her
pillow.
It was not exactly that she was upset, she seemed overwhelmed and perhaps
everything really was mixed up in a tangle in her head. The paragraph was
very typical, and must have been a great shock to her, but, fortunately
perhaps, she was unable to keep her mind fixed on any one subject at that
moment, and so might race off in a minute to something else and quite
forget the newspaper.
Alyosha was well aware that the story of the terrible case had spread all
over Russia. And, good heavens! what wild rumors about his brother, about
the Karamazovs, and about himself he had read in the course of those two
months, among other equally credible items! One paper had even stated that
he had gone into a monastery and become a monk, in horror at his brother's
crime. Another contradicted this, and stated that he and his elder, Father
Zossima, had broken into the monastery chest and "made tracks from the
monastery." The present paragraph in the paper _Gossip_ was under the
heading, "The Karamazov Case at Skotoprigonyevsk." (That, alas! was the
name of our little town. I had hitherto kept it concealed.) It was brief,
and Madame Hohlakov was not directly mentioned in it. No names appeared,
in fact. It was merely stated that the criminal, whose approaching trial
was making such a sensation--retired army captain, an idle swaggerer, and
reactionary bully--was continually involved in amorous intrigues, and
particularly popular with certain ladies "who were pining in solitude."
One such lady, a pining widow, who tried to seem young though she had a
grown-up daughter, was so fascinated by him that only two hours before the
crime she offered him three thousand roubles, on condition that he would
elope with her to the gold mines. But the criminal, counting on escaping
punishment, had preferred to murder his father to get the three thousand
rather than go off to Siberia with the middle-aged charms of his pining
lady. This playful paragraph finished, of course, with an outburst of
generous indignation at the wickedness of parricide and at the lately
abolished institution of serfdom. Reading it with curiosity, Alyosha
folded up the paper and handed it back to Madame Hohlakov.
"Well, that must be me," she hurried on again. "Of course I am meant.
Scarcely more than an hour before, I suggested gold mines to him, and here
they talk of 'middle-aged charms' as though that were my motive! He writes
that out of spite! God Almighty forgive him for the middle-aged charms, as
I forgive him! You know it's-- Do you know who it is? It's your friend
Rakitin."
"Perhaps," said Alyosha, "though I've heard nothing about it."
"It's he, it's he! No 'perhaps' about it. You know I turned him out of the
house.... You know all that story, don't you?"
"I know that you asked him not to visit you for the future, but why it
was, I haven't heard ... from you, at least."
"Ah, then you've heard it from him! He abuses me, I suppose, abuses me
dreadfully?"
"Yes, he does; but then he abuses every one. But why you've given him up I
haven't heard from him either. I meet him very seldom now, indeed. We are
not friends."
"Well, then, I'll tell you all about it. There's no help for it, I'll
confess, for there is one point in which I was perhaps to blame. Only a
little, little point, so little that perhaps it doesn't count. You see, my
dear boy"--Madame Hohlakov suddenly looked arch and a charming, though
enigmatic, smile played about her lips--"you see, I suspect ... You must
forgive me, Alyosha. I am like a mother to you.... No, no; quite the
contrary. I speak to you now as though you were my father--mother's quite
out of place. Well, it's as though I were confessing to Father Zossima,
that's just it. I called you a monk just now. Well, that poor young man,
your friend, Rakitin (Mercy on us! I can't be angry with him. I feel
cross, but not very), that frivolous young man, would you believe it,
seems to have taken it into his head to fall in love with me. I only
noticed it later. At first--a month ago--he only began to come oftener to
see me, almost every day; though, of course, we were acquainted before. I
knew nothing about it ... and suddenly it dawned upon me, and I began to
notice things with surprise. You know, two months ago, that modest,
charming, excellent young man, Pyotr Ilyitch Perhotin, who's in the
service here, began to be a regular visitor at the house. You met him here
ever so many times yourself. And he is an excellent, earnest young man,
isn't he? He comes once every three days, not every day (though I should
be glad to see him every day), and always so well dressed. Altogether, I
love young people, Alyosha, talented, modest, like you, and he has almost
the mind of a statesman, he talks so charmingly, and I shall certainly,
certainly try and get promotion for him. He is a future diplomat. On that
awful day he almost saved me from death by coming in the night. And your
friend Rakitin comes in such boots, and always stretches them out on the
carpet.... He began hinting at his feelings, in fact, and one day, as he
was going, he squeezed my hand terribly hard. My foot began to swell
directly after he pressed my hand like that. He had met Pyotr Ilyitch here
before, and would you believe it, he is always gibing at him, growling at
him, for some reason. I simply looked at the way they went on together and
laughed inwardly. So I was sitting here alone--no, I was laid up then.
Well, I was lying here alone and suddenly Rakitin comes in, and only
fancy! brought me some verses of his own composition--a short poem, on my
bad foot: that is, he described my foot in a poem. Wait a minute--how did
it go?
A captivating little foot.
It began somehow like that. I can never remember poetry. I've got it here.
I'll show it to you later. But it's a charming thing--charming; and, you
know, it's not only about the foot, it had a good moral, too, a charming
idea, only I've forgotten it; in fact, it was just the thing for an album.
So, of course, I thanked him, and he was evidently flattered. I'd hardly
had time to thank him when in comes Pyotr Ilyitch, and Rakitin suddenly
looked as black as night. I could see that Pyotr Ilyitch was in the way,
for Rakitin certainly wanted to say something after giving me the verses.
I had a presentiment of it; but Pyotr Ilyitch came in. I showed Pyotr
Ilyitch the verses and didn't say who was the author. But I am convinced
that he guessed, though he won't own it to this day, and declares he had
no idea. But he says that on purpose. Pyotr Ilyitch began to laugh at
once, and fell to criticizing it. 'Wretched doggerel,' he said they were,
'some divinity student must have written them,' and with such vehemence,
such vehemence! Then, instead of laughing, your friend flew into a rage.
'Good gracious!' I thought, 'they'll fly at each other.' 'It was I who
wrote them,' said he. 'I wrote them as a joke,' he said, 'for I think it
degrading to write verses.... But they are good poetry. They want to put a
monument to your Pushkin for writing about women's feet, while I wrote
with a moral purpose, and you,' said he, 'are an advocate of serfdom.
You've no humane ideas,' said he. 'You have no modern enlightened
feelings, you are uninfluenced by progress, you are a mere official,' he
said, 'and you take bribes.' Then I began screaming and imploring them.
And, you know, Pyotr Ilyitch is anything but a coward. He at once took up
the most gentlemanly tone, looked at him sarcastically, listened, and
apologized. 'I'd no idea,' said he. 'I shouldn't have said it, if I had
known. I should have praised it. Poets are all so irritable,' he said. In
short, he laughed at him under cover of the most gentlemanly tone. He
explained to me afterwards that it was all sarcastic. I thought he was in
earnest. Only as I lay there, just as before you now, I thought, 'Would
it, or would it not, be the proper thing for me to turn Rakitin out for
shouting so rudely at a visitor in my house?' And, would you believe it, I
lay here, shut my eyes, and wondered, would it be the proper thing or not.
I kept worrying and worrying, and my heart began to beat, and I couldn't
make up my mind whether to make an outcry or not. One voice seemed to be
telling me, 'Speak,' and the other 'No, don't speak.' And no sooner had
the second voice said that than I cried out, and fainted. Of course, there
was a fuss. I got up suddenly and said to Rakitin, 'It's painful for me to
say it, but I don't wish to see you in my house again.' So I turned him
out. Ah! Alexey Fyodorovitch, I know myself I did wrong. I was putting it
on. I wasn't angry with him at all, really; but I suddenly fancied--that
was what did it--that it would be such a fine scene.... And yet, believe
me, it was quite natural, for I really shed tears and cried for several
days afterwards, and then suddenly, one afternoon, I forgot all about it.
So it's a fortnight since he's been here, and I kept wondering whether he
would come again. I wondered even yesterday, then suddenly last night came
this _Gossip_. I read it and gasped. Who could have written it? He must
have written it. He went home, sat down, wrote it on the spot, sent it,
and they put it in. It was a fortnight ago, you see. But, Alyosha, it's
awful how I keep talking and don't say what I want to say. Ah! the words
come of themselves!"
"It's very important for me to be in time to see my brother to-day,"
Alyosha faltered.
"To be sure, to be sure! You bring it all back to me. Listen, what is an
aberration?"
"What aberration?" asked Alyosha, wondering.
"In the legal sense. An aberration in which everything is pardonable.
Whatever you do, you will be acquitted at once."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll tell you. This Katya ... Ah! she is a charming, charming creature,
only I never can make out who it is she is in love with. She was with me
some time ago and I couldn't get anything out of her. Especially as she
won't talk to me except on the surface now. She is always talking about my
health and nothing else, and she takes up such a tone with me, too. I
simply said to myself, 'Well, so be it. I don't care'... Oh, yes. I was
talking of aberration. This doctor has come. You know a doctor has come?
Of course, you know it--the one who discovers madmen. You wrote for him.
No, it wasn't you, but Katya. It's all Katya's doing. Well, you see, a man
may be sitting perfectly sane and suddenly have an aberration. He may be
conscious and know what he is doing and yet be in a state of aberration.
And there's no doubt that Dmitri Fyodorovitch was suffering from
aberration. They found out about aberration as soon as the law courts were
reformed. It's all the good effect of the reformed law courts. The doctor
has been here and questioned me about that evening, about the gold mines.
'How did he seem then?' he asked me. He must have been in a state of
aberration. He came in shouting, 'Money, money, three thousand! Give me
three thousand!' and then went away and immediately did the murder. 'I
don't want to murder him,' he said, and he suddenly went and murdered him.
That's why they'll acquit him, because he struggled against it and yet he
murdered him."
"But he didn't murder him," Alyosha interrupted rather sharply. He felt
more and more sick with anxiety and impatience.
"Yes, I know it was that old man Grigory murdered him."
"Grigory?" cried Alyosha.
"Yes, yes; it was Grigory. He lay as Dmitri Fyodorovitch struck him down,
and then got up, saw the door open, went in and killed Fyodor Pavlovitch."
"But why, why?"
"Suffering from aberration. When he recovered from the blow Dmitri
Fyodorovitch gave him on the head, he was suffering from aberration; he
went and committed the murder. As for his saying he didn't, he very likely
doesn't remember. Only, you know, it'll be better, ever so much better, if
Dmitri Fyodorovitch murdered him. And that's how it must have been, though
I say it was Grigory. It certainly was Dmitri Fyodorovitch, and that's
better, ever so much better! Oh! not better that a son should have killed
his father, I don't defend that. Children ought to honor their parents,
and yet it would be better if it were he, as you'd have nothing to cry
over then, for he did it when he was unconscious or rather when he was
conscious, but did not know what he was doing. Let them acquit him--that's
so humane, and would show what a blessing reformed law courts are. I knew
nothing about it, but they say they have been so a long time. And when I
heard it yesterday, I was so struck by it that I wanted to send for you at
once. And if he is acquitted, make him come straight from the law courts
to dinner with me, and I'll have a party of friends, and we'll drink to
the reformed law courts. I don't believe he'd be dangerous; besides, I'll
invite a great many friends, so that he could always be led out if he did
anything. And then he might be made a justice of the peace or something in
another town, for those who have been in trouble themselves make the best
judges. And, besides, who isn't suffering from aberration nowadays?--you,
I, all of us are in a state of aberration, and there are ever so many
examples of it: a man sits singing a song, suddenly something annoys him,
he takes a pistol and shoots the first person he comes across, and no one
blames him for it. I read that lately, and all the doctors confirm it. The
doctors are always confirming; they confirm anything. Why, my Lise is in a
state of aberration. She made me cry again yesterday, and the day before,
too, and to-day I suddenly realized that it's all due to aberration. Oh,
Lise grieves me so! I believe she's quite mad. Why did she send for you?
Did she send for you or did you come of yourself?"
"Yes, she sent for me, and I am just going to her." Alyosha got up
resolutely.
"Oh, my dear, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, perhaps that's what's most
important," Madame Hohlakov cried, suddenly bursting into tears. "God
knows I trust Lise to you with all my heart, and it's no matter her
sending for you on the sly, without telling her mother. But forgive me, I
can't trust my daughter so easily to your brother Ivan Fyodorovitch,
though I still consider him the most chivalrous young man. But only fancy,
he's been to see Lise and I knew nothing about it!"
"How? What? When?" Alyosha was exceedingly surprised. He had not sat down
again and listened standing.
"I will tell you; that's perhaps why I asked you to come, for I don't know
now why I did ask you to come. Well, Ivan Fyodorovitch has been to see me
twice, since he came back from Moscow. First time he came as a friend to
call on me, and the second time Katya was here and he came because he
heard she was here. I didn't, of course, expect him to come often, knowing
what a lot he has to do as it is, _vous comprenez, cette affaire et la
mort terrible de votre papa_. But I suddenly heard he'd been here again,
not to see me but to see Lise. That's six days ago now. He came, stayed
five minutes, and went away. And I didn't hear of it till three days
afterwards, from Glafira, so it was a great shock to me. I sent for Lise
directly. She laughed. 'He thought you were asleep,' she said, 'and came
in to me to ask after your health.' Of course, that's how it happened. But
Lise, Lise, mercy on us, how she distresses me! Would you believe it, one
night, four days ago, just after you saw her last time, and had gone away,
she suddenly had a fit, screaming, shrieking, hysterics! Why is it I never
have hysterics? Then, next day another fit, and the same thing on the
third, and yesterday too, and then yesterday that aberration. She suddenly
screamed out, 'I hate Ivan Fyodorovitch. I insist on your never letting
him come to the house again.' I was struck dumb at these amazing words,
and answered, 'On what grounds could I refuse to see such an excellent
young man, a young man of such learning too, and so unfortunate?'--for all
this business is a misfortune, isn't it? She suddenly burst out laughing
at my words, and so rudely, you know. Well, I was pleased; I thought I had
amused her and the fits would pass off, especially as I wanted to refuse
to see Ivan Fyodorovitch anyway on account of his strange visits without
my knowledge, and meant to ask him for an explanation. But early this
morning Lise waked up and flew into a passion with Yulia and, would you
believe it, slapped her in the face. That's monstrous; I am always polite
to my servants. And an hour later she was hugging Yulia's feet and kissing
them. She sent a message to me that she wasn't coming to me at all, and
would never come and see me again, and when I dragged myself down to her,
she rushed to kiss me, crying, and as she kissed me, she pushed me out of
the room without saying a word, so I couldn't find out what was the
matter. Now, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, I rest all my hopes on you, and, of
course, my whole life is in your hands. I simply beg you to go to Lise and
find out everything from her, as you alone can, and come back and tell
me--me, her mother, for you understand it will be the death of me, simply
the death of me, if this goes on, or else I shall run away. I can stand no
more. I have patience; but I may lose patience, and then ... then
something awful will happen. Ah, dear me! At last, Pyotr Ilyitch!" cried
Madame Hohlakov, beaming all over as she saw Perhotin enter the room. "You
are late, you are late! Well, sit down, speak, put us out of suspense.
What does the counsel say. Where are you off to, Alexey Fyodorovitch?"
"To Lise."
"Oh, yes. You won't forget, you won't forget what I asked you? It's a
question of life and death!"
"Of course, I won't forget, if I can ... but I am so late," muttered
Alyosha, beating a hasty retreat.
"No, be sure, be sure to come in; don't say 'If you can.' I shall die if
you don't," Madame Hohlakov called after him, but Alyosha had already left
the room.
Chapter III. A Little Demon
Going in to Lise, he found her half reclining in the invalid-chair, in
which she had been wheeled when she was unable to walk. She did not move
to meet him, but her sharp, keen eyes were simply riveted on his face.
There was a feverish look in her eyes, her face was pale and yellow.
Alyosha was amazed at the change that had taken place in her in three
days. She was positively thinner. She did not hold out her hand to him. He
touched the thin, long fingers which lay motionless on her dress, then he
sat down facing her, without a word.
"I know you are in a hurry to get to the prison," Lise said curtly, "and
mamma's kept you there for hours; she's just been telling you about me and
Yulia."
"How do you know?" asked Alyosha.
"I've been listening. Why do you stare at me? I want to listen and I do
listen, there's no harm in that. I don't apologize."
"You are upset about something?"
"On the contrary, I am very happy. I've only just been reflecting for the
thirtieth time what a good thing it is I refused you and shall not be your
wife. You are not fit to be a husband. If I were to marry you and give you
a note to take to the man I loved after you, you'd take it and be sure to
give it to him and bring an answer back, too. If you were forty, you would
still go on taking my love-letters for me."
She suddenly laughed.
"There is something spiteful and yet open-hearted about you," Alyosha
smiled to her.
"The open-heartedness consists in my not being ashamed of myself with you.
What's more, I don't want to feel ashamed with you, just with you.
Alyosha, why is it I don't respect you? I am very fond of you, but I don't
respect you. If I respected you, I shouldn't talk to you without shame,
should I?"
"No."
"But do you believe that I am not ashamed with you?"
"No, I don't believe it."
Lise laughed nervously again; she spoke rapidly.
"I sent your brother, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, some sweets in prison. Alyosha,
you know, you are quite pretty! I shall love you awfully for having so
quickly allowed me not to love you."
"Why did you send for me to-day, Lise?"
"I wanted to tell you of a longing I have. I should like some one to
torture me, marry me and then torture me, deceive me and go away. I don't
want to be happy."
"You are in love with disorder?"
"Yes, I want disorder. I keep wanting to set fire to the house. I keep
imagining how I'll creep up and set fire to the house on the sly; it must
be on the sly. They'll try to put it out, but it'll go on burning. And I
shall know and say nothing. Ah, what silliness! And how bored I am!"
She waved her hand with a look of repulsion.
"It's your luxurious life," said Alyosha, softly.
"Is it better, then, to be poor?"
"Yes, it is better."
"That's what your monk taught you. That's not true. Let me be rich and all
the rest poor, I'll eat sweets and drink cream and not give any to any one
else. Ach, don't speak, don't say anything," she shook her hand at him,
though Alyosha had not opened his mouth. "You've told me all that before,
I know it all by heart. It bores me. If I am ever poor, I shall murder
somebody, and even if I am rich, I may murder some one, perhaps--why do
nothing! But do you know, I should like to reap, cut the rye? I'll marry
you, and you shall become a peasant, a real peasant; we'll keep a colt,
shall we? Do you know Kalganov?"
"Yes."
"He is always wandering about, dreaming. He says, 'Why live in real life?
It's better to dream. One can dream the most delightful things, but real
life is a bore.' But he'll be married soon for all that; he's been making
love to me already. Can you spin tops?"
"Yes."
"Well, he's just like a top: he wants to be wound up and set spinning and
then to be lashed, lashed, lashed with a whip. If I marry him, I'll keep
him spinning all his life. You are not ashamed to be with me?"
"No."
"You are awfully cross, because I don't talk about holy things. I don't
want to be holy. What will they do to one in the next world for the
greatest sin? You must know all about that."
"God will censure you." Alyosha was watching her steadily.
"That's just what I should like. I would go up and they would censure me,
and I would burst out laughing in their faces. I should dreadfully like to
set fire to the house, Alyosha, to our house; you still don't believe me?"
"Why? There are children of twelve years old, who have a longing to set
fire to something and they do set things on fire, too. It's a sort of
disease."
"That's not true, that's not true; there may be children, but that's not
what I mean."
"You take evil for good; it's a passing crisis, it's the result of your
illness, perhaps."
"You do despise me, though! It's simply that I don't want to do good, I
want to do evil, and it has nothing to do with illness."
"Why do evil?"
"So that everything might be destroyed. Ah, how nice it would be if
everything were destroyed! You know, Alyosha, I sometimes think of doing a
fearful lot of harm and everything bad, and I should do it for a long
while on the sly and suddenly every one would find it out. Every one will
stand round and point their fingers at me and I would look at them all.
That would be awfully nice. Why would it be so nice, Alyosha?"
"I don't know. It's a craving to destroy something good or, as you say, to
set fire to something. It happens sometimes."
"I not only say it, I shall do it."
"I believe you."
"Ah, how I love you for saying you believe me. And you are not lying one
little bit. But perhaps you think that I am saying all this on purpose to
annoy you?"
"No, I don't think that ... though perhaps there is a little desire to do
that in it, too."
"There is a little. I never can tell lies to you," she declared, with a
strange fire in her eyes.
What struck Alyosha above everything was her earnestness. There was not a
trace of humor or jesting in her face now, though, in old days, fun and
gayety never deserted her even at her most "earnest" moments.
"There are moments when people love crime," said Alyosha thoughtfully.
"Yes, yes! You have uttered my thought; they love crime, every one loves
crime, they love it always, not at some 'moments.' You know, it's as
though people have made an agreement to lie about it and have lied about
it ever since. They all declare that they hate evil, but secretly they all
love it."
"And are you still reading nasty books?"
"Yes, I am. Mamma reads them and hides them under her pillow and I steal
them."
"Aren't you ashamed to destroy yourself?"
"I want to destroy myself. There's a boy here, who lay down between the
railway lines when the train was passing. Lucky fellow! Listen, your
brother is being tried now for murdering his father and every one loves
his having killed his father."
"Loves his having killed his father?"
"Yes, loves it; every one loves it! Everybody says it's so awful, but
secretly they simply love it. I for one love it."
"There is some truth in what you say about every one," said Alyosha
softly.
"Oh, what ideas you have!" Lise shrieked in delight. "And you a monk, too!
You wouldn't believe how I respect you, Alyosha, for never telling lies.
Oh, I must tell you a funny dream of mine. I sometimes dream of devils.
It's night; I am in my room with a candle and suddenly there are devils
all over the place, in all the corners, under the table, and they open the
doors; there's a crowd of them behind the doors and they want to come and
seize me. And they are just coming, just seizing me. But I suddenly cross
myself and they all draw back, though they don't go away altogether, they
stand at the doors and in the corners, waiting. And suddenly I have a
frightful longing to revile God aloud, and so I begin, and then they come
crowding back to me, delighted, and seize me again and I cross myself
again and they all draw back. It's awful fun. it takes one's breath away."
"I've had the same dream, too," said Alyosha suddenly.
"Really?" cried Lise, surprised. "I say, Alyosha, don't laugh, that's
awfully important. Could two different people have the same dream?"
"It seems they can."
"Alyosha, I tell you, it's awfully important," Lise went on, with really
excessive amazement. "It's not the dream that's important, but your having
the same dream as me. You never lie to me, don't lie now: is it true? You
are not laughing?"
"It's true."
Lise seemed extraordinarily impressed and for half a minute she was
silent.
"Alyosha, come and see me, come and see me more often," she said suddenly,
in a supplicating voice.
"I'll always come to see you, all my life," answered Alyosha firmly.
"You are the only person I can talk to, you know," Lise began again. "I
talk to no one but myself and you. Only you in the whole world. And to you
more readily than to myself. And I am not a bit ashamed with you, not a
bit. Alyosha, why am I not ashamed with you, not a bit? Alyosha, is it
true that at Easter the Jews steal a child and kill it?"
"I don't know."
"There's a book here in which I read about the trial of a Jew, who took a
child of four years old and cut off the fingers from both hands, and then
crucified him on the wall, hammered nails into him and crucified him, and
afterwards, when he was tried, he said that the child died soon, within
four hours. That was 'soon'! He said the child moaned, kept on moaning and
he stood admiring it. That's nice!"
"Nice?"
"Nice; I sometimes imagine that it was I who crucified him. He would hang
there moaning and I would sit opposite him eating pineapple _compote_. I
am awfully fond of pineapple _compote_. Do you like it?"
Alyosha looked at her in silence. Her pale, sallow face was suddenly
contorted, her eyes burned.
"You know, when I read about that Jew I shook with sobs all night. I kept
fancying how the little thing cried and moaned (a child of four years old
understands, you know), and all the while the thought of pineapple
_compote_ haunted me. In the morning I wrote a letter to a certain person,
begging him _particularly_ to come and see me. He came and I suddenly told
him all about the child and the pineapple _compote_. _All_ about it,
_all_, and said that it was nice. He laughed and said it really was nice.
Then he got up and went away. He was only here five minutes. Did he
despise me? Did he despise me? Tell me, tell me, Alyosha, did he despise
me or not?" She sat up on the couch, with flashing eyes.
"Tell me," Alyosha asked anxiously, "did you send for that person?"
"Yes, I did."
"Did you send him a letter?"
"Yes."
"Simply to ask about that, about that child?"
"No, not about that at all. But when he came, I asked him about that at
once. He answered, laughed, got up and went away."
"That person behaved honorably," Alyosha murmured.
"And did he despise me? Did he laugh at me?"
"No, for perhaps he believes in the pineapple _compote_ himself. He is
very ill now, too, Lise."
"Yes, he does believe in it," said Lise, with flashing eyes.
"He doesn't despise any one," Alyosha went on. "Only he does not believe
any one. If he doesn't believe in people, of course, he does despise
them."
"Then he despises me, me?"
"You, too."
"Good," Lise seemed to grind her teeth. "When he went out laughing, I felt
that it was nice to be despised. The child with fingers cut off is nice,
and to be despised is nice...."
And she laughed in Alyosha's face, a feverish malicious laugh.
"Do you know, Alyosha, do you know, I should like--Alyosha, save me!" She
suddenly jumped from the couch, rushed to him and seized him with both
hands. "Save me!" she almost groaned. "Is there any one in the world I
could tell what I've told you? I've told you the truth, the truth. I shall
kill myself, because I loathe everything! I don't want to live, because I
loathe everything! I loathe everything, everything. Alyosha, why don't you
love me in the least?" she finished in a frenzy.
"But I do love you!" answered Alyosha warmly.
"And will you weep over me, will you?"
"Yes."
"Not because I won't be your wife, but simply weep for me?"
"Yes."
"Thank you! It's only your tears I want. Every one else may punish me and
trample me under foot, every one, every one, not excepting _any one_. For
I don't love any one. Do you hear, not any one! On the contrary, I hate
him! Go, Alyosha; it's time you went to your brother"; she tore herself
away from him suddenly.
"How can I leave you like this?" said Alyosha, almost in alarm.
"Go to your brother, the prison will be shut; go, here's your hat. Give my
love to Mitya, go, go!"
And she almost forcibly pushed Alyosha out of the door. He looked at her
with pained surprise, when he was suddenly aware of a letter in his right
hand, a tiny letter folded up tight and sealed. He glanced at it and
instantly read the address, "To Ivan Fyodorovitch Karamazov." He looked
quickly at Lise. Her face had become almost menacing.
"Give it to him, you must give it to him!" she ordered him, trembling and
beside herself. "To-day, at once, or I'll poison myself! That's why I sent
for you."
And she slammed the door quickly. The bolt clicked. Alyosha put the note
in his pocket and went straight downstairs, without going back to Madame
Hohlakov; forgetting her, in fact. As soon as Alyosha had gone, Lise
unbolted the door, opened it a little, put her finger in the crack and
slammed the door with all her might, pinching her finger. Ten seconds
after, releasing her finger, she walked softly, slowly to her chair, sat
up straight in it and looked intently at her blackened finger and at the
blood that oozed from under the nail. Her lips were quivering and she kept
whispering rapidly to herself:
"I am a wretch, wretch, wretch, wretch!"
Chapter IV. A Hymn And A Secret
It was quite late (days are short in November) when Alyosha rang at the
prison gate. It was beginning to get dusk. But Alyosha knew that he would
be admitted without difficulty. Things were managed in our little town, as
everywhere else. At first, of course, on the conclusion of the preliminary
inquiry, relations and a few other persons could only obtain interviews
with Mitya by going through certain inevitable formalities. But later,
though the formalities were not relaxed, exceptions were made for some, at
least, of Mitya's visitors. So much so, that sometimes the interviews with
the prisoner in the room set aside for the purpose were practically
_tete-a-tete_.
These exceptions, however, were few in number; only Grushenka, Alyosha and
Rakitin were treated like this. But the captain of the police, Mihail
Mihailovitch, was very favorably disposed to Grushenka. His abuse of her
at Mokroe weighed on the old man's conscience, and when he learned the
whole story, he completely changed his view of her. And strange to say,
though he was firmly persuaded of his guilt, yet after Mitya was once in
prison, the old man came to take a more and more lenient view of him. "He
was a man of good heart, perhaps," he thought, "who had come to grief from
drinking and dissipation." His first horror had been succeeded by pity. As
for Alyosha, the police captain was very fond of him and had known him for
a long time. Rakitin, who had of late taken to coming very often to see
the prisoner, was one of the most intimate acquaintances of the "police
captain's young ladies," as he called them, and was always hanging about
their house. He gave lessons in the house of the prison superintendent,
too, who, though scrupulous in the performance of his duties, was a kind-
hearted old man. Alyosha, again, had an intimate acquaintance of long
standing with the superintendent, who was fond of talking to him,
generally on sacred subjects. He respected Ivan Fyodorovitch, and stood in
awe of his opinion, though he was a great philosopher himself; "self-
taught," of course. But Alyosha had an irresistible attraction for him.
During the last year the old man had taken to studying the Apocryphal
Gospels, and constantly talked over his impressions with his young friend.
He used to come and see him in the monastery and discussed for hours
together with him and with the monks. So even if Alyosha were late at the
prison, he had only to go to the superintendent and everything was made
easy. Besides, every one in the prison, down to the humblest warder, had
grown used to Alyosha. The sentry, of course, did not trouble him so long
as the authorities were satisfied.
When Mitya was summoned from his cell, he always went downstairs, to the
place set aside for interviews. As Alyosha entered the room he came upon
Rakitin, who was just taking leave of Mitya. They were both talking
loudly. Mitya was laughing heartily as he saw him out, while Rakitin
seemed grumbling. Rakitin did not like meeting Alyosha, especially of
late. He scarcely spoke to him, and bowed to him stiffly. Seeing Alyosha
enter now, he frowned and looked away, as though he were entirely absorbed
in buttoning his big, warm, fur-trimmed overcoat. Then he began looking at
once for his umbrella.
"I must mind not to forget my belongings," he muttered, simply to say
something.
"Mind you don't forget other people's belongings," said Mitya, as a joke,
and laughed at once at his own wit. Rakitin fired up instantly.
"You'd better give that advice to your own family, who've always been a
slave-driving lot, and not to Rakitin," he cried, suddenly trembling with
anger.
"What's the matter? I was joking," cried Mitya. "Damn it all! They are all
like that," he turned to Alyosha, nodding towards Rakitin's hurriedly
retreating figure. "He was sitting here, laughing and cheerful, and all at
once he boils up like that. He didn't even nod to you. Have you broken
with him completely? Why are you so late? I've not been simply waiting,
but thirsting for you the whole morning. But never mind. We'll make up for
it now."
"Why does he come here so often? Surely you are not such great friends?"
asked Alyosha. He, too, nodded at the door through which Rakitin had
disappeared.
"Great friends with Rakitin? No, not as much as that. Is it likely--a pig
like that? He considers I am ... a blackguard. They can't understand a
joke either, that's the worst of such people. They never understand a
joke, and their souls are dry, dry and flat; they remind me of prison
walls when I was first brought here. But he is a clever fellow, very
clever. Well, Alexey, it's all over with me now."
He sat down on the bench and made Alyosha sit down beside him.
"Yes, the trial's to-morrow. Are you so hopeless, brother?" Alyosha said,
with an apprehensive feeling.
"What are you talking about?" said Mitya, looking at him rather
uncertainly. "Oh, you mean the trial! Damn it all! Till now we've been
talking of things that don't matter, about this trial, but I haven't said
a word to you about the chief thing. Yes, the trial is to-morrow; but it
wasn't the trial I meant, when I said it was all over with me. Why do you
look at me so critically?"
"What do you mean, Mitya?"
"Ideas, ideas, that's all! Ethics! What is ethics?"
"Ethics?" asked Alyosha, wondering.
"Yes; is it a science?"
"Yes, there is such a science ... but ... I confess I can't explain to you
what sort of science it is."
"Rakitin knows. Rakitin knows a lot, damn him! He's not going to be a
monk. He means to go to Petersburg. There he'll go in for criticism of an
elevating tendency. Who knows, he may be of use and make his own career,
too. Ough! they are first-rate, these people, at making a career! Damn
ethics, I am done for, Alexey, I am, you man of God! I love you more than
any one. It makes my heart yearn to look at you. Who was Karl Bernard?"
"Karl Bernard?" Alyosha was surprised again.
"No, not Karl. Stay, I made a mistake. Claude Bernard. What was he?
Chemist or what?"
"He must be a savant," answered Alyosha; "but I confess I can't tell you
much about him, either. I've heard of him as a savant, but what sort I
don't know."
"Well, damn him, then! I don't know either," swore Mitya. "A scoundrel of
some sort, most likely. They are all scoundrels. And Rakitin will make his
way. Rakitin will get on anywhere; he is another Bernard. Ugh, these
Bernards! They are all over the place."
"But what is the matter?" Alyosha asked insistently.
"He wants to write an article about me, about my case, and so begin his
literary career. That's what he comes for; he said so himself. He wants to
prove some theory. He wants to say 'he couldn't help murdering his father,
he was corrupted by his environment,' and so on. He explained it all to
me. He is going to put in a tinge of Socialism, he says. But there, damn
the fellow, he can put in a tinge if he likes, I don't care. He can't bear
Ivan, he hates him. He's not fond of you, either. But I don't turn him
out, for he is a clever fellow. Awfully conceited, though. I said to him
just now, 'The Karamazovs are not blackguards, but philosophers; for all
true Russians are philosophers, and though you've studied, you are not a
philosopher--you are a low fellow.' He laughed, so maliciously. And I said
to him, '_De ideabus non est disputandum_.' Isn't that rather good? I can
set up for being a classic, you see!" Mitya laughed suddenly.
"Why is it all over with you? You said so just now," Alyosha interposed.
"Why is it all over with me? H'm!... The fact of it is ... if you take it
as a whole, I am sorry to lose God--that's why it is."
"What do you mean by 'sorry to lose God'?"
"Imagine: inside, in the nerves, in the head--that is, these nerves are
there in the brain ... (damn them!) there are sort of little tails, the
little tails of those nerves, and as soon as they begin quivering ... that
is, you see, I look at something with my eyes and then they begin
quivering, those little tails ... and when they quiver, then an image
appears ... it doesn't appear at once, but an instant, a second, passes
... and then something like a moment appears; that is, not a moment--devil
take the moment!--but an image; that is, an object, or an action, damn it!
That's why I see and then think, because of those tails, not at all
because I've got a soul, and that I am some sort of image and likeness.
All that is nonsense! Rakitin explained it all to me yesterday, brother,
and it simply bowled me over. It's magnificent, Alyosha, this science! A
new man's arising--that I understand.... And yet I am sorry to lose God!"
"Well, that's a good thing, anyway," said Alyosha.
"That I am sorry to lose God? It's chemistry, brother, chemistry! There's
no help for it, your reverence, you must make way for chemistry. And
Rakitin does dislike God. Ough! doesn't he dislike Him! That's the sore
point with all of them. But they conceal it. They tell lies. They pretend.
'Will you preach this in your reviews?' I asked him. 'Oh, well, if I did
it openly, they won't let it through,' he said. He laughed. 'But what will
become of men then?' I asked him, 'without God and immortal life? All
things are lawful then, they can do what they like?' 'Didn't you know?' he
said laughing, 'a clever man can do what he likes,' he said. 'A clever man
knows his way about, but you've put your foot in it, committing a murder,
and now you are rotting in prison.' He says that to my face! A regular
pig! I used to kick such people out, but now I listen to them. He talks a
lot of sense, too. Writes well. He began reading me an article last week.
I copied out three lines of it. Wait a minute. Here it is."
Mitya hurriedly pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and read:
" 'In order to determine this question, it is above all essential to put
one's personality in contradiction to one's reality.' Do you understand
that?"
"No, I don't," said Alyosha. He looked at Mitya and listened to him with
curiosity.
"I don't understand either. It's dark and obscure, but intellectual.
'Every one writes like that now,' he says, 'it's the effect of their
environment.' They are afraid of the environment. He writes poetry, too,
the rascal. He's written in honor of Madame Hohlakov's foot. Ha ha ha!"
"I've heard about it," said Alyosha.
"Have you? And have you heard the poem?"
"No."
"I've got it. Here it is. I'll read it to you. You don't know--I haven't
told you--there's quite a story about it. He's a rascal! Three weeks ago he
began to tease me. 'You've got yourself into a mess, like a fool, for the
sake of three thousand, but I'm going to collar a hundred and fifty
thousand. I am going to marry a widow and buy a house in Petersburg.' And
he told me he was courting Madame Hohlakov. She hadn't much brains in her
youth, and now at forty she has lost what she had. 'But she's awfully
sentimental,' he says; 'that's how I shall get hold of her. When I marry
her, I shall take her to Petersburg and there I shall start a newspaper.'
And his mouth was simply watering, the beast, not for the widow, but for
the hundred and fifty thousand. And he made me believe it. He came to see
me every day. 'She is coming round,' he declared. He was beaming with
delight. And then, all of a sudden, he was turned out of the house.
Perhotin's carrying everything before him, bravo! I could kiss the silly
old noodle for turning him out of the house. And he had written this
doggerel. 'It's the first time I've soiled my hands with writing poetry,'
he said. 'It's to win her heart, so it's in a good cause. When I get hold
of the silly woman's fortune, I can be of great social utility.' They have
this social justification for every nasty thing they do! 'Anyway it's
better than your Pushkin's poetry,' he said, 'for I've managed to advocate
enlightenment even in that.' I understand what he means about Pushkin, I
quite see that, if he really was a man of talent and only wrote about
women's feet. But wasn't Rakitin stuck up about his doggerel! The vanity
of these fellows! 'On the convalescence of the swollen foot of the object
of my affections'--he thought of that for a title. He's a waggish fellow.
A captivating little foot,
Though swollen and red and tender!
The doctors come and plasters put,
But still they cannot mend her.
Yet, 'tis not for her foot I dread--
A theme for Pushkin's muse more fit--
It's not her foot, it is her head:
I tremble for her loss of wit!
For as her foot swells, strange to say,
Her intellect is on the wane--
Oh, for some remedy I pray
That may restore both foot and brain!
He is a pig, a regular pig, but he's very arch, the rascal! And he really
has put in a progressive idea. And wasn't he angry when she kicked him
out! He was gnashing his teeth!"
"He's taken his revenge already," said Alyosha. "He's written a paragraph
about Madame Hohlakov."
And Alyosha told him briefly about the paragraph in _Gossip_.
"That's his doing, that's his doing!" Mitya assented, frowning. "That's
him! These paragraphs ... I know ... the insulting things that have been
written about Grushenka, for instance.... And about Katya, too.... H'm!"
He walked across the room with a harassed air.
"Brother, I cannot stay long," Alyosha said, after a pause. "To-morrow
will be a great and awful day for you, the judgment of God will be
accomplished ... I am amazed at you, you walk about here, talking of I
don't know what ..."
"No, don't be amazed at me," Mitya broke in warmly. "Am I to talk of that
stinking dog? Of the murderer? We've talked enough of him. I don't want to
say more of the stinking son of Stinking Lizaveta! God will kill him, you
will see. Hush!"
He went up to Alyosha excitedly and kissed him. His eyes glowed.
"Rakitin wouldn't understand it," he began in a sort of exaltation; "but
you, you'll understand it all. That's why I was thirsting for you. You
see, there's so much I've been wanting to tell you for ever so long, here,
within these peeling walls, but I haven't said a word about what matters
most; the moment never seems to have come. Now I can wait no longer. I
must pour out my heart to you. Brother, these last two months I've found
in myself a new man. A new man has risen up in me. He was hidden in me,
but would never have come to the surface, if it hadn't been for this blow
from heaven. I am afraid! And what do I care if I spend twenty years in
the mines, breaking ore with a hammer? I am not a bit afraid of that--it's
something else I am afraid of now: that that new man may leave me. Even
there, in the mines, under-ground, I may find a human heart in another
convict and murderer by my side, and I may make friends with him, for even
there one may live and love and suffer. One may thaw and revive a frozen
heart in that convict, one may wait upon him for years, and at last bring
up from the dark depths a lofty soul, a feeling, suffering creature; one
may bring forth an angel, create a hero! There are so many of them,
hundreds of them, and we are all to blame for them. Why was it I dreamed
of that 'babe' at such a moment? 'Why is the babe so poor?' That was a
sign to me at that moment. It's for the babe I'm going. Because we are all
responsible for all. For all the 'babes,' for there are big children as
well as little children. All are 'babes.' I go for all, because some one
must go for all. I didn't kill father, but I've got to go. I accept it.
It's all come to me here, here, within these peeling walls. There are
numbers of them there, hundreds of them underground, with hammers in their
hands. Oh, yes, we shall be in chains and there will be no freedom, but
then, in our great sorrow, we shall rise again to joy, without which man
cannot live nor God exist, for God gives joy: it's His privilege--a grand
one. Ah, man should be dissolved in prayer! What should I be underground
there without God? Rakitin's laughing! If they drive God from the earth,
we shall shelter Him underground. One cannot exist in prison without God;
it's even more impossible than out of prison. And then we men underground
will sing from the bowels of the earth a glorious hymn to God, with Whom
is joy. Hail to God and His joy! I love Him!"
Mitya was almost gasping for breath as he uttered his wild speech. He
turned pale, his lips quivered, and tears rolled down his cheeks.
"Yes, life is full, there is life even underground," he began again. "You
wouldn't believe, Alexey, how I want to live now, what a thirst for
existence and consciousness has sprung up in me within these peeling
walls. Rakitin doesn't understand that; all he cares about is building a
house and letting flats. But I've been longing for you. And what is
suffering? I am not afraid of it, even if it were beyond reckoning. I am
not afraid of it now. I was afraid of it before. Do you know, perhaps I
won't answer at the trial at all.... And I seem to have such strength in
me now, that I think I could stand anything, any suffering, only to be
able to say and to repeat to myself every moment, 'I exist.' In thousands
of agonies--I exist. I'm tormented on the rack--but I exist! Though I sit
alone on a pillar--I exist! I see the sun, and if I don't see the sun, I
know it's there. And there's a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun
is there. Alyosha, my angel, all these philosophies are the death of me.
Damn them! Brother Ivan--"
"What of brother Ivan?" interrupted Alyosha, but Mitya did not hear.
"You see, I never had any of these doubts before, but it was all hidden
away in me. It was perhaps just because ideas I did not understand were
surging up in me, that I used to drink and fight and rage. It was to
stifle them in myself, to still them, to smother them. Ivan is not
Rakitin, there is an idea in him. Ivan is a sphinx and is silent; he is
always silent. It's God that's worrying me. That's the only thing that's
worrying me. What if He doesn't exist? What if Rakitin's right--that it's
an idea made up by men? Then if He doesn't exist, man is the chief of the
earth, of the universe. Magnificent! Only how is he going to be good
without God? That's the question. I always come back to that. For whom is
man going to love then? To whom will he be thankful? To whom will he sing
the hymn? Rakitin laughs. Rakitin says that one can love humanity without
God. Well, only a sniveling idiot can maintain that. I can't understand
it. Life's easy for Rakitin. 'You'd better think about the extension of
civic rights, or even of keeping down the price of meat. You will show
your love for humanity more simply and directly by that, than by
philosophy.' I answered him, 'Well, but you, without a God, are more
likely to raise the price of meat, if it suits you, and make a rouble on
every copeck.' He lost his temper. But after all, what is goodness? Answer
me that, Alexey. Goodness is one thing with me and another with a
Chinaman, so it's a relative thing. Or isn't it? Is it not relative? A
treacherous question! You won't laugh if I tell you it's kept me awake two
nights. I only wonder now how people can live and think nothing about it.
Vanity! Ivan has no God. He has an idea. It's beyond me. But he is silent.
I believe he is a free-mason. I asked him, but he is silent. I wanted to
drink from the springs of his soul--he was silent. But once he did drop a
word."
"What did he say?" Alyosha took it up quickly.
"I said to him, 'Then everything is lawful, if it is so?' He frowned.
'Fyodor Pavlovitch, our papa,' he said, 'was a pig, but his ideas were
right enough.' That was what he dropped. That was all he said. That was
going one better than Rakitin."
"Yes," Alyosha assented bitterly. "When was he with you?"
"Of that later; now I must speak of something else. I have said nothing
about Ivan to you before. I put it off to the last. When my business here
is over and the verdict has been given, then I'll tell you something. I'll
tell you everything. We've something tremendous on hand.... And you shall
be my judge in it. But don't begin about that now; be silent. You talk of
to-morrow, of the trial; but, would you believe it, I know nothing about
it."
"Have you talked to the counsel?"
"What's the use of the counsel? I told him all about it. He's a soft,
city-bred rogue--a Bernard! But he doesn't believe me--not a bit of it. Only
imagine, he believes I did it. I see it. 'In that case,' I asked him, 'why
have you come to defend me?' Hang them all! They've got a doctor down,
too, want to prove I'm mad. I won't have that! Katerina Ivanovna wants to
do her 'duty' to the end, whatever the strain!" Mitya smiled bitterly.
"The cat! Hard-hearted creature! She knows that I said of her at Mokroe
that she was a woman of 'great wrath.' They repeated it. Yes, the facts
against me have grown numerous as the sands of the sea. Grigory sticks to
his point. Grigory's honest, but a fool. Many people are honest because
they are fools: that's Rakitin's idea. Grigory's my enemy. And there are
some people who are better as foes than friends. I mean Katerina Ivanovna.
I am afraid, oh, I am afraid she will tell how she bowed to the ground
after that four thousand. She'll pay it back to the last farthing. I don't
want her sacrifice; they'll put me to shame at the trial. I wonder how I
can stand it. Go to her, Alyosha, ask her not to speak of that in the
court, can't you? But damn it all, it doesn't matter! I shall get through
somehow. I don't pity her. It's her own doing. She deserves what she gets.
I shall have my own story to tell, Alexey." He smiled bitterly again.
"Only ... only Grusha, Grusha! Good Lord! Why should she have such
suffering to bear?" he exclaimed suddenly, with tears. "Grusha's killing
me; the thought of her's killing me, killing me. She was with me just
now...."
"She told me she was very much grieved by you to-day."
"I know. Confound my temper! It was jealousy. I was sorry, I kissed her as
she was going. I didn't ask her forgiveness."
"Why didn't you?" exclaimed Alyosha.
Suddenly Mitya laughed almost mirthfully.
"God preserve you, my dear boy, from ever asking forgiveness for a fault
from a woman you love. From one you love especially, however greatly you
may have been in fault. For a woman--devil only knows what to make of a
woman! I know something about them, anyway. But try acknowledging you are
in fault to a woman. Say, 'I am sorry, forgive me,' and a shower of
reproaches will follow! Nothing will make her forgive you simply and
directly, she'll humble you to the dust, bring forward things that have
never happened, recall everything, forget nothing, add something of her
own, and only then forgive you. And even the best, the best of them do it.
She'll scrape up all the scrapings and load them on your head. They are
ready to flay you alive, I tell you, every one of them, all these angels
without whom we cannot live! I tell you plainly and openly, dear boy,
every decent man ought to be under some woman's thumb. That's my
conviction--not conviction, but feeling. A man ought to be magnanimous, and
it's no disgrace to a man! No disgrace to a hero, not even a Caesar! But
don't ever beg her pardon all the same for anything. Remember that rule
given you by your brother Mitya, who's come to ruin through women. No, I'd
better make it up to Grusha somehow, without begging pardon. I worship
her, Alexey, worship her. Only she doesn't see it. No, she still thinks I
don't love her enough. And she tortures me, tortures me with her love. The
past was nothing! In the past it was only those infernal curves of hers
that tortured me, but now I've taken all her soul into my soul and through
her I've become a man myself. Will they marry us? If they don't, I shall
die of jealousy. I imagine something every day.... What did she say to you
about me?"
Alyosha repeated all Grushenka had said to him that day. Mitya listened,
made him repeat things, and seemed pleased.
"Then she is not angry at my being jealous?" he exclaimed. "She is a
regular woman! 'I've a fierce heart myself!' Ah, I love such fierce
hearts, though I can't bear any one's being jealous of me. I can't endure
it. We shall fight. But I shall love her, I shall love her infinitely.
Will they marry us? Do they let convicts marry? That's the question. And
without her I can't exist...."
Mitya walked frowning across the room. It was almost dark. He suddenly
seemed terribly worried.
"So there's a secret, she says, a secret? We have got up a plot against
her, and Katya is mixed up in it, she thinks. No, my good Grushenka,
that's not it. You are very wide of the mark, in your foolish feminine
way. Alyosha, darling, well, here goes! I'll tell you our secret!"
He looked round, went close up quickly to Alyosha, who was standing before
him, and whispered to him with an air of mystery, though in reality no one
could hear them: the old warder was dozing in the corner, and not a word
could reach the ears of the soldiers on guard.
"I will tell you all our secret," Mitya whispered hurriedly. "I meant to
tell you later, for how could I decide on anything without you? You are
everything to me. Though I say that Ivan is superior to us, you are my
angel. It's your decision will decide it. Perhaps it's you that is
superior and not Ivan. You see, it's a question of conscience, question of
the higher conscience--the secret is so important that I can't settle it
myself, and I've put it off till I could speak to you. But anyway it's too
early to decide now, for we must wait for the verdict. As soon as the
verdict is given, you shall decide my fate. Don't decide it now. I'll tell
you now. You listen, but don't decide. Stand and keep quiet. I won't tell
you everything. I'll only tell you the idea, without details, and you keep
quiet. Not a question, not a movement. You agree? But, goodness, what
shall I do with your eyes? I'm afraid your eyes will tell me your
decision, even if you don't speak. Oo! I'm afraid! Alyosha, listen! Ivan
suggests my _escaping_. I won't tell you the details: it's all been
thought out: it can all be arranged. Hush, don't decide. I should go to
America with Grusha. You know I can't live without Grusha! What if they
won't let her follow me to Siberia? Do they let convicts get married? Ivan
thinks not. And without Grusha what should I do there underground with a
hammer? I should only smash my skull with the hammer! But, on the other
hand, my conscience? I should have run away from suffering. A sign has
come, I reject the sign. I have a way of salvation and I turn my back on
it. Ivan says that in America, 'with the good-will,' I can be of more use
than underground. But what becomes of our hymn from underground? What's
America? America is vanity again! And there's a lot of swindling in
America, too, I expect. I should have run away from crucifixion! I tell
you, you know, Alexey, because you are the only person who can understand
this. There's no one else. It's folly, madness to others, all I've told
you of the hymn. They'll say I'm out of my mind or a fool. I am not out of
my mind and I am not a fool. Ivan understands about the hymn, too. He
understands, only he doesn't answer--he doesn't speak. He doesn't believe
in the hymn. Don't speak, don't speak. I see how you look! You have
already decided. Don't decide, spare me! I can't live without Grusha. Wait
till after the trial!"
Mitya ended beside himself. He held Alyosha with both hands on his
shoulders, and his yearning, feverish eyes were fixed on his brother's.
"They don't let convicts marry, do they?" he repeated for the third time
in a supplicating voice.
Alyosha listened with extreme surprise and was deeply moved.
"Tell me one thing," he said. "Is Ivan very keen on it, and whose idea was
it?"
"His, his, and he is very keen on it. He didn't come to see me at first,
then he suddenly came a week ago and he began about it straight away. He
is awfully keen on it. He doesn't ask me, but orders me to escape. He
doesn't doubt of my obeying him, though I showed him all my heart as I
have to you, and told him about the hymn, too. He told me he'd arrange it;
he's found out about everything. But of that later. He's simply set on it.
It's all a matter of money: he'll pay ten thousand for escape and give me
twenty thousand for America. And he says we can arrange a magnificent
escape for ten thousand."
"And he told you on no account to tell me?" Alyosha asked again.
"To tell no one, and especially not you; on no account to tell you. He is
afraid, no doubt, that you'll stand before me as my conscience. Don't tell
him I told you. Don't tell him, for anything."
"You are right," Alyosha pronounced; "it's impossible to decide anything
before the trial is over. After the trial you'll decide of yourself. Then
you'll find that new man in yourself and he will decide."
"A new man, or a Bernard who'll decide _a la_ Bernard, for I believe I'm a
contemptible Bernard myself," said Mitya, with a bitter grin.
"But, brother, have you no hope then of being acquitted?"
Mitya shrugged his shoulders nervously and shook his head. "Alyosha,
darling, it's time you were going," he said, with a sudden haste. "There's
the superintendent shouting in the yard. He'll be here directly. We are
late; it's irregular. Embrace me quickly. Kiss me! Sign me with the cross,
darling, for the cross I have to bear to-morrow."
They embraced and kissed.
"Ivan," said Mitya suddenly, "suggests my escaping; but, of course, he
believes I did it."
A mournful smile came on to his lips.
"Have you asked him whether he believes it?" asked Alyosha.
"No, I haven't. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I hadn't the courage. But I
saw it from his eyes. Well, good-by!"
Once more they kissed hurriedly, and Alyosha was just going out, when
Mitya suddenly called him back.
"Stand facing me! That's right!" And again he seized Alyosha, putting both
hands on his shoulders. His face became suddenly quite pale, so that it
was dreadfully apparent, even through the gathering darkness. His lips
twitched, his eyes fastened upon Alyosha.
"Alyosha, tell me the whole truth, as you would before God. Do you believe
I did it? Do you, do you in yourself, believe it? The whole truth, don't
lie!" he cried desperately.
Everything seemed heaving before Alyosha, and he felt something like a
stab at his heart.
"Hush! What do you mean?" he faltered helplessly.
"The whole truth, the whole, don't lie!" repeated Mitya.
"I've never for one instant believed that you were the murderer!" broke in
a shaking voice from Alyosha's breast, and he raised his right hand in the
air, as though calling God to witness his words.
Mitya's whole face was lighted up with bliss.
"Thank you!" he articulated slowly, as though letting a sigh escape him
after fainting. "Now you have given me new life. Would you believe it,
till this moment I've been afraid to ask you, you, even you. Well, go!
You've given me strength for to-morrow. God bless you! Come, go along!
Love Ivan!" was Mitya's last word.
Alyosha went out in tears. Such distrustfulness in Mitya, such lack of
confidence even to him, to Alyosha--all this suddenly opened before Alyosha
an unsuspected depth of hopeless grief and despair in the soul of his
unhappy brother. Intense, infinite compassion overwhelmed him instantly.
There was a poignant ache in his torn heart. "Love Ivan!"--he suddenly
recalled Mitya's words. And he was going to Ivan. He badly wanted to see
Ivan all day. He was as much worried about Ivan as about Mitya, and more
than ever now.
Chapter V. Not You, Not You!
On the way to Ivan he had to pass the house where Katerina Ivanovna was
living. There was light in the windows. He suddenly stopped and resolved
to go in. He had not seen Katerina Ivanovna for more than a week. But now
it struck him that Ivan might be with her, especially on the eve of the
terrible day. Ringing, and mounting the staircase, which was dimly lighted
by a Chinese lantern, he saw a man coming down, and as they met, he
recognized him as his brother. So he was just coming from Katerina
Ivanovna.
"Ah, it's only you," said Ivan dryly. "Well, good-by! You are going to
her?"
"Yes."
"I don't advise you to; she's upset and you'll upset her more."
A door was instantly flung open above, and a voice cried suddenly:
"No, no! Alexey Fyodorovitch, have you come from him?"
"Yes, I have been with him."
"Has he sent me any message? Come up, Alyosha, and you, Ivan Fyodorovitch,
you must come back, you must. Do you hear?"
There was such a peremptory note in Katya's voice that Ivan, after a
moment's hesitation, made up his mind to go back with Alyosha.
"She was listening," he murmured angrily to himself, but Alyosha heard it.
"Excuse my keeping my greatcoat on," said Ivan, going into the drawing-
room. "I won't sit down. I won't stay more than a minute."
"Sit down, Alexey Fyodorovitch," said Katerina Ivanovna, though she
remained standing. She had changed very little during this time, but there
was an ominous gleam in her dark eyes. Alyosha remembered afterwards that
she had struck him as particularly handsome at that moment.
"What did he ask you to tell me?"
"Only one thing," said Alyosha, looking her straight in the face, "that
you would spare yourself and say nothing at the trial of what" (he was a
little confused) "... passed between you ... at the time of your first
acquaintance ... in that town."
"Ah! that I bowed down to the ground for that money!" She broke into a
bitter laugh. "Why, is he afraid for me or for himself? He asks me to
spare--whom? Him or myself? Tell me, Alexey Fyodorovitch!"
Alyosha watched her intently, trying to understand her.
"Both yourself and him," he answered softly.
"I am glad to hear it," she snapped out maliciously, and she suddenly
blushed.
"You don't know me yet, Alexey Fyodorovitch," she said menacingly. "And I
don't know myself yet. Perhaps you'll want to trample me under foot after
my examination to-morrow."
"You will give your evidence honorably," said Alyosha; "that's all that's
wanted."
"Women are often dishonorable," she snarled. "Only an hour ago I was
thinking I felt afraid to touch that monster ... as though he were a
reptile ... but no, he is still a human being to me! But did he do it? Is
he the murderer?" she cried, all of a sudden, hysterically, turning
quickly to Ivan. Alyosha saw at once that she had asked Ivan that question
before, perhaps only a moment before he came in, and not for the first
time, but for the hundredth, and that they had ended by quarreling.
"I've been to see Smerdyakov.... It was you, you who persuaded me that he
murdered his father. It's only you I believed!" she continued, still
addressing Ivan. He gave her a sort of strained smile. Alyosha started at
her tone. He had not suspected such familiar intimacy between them.
"Well, that's enough, anyway," Ivan cut short the conversation. "I am
going. I'll come to-morrow." And turning at once, he walked out of the
room and went straight downstairs.
With an imperious gesture, Katerina Ivanovna seized Alyosha by both hands.
"Follow him! Overtake him! Don't leave him alone for a minute!" she said,
in a hurried whisper. "He's mad! Don't you know that he's mad? He is in a
fever, nervous fever. The doctor told me so. Go, run after him...."
Alyosha jumped up and ran after Ivan, who was not fifty paces ahead of
him.
"What do you want?" He turned quickly on Alyosha, seeing that he was
running after him. "She told you to catch me up, because I'm mad. I know
it all by heart," he added irritably.
"She is mistaken, of course; but she is right that you are ill," said
Alyosha. "I was looking at your face just now. You look very ill, Ivan."
Ivan walked on without stopping. Alyosha followed him.
"And do you know, Alexey Fyodorovitch, how people do go out of their
mind?" Ivan asked in a voice suddenly quiet, without a trace of
irritation, with a note of the simplest curiosity.
"No, I don't. I suppose there are all kinds of insanity."
"And can one observe that one's going mad oneself?"
"I imagine one can't see oneself clearly in such circumstances," Alyosha
answered with surprise.
Ivan paused for half a minute.
"If you want to talk to me, please change the subject," he said suddenly.
"Oh, while I think of it, I have a letter for you," said Alyosha timidly,
and he took Lise's note from his pocket and held it out to Ivan. They were
just under a lamp-post. Ivan recognized the handwriting at once.
"Ah, from that little demon!" he laughed maliciously, and, without opening
the envelope, he tore it into bits and threw it in the air. The bits were
scattered by the wind.
"She's not sixteen yet, I believe, and already offering herself," he said
contemptuously, striding along the street again.
"How do you mean, offering herself?" exclaimed Alyosha.
"As wanton women offer themselves, to be sure."
"How can you, Ivan, how can you?" Alyosha cried warmly, in a grieved
voice. "She is a child; you are insulting a child! She is ill; she is very
ill, too. She is on the verge of insanity, too, perhaps.... I had hoped to
hear something from you ... that would save her."
"You'll hear nothing from me. If she is a child I am not her nurse. Be
quiet, Alexey. Don't go on about her. I am not even thinking about it."
They were silent again for a moment.
"She will be praying all night now to the Mother of God to show her how to
act to-morrow at the trial," he said sharply and angrily again.
"You ... you mean Katerina Ivanovna?"
"Yes. Whether she's to save Mitya or ruin him. She'll pray for light from
above. She can't make up her mind for herself, you see. She has not had
time to decide yet. She takes me for her nurse, too. She wants me to sing
lullabies to her."
"Katerina Ivanovna loves you, brother," said Alyosha sadly.
"Perhaps; but I am not very keen on her."
"She is suffering. Why do you ... sometimes say things to her that give
her hope?" Alyosha went on, with timid reproach. "I know that you've given
her hope. Forgive me for speaking to you like this," he added.
"I can't behave to her as I ought--break off altogether and tell her so
straight out," said Ivan, irritably. "I must wait till sentence is passed
on the murderer. If I break off with her now, she will avenge herself on
me by ruining that scoundrel to-morrow at the trial, for she hates him and
knows she hates him. It's all a lie--lie upon lie! As long as I don't break
off with her, she goes on hoping, and she won't ruin that monster, knowing
how I want to get him out of trouble. If only that damned verdict would
come!"
The words "murderer" and "monster" echoed painfully in Alyosha's heart.
"But how can she ruin Mitya?" he asked, pondering on Ivan's words. "What
evidence can she give that would ruin Mitya?"
"You don't know that yet. She's got a document in her hands, in Mitya's
own writing, that proves conclusively that he did murder Fyodor
Pavlovitch."
"That's impossible!" cried Alyosha.
"Why is it impossible? I've read it myself."
"There can't be such a document!" Alyosha repeated warmly. "There can't
be, because he's not the murderer. It's not he murdered father, not he!"
Ivan suddenly stopped.
"Who is the murderer then, according to you?" he asked, with apparent
coldness. There was even a supercilious note in his voice.
"You know who," Alyosha pronounced in a low, penetrating voice.
"Who? You mean the myth about that crazy idiot, the epileptic,
Smerdyakov?"
Alyosha suddenly felt himself trembling all over.
"You know who," broke helplessly from him. He could scarcely breathe.
"Who? Who?" Ivan cried almost fiercely. All his restraint suddenly
vanished.
"I only know one thing," Alyosha went on, still almost in a whisper, "_it
wasn't you_ killed father."
" 'Not you'! What do you mean by 'not you'?" Ivan was thunderstruck.
"It was not you killed father, not you!" Alyosha repeated firmly.
The silence lasted for half a minute.
"I know I didn't. Are you raving?" said Ivan, with a pale, distorted
smile. His eyes were riveted on Alyosha. They were standing again under a
lamp-post.
"No, Ivan. You've told yourself several times that you are the murderer."
"When did I say so? I was in Moscow.... When have I said so?" Ivan
faltered helplessly.
"You've said so to yourself many times, when you've been alone during
these two dreadful months," Alyosha went on softly and distinctly as
before. Yet he was speaking now, as it were, not of himself, not of his
own will, but obeying some irresistible command. "You have accused
yourself and have confessed to yourself that you are the murderer and no
one else. But you didn't do it: you are mistaken: you are not the
murderer. Do you hear? It was not you! God has sent me to tell you so."
They were both silent. The silence lasted a whole long minute. They were
both standing still, gazing into each other's eyes. They were both pale.
Suddenly Ivan began trembling all over, and clutched Alyosha's shoulder.
"You've been in my room!" he whispered hoarsely. "You've been there at
night, when he came.... Confess ... have you seen him, have you seen him?"
"Whom do you mean--Mitya?" Alyosha asked, bewildered.
"Not him, damn the monster!" Ivan shouted, in a frenzy. "Do you know that
he visits me? How did you find out? Speak!"
"Who is _he_! I don't know whom you are talking about," Alyosha faltered,
beginning to be alarmed.
"Yes, you do know ... or how could you--? It's impossible that you don't
know."
Suddenly he seemed to check himself. He stood still and seemed to reflect.
A strange grin contorted his lips.
"Brother," Alyosha began again, in a shaking voice, "I have said this to
you, because you'll believe my word, I know that. I tell you once and for
all, it's not you. You hear, once for all! God has put it into my heart to
say this to you, even though it may make you hate me from this hour."
But by now Ivan had apparently regained his self-control.
"Alexey Fyodorovitch," he said, with a cold smile, "I can't endure
prophets and epileptics--messengers from God especially--and you know that
only too well. I break off all relations with you from this moment and
probably for ever. I beg you to leave me at this turning. It's the way to
your lodgings, too. You'd better be particularly careful not to come to me
to-day! Do you hear?"
He turned and walked on with a firm step, not looking back.
"Brother," Alyosha called after him, "if anything happens to you to-day,
turn to me before any one!"
But Ivan made no reply. Alyosha stood under the lamp-post at the cross
roads, till Ivan had vanished into the darkness. Then he turned and walked
slowly homewards. Both Alyosha and Ivan were living in lodgings; neither
of them was willing to live in Fyodor Pavlovitch's empty house. Alyosha
had a furnished room in the house of some working people. Ivan lived some
distance from him. He had taken a roomy and fairly comfortable lodge
attached to a fine house that belonged to a well-to-do lady, the widow of
an official. But his only attendant was a deaf and rheumatic old crone who
went to bed at six o'clock every evening and got up at six in the morning.
Ivan had become remarkably indifferent to his comforts of late, and very
fond of being alone. He did everything for himself in the one room he
lived in, and rarely entered any of the other rooms in his abode.
He reached the gate of the house and had his hand on the bell, when he
suddenly stopped. He felt that he was trembling all over with anger.
Suddenly he let go of the bell, turned back with a curse, and walked with
rapid steps in the opposite direction. He walked a mile and a half to a
tiny, slanting, wooden house, almost a hut, where Marya Kondratyevna, the
neighbor who used to come to Fyodor Pavlovitch's kitchen for soup and to
whom Smerdyakov had once sung his songs and played on the guitar, was now
lodging. She had sold their little house, and was now living here with her
mother. Smerdyakov, who was ill--almost dying--had been with them ever since
Fyodor Pavlovitch's death. It was to him Ivan was going now, drawn by a
sudden and irresistible prompting.
Chapter VI. The First Interview With Smerdyakov
This was the third time that Ivan had been to see Smerdyakov since his
return from Moscow. The first time he had seen him and talked to him was
on the first day of his arrival, then he had visited him once more, a
fortnight later. But his visits had ended with that second one, so that it
was now over a month since he had seen him. And he had scarcely heard
anything of him.
Ivan had only returned five days after his father's death, so that he was
not present at the funeral, which took place the day before he came back.
The cause of his delay was that Alyosha, not knowing his Moscow address,
had to apply to Katerina Ivanovna to telegraph to him, and she, not
knowing his address either, telegraphed to her sister and aunt, reckoning
on Ivan's going to see them as soon as he arrived in Moscow. But he did
not go to them till four days after his arrival. When he got the telegram,
he had, of course, set off post-haste to our town. The first to meet him
was Alyosha, and Ivan was greatly surprised to find that, in opposition to
the general opinion of the town, he refused to entertain a suspicion
against Mitya, and spoke openly of Smerdyakov as the murderer. Later on,
after seeing the police captain and the prosecutor, and hearing the
details of the charge and the arrest, he was still more surprised at
Alyosha, and ascribed his opinion only to his exaggerated brotherly
feeling and sympathy with Mitya, of whom Alyosha, as Ivan knew, was very
fond.
By the way, let us say a word or two of Ivan's feeling to his brother
Dmitri. He positively disliked him; at most, felt sometimes a compassion
for him, and even that was mixed with great contempt, almost repugnance.
Mitya's whole personality, even his appearance, was extremely unattractive
to him. Ivan looked with indignation on Katerina Ivanovna's love for his
brother. Yet he went to see Mitya on the first day of his arrival, and
that interview, far from shaking Ivan's belief in his guilt, positively
strengthened it. He found his brother agitated, nervously excited. Mitya
had been talkative, but very absent-minded and incoherent. He used violent
language, accused Smerdyakov, and was fearfully muddled. He talked
principally about the three thousand roubles, which he said had been
"stolen" from him by his father.
"The money was mine, it was my money," Mitya kept repeating. "Even if I
had stolen it, I should have had the right."
He hardly contested the evidence against him, and if he tried to turn a
fact to his advantage, it was in an absurd and incoherent way. He hardly
seemed to wish to defend himself to Ivan or any one else. Quite the
contrary, he was angry and proudly scornful of the charges against him; he
was continually firing up and abusing every one. He only laughed
contemptuously at Grigory's evidence about the open door, and declared
that it was "the devil that opened it." But he could not bring forward any
coherent explanation of the fact. He even succeeded in insulting Ivan
during their first interview, telling him sharply that it was not for
people who declared that "everything was lawful," to suspect and question
him. Altogether he was anything but friendly with Ivan on that occasion.
Immediately after that interview with Mitya, Ivan went for the first time
to see Smerdyakov.
In the railway train on his way from Moscow, he kept thinking of
Smerdyakov and of his last conversation with him on the evening before he
went away. Many things seemed to him puzzling and suspicious. But when he
gave his evidence to the investigating lawyer Ivan said nothing, for the
time, of that conversation. He put that off till he had seen Smerdyakov,
who was at that time in the hospital.
Doctor Herzenstube and Varvinsky, the doctor he met in the hospital,
confidently asserted in reply to Ivan's persistent questions, that
Smerdyakov's epileptic attack was unmistakably genuine, and were surprised
indeed at Ivan asking whether he might not have been shamming on the day
of the catastrophe. They gave him to understand that the attack was an
exceptional one, the fits persisting and recurring several times, so that
the patient's life was positively in danger, and it was only now, after
they had applied remedies, that they could assert with confidence that the
patient would survive. "Though it might well be," added Doctor
Herzenstube, "that his reason would be impaired for a considerable period,
if not permanently." On Ivan's asking impatiently whether that meant that
he was now mad, they told him that this was not yet the case, in the full
sense of the word, but that certain abnormalities were perceptible. Ivan
decided to find out for himself what those abnormalities were.
At the hospital he was at once allowed to see the patient. Smerdyakov was
lying on a truckle-bed in a separate ward. There was only one other bed in
the room, and in it lay a tradesman of the town, swollen with dropsy, who
was obviously almost dying; he could be no hindrance to their
conversation. Smerdyakov grinned uncertainly on seeing Ivan, and for the
first instant seemed nervous. So at least Ivan fancied. But that was only
momentary. For the rest of the time he was struck, on the contrary, by
Smerdyakov's composure. From the first glance Ivan had no doubt that he
was very ill. He was very weak; he spoke slowly, seeming to move his
tongue with difficulty; he was much thinner and sallower. Throughout the
interview, which lasted twenty minutes, he kept complaining of headache
and of pain in all his limbs. His thin emasculate face seemed to have
become so tiny; his hair was ruffled, and his crest of curls in front
stood up in a thin tuft. But in the left eye, which was screwed up and
seemed to be insinuating something, Smerdyakov showed himself unchanged.
"It's always worth while speaking to a clever man." Ivan was reminded of
that at once. He sat down on the stool at his feet. Smerdyakov, with
painful effort, shifted his position in bed, but he was not the first to
speak. He remained dumb, and did not even look much interested.
"Can you talk to me?" asked Ivan. "I won't tire you much."
"Certainly I can," mumbled Smerdyakov, in a faint voice. "Has your honor
been back long?" he added patronizingly, as though encouraging a nervous
visitor.
"I only arrived to-day.... To see the mess you are in here." Smerdyakov
sighed.
"Why do you sigh? You knew of it all along," Ivan blurted out.
Smerdyakov was stolidly silent for a while.
"How could I help knowing? It was clear beforehand. But how could I tell
it would turn out like that?"
"What would turn out? Don't prevaricate! You've foretold you'd have a fit;
on the way down to the cellar, you know. You mentioned the very spot."
"Have you said so at the examination yet?" Smerdyakov queried with
composure.
Ivan felt suddenly angry.
"No, I haven't yet, but I certainly shall. You must explain a great deal
to me, my man; and let me tell you, I am not going to let you play with
me!"
"Why should I play with you, when I put my whole trust in you, as in God
Almighty?" said Smerdyakov, with the same composure, only for a moment
closing his eyes.
"In the first place," began Ivan, "I know that epileptic fits can't be
told beforehand. I've inquired; don't try and take me in. You can't
foretell the day and the hour. How was it you told me the day and the hour
beforehand, and about the cellar, too? How could you tell that you would
fall down the cellar stairs in a fit, if you didn't sham a fit on
purpose?"
"I had to go to the cellar anyway, several times a day, indeed,"
Smerdyakov drawled deliberately. "I fell from the garret just in the same
way a year ago. It's quite true you can't tell the day and hour of a fit
beforehand, but you can always have a presentiment of it."
"But you did foretell the day and the hour!"
"In regard to my epilepsy, sir, you had much better inquire of the doctors
here. You can ask them whether it was a real fit or a sham; it's no use my
saying any more about it."
"And the cellar? How could you know beforehand of the cellar?"
"You don't seem able to get over that cellar! As I was going down to the
cellar, I was in terrible dread and doubt. What frightened me most was
losing you and being left without defense in all the world. So I went down
into the cellar thinking, 'Here, it'll come on directly, it'll strike me
down directly, shall I fall?' And it was through this fear that I suddenly
felt the spasm that always comes ... and so I went flying. All that and
all my previous conversation with you at the gate the evening before, when
I told you how frightened I was and spoke of the cellar, I told all that
to Doctor Herzenstube and Nikolay Parfenovitch, the investigating lawyer,
and it's all been written down in the protocol. And the doctor here, Mr.
Varvinsky, maintained to all of them that it was just the thought of it
brought it on, the apprehension that I might fall. It was just then that
the fit seized me. And so they've written it down, that it's just how it
must have happened, simply from my fear."
As he finished, Smerdyakov drew a deep breath, as though exhausted.
"Then you have said all that in your evidence?" said Ivan, somewhat taken
aback. He had meant to frighten him with the threat of repeating their
conversation, and it appeared that Smerdyakov had already reported it all
himself.
"What have I to be afraid of? Let them write down the whole truth,"
Smerdyakov pronounced firmly.
"And have you told them every word of our conversation at the gate?"
"No, not to say every word."
"And did you tell them that you can sham fits, as you boasted then?"
"No, I didn't tell them that either."
"Tell me now, why did you send me then to Tchermashnya?"
"I was afraid you'd go away to Moscow; Tchermashnya is nearer, anyway."
"You are lying; you suggested my going away yourself; you told me to get
out of the way of trouble."
"That was simply out of affection and my sincere devotion to you,
foreseeing trouble in the house, to spare you. Only I wanted to spare
myself even more. That's why I told you to get out of harm's way, that you
might understand that there would be trouble in the house, and would
remain at home to protect your father."
"You might have said it more directly, you blockhead!" Ivan suddenly fired
up.
"How could I have said it more directly then? It was simply my fear that
made me speak, and you might have been angry, too. I might well have been
apprehensive that Dmitri Fyodorovitch would make a scene and carry away
that money, for he considered it as good as his own; but who could tell
that it would end in a murder like this? I thought that he would only
carry off the three thousand that lay under the master's mattress in the
envelope, and you see, he's murdered him. How could you guess it either,
sir?"
"But if you say yourself that it couldn't be guessed, how could I have
guessed and stayed at home? You contradict yourself!" said Ivan,
pondering.
"You might have guessed from my sending you to Tchermashnya and not to
Moscow."
"How could I guess it from that?"
Smerdyakov seemed much exhausted, and again he was silent for a minute.
"You might have guessed from the fact of my asking you not to go to
Moscow, but to Tchermashnya, that I wanted to have you nearer, for
Moscow's a long way off, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch, knowing you are not far
off, would not be so bold. And if anything had happened, you might have
come to protect me, too, for I warned you of Grigory Vassilyevitch's
illness, and that I was afraid of having a fit. And when I explained those
knocks to you, by means of which one could go in to the deceased, and that
Dmitri Fyodorovitch knew them all through me, I thought that you would
guess yourself that he would be sure to do something, and so wouldn't go
to Tchermashnya even, but would stay."
"He talks very coherently," thought Ivan, "though he does mumble; what's
the derangement of his faculties that Herzenstube talked of?"
"You are cunning with me, damn you!" he exclaimed, getting angry.
"But I thought at the time that you quite guessed," Smerdyakov parried
with the simplest air.
"If I'd guessed, I should have stayed," cried Ivan.
"Why, I thought that it was because you guessed, that you went away in
such a hurry, only to get out of trouble, only to run away and save
yourself in your fright."
"You think that every one is as great a coward as yourself?"
"Forgive me, I thought you were like me."
"Of course, I ought to have guessed," Ivan said in agitation; "and I did
guess there was some mischief brewing on your part ... only you are lying,
you are lying again," he cried, suddenly recollecting. "Do you remember
how you went up to the carriage and said to me, 'It's always worth while
speaking to a clever man'? So you were glad I went away, since you praised
me?"
Smerdyakov sighed again and again. A trace of color came into his face.
"If I was pleased," he articulated rather breathlessly, "it was simply
because you agreed not to go to Moscow, but to Tchermashnya. For it was
nearer, anyway. Only when I said these words to you, it was not by way of
praise, but of reproach. You didn't understand it."
"What reproach?"
"Why, that foreseeing such a calamity you deserted your own father, and
would not protect us, for I might have been taken up any time for stealing
that three thousand."
"Damn you!" Ivan swore again. "Stay, did you tell the prosecutor and the
investigating lawyer about those knocks?"
"I told them everything just as it was."
Ivan wondered inwardly again.
"If I thought of anything then," he began again, "it was solely of some
wickedness on your part. Dmitri might kill him, but that he would steal--I
did not believe that then.... But I was prepared for any wickedness from
you. You told me yourself you could sham a fit. What did you say that
for?"
"It was just through my simplicity, and I never have shammed a fit on
purpose in my life. And I only said so then to boast to you. It was just
foolishness. I liked you so much then, and was open-hearted with you."
"My brother directly accuses you of the murder and theft."
"What else is left for him to do?" said Smerdyakov, with a bitter grin.
"And who will believe him with all the proofs against him? Grigory
Vassilyevitch saw the door open. What can he say after that? But never
mind him! He is trembling to save himself."
He slowly ceased speaking; then suddenly, as though on reflection, added:
"And look here again. He wants to throw it on me and make out that it is
the work of my hands--I've heard that already. But as to my being clever at
shamming a fit: should I have told you beforehand that I could sham one,
if I really had had such a design against your father? If I had been
planning such a murder could I have been such a fool as to give such
evidence against myself beforehand? And to his son, too! Upon my word! Is
that likely? As if that could be, such a thing has never happened. No one
hears this talk of ours now, except Providence itself, and if you were to
tell of it to the prosecutor and Nikolay Parfenovitch you might defend me
completely by doing so, for who would be likely to be such a criminal, if
he is so open-hearted beforehand? Any one can see that."
"Well," and Ivan got up to cut short the conversation, struck by
Smerdyakov's last argument. "I don't suspect you at all, and I think it's
absurd, indeed, to suspect you. On the contrary, I am grateful to you for
setting my mind at rest. Now I am going, but I'll come again. Meanwhile,
good-by. Get well. Is there anything you want?"
"I am very thankful for everything. Marfa Ignatyevna does not forget me,
and provides me anything I want, according to her kindness. Good people
visit me every day."
"Good-by. But I shan't say anything of your being able to sham a fit, and
I don't advise you to, either," something made Ivan say suddenly.
"I quite understand. And if you don't speak of that, I shall say nothing
of that conversation of ours at the gate."
Then it happened that Ivan went out, and only when he had gone a dozen
steps along the corridor, he suddenly felt that there was an insulting
significance in Smerdyakov's last words. He was almost on the point of
turning back, but it was only a passing impulse, and muttering,
"Nonsense!" he went out of the hospital.
His chief feeling was one of relief at the fact that it was not
Smerdyakov, but Mitya, who had committed the murder, though he might have
been expected to feel the opposite. He did not want to analyze the reason
for this feeling, and even felt a positive repugnance at prying into his
sensations. He felt as though he wanted to make haste to forget something.
In the following days he became convinced of Mitya's guilt, as he got to
know all the weight of evidence against him. There was evidence of people
of no importance, Fenya and her mother, for instance, but the effect of it
was almost overpowering. As to Perhotin, the people at the tavern, and at
Plotnikov's shop, as well as the witnesses at Mokroe, their evidence
seemed conclusive. It was the details that were so damning. The secret of
the knocks impressed the lawyers almost as much as Grigory's evidence as
to the open door. Grigory's wife, Marfa, in answer to Ivan's questions,
declared that Smerdyakov had been lying all night the other side of the
partition wall. "He was not three paces from our bed," and that although
she was a sound sleeper she waked several times and heard him moaning, "He
was moaning the whole time, moaning continually."
Talking to Herzenstube, and giving it as his opinion that Smerdyakov was
not mad, but only rather weak, Ivan only evoked from the old man a subtle
smile.
"Do you know how he spends his time now?" he asked; "learning lists of
French words by heart. He has an exercise-book under his pillow with the
French words written out in Russian letters for him by some one, he he
he!"
Ivan ended by dismissing all doubts. He could not think of Dmitri without
repulsion. Only one thing was strange, however. Alyosha persisted that
Dmitri was not the murderer, and that "in all probability" Smerdyakov was.
Ivan always felt that Alyosha's opinion meant a great deal to him, and so
he was astonished at it now. Another thing that was strange was that
Alyosha did not make any attempt to talk about Mitya with Ivan, that he
never began on the subject and only answered his questions. This, too,
struck Ivan particularly.
But he was very much preoccupied at that time with something quite apart
from that. On his return from Moscow, he abandoned himself hopelessly to
his mad and consuming passion for Katerina Ivanovna. This is not the time
to begin to speak of this new passion of Ivan's, which left its mark on
all the rest of his life: this would furnish the subject for another
novel, which I may perhaps never write. But I cannot omit to mention here
that when Ivan, on leaving Katerina Ivanovna with Alyosha, as I've related
already, told him, "I am not keen on her," it was an absolute lie: he
loved her madly, though at times he hated her so that he might have
murdered her. Many causes helped to bring about this feeling. Shattered by
what had happened with Mitya, she rushed on Ivan's return to meet him as
her one salvation. She was hurt, insulted and humiliated in her feelings.
And here the man had come back to her, who had loved her so ardently
before (oh! she knew that very well), and whose heart and intellect she
considered so superior to her own. But the sternly virtuous girl did not
abandon herself altogether to the man she loved, in spite of the Karamazov
violence of his passions and the great fascination he had for her. She was
continually tormented at the same time by remorse for having deserted
Mitya, and in moments of discord and violent anger (and they were
numerous) she told Ivan so plainly. This was what he had called to Alyosha
"lies upon lies." There was, of course, much that was false in it, and
that angered Ivan more than anything.... But of all this later.
He did, in fact, for a time almost forget Smerdyakov's existence, and yet,
a fortnight after his first visit to him, he began to be haunted by the
same strange thoughts as before. It's enough to say that he was
continually asking himself, why was it that on that last night in Fyodor
Pavlovitch's house he had crept out on to the stairs like a thief and
listened to hear what his father was doing below? Why had he recalled that
afterwards with repulsion? Why next morning, had he been suddenly so
depressed on the journey? Why, as he reached Moscow, had he said to
himself, "I am a scoundrel"? And now he almost fancied that these
tormenting thoughts would make him even forget Katerina Ivanovna, so
completely did they take possession of him again. It was just after
fancying this, that he met Alyosha in the street. He stopped him at once,
and put a question to him:
"Do you remember when Dmitri burst in after dinner and beat father, and
afterwards I told you in the yard that I reserved 'the right to
desire'?... Tell me, did you think then that I desired father's death or
not?"
"I did think so," answered Alyosha, softly.
"It was so, too; it was not a matter of guessing. But didn't you fancy
then that what I wished was just that 'one reptile should devour another';
that is, just that Dmitri should kill father, and as soon as possible ...
and that I myself was even prepared to help to bring that about?"
Alyosha turned rather pale, and looked silently into his brother's face.
"Speak!" cried Ivan, "I want above everything to know what you thought
then. I want the truth, the truth!"
He drew a deep breath, looking angrily at Alyosha before his answer came.
"Forgive me, I did think that, too, at the time," whispered Alyosha, and
he did not add one softening phrase.
"Thanks," snapped Ivan, and, leaving Alyosha, he went quickly on his way.
From that time Alyosha noticed that Ivan began obviously to avoid him and
seemed even to have taken a dislike to him, so much so that Alyosha gave
up going to see him. Immediately after that meeting with him, Ivan had not
gone home, but went straight to Smerdyakov again.
Chapter VII. The Second Visit To Smerdyakov
By that time Smerdyakov had been discharged from the hospital. Ivan knew
his new lodging, the dilapidated little wooden house, divided in two by a
passage on one side of which lived Marya Kondratyevna and her mother, and
on the other, Smerdyakov. No one knew on what terms he lived with them,
whether as a friend or as a lodger. It was supposed afterwards that he had
come to stay with them as Marya Kondratyevna's betrothed, and was living
there for a time without paying for board or lodging. Both mother and
daughter had the greatest respect for him and looked upon him as greatly
superior to themselves.
Ivan knocked, and, on the door being opened, went straight into the
passage. By Marya Kondratyevna's directions he went straight to the better
room on the left, occupied by Smerdyakov. There was a tiled stove in the
room and it was extremely hot. The walls were gay with blue paper, which
was a good deal used however, and in the cracks under it cockroaches
swarmed in amazing numbers, so that there was a continual rustling from
them. The furniture was very scanty: two benches against each wall and two
chairs by the table. The table of plain wood was covered with a cloth with
pink patterns on it. There was a pot of geranium on each of the two little
windows. In the corner there was a case of ikons. On the table stood a
little copper samovar with many dents in it, and a tray with two cups. But
Smerdyakov had finished tea and the samovar was out. He was sitting at the
table on a bench. He was looking at an exercise-book and slowly writing
with a pen. There was a bottle of ink by him and a flat iron candlestick,
but with a composite candle. Ivan saw at once from Smerdyakov's face that
he had completely recovered from his illness. His face was fresher,
fuller, his hair stood up jauntily in front, and was plastered down at the
sides. He was sitting in a parti-colored, wadded dressing-gown, rather
dirty and frayed, however. He had spectacles on his nose, which Ivan had
never seen him wearing before. This trifling circumstance suddenly
redoubled Ivan's anger: "A creature like that and wearing spectacles!"
Smerdyakov slowly raised his head and looked intently at his visitor
through his spectacles; then he slowly took them off and rose from the
bench, but by no means respectfully, almost lazily, doing the least
possible required by common civility. All this struck Ivan instantly; he
took it all in and noted it at once--most of all the look in Smerdyakov's
eyes, positively malicious, churlish and haughty. "What do you want to
intrude for?" it seemed to say; "we settled everything then; why have you
come again?" Ivan could scarcely control himself.
"It's hot here," he said, still standing, and unbuttoned his overcoat.
"Take off your coat," Smerdyakov conceded.
Ivan took off his coat and threw it on a bench with trembling hands. He
took a chair, moved it quickly to the table and sat down. Smerdyakov
managed to sit down on his bench before him.
"To begin with, are we alone?" Ivan asked sternly and impulsively. "Can
they overhear us in there?"
"No one can hear anything. You've seen for yourself: there's a passage."
"Listen, my good fellow; what was that you babbled, as I was leaving the
hospital, that if I said nothing about your faculty of shamming fits, you
wouldn't tell the investigating lawyer all our conversation at the gate?
What do you mean by _all_? What could you mean by it? Were you threatening
me? Have I entered into some sort of compact with you? Do you suppose I am
afraid of you?"
Ivan said this in a perfect fury, giving him to understand with obvious
intention that he scorned any subterfuge or indirectness and meant to show
his cards. Smerdyakov's eyes gleamed resentfully, his left eye winked, and
he at once gave his answer, with his habitual composure and deliberation.
"You want to have everything above-board; very well, you shall have it,"
he seemed to say.
"This is what I meant then, and this is why I said that, that you, knowing
beforehand of this murder of your own parent, left him to his fate, and
that people mightn't after that conclude any evil about your feelings and
perhaps of something else, too--that's what I promised not to tell the
authorities."
Though Smerdyakov spoke without haste and obviously controlling himself,
yet there was something in his voice, determined and emphatic, resentful
and insolently defiant. He stared impudently at Ivan. A mist passed before
Ivan's eyes for the first moment.
"How? What? Are you out of your mind?"
"I'm perfectly in possession of all my faculties."
"Do you suppose I _knew_ of the murder?" Ivan cried at last, and he
brought his fist violently on the table. "What do you mean by 'something
else, too'? Speak, scoundrel!"
Smerdyakov was silent and still scanned Ivan with the same insolent stare.
"Speak, you stinking rogue, what is that 'something else, too'?"
"The 'something else' I meant was that you probably, too, were very
desirous of your parent's death."
Ivan jumped up and struck him with all his might on the shoulder, so that
he fell back against the wall. In an instant his face was bathed in tears.
Saying, "It's a shame, sir, to strike a sick man," he dried his eyes with
a very dirty blue check handkerchief and sank into quiet weeping. A minute
passed.
"That's enough! Leave off," Ivan said peremptorily, sitting down again.
"Don't put me out of all patience."
Smerdyakov took the rag from his eyes. Every line of his puckered face
reflected the insult he had just received.
"So you thought then, you scoundrel, that together with Dmitri I meant to
kill my father?"
"I didn't know what thoughts were in your mind then," said Smerdyakov
resentfully; "and so I stopped you then at the gate to sound you on that
very point."
"To sound what, what?"
"Why, that very circumstance, whether you wanted your father to be
murdered or not."
What infuriated Ivan more than anything was the aggressive, insolent tone
to which Smerdyakov persistently adhered.
"It was you murdered him?" he cried suddenly.
Smerdyakov smiled contemptuously.
"You know of yourself, for a fact, that it wasn't I murdered him. And I
should have thought that there was no need for a sensible man to speak of
it again."
"But why, why had you such a suspicion about me at the time?"
"As you know already, it was simply from fear. For I was in such a
position, shaking with fear, that I suspected every one. I resolved to
sound you, too, for I thought if you wanted the same as your brother, then
the business was as good as settled and I should be crushed like a fly,
too."
"Look here, you didn't say that a fortnight ago."
"I meant the same when I talked to you in the hospital, only I thought
you'd understand without wasting words, and that being such a sensible man
you wouldn't care to talk of it openly."
"What next! Come answer, answer, I insist: what was it ... what could I
have done to put such a degrading suspicion into your mean soul?"
"As for the murder, you couldn't have done that and didn't want to, but as
for wanting some one else to do it, that was just what you did want."
"And how coolly, how coolly he speaks! But why should I have wanted it;
what grounds had I for wanting it?"
"What grounds had you? What about the inheritance?" said Smerdyakov
sarcastically, and, as it were, vindictively. "Why, after your parent's
death there was at least forty thousand to come to each of you, and very
likely more, but if Fyodor Pavlovitch got married then to that lady,
Agrafena Alexandrovna, she would have had all his capital made over to her
directly after the wedding, for she's plenty of sense, so that your parent
would not have left you two roubles between the three of you. And were
they far from a wedding, either? Not a hair's-breadth: that lady had only
to lift her little finger and he would have run after her to church, with
his tongue out."
Ivan restrained himself with painful effort.
"Very good," he commented at last. "You see, I haven't jumped up, I
haven't knocked you down, I haven't killed you. Speak on. So, according to
you, I had fixed on Dmitri to do it; I was reckoning on him?"
"How could you help reckoning on him? If he killed him, then he would lose
all the rights of a nobleman, his rank and property, and would go off to
exile; so his share of the inheritance would come to you and your brother
Alexey Fyodorovitch in equal parts; so you'd each have not forty, but
sixty thousand each. There's not a doubt you did reckon on Dmitri
Fyodorovitch."
"What I put up with from you! Listen, scoundrel, if I had reckoned on any
one then, it would have been on you, not on Dmitri, and I swear I did
expect some wickedness from you ... at the time.... I remember my
impression!"
"I thought, too, for a minute, at the time, that you were reckoning on me
as well," said Smerdyakov, with a sarcastic grin. "So that it was just by
that more than anything you showed me what was in your mind. For if you
had a foreboding about me and yet went away, you as good as said to me,
'You can murder my parent, I won't hinder you!' "
"You scoundrel! So that's how you understood it!"
"It was all that going to Tchermashnya. Why! You were meaning to go to
Moscow and refused all your father's entreaties to go to Tchermashnya--and
simply at a foolish word from me you consented at once! What reason had
you to consent to Tchermashnya? Since you went to Tchermashnya with no
reason, simply at my word, it shows that you must have expected something
from me."
"No, I swear I didn't!" shouted Ivan, grinding his teeth.
"You didn't? Then you ought, as your father's son, to have had me taken to
the lock-up and thrashed at once for my words then ... or at least, to
have given me a punch in the face on the spot, but you were not a bit
angry, if you please, and at once in a friendly way acted on my foolish
word and went away, which was utterly absurd, for you ought to have stayed
to save your parent's life. How could I help drawing my conclusions?"
Ivan sat scowling, both his fists convulsively pressed on his knees.
"Yes, I am sorry I didn't punch you in the face," he said with a bitter
smile. "I couldn't have taken you to the lock-up just then. Who would have
believed me and what charge could I bring against you? But the punch in
the face ... oh, I'm sorry I didn't think of it. Though blows are
forbidden, I should have pounded your ugly face to a jelly."
Smerdyakov looked at him almost with relish.
"In the ordinary occasions of life," he said in the same complacent and
sententious tone in which he had taunted Grigory and argued with him about
religion at Fyodor Pavlovitch's table, "in the ordinary occasions of life,
blows on the face are forbidden nowadays by law, and people have given
them up, but in exceptional occasions of life people still fly to blows,
not only among us but all over the world, be it even the fullest Republic
of France, just as in the time of Adam and Eve, and they never will leave
off, but you, even in an exceptional case, did not dare."
"What are you learning French words for?" Ivan nodded towards the
exercise-book lying on the table.
"Why shouldn't I learn them so as to improve my education, supposing that
I may myself chance to go some day to those happy parts of Europe?"
"Listen, monster." Ivan's eyes flashed and he trembled all over. "I am not
afraid of your accusations; you can say what you like about me, and if I
don't beat you to death, it's simply because I suspect you of that crime
and I'll drag you to justice. I'll unmask you."
"To my thinking, you'd better keep quiet, for what can you accuse me of,
considering my absolute innocence? and who would believe you? Only if you
begin, I shall tell everything, too, for I must defend myself."
"Do you think I am afraid of you now?"
"If the court doesn't believe all I've said to you just now, the public
will, and you will be ashamed."
"That's as much as to say, 'It's always worth while speaking to a sensible
man,' eh?" snarled Ivan.
"You hit the mark, indeed. And you'd better be sensible."
Ivan got up, shaking all over with indignation, put on his coat, and
without replying further to Smerdyakov, without even looking at him,
walked quickly out of the cottage. The cool evening air refreshed him.
There was a bright moon in the sky. A nightmare of ideas and sensations
filled his soul. "Shall I go at once and give information against
Smerdyakov? But what information can I give? He is not guilty, anyway. On
the contrary, he'll accuse me. And in fact, why did I set off for
Tchermashnya then? What for? What for?" Ivan asked himself. "Yes, of
course, I was expecting something and he is right...." And he remembered
for the hundredth time how, on the last night in his father's house, he
had listened on the stairs. But he remembered it now with such anguish
that he stood still on the spot as though he had been stabbed. "Yes, I
expected it then, that's true! I wanted the murder, I did want the murder!
Did I want the murder? Did I want it? I must kill Smerdyakov! If I don't
dare kill Smerdyakov now, life is not worth living!"
Ivan did not go home, but went straight to Katerina Ivanovna and alarmed
her by his appearance. He was like a madman. He repeated all his
conversation with Smerdyakov, every syllable of it. He couldn't be calmed,
however much she tried to soothe him: he kept walking about the room,
speaking strangely, disconnectedly. At last he sat down, put his elbows on
the table, leaned his head on his hands and pronounced this strange
sentence: "If it's not Dmitri, but Smerdyakov who's the murderer, I share
his guilt, for I put him up to it. Whether I did, I don't know yet. But if
he is the murderer, and not Dmitri, then, of course, I am the murderer,
too."
When Katerina Ivanovna heard that, she got up from her seat without a
word, went to her writing-table, opened a box standing on it, took out a
sheet of paper and laid it before Ivan. This was the document of which
Ivan spoke to Alyosha later on as a "conclusive proof" that Dmitri had
killed his father. It was the letter written by Mitya to Katerina Ivanovna
when he was drunk, on the very evening he met Alyosha at the crossroads on
the way to the monastery, after the scene at Katerina Ivanovna's, when
Grushenka had insulted her. Then, parting from Alyosha, Mitya had rushed
to Grushenka. I don't know whether he saw her, but in the evening he was
at the "Metropolis," where he got thoroughly drunk. Then he asked for pen
and paper and wrote a document of weighty consequences to himself. It was
a wordy, disconnected, frantic letter, a drunken letter in fact. It was
like the talk of a drunken man, who, on his return home, begins with
extraordinary heat telling his wife or one of his household how he has
just been insulted, what a rascal had just insulted him, what a fine
fellow he is on the other hand, and how he will pay that scoundrel out;
and all that at great length, with great excitement and incoherence, with
drunken tears and blows on the table. The letter was written on a dirty
piece of ordinary paper of the cheapest kind. It had been provided by the
tavern and there were figures scrawled on the back of it. There was
evidently not space enough for his drunken verbosity and Mitya not only
filled the margins but had written the last line right across the rest.
The letter ran as follows:
FATAL KATYA: To-morrow I will get the money and repay your three
thousand and farewell, woman of great wrath, but farewell, too, my
love! Let us make an end! To-morrow I shall try and get it from
every one, and if I can't borrow it, I give you my word of honor I
shall go to my father and break his skull and take the money from
under the pillow, if only Ivan has gone. If I have to go to
Siberia for it, I'll give you back your three thousand. And
farewell. I bow down to the ground before you, for I've been a
scoundrel to you. Forgive me! No, better not forgive me, you'll be
happier and so shall I! Better Siberia than your love, for I love
another woman and you got to know her too well to-day, so how can
you forgive? I will murder the man who's robbed me! I'll leave you
all and go to the East so as to see no one again. Not _her_
either, for you are not my only tormentress; she is too. Farewell!
P.S.--I write my curse, but I adore you! I hear it in my heart. One
string is left, and it vibrates. Better tear my heart in two! I
shall kill myself, but first of all that cur. I shall tear three
thousand from him and fling it to you. Though I've been a
scoundrel to you, I am not a thief! You can expect three thousand.
The cur keeps it under his mattress, in pink ribbon. I am not a
thief, but I'll murder my thief. Katya, don't look disdainful.
Dmitri is not a thief! but a murderer! He has murdered his father
and ruined himself to hold his ground, rather than endure your
pride. And he doesn't love you.
P.P.S.--I kiss your feet, farewell! P.P.P.S.--Katya, pray to God
that some one'll give me the money. Then I shall not be steeped in
gore, and if no one does--I shall! Kill me!
Your slave and enemy,
D. KARAMAZOV.
When Ivan read this "document" he was convinced. So then it was his
brother, not Smerdyakov. And if not Smerdyakov, then not he, Ivan. This
letter at once assumed in his eyes the aspect of a logical proof. There
could be no longer the slightest doubt of Mitya's guilt. The suspicion
never occurred to Ivan, by the way, that Mitya might have committed the
murder in conjunction with Smerdyakov, and, indeed, such a theory did not
fit in with the facts. Ivan was completely reassured. The next morning he
only thought of Smerdyakov and his gibes with contempt. A few days later
he positively wondered how he could have been so horribly distressed at
his suspicions. He resolved to dismiss him with contempt and forget him.
So passed a month. He made no further inquiry about Smerdyakov, but twice
he happened to hear that he was very ill and out of his mind.
"He'll end in madness," the young doctor Varvinsky observed about him, and
Ivan remembered this. During the last week of that month Ivan himself
began to feel very ill. He went to consult the Moscow doctor who had been
sent for by Katerina Ivanovna just before the trial. And just at that time
his relations with Katerina Ivanovna became acutely strained. They were
like two enemies in love with one another. Katerina Ivanovna's "returns"
to Mitya, that is, her brief but violent revulsions of feeling in his
favor, drove Ivan to perfect frenzy. Strange to say, until that last scene
described above, when Alyosha came from Mitya to Katerina Ivanovna, Ivan
had never once, during that month, heard her express a doubt of Mitya's
guilt, in spite of those "returns" that were so hateful to him. It is
remarkable, too, that while he felt that he hated Mitya more and more
every day, he realized that it was not on account of Katya's "returns"
that he hated him, but just _because he was the murderer of his father_.
He was conscious of this and fully recognized it to himself.
Nevertheless, he went to see Mitya ten days before the trial and proposed
to him a plan of escape--a plan he had obviously thought over a long time.
He was partly impelled to do this by a sore place still left in his heart
from a phrase of Smerdyakov's, that it was to his, Ivan's, advantage that
his brother should be convicted, as that would increase his inheritance
and Alyosha's from forty to sixty thousand roubles. He determined to
sacrifice thirty thousand on arranging Mitya's escape. On his return from
seeing him, he was very mournful and dispirited; he suddenly began to feel
that he was anxious for Mitya's escape, not only to heal that sore place
by sacrificing thirty thousand, but for another reason. "Is it because I
am as much a murderer at heart?" he asked himself. Something very deep
down seemed burning and rankling in his soul. His pride above all suffered
cruelly all that month. But of that later....
When, after his conversation with Alyosha, Ivan suddenly decided with his
hand on the bell of his lodging to go to Smerdyakov, he obeyed a sudden
and peculiar impulse of indignation. He suddenly remembered how Katerina
Ivanovna had only just cried out to him in Alyosha's presence: "It was
you, you, persuaded me of his" (that is, Mitya's) "guilt!" Ivan was
thunderstruck when he recalled it. He had never once tried to persuade her
that Mitya was the murderer; on the contrary, he had suspected himself in
her presence, that time when he came back from Smerdyakov. It was _she_,
she, who had produced that "document" and proved his brother's guilt. And
now she suddenly exclaimed: "I've been at Smerdyakov's myself!" When had
she been there? Ivan had known nothing of it. So she was not at all so
sure of Mitya's guilt! And what could Smerdyakov have told her? What,
what, had he said to her? His heart burned with violent anger. He could
not understand how he could, half an hour before, have let those words
pass and not have cried out at the moment. He let go of the bell and
rushed off to Smerdyakov. "I shall kill him, perhaps, this time," he
thought on the way.
Chapter VIII. The Third And Last Interview With Smerdyakov
When he was half-way there, the keen dry wind that had been blowing early
that morning rose again, and a fine dry snow began falling thickly. It did
not lie on the ground, but was whirled about by the wind, and soon there
was a regular snowstorm. There were scarcely any lamp-posts in the part of
the town where Smerdyakov lived. Ivan strode alone in the darkness,
unconscious of the storm, instinctively picking out his way. His head
ached and there was a painful throbbing in his temples. He felt that his
hands were twitching convulsively. Not far from Marya Kondratyevna's
cottage, Ivan suddenly came upon a solitary drunken little peasant. He was
wearing a coarse and patched coat, and was walking in zigzags, grumbling
and swearing to himself. Then suddenly he would begin singing in a husky
drunken voice:
"Ach, Vanka's gone to Petersburg;
I won't wait till he comes back."
But he broke off every time at the second line and began swearing again;
then he would begin the same song again. Ivan felt an intense hatred for
him before he had thought about him at all. Suddenly he realized his
presence and felt an irresistible impulse to knock him down. At that
moment they met, and the peasant with a violent lurch fell full tilt
against Ivan, who pushed him back furiously. The peasant went flying
backwards and fell like a log on the frozen ground. He uttered one
plaintive "O--oh!" and then was silent. Ivan stepped up to him. He was
lying on his back, without movement or consciousness. "He will be frozen,"
thought Ivan, and he went on his way to Smerdyakov's.
In the passage, Marya Kondratyevna, who ran out to open the door with a
candle in her hand, whispered that Smerdyakov was very ill, "It's not that
he's laid up, but he seems not himself, and he even told us to take the
tea away; he wouldn't have any."
"Why, does he make a row?" asked Ivan coarsely.
"Oh, dear, no, quite the contrary, he's very quiet. Only please don't talk
to him too long," Marya Kondratyevna begged him. Ivan opened the door and
stepped into the room.
It was over-heated as before, but there were changes in the room. One of
the benches at the side had been removed, and in its place had been put a
large old mahogany leather sofa, on which a bed had been made up, with
fairly clean white pillows. Smerdyakov was sitting on the sofa, wearing
the same dressing-gown. The table had been brought out in front of the
sofa, so that there was hardly room to move. On the table lay a thick book
in yellow cover, but Smerdyakov was not reading it. He seemed to be
sitting doing nothing. He met Ivan with a slow silent gaze, and was
apparently not at all surprised at his coming. There was a great change in
his face; he was much thinner and sallower. His eyes were sunken and there
were blue marks under them.
"Why, you really are ill?" Ivan stopped short. "I won't keep you long, I
won't even take off my coat. Where can one sit down?"
He went to the other end of the table, moved up a chair and sat down on
it.
"Why do you look at me without speaking? I've only come with one question,
and I swear I won't go without an answer. Has the young lady, Katerina
Ivanovna, been with you?"
Smerdyakov still remained silent, looking quietly at Ivan as before.
Suddenly, with a motion of his hand, he turned his face away.
"What's the matter with you?" cried Ivan.
"Nothing."
"What do you mean by 'nothing'?"
"Yes, she has. It's no matter to you. Let me alone."
"No, I won't let you alone. Tell me, when was she here?"
"Why, I'd quite forgotten about her," said Smerdyakov, with a scornful
smile, and turning his face to Ivan again, he stared at him with a look of
frenzied hatred, the same look that he had fixed on him at their last
interview, a month before.
"You seem very ill yourself, your face is sunken; you don't look like
yourself," he said to Ivan.
"Never mind my health, tell me what I ask you."
"But why are your eyes so yellow? The whites are quite yellow. Are you so
worried?" He smiled contemptuously and suddenly laughed outright.
"Listen; I've told you I won't go away without an answer!" Ivan cried,
intensely irritated.
"Why do you keep pestering me? Why do you torment me?" said Smerdyakov,
with a look of suffering.
"Damn it! I've nothing to do with you. Just answer my question and I'll go
away."
"I've no answer to give you," said Smerdyakov, looking down again.
"You may be sure I'll make you answer!"
"Why are you so uneasy?" Smerdyakov stared at him, not simply with
contempt, but almost with repulsion. "Is this because the trial begins to-
morrow? Nothing will happen to you; can't you believe that at last? Go
home, go to bed and sleep in peace, don't be afraid of anything."
"I don't understand you.... What have I to be afraid of to-morrow?" Ivan
articulated in astonishment, and suddenly a chill breath of fear did in
fact pass over his soul. Smerdyakov measured him with his eyes.
"You don't understand?" he drawled reproachfully. "It's a strange thing a
sensible man should care to play such a farce!"
Ivan looked at him speechless. The startling, incredibly supercilious tone
of this man who had once been his valet, was extraordinary in itself. He
had not taken such a tone even at their last interview.
"I tell you, you've nothing to be afraid of. I won't say anything about
you; there's no proof against you. I say, how your hands are trembling!
Why are your fingers moving like that? Go home, _you_ did not murder him."
Ivan started. He remembered Alyosha.
"I know it was not I," he faltered.
"Do you?" Smerdyakov caught him up again.
Ivan jumped up and seized him by the shoulder.
"Tell me everything, you viper! Tell me everything!"
Smerdyakov was not in the least scared. He only riveted his eyes on Ivan
with insane hatred.
"Well, it was you who murdered him, if that's it," he whispered furiously.
Ivan sank back on his chair, as though pondering something. He laughed
malignantly.
"You mean my going away. What you talked about last time?"
"You stood before me last time and understood it all, and you understand
it now."
"All I understand is that you are mad."
"Aren't you tired of it? Here we are face to face; what's the use of going
on keeping up a farce to each other? Are you still trying to throw it all
on me, to my face? _You_ murdered him; you are the real murderer, I was
only your instrument, your faithful servant, and it was following your
words I did it."
"_Did_ it? Why, did you murder him?" Ivan turned cold.
Something seemed to give way in his brain, and he shuddered all over with
a cold shiver. Then Smerdyakov himself looked at him wonderingly; probably
the genuineness of Ivan's horror struck him.
"You don't mean to say you really did not know?" he faltered
mistrustfully, looking with a forced smile into his eyes. Ivan still gazed
at him, and seemed unable to speak.
Ach, Vanka's gone to Petersburg;
I won't wait till he comes back,
suddenly echoed in his head.
"Do you know, I am afraid that you are a dream, a phantom sitting before
me," he muttered.
"There's no phantom here, but only us two and one other. No doubt he is
here, that third, between us."
"Who is he? Who is here? What third person?" Ivan cried in alarm, looking
about him, his eyes hastily searching in every corner.
"That third is God Himself--Providence. He is the third beside us now. Only
don't look for Him, you won't find Him."
"It's a lie that you killed him!" Ivan cried madly. "You are mad, or
teasing me again!"
Smerdyakov, as before, watched him curiously, with no sign of fear. He
could still scarcely get over his incredulity; he still fancied that Ivan
knew everything and was trying to "throw it all on him to his face."
"Wait a minute," he said at last in a weak voice, and suddenly bringing up
his left leg from under the table, he began turning up his trouser leg. He
was wearing long white stockings and slippers. Slowly he took off his
garter and fumbled to the bottom of his stocking. Ivan gazed at him, and
suddenly shuddered in a paroxysm of terror.
"He's mad!" he cried, and rapidly jumping up, he drew back, so that he
knocked his back against the wall and stood up against it, stiff and
straight. He looked with insane terror at Smerdyakov, who, entirely
unaffected by his terror, continued fumbling in his stocking, as though he
were making an effort to get hold of something with his fingers and pull
it out. At last he got hold of it and began pulling it out. Ivan saw that
it was a piece of paper, or perhaps a roll of papers. Smerdyakov pulled it
out and laid it on the table.
"Here," he said quietly.
"What is it?" asked Ivan, trembling.
"Kindly look at it," Smerdyakov answered, still in the same low tone.
Ivan stepped up to the table, took up the roll of paper and began
unfolding it, but suddenly he drew back his fingers, as though from
contact with a loathsome reptile.
"Your hands keep twitching," observed Smerdyakov, and he deliberately
unfolded the bundle himself. Under the wrapper were three packets of
hundred-rouble notes.
"They are all here, all the three thousand roubles; you need not count
them. Take them," Smerdyakov suggested to Ivan, nodding at the notes. Ivan
sank back in his chair. He was as white as a handkerchief.
"You frightened me ... with your stocking," he said, with a strange grin.
"Can you really not have known till now?" Smerdyakov asked once more.
"No, I did not know. I kept thinking of Dmitri. Brother, brother! Ach!" He
suddenly clutched his head in both hands.
"Listen. Did you kill him alone? With my brother's help or without?"
"It was only with you, with your help, I killed him, and Dmitri
Fyodorovitch is quite innocent."
"All right, all right. Talk about me later. Why do I keep on trembling? I
can't speak properly."
"You were bold enough then. You said 'everything was lawful,' and how
frightened you are now," Smerdyakov muttered in surprise. "Won't you have
some lemonade? I'll ask for some at once. It's very refreshing. Only I
must hide this first."
And again he motioned at the notes. He was just going to get up and call
at the door to Marya Kondratyevna to make some lemonade and bring it them,
but, looking for something to cover up the notes that she might not see
them, he first took out his handkerchief, and as it turned out to be very
dirty, took up the big yellow book that Ivan had noticed at first lying on
the table, and put it over the notes. The book was _The Sayings of the
Holy Father Isaac the Syrian_. Ivan read it mechanically.
"I won't have any lemonade," he said. "Talk of me later. Sit down and tell
me how you did it. Tell me all about it."
"You'd better take off your greatcoat, or you'll be too hot." Ivan, as
though he'd only just thought of it, took off his coat, and, without
getting up from his chair, threw it on the bench.
"Speak, please, speak."
He seemed calmer. He waited, feeling sure that Smerdyakov would tell him
_all_ about it.
"How it was done?" sighed Smerdyakov. "It was done in a most natural way,
following your very words."
"Of my words later," Ivan broke in again, apparently with complete self-
possession, firmly uttering his words, and not shouting as before. "Only
tell me in detail how you did it. Everything, as it happened. Don't forget
anything. The details, above everything, the details, I beg you."
"You'd gone away, then I fell into the cellar."
"In a fit or in a sham one?"
"A sham one, naturally. I shammed it all. I went quietly down the steps to
the very bottom and lay down quietly, and as I lay down I gave a scream,
and struggled, till they carried me out."
"Stay! And were you shamming all along, afterwards, and in the hospital?"
"No, not at all. Next day, in the morning, before they took me to the
hospital, I had a real attack and a more violent one than I've had for
years. For two days I was quite unconscious."
"All right, all right. Go on."
"They laid me on the bed. I knew I'd be the other side of the partition,
for whenever I was ill, Marfa Ignatyevna used to put me there, near them.
She's always been very kind to me, from my birth up. At night I moaned,
but quietly. I kept expecting Dmitri Fyodorovitch to come."
"Expecting him? To come to you?"
"Not to me. I expected him to come into the house, for I'd no doubt that
he'd come that night, for being without me and getting no news, he'd be
sure to come and climb over the fence, as he used to, and do something."
"And if he hadn't come?"
"Then nothing would have happened. I should never have brought myself to
it without him."
"All right, all right ... speak more intelligibly, don't hurry; above all,
don't leave anything out!"
"I expected him to kill Fyodor Pavlovitch. I thought that was certain, for
I had prepared him for it ... during the last few days.... He knew about
the knocks, that was the chief thing. With his suspiciousness and the fury
which had been growing in him all those days, he was bound to get into the
house by means of those taps. That was inevitable, so I was expecting
him."
"Stay," Ivan interrupted; "if he had killed him, he would have taken the
money and carried it away; you must have considered that. What would you
have got by it afterwards? I don't see."
"But he would never have found the money. That was only what I told him,
that the money was under the mattress. But that wasn't true. It had been
lying in a box. And afterwards I suggested to Fyodor Pavlovitch, as I was
the only person he trusted, to hide the envelope with the notes in the
corner behind the ikons, for no one would have guessed that place,
especially if they came in a hurry. So that's where the envelope lay, in
the corner behind the ikons. It would have been absurd to keep it under
the mattress; the box, anyway, could be locked. But all believe it was
under the mattress. A stupid thing to believe. So if Dmitri Fyodorovitch
had committed the murder, finding nothing, he would either have run away
in a hurry, afraid of every sound, as always happens with murderers, or he
would have been arrested. So I could always have clambered up to the ikons
and have taken away the money next morning or even that night, and it
would have all been put down to Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I could reckon upon
that."
"But what if he did not kill him, but only knocked him down?"
"If he did not kill him, of course, I would not have ventured to take the
money, and nothing would have happened. But I calculated that he would
beat him senseless, and I should have time to take it then, and then I'd
make out to Fyodor Pavlovitch that it was no one but Dmitri Fyodorovitch
who had taken the money after beating him."
"Stop ... I am getting mixed. Then it was Dmitri after all who killed him;
you only took the money?"
"No, he didn't kill him. Well, I might as well have told you now that he
was the murderer.... But I don't want to lie to you now, because ...
because if you really haven't understood till now, as I see for myself,
and are not pretending, so as to throw your guilt on me to my very face,
you are still responsible for it all, since you knew of the murder and
charged me to do it, and went away knowing all about it. And so I want to
prove to your face this evening that you are the only real murderer in the
whole affair, and I am not the real murderer, though I did kill him. You
are the rightful murderer."
"Why, why, am I a murderer? Oh, God!" Ivan cried, unable to restrain
himself at last, and forgetting that he had put off discussing himself
till the end of the conversation. "You still mean that Tchermashnya? Stay,
tell me, why did you want my consent, if you really took Tchermashnya for
consent? How will you explain that now?"
"Assured of your consent, I should have known that you wouldn't have made
an outcry over those three thousand being lost, even if I'd been
suspected, instead of Dmitri Fyodorovitch, or as his accomplice; on the
contrary, you would have protected me from others.... And when you got
your inheritance you would have rewarded me when you were able, all the
rest of your life. For you'd have received your inheritance through me,
seeing that if he had married Agrafena Alexandrovna, you wouldn't have had
a farthing."
"Ah! Then you intended to worry me all my life afterwards," snarled Ivan.
"And what if I hadn't gone away then, but had informed against you?"
"What could you have informed? That I persuaded you to go to Tchermashnya?
That's all nonsense. Besides, after our conversation you would either have
gone away or have stayed. If you had stayed, nothing would have happened.
I should have known that you didn't want it done, and should have
attempted nothing. As you went away, it meant you assured me that you
wouldn't dare to inform against me at the trial, and that you'd overlook
my having the three thousand. And, indeed, you couldn't have prosecuted me
afterwards, because then I should have told it all in the court; that is,
not that I had stolen the money or killed him--I shouldn't have said
that--but that you'd put me up to the theft and the murder, though I didn't
consent to it. That's why I needed your consent, so that you couldn't have
cornered me afterwards, for what proof could you have had? I could always
have cornered you, revealing your eagerness for your father's death, and I
tell you the public would have believed it all, and you would have been
ashamed for the rest of your life."
"Was I then so eager, was I?" Ivan snarled again.
"To be sure you were, and by your consent you silently sanctioned my doing
it." Smerdyakov looked resolutely at Ivan. He was very weak and spoke
slowly and wearily, but some hidden inner force urged him on. He evidently
had some design. Ivan felt that.
"Go on," he said. "Tell me what happened that night."
"What more is there to tell! I lay there and I thought I heard the master
shout. And before that Grigory Vassilyevitch had suddenly got up and came
out, and he suddenly gave a scream, and then all was silence and darkness.
I lay there waiting, my heart beating; I couldn't bear it. I got up at
last, went out. I saw the window open on the left into the garden, and I
stepped to the left to listen whether he was sitting there alive, and I
heard the master moving about, sighing, so I knew he was alive. 'Ech!' I
thought. I went to the window and shouted to the master, 'It's I.' And he
shouted to me, 'He's been, he's been; he's run away.' He meant Dmitri
Fyodorovitch had been. 'He's killed Grigory!' 'Where?' I whispered.
'There, in the corner,' he pointed. He was whispering, too. 'Wait a bit,'
I said. I went to the corner of the garden to look, and there I came upon
Grigory Vassilyevitch lying by the wall, covered with blood, senseless. So
it's true that Dmitri Fyodorovitch has been here, was the thought that
came into my head, and I determined on the spot to make an end of it, as
Grigory Vassilyevitch, even if he were alive, would see nothing of it, as
he lay there senseless. The only risk was that Marfa Ignatyevna might wake
up. I felt that at the moment, but the longing to get it done came over
me, till I could scarcely breathe. I went back to the window to the master
and said, 'She's here, she's come; Agrafena Alexandrovna has come, wants
to be let in.' And he started like a baby. 'Where is she?' he fairly
gasped, but couldn't believe it. 'She's standing there,' said I. 'Open.'
He looked out of the window at me, half believing and half distrustful,
but afraid to open. 'Why, he is afraid of me now,' I thought. And it was
funny. I bethought me to knock on the window-frame those taps we'd agreed
upon as a signal that Grushenka had come, in his presence, before his
eyes. He didn't seem to believe my word, but as soon as he heard the taps,
he ran at once to open the door. He opened it. I would have gone in, but
he stood in the way to prevent me passing. 'Where is she? Where is she?'
He looked at me, all of a tremble. 'Well,' thought I, 'if he's so
frightened of me as all that, it's a bad look out!' And my legs went weak
with fright that he wouldn't let me in or would call out, or Marfa
Ignatyevna would run up, or something else might happen. I don't remember
now, but I must have stood pale, facing him. I whispered to him, 'Why,
she's there, there, under the window; how is it you don't see her?' I
said. 'Bring her then, bring her.' 'She's afraid,' said I; 'she was
frightened at the noise, she's hidden in the bushes; go and call to her
yourself from the study.' He ran to the window, put the candle in the
window. 'Grushenka,' he cried, 'Grushenka, are you here?' Though he cried
that, he didn't want to lean out of the window, he didn't want to move
away from me, for he was panic-stricken; he was so frightened he didn't
dare to turn his back on me. 'Why, here she is,' said I. I went up to the
window and leaned right out of it. 'Here she is; she's in the bush,
laughing at you, don't you see her?' He suddenly believed it; he was all
of a shake--he was awfully crazy about her--and he leaned right out of the
window. I snatched up that iron paper-weight from his table; do you
remember, weighing about three pounds? I swung it and hit him on the top
of the skull with the corner of it. He didn't even cry out. He only sank
down suddenly, and I hit him again and a third time. And the third time I
knew I'd broken his skull. He suddenly rolled on his back, face upwards,
covered with blood. I looked round. There was no blood on me, not a spot.
I wiped the paper-weight, put it back, went up to the ikons, took the
money out of the envelope, and flung the envelope on the floor and the
pink ribbon beside it. I went out into the garden all of a tremble,
straight to the apple-tree with a hollow in it--you know that hollow. I'd
marked it long before and put a rag and a piece of paper ready in it. I
wrapped all the notes in the rag and stuffed it deep down in the hole. And
there it stayed for over a fortnight. I took it out later, when I came out
of the hospital. I went back to my bed, lay down and thought, 'If Grigory
Vassilyevitch has been killed outright it may be a bad job for me, but if
he is not killed and recovers, it will be first-rate, for then he'll bear
witness that Dmitri Fyodorovitch has been here, and so he must have killed
him and taken the money.' Then I began groaning with suspense and
impatience, so as to wake Marfa Ignatyevna as soon as possible. At last
she got up and she rushed to me, but when she saw Grigory Vassilyevitch
was not there, she ran out, and I heard her scream in the garden. And that
set it all going and set my mind at rest."
He stopped. Ivan had listened all the time in dead silence without
stirring or taking his eyes off him. As he told his story Smerdyakov
glanced at him from time to time, but for the most part kept his eyes
averted. When he had finished he was evidently agitated and was breathing
hard. The perspiration stood out on his face. But it was impossible to
tell whether it was remorse he was feeling, or what.
"Stay," cried Ivan, pondering. "What about the door? If he only opened the
door to you, how could Grigory have seen it open before? For Grigory saw
it before you went."
It was remarkable that Ivan spoke quite amicably, in a different tone, not
angry as before, so if any one had opened the door at that moment and
peeped in at them, he would certainly have concluded that they were
talking peaceably about some ordinary, though interesting, subject.
"As for that door and Grigory Vassilyevitch's having seen it open, that's
only his fancy," said Smerdyakov, with a wry smile. "He is not a man, I
assure you, but an obstinate mule. He didn't see it, but fancied he had
seen it, and there's no shaking him. It's just our luck he took that
notion into his head, for they can't fail to convict Dmitri Fyodorovitch
after that."
"Listen ..." said Ivan, beginning to seem bewildered again and making an
effort to grasp something. "Listen. There are a lot of questions I want to
ask you, but I forget them ... I keep forgetting and getting mixed up.
Yes. Tell me this at least, why did you open the envelope and leave it
there on the floor? Why didn't you simply carry off the envelope?... When
you were telling me, I thought you spoke about it as though it were the
right thing to do ... but why, I can't understand...."
"I did that for a good reason. For if a man had known all about it, as I
did for instance, if he'd seen those notes before, and perhaps had put
them in that envelope himself, and had seen the envelope sealed up and
addressed, with his own eyes, if such a man had done the murder, what
should have made him tear open the envelope afterwards, especially in such
desperate haste, since he'd know for certain the notes must be in the
envelope? No, if the robber had been some one like me, he'd simply have
put the envelope straight in his pocket and got away with it as fast as he
could. But it'd be quite different with Dmitri Fyodorovitch. He only knew
about the envelope by hearsay; he had never seen it, and if he'd found it,
for instance, under the mattress, he'd have torn it open as quickly as
possible to make sure the notes were in it. And he'd have thrown the
envelope down, without having time to think that it would be evidence
against him. Because he was not an habitual thief and had never directly
stolen anything before, for he is a gentleman born, and if he did bring
himself to steal, it would not be regular stealing, but simply taking what
was his own, for he'd told the whole town he meant to before, and had even
bragged aloud before every one that he'd go and take his property from
Fyodor Pavlovitch. I didn't say that openly to the prosecutor when I was
being examined, but quite the contrary, I brought him to it by a hint, as
though I didn't see it myself, and as though he'd thought of it himself
and I hadn't prompted him; so that Mr. Prosecutor's mouth positively
watered at my suggestion."
"But can you possibly have thought of all that on the spot?" cried Ivan,
overcome with astonishment. He looked at Smerdyakov again with alarm.
"Mercy on us! Could any one think of it all in such a desperate hurry? It
was all thought out beforehand."
"Well ... well, it was the devil helped you!" Ivan cried again. "No, you
are not a fool, you are far cleverer than I thought...."
He got up, obviously intending to walk across the room. He was in terrible
distress. But as the table blocked his way, and there was hardly room to
pass between the table and the wall, he only turned round where he stood
and sat down again. Perhaps the impossibility of moving irritated him, as
he suddenly cried out almost as furiously as before.
"Listen, you miserable, contemptible creature! Don't you understand that
if I haven't killed you, it's simply because I am keeping you to answer
to-morrow at the trial. God sees," Ivan raised his hand, "perhaps I, too,
was guilty; perhaps I really had a secret desire for my father's ...
death, but I swear I was not as guilty as you think, and perhaps I didn't
urge you on at all. No, no, I didn't urge you on! But no matter, I will
give evidence against myself to-morrow at the trial. I'm determined to! I
shall tell everything, everything. But we'll make our appearance together.
And whatever you may say against me at the trial, whatever evidence you
give, I'll face it; I am not afraid of you. I'll confirm it all myself!
But you must confess, too! You must, you must; we'll go together. That's
how it shall be!"
Ivan said this solemnly and resolutely and from his flashing eyes alone it
could be seen that it would be so.
"You are ill, I see; you are quite ill. Your eyes are yellow," Smerdyakov
commented, without the least irony, with apparent sympathy in fact.
"We'll go together," Ivan repeated. "And if you won't go, no matter, I'll
go alone."
Smerdyakov paused as though pondering.
"There'll be nothing of the sort, and you won't go," he concluded at last
positively.
"You don't understand me," Ivan exclaimed reproachfully.
"You'll be too much ashamed, if you confess it all. And, what's more, it
will be no use at all, for I shall say straight out that I never said
anything of the sort to you, and that you are either ill (and it looks
like it, too), or that you're so sorry for your brother that you are
sacrificing yourself to save him and have invented it all against me, for
you've always thought no more of me than if I'd been a fly. And who will
believe you, and what single proof have you got?"
"Listen, you showed me those notes just now to convince me."
Smerdyakov lifted the book off the notes and laid it on one side.
"Take that money away with you," Smerdyakov sighed.
"Of course, I shall take it. But why do you give it to me, if you
committed the murder for the sake of it?" Ivan looked at him with great
surprise.
"I don't want it," Smerdyakov articulated in a shaking voice, with a
gesture of refusal. "I did have an idea of beginning a new life with that
money in Moscow or, better still, abroad. I did dream of it, chiefly
because 'all things are lawful.' That was quite right what you taught me,
for you talked a lot to me about that. For if there's no everlasting God,
there's no such thing as virtue, and there's no need of it. You were right
there. So that's how I looked at it."
"Did you come to that of yourself?" asked Ivan, with a wry smile.
"With your guidance."
"And now, I suppose, you believe in God, since you are giving back the
money?"
"No, I don't believe," whispered Smerdyakov.
"Then why are you giving it back?"
"Leave off ... that's enough!" Smerdyakov waved his hand again. "You used
to say yourself that everything was lawful, so now why are you so upset,
too? You even want to go and give evidence against yourself.... Only
there'll be nothing of the sort! You won't go to give evidence,"
Smerdyakov decided with conviction.
"You'll see," said Ivan.
"It isn't possible. You are very clever. You are fond of money, I know
that. You like to be respected, too, for you're very proud; you are far
too fond of female charms, too, and you mind most of all about living in
undisturbed comfort, without having to depend on any one--that's what you
care most about. You won't want to spoil your life for ever by taking such
a disgrace on yourself. You are like Fyodor Pavlovitch, you are more like
him than any of his children; you've the same soul as he had."
"You are not a fool," said Ivan, seeming struck. The blood rushed to his
face. "You are serious now!" he observed, looking suddenly at Smerdyakov
with a different expression.
"It was your pride made you think I was a fool. Take the money."
Ivan took the three rolls of notes and put them in his pocket without
wrapping them in anything.
"I shall show them at the court to-morrow," he said.
"Nobody will believe you, as you've plenty of money of your own; you may
simply have taken it out of your cash-box and brought it to the court."
Ivan rose from his seat.
"I repeat," he said, "the only reason I haven't killed you is that I need
you for to-morrow, remember that, don't forget it!"
"Well, kill me. Kill me now," Smerdyakov said, all at once looking
strangely at Ivan. "You won't dare do that even!" he added, with a bitter
smile. "You won't dare to do anything, you, who used to be so bold!"
"Till to-morrow," cried Ivan, and moved to go out.
"Stay a moment.... Show me those notes again."
Ivan took out the notes and showed them to him. Smerdyakov looked at them
for ten seconds.
"Well, you can go," he said, with a wave of his hand. "Ivan Fyodorovitch!"
he called after him again.
"What do you want?" Ivan turned without stopping.
"Good-by!"
"Till to-morrow!" Ivan cried again, and he walked out of the cottage.
The snowstorm was still raging. He walked the first few steps boldly, but
suddenly began staggering. "It's something physical," he thought with a
grin. Something like joy was springing up in his heart. He was conscious
of unbounded resolution; he would make an end of the wavering that had so
tortured him of late. His determination was taken, "and now it will not be
changed," he thought with relief. At that moment he stumbled against
something and almost fell down. Stopping short, he made out at his feet
the peasant he had knocked down, still lying senseless and motionless. The
snow had almost covered his face. Ivan seized him and lifted him in his
arms. Seeing a light in the little house to the right he went up, knocked
at the shutters, and asked the man to whom the house belonged to help him
carry the peasant to the police-station, promising him three roubles. The
man got ready and came out. I won't describe in detail how Ivan succeeded
in his object, bringing the peasant to the police-station and arranging
for a doctor to see him at once, providing with a liberal hand for the
expenses. I will only say that this business took a whole hour, but Ivan
was well content with it. His mind wandered and worked incessantly.
"If I had not taken my decision so firmly for to-morrow," he reflected
with satisfaction, "I should not have stayed a whole hour to look after
the peasant, but should have passed by, without caring about his being
frozen. I am quite capable of watching myself, by the way," he thought at
the same instant, with still greater satisfaction, "although they have
decided that I am going out of my mind!"
Just as he reached his own house he stopped short, asking himself suddenly
hadn't he better go at once to the prosecutor and tell him everything. He
decided the question by turning back to the house. "Everything together
to-morrow!" he whispered to himself, and, strange to say, almost all his
gladness and self-satisfaction passed in one instant.
As he entered his own room he felt something like a touch of ice on his
heart, like a recollection or, more exactly, a reminder, of something
agonizing and revolting that was in that room now, at that moment, and had
been there before. He sank wearily on his sofa. The old woman brought him
a samovar; he made tea, but did not touch it. He sat on the sofa and felt
giddy. He felt that he was ill and helpless. He was beginning to drop
asleep, but got up uneasily and walked across the room to shake off his
drowsiness. At moments he fancied he was delirious, but it was not illness
that he thought of most. Sitting down again, he began looking round, as
though searching for something. This happened several times. At last his
eyes were fastened intently on one point. Ivan smiled, but an angry flush
suffused his face. He sat a long time in his place, his head propped on
both arms, though he looked sideways at the same point, at the sofa that
stood against the opposite wall. There was evidently something, some
object, that irritated him there, worried him and tormented him.
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.
Chapter X. "It Was He Who Said That"
Alyosha coming in told Ivan that a little over an hour ago Marya
Kondratyevna had run to his rooms and informed him Smerdyakov had taken
his own life. "I went in to clear away the samovar and he was hanging on a
nail in the wall." On Alyosha's inquiring whether she had informed the
police, she answered that she had told no one, "but I flew straight to
you, I've run all the way." She seemed perfectly crazy, Alyosha reported,
and was shaking like a leaf. When Alyosha ran with her to the cottage, he
found Smerdyakov still hanging. On the table lay a note: "I destroy my
life of my own will and desire, so as to throw no blame on any one."
Alyosha left the note on the table and went straight to the police captain
and told him all about it. "And from him I've come straight to you," said
Alyosha, in conclusion, looking intently into Ivan's face. He had not
taken his eyes off him while he told his story, as though struck by
something in his expression.
"Brother," he cried suddenly, "you must be terribly ill. You look and
don't seem to understand what I tell you."
"It's a good thing you came," said Ivan, as though brooding, and not
hearing Alyosha's exclamation. "I knew he had hanged himself."
"From whom?"
"I don't know. But I knew. Did I know? Yes, he told me. He told me so just
now."
Ivan stood in the middle of the room, and still spoke in the same brooding
tone, looking at the ground.
"Who is _he_?" asked Alyosha, involuntarily looking round.
"He's slipped away."
Ivan raised his head and smiled softly.
"He was afraid of you, of a dove like you. You are a 'pure cherub.' Dmitri
calls you a cherub. Cherub!... the thunderous rapture of the seraphim.
What are seraphim? Perhaps a whole constellation. But perhaps that
constellation is only a chemical molecule. There's a constellation of the
Lion and the Sun. Don't you know it?"
"Brother, sit down," said Alyosha in alarm. "For goodness' sake, sit down
on the sofa! You are delirious; put your head on the pillow, that's right.
Would you like a wet towel on your head? Perhaps it will do you good."
"Give me the towel: it's here on the chair. I just threw it down there."
"It's not here. Don't worry yourself. I know where it is--here," said
Alyosha, finding a clean towel, folded up and unused, by Ivan's dressing-
table in the other corner of the room. Ivan looked strangely at the towel:
recollection seemed to come back to him for an instant.
"Stay"--he got up from the sofa--"an hour ago I took that new towel from
there and wetted it. I wrapped it round my head and threw it down here ...
How is it it's dry? There was no other."
"You put that towel on your head?" asked Alyosha.
"Yes, and walked up and down the room an hour ago ... Why have the candles
burnt down so? What's the time?"
"Nearly twelve."
"No, no, no!" Ivan cried suddenly. "It was not a dream. He was here; he
was sitting here, on that sofa. When you knocked at the window, I threw a
glass at him ... this one. Wait a minute. I was asleep last time, but this
dream was not a dream. It has happened before. I have dreams now, Alyosha
... yet they are not dreams, but reality. I walk about, talk and see ...
though I am asleep. But he was sitting here, on that sofa there.... He is
frightfully stupid, Alyosha, frightfully stupid." Ivan laughed suddenly
and began pacing about the room.
"Who is stupid? Of whom are you talking, brother?" Alyosha asked anxiously
again.
"The devil! He's taken to visiting me. He's been here twice, almost three
times. He taunted me with being angry at his being a simple devil and not
Satan, with scorched wings, in thunder and lightning. But he is not Satan:
that's a lie. He is an impostor. He is simply a devil--a paltry, trivial
devil. He goes to the baths. If you undressed him, you'd be sure to find
he had a tail, long and smooth like a Danish dog's, a yard long, dun
color.... Alyosha, you are cold. You've been in the snow. Would you like
some tea? What? Is it cold? Shall I tell her to bring some? _C'est a ne
pas mettre un chien dehors._..."
Alyosha ran to the washing-stand, wetted the towel, persuaded Ivan to sit
down again, and put the wet towel round his head. He sat down beside him.
"What were you telling me just now about Lise?" Ivan began again. (He was
becoming very talkative.) "I like Lise. I said something nasty about her.
It was a lie. I like her ... I am afraid for Katya to-morrow. I am more
afraid of her than of anything. On account of the future. She will cast me
off to-morrow and trample me under foot. She thinks that I am ruining
Mitya from jealousy on her account! Yes, she thinks that! But it's not so.
To-morrow the cross, but not the gallows. No, I shan't hang myself. Do you
know, I can never commit suicide, Alyosha. Is it because I am base? I am
not a coward. Is it from love of life? How did I know that Smerdyakov had
hanged himself? Yes, it was _he_ told me so."
"And you are quite convinced that there has been some one here?" asked
Alyosha.
"Yes, on that sofa in the corner. You would have driven him away. You did
drive him away: he disappeared when you arrived. I love your face,
Alyosha. Did you know that I loved your face? And _he_ is myself, Alyosha.
All that's base in me, all that's mean and contemptible. Yes, I am a
romantic. He guessed it ... though it's a libel. He is frightfully stupid;
but it's to his advantage. He has cunning, animal cunning--he knew how to
infuriate me. He kept taunting me with believing in him, and that was how
he made me listen to him. He fooled me like a boy. He told me a great deal
that was true about myself, though. I should never have owned it to
myself. Do you know, Alyosha," Ivan added in an intensely earnest and
confidential tone, "I should be awfully glad to think that it was _he_ and
not I."
"He has worn you out," said Alyosha, looking compassionately at his
brother.
"He's been teasing me. And you know he does it so cleverly, so cleverly.
'Conscience! What is conscience? I make it up for myself. Why am I
tormented by it? From habit. From the universal habit of mankind for the
seven thousand years. So let us give it up, and we shall be gods.' It was
he said that, it was he said that!"
"And not you, not you?" Alyosha could not help crying, looking frankly at
his brother. "Never mind him, anyway; have done with him and forget him.
And let him take with him all that you curse now, and never come back!"
"Yes, but he is spiteful. He laughed at me. He was impudent, Alyosha,"
Ivan said, with a shudder of offense. "But he was unfair to me, unfair to
me about lots of things. He told lies about me to my face. 'Oh, you are
going to perform an act of heroic virtue: to confess you murdered your
father, that the valet murdered him at your instigation.' "
"Brother," Alyosha interposed, "restrain yourself. It was not you murdered
him. It's not true!"
"That's what he says, he, and he knows it. 'You are going to perform an
act of heroic virtue, and you don't believe in virtue; that's what
tortures you and makes you angry, that's why you are so vindictive.' He
said that to me about me and he knows what he says."
"It's you say that, not he," exclaimed Alyosha mournfully, "and you say it
because you are ill and delirious, tormenting yourself."
"No, he knows what he says. 'You are going from pride,' he says. 'You'll
stand up and say it was I killed him, and why do you writhe with horror?
You are lying! I despise your opinion, I despise your horror!' He said
that about me. 'And do you know you are longing for their praise--"he is a
criminal, a murderer, but what a generous soul; he wanted to save his
brother and he confessed." ' That's a lie, Alyosha!" Ivan cried suddenly,
with flashing eyes. "I don't want the low rabble to praise me, I swear I
don't! That's a lie! That's why I threw the glass at him and it broke
against his ugly face."
"Brother, calm yourself, stop!" Alyosha entreated him.
"Yes, he knows how to torment one. He's cruel," Ivan went on, unheeding.
"I had an inkling from the first what he came for. 'Granting that you go
through pride, still you had a hope that Smerdyakov might be convicted and
sent to Siberia, and Mitya would be acquitted, while you would only be
punished with moral condemnation' ('Do you hear?' he laughed then)--'and
some people will praise you. But now Smerdyakov's dead, he has hanged
himself, and who'll believe you alone? But yet you are going, you are
going, you'll go all the same, you've decided to go. What are you going
for now?' That's awful, Alyosha. I can't endure such questions. Who dare
ask me such questions?"
"Brother," interposed Alyosha--his heart sank with terror, but he still
seemed to hope to bring Ivan to reason--"how could he have told you of
Smerdyakov's death before I came, when no one knew of it and there was no
time for any one to know of it?"
"He told me," said Ivan firmly, refusing to admit a doubt. "It was all he
did talk about, if you come to that. 'And it would be all right if you
believed in virtue,' he said. 'No matter if they disbelieve you, you are
going for the sake of principle. But you are a little pig like Fyodor
Pavlovitch, and what do you want with virtue? Why do you want to go
meddling if your sacrifice is of no use to any one? Because you don't know
yourself why you go! Oh, you'd give a great deal to know yourself why you
go! And can you have made up your mind? You've not made up your mind.
You'll sit all night deliberating whether to go or not. But you will go;
you know you'll go. You know that whichever way you decide, the decision
does not depend on you. You'll go because you won't dare not to go. Why
won't you dare? You must guess that for yourself. That's a riddle for
you!' He got up and went away. You came and he went. He called me a
coward, Alyosha! _Le mot de l'enigme_ is that I am a coward. 'It is not
for such eagles to soar above the earth.' It was he added that--he! And
Smerdyakov said the same. He must be killed! Katya despises me. I've seen
that for a month past. Even Lise will begin to despise me! 'You are going
in order to be praised.' That's a brutal lie! And you despise me too,
Alyosha. Now I am going to hate you again! And I hate the monster, too! I
hate the monster! I don't want to save the monster. Let him rot in
Siberia! He's begun singing a hymn! Oh, to-morrow I'll go, stand before
them, and spit in their faces!"
He jumped up in a frenzy, flung off the towel, and fell to pacing up and
down the room again. Alyosha recalled what he had just said. "I seem to be
sleeping awake.... I walk, I speak, I see, but I am asleep." It seemed to
be just like that now. Alyosha did not leave him. The thought passed
through his mind to run for a doctor, but he was afraid to leave his
brother alone: there was no one to whom he could leave him. By degrees
Ivan lost consciousness completely at last. He still went on talking,
talking incessantly, but quite incoherently, and even articulated his
words with difficulty. Suddenly he staggered violently; but Alyosha was in
time to support him. Ivan let him lead him to his bed. Alyosha undressed
him somehow and put him to bed. He sat watching over him for another two
hours. The sick man slept soundly, without stirring, breathing softly and
evenly. Alyosha took a pillow and lay down on the sofa, without
undressing.
As he fell asleep he prayed for Mitya and Ivan. He began to understand
Ivan's illness. "The anguish of a proud determination. An earnest
conscience!" God, in Whom he disbelieved, and His truth were gaining
mastery over his heart, which still refused to submit. "Yes," the thought
floated through Alyosha's head as it lay on the pillow, "yes, if
Smerdyakov is dead, no one will believe Ivan's evidence; but he will go
and give it." Alyosha smiled softly. "God will conquer!" he thought. "He
will either rise up in the light of truth, or ... he'll perish in hate,
revenging on himself and on every one his having served the cause he does
not believe in," Alyosha added bitterly, and again he prayed for Ivan.
| 39,948 | Book 11 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210422052201/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-brothers-karamazov/study-guide/summary-book-11 | A couple of months after Dmitri's arrest, Grushenka is undergoing a heavenly metamorphosis. She tells Alyosha that Dmitri is becoming smitten with Katerina again. She also thinks that Ivan and Dmitri have been talking. She thinks the two brothers are making a plan that they are keeping secret from her. She asks if Alyosha can find out what this secret plan is, and Alyosha, her friend, agrees. Alyosha visits Lise, who is agitated and feeling guilty about her life. She longs to experience God's retribution for her wickedness in life. She has no respect for her fellow human beings or the world around her, and she feels a very destructive impulse toward everyone and everything. As Alyosha leaves, she slams the door on her hand in a pathetic show of self-loathing. Alyosha visits Dmitri in prison. Dmitri tells Alyosha that Rakitin wants to write an expose about Dmitri being the victim of circumstances that led to the inevitable murder of his father. Even though Dmitri did not kill his father, he feels guilty for his reckless lifestyle and, much like Lise, feels a desire to be punished for his immorality. He believes that he will have a new lease on life if only Grushenka can come with him during his exile in Siberia. But he fears that the state will not let Grushenka follow him, and without her, he does not know what he will do. Dmitri tells Alyosha that Ivan has visited him and told him a plan he has made for Dmitri's escape. This is the secret that Grushenka suspected. Dmitri asks Alyosha if he thinks Dmitri is guilty, and Alyosha replies that he has always believed in his brother's innocence. Dmitri greatly appreciates his brother's support. Alyosha next visits Katerina, who has just been visited by Ivan. Katerina tells Alyosha she fears that Ivan is going crazy. He feels responsible for his father's death, and it is tormenting him. Alyosha catches up with Ivan to talk to him. He asks his brother what is troubling him, and Ivan tells Alyosha that Katerina has evidence that damns Dmitri. Alyosha wants to reassure his brother, but he is honest to a fault. Since he is convinced of Dmitri's innocence, he cannot believe that Katerina can have any evidence that proves an innocent man to be guilty. Alyosha also realizes that Ivan feels guilty for their father's death. He tells Ivan that God has given him the task of comforting him. He tells Ivan that he is not responsible for the murder-he is certain by divine knowledge. Ivan does not think that this comfort is founded in logic, however. Ivan is disgusted by Alyosha's talk of God and forgiveness. He asks Alyosha a question about the day Dmitri attacked their father. He asks if Alyosha believed that he wished that Dmitri would kill his father, that "one beast would devour the other?" Alyosha admits that he thought his brother was thinking this. Ivan thanks him bitterly and leaves. Ivan feels sick, but his sickness has more to do with Smerdyakov than with Alyosha. Smerdyakov is still in the hospital from his seizure the night of the murder. He says he knows Ivan wished for his father's death, and he stayed out of the way to facilitate this. Ivan, enraged, hits Smerdyakov, but this does not stop the servant from torturing Ivan with his theories. He says that Ivan wanted to leave for Moscow when Fyodor was murdered because he wanted to wash his hands of what he knew would be a messy situation. Ivan tells Smerdyakov he will not report his ability to fake a seizure to the authorities if Smerdyakov will stay silent about their previous conversation before the murder. Smerdyakov says Ivan probably just wanted his inheritance, and this is why he wanted his father dead. Ivan leaves and wrestles with the idea that he may be partly guilty for Fyodor's murder if Smerdyakov did indeed kill Fyodor. He visits Katerina and confesses his contrition to her. She eases his mind by telling him she has a letter from Dmitri saying that Dmitri will kill Fyodor as a last resort to reimburse her. Ivan feels better, thinking it is his brother Dmitri who is the culprit, not Smerdyakov. He leaves, somewhat comforted. But when Ivan talks to Smerdyakov again, Smerdyakov shatters his peace of mind by admitting to the murder. Worse, he tells Ivan that it was Ivan's words that helped him rationalize the act. "It was you who killed him all right," says Smerdyakov. He gives Ivan the 3,000 rubles he stole from Fyodor, and he begins to explain how he murdered the man. He explains how he faked an epileptic seizure the night of the murder . Smerdyakov tells Ivan that it was through their conversations about immorality and the nonexistence of God that he found the strength and rationalization to commit the murder. He explains that, after Dmitri attacked Grigory, Smerdyakov seized the opportunity to commit the murder. He lured Fyodor out of his room by saying Grushenka had come. Then, as Fyodor leaned out the window, he hit him with a paperweight. After Ivan is convinced that Smerdyakov did commit the murder and that it was his words that made the murder possible, he leaves Smerdyakov. When Ivan goes back home, he resolves to tell the court about Smerdyakov's confession during Dmitri's trial. To his chagrin, he finds a devil in his room, who chides Ivan about his wickedness. Blind with tears of rage, Ivan throws a cup at the devil. Alyosha comes to his door and tells Ivan that Smerdyakov has just hanged himself. Ivan's behavior worries Alyosha, but when he asks his brother what is wrong, Ivan is too upset to describe his ordeal with the devil. Alyosha realizes that Ivan is having a nervous breakdown, and he stays with his brother for the night. | Many characters experience intense guilt in the novel. Dmitri feels guilty for his treatment of Katerina, and Grushenka and Lise both express regret for their depravity. Ivan's guilt is even more extreme. He feels responsible for the murder he did not commit. There is a universal longing for catharsis and redemption among the characters in this novel. Though many characters feel contrition for their actions, it is not always clear if they deserve such castigation for their sins. Lise and Grushenka, for instance, are good-hearted girls, and "wickedness" is not something that obviously applies to them. Even Ivan, whose guilt is greater than any single character's guilt in the novel, feels guilty for a crime he did not technically commit. Father Zossima has laid out the idea that all men share in the sins of all other men, but many characters in this novel seems to feel the entire burden, not just a share. Ivan does not feel that he shares guilt; he feels that he is the only one responsible for his father's murder. Perhaps the characters all have inflated their own culpability. Dostoevsky puts stock in guilt and suffering. Father Zossima's lesson about men sharing each other's sins is thus somewhat misleading. One man's rightful guilt can be confused for his feelings of guilt, even if these feelings are misplaced. Some characters rationalize their internal turmoil, when in fact they are simply feeling the weight of hard times. Smerdyakov is an exception to this widespread guilt complex. He single-handedly murders Fyodor, yet he does not blame himself at all. Despite the fact that he is the only character technically guilty of this act, he feels the least liability for it. Smerdyakov is an unfeeling aberration. Can the actual act of murder be such a small proportion of the sin of killing a man? This seems counter to Dostoevsky's feelings of murder; characters in Dostoevsky's novels sometimes commit murder because they believe that some people do not deserve to live. They are eventually punished for their sins. For instance, Dostoevsky does not make Fyodor seem sympathetic. He does not make the old Karamazov seem anything but wicked, and his murder seems at worst logical and at best imminent. The only reason his killers feel guilt is because murder is against positive law and divine law. Hence, realizing that these men hardly deserve life is not a sin, but actually taking life is a sin. It follows that Smerdyakov is the only one who is truly responsible for the murder, but everyone else suffers for their part, real or imagined. Dostoevsky does not address the fact that characters like Ivan may be suffering without reason. Dostoevsky brings complexity to the point. He seemingly condemns the act of murder while allowing hateful feelings. He also promotes universal love toward all creatures while simultaneously portraying some characters as despicable beings unworthy of almost any kind of love. Perhaps it is this ambivalence that leads his characters to feel burdened with guilt. One of the most shocking events in the novel occurs when Ivan returns to find a devil in his room. Since no one else sees the devil, we assume it is a figment of Ivan's imagination. The devil is very real to Ivan, however. A devil is a very meaningful symbol in this novel--but not to Ivan. When Father Ferapont sees devils in Zossima's cell after Zossima's death, he is decried as a lunatic. He is religious--but Ivan does not believe in God at all, so why would his subconscious manifest a devil? More importantly, why would Dostoevsky choose to represent Ivan's conscience as a devil? Maybe Ivan is experiencing a religious awakening, realizing that his atheism has been wrong all along. That does not seem quite right, nor is the devil intended to be real. If the novel has a moral center, it is Father Zossima and his teachings, which might permit the reality of devils in the background, yet this is not part of Ivan's ontology. Ivan may be seeing a devil because devils are part of the mythic-religious culture of his town. If devils do exist, Father Ferapont is the only character in the novel who has an accurate conception of the world. Atheists like Ivan do not believe in God at all, and Alyosha and Father Zossima believe in a world of love and caring where devils are not needed; bad people are bad enough. The suggestion that devils do exist is quite a turn, casting doubt on the spiritual and moral center of the novel. Fyodor is not at the extreme anymore, now that devils are among the people. Before this, all signs have led to the view that Father Zossima's teachings are the moral anchor that holds everyone together. If characters stray from this path of love and understanding, they find longing and remorse. If they adhere to it as Alyosha does, they find strength and purpose. But a devil represents not just judgment but also evil, what is often glossed over in Father Zossima's world of sympathy and compassion. Despite the new, more fragile moral center in the novel, Alyosha's faith in his purpose and understanding of the world remain as strong as ever through the end of the novel. Love and understanding continue to help characters find personal salvation. From the point of view of an Ivan, if he could look at the whole story as we do, he might see a subtle implication that a religious lifestyle, even if deluded in some ways, is a decent and helpful one. For someone who is deeply ambivalent about religion, the introduction of a devil produces a complexity that might appeal to a rational mind that sees both good and evil in the world. Loving one's neighbor is a good thing, often producing good results even if one's motivations are misguided, and if there is something more beyond the tangible world, even if one does not understand it, it might seem reasonable to perceive devils as well as angels, a reality at least as complex as the one already on earth. When Dostoevsky brings a devil into Ivan's room, he thus sheds light on some of his own religious questions and ideas. | 983 | 1,040 | [
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110 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/52.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_50_part_0.txt | Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 51 | chapter 51 | null | {"name": "Phase VI: \"The Convert,\" Chapter Fifty-One", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-51", "summary": "It's April 6--Old Lady Day--the day that lots of farm workers change positions and move from farm to farm looking for new work. When Joan Durbeyfield was a girl, everyone stayed their whole lives on one farm, but nowadays everyone likes to be on the move all the time. All the big farm owners liked to have as many cottages and houses available as possible to rent out to the migrant workers. Now that Jack Durbeyfield is dead, the local farm owners are legally able to evict the rest of the Durbeyfields. They might not have been evicted, except that Tess has a reputation as an \"improper\" woman. Tess, Mrs. Durbeyfield, 'Liza-Lu, Abraham, and the younger children all have to move someplace else. Mrs. Durbeyfield and the children are all out running errands in preparation for their departure, so Tess is home alone. Tess is bitter, and angry at the universe. She's even angry with Angel, and in the heat of her despair she scribbles him an angry note and mails it before she can think better of it. Alec comes up, and asks through the open window why they're moving. Tess tells him that it's because her father is dead, and because she's not considered a \"proper\" woman. They're going to Kingsbere, where the D'Urbervilles originally lived. Alec asks that they come and live in the garden cottage at Trantridge, which used to be used as the poultry house. He says that they can fix it up quickly, and her mother can take care of the poultry, and the younger children can go to school. She refuses, but is clearly tempted by the offer to look after her siblings. He's determined, and asks her to let her mother decide. He gets a little bit too flirty in saying goodbye, so she slams the window on his fingers. That night, Tess gets her younger siblings to sing to her, and they choose a sad song, but it goes with her mood. Mrs. Durbeyfield sees the tracks of Alec's horse, and asks if he had come, and what he had said. Tess promises to tell her after they've settled at Kingsbere.", "analysis": ""} |
At length it was the eve of Old Lady-Day, and the agricultural world
was in a fever of mobility such as only occurs at that particular
date of the year. It is a day of fulfilment; agreements for outdoor
service during the ensuing year, entered into at Candlemas, are to
be now carried out. The labourers--or "work-folk", as they used to
call themselves immemorially till the other word was introduced from
without--who wish to remain no longer in old places are removing to
the new farms.
These annual migrations from farm to farm were on the increase here.
When Tess's mother was a child the majority of the field-folk about
Marlott had remained all their lives on one farm, which had been the
home also of their fathers and grandfathers; but latterly the desire
for yearly removal had risen to a high pitch. With the younger
families it was a pleasant excitement which might possibly be an
advantage. The Egypt of one family was the Land of Promise to the
family who saw it from a distance, till by residence there it became
it turn their Egypt also; and so they changed and changed.
However, all the mutations so increasingly discernible in village
life did not originate entirely in the agricultural unrest. A
depopulation was also going on. The village had formerly contained,
side by side with the argicultural labourers, an interesting and
better-informed class, ranking distinctly above the former--the class
to which Tess's father and mother had belonged--and including the
carpenter, the smith, the shoemaker, the huckster, together with
nondescript workers other than farm-labourers; a set of people
who owed a certain stability of aim and conduct to the fact of
their being lifeholders like Tess's father, or copyholders, or
occasionally, small freeholders. But as the long holdings fell
in, they were seldom again let to similar tenants, and were mostly
pulled down, if not absolutely required by the farmer for his hands.
Cottagers who were not directly employed on the land were looked
upon with disfavour, and the banishment of some starved the trade of
others, who were thus obliged to follow. These families, who had
formed the backbone of the village life in the past, who were the
depositaries of the village traditions, had to seek refuge in the
large centres; the process, humorously designated by statisticians as
"the tendency of the rural population towards the large towns", being
really the tendency of water to flow uphill when forced by machinery.
The cottage accommodation at Marlott having been in this manner
considerably curtailed by demolitions, every house which remained
standing was required by the agriculturist for his work-people. Ever
since the occurrence of the event which had cast such a shadow over
Tess's life, the Durbeyfield family (whose descent was not credited)
had been tacitly looked on as one which would have to go when their
lease ended, if only in the interests of morality. It was, indeed,
quite true that the household had not been shining examples either of
temperance, soberness, or chastity. The father, and even the mother,
had got drunk at times, the younger children seldom had gone to
church, and the eldest daughter had made queer unions. By some means
the village had to be kept pure. So on this, the first Lady-Day
on which the Durbeyfields were expellable, the house, being roomy,
was required for a carter with a large family; and Widow Joan,
her daughters Tess and 'Liza-Lu, the boy Abraham, and the younger
children had to go elsewhere.
On the evening preceding their removal it was getting dark betimes by
reason of a drizzling rain which blurred the sky. As it was the last
night they would spend in the village which had been their home and
birthplace, Mrs Durbeyfield, 'Liza-Lu, and Abraham had gone out to
bid some friends goodbye, and Tess was keeping house till they should
return.
She was kneeling in the window-bench, her face close to the casement,
where an outer pane of rain-water was sliding down the inner pane of
glass. Her eyes rested on the web of a spider, probably starved long
ago, which had been mistakenly placed in a corner where no flies
ever came, and shivered in the slight draught through the casement.
Tess was reflecting on the position of the household, in which she
perceived her own evil influence. Had she not come home, her mother
and the children might probably have been allowed to stay on as
weekly tenants. But she had been observed almost immediately on her
return by some people of scrupulous character and great influence:
they had seen her idling in the churchyard, restoring as well as she
could with a little trowel a baby's obliterated grave. By this means
they had found that she was living here again; her mother was scolded
for "harbouring" her; sharp retorts had ensued from Joan, who had
independently offered to leave at once; she had been taken at her
word; and here was the result.
"I ought never to have come home," said Tess to herself, bitterly.
She was so intent upon these thoughts that she hardly at first took
note of a man in a white mackintosh whom she saw riding down the
street. Possibly it was owing to her face being near to the pane
that he saw her so quickly, and directed his horse so close to the
cottage-front that his hoofs were almost upon the narrow border for
plants growing under the wall. It was not till he touched the window
with his riding-crop that she observed him. The rain had nearly
ceased, and she opened the casement in obedience to his gesture.
"Didn't you see me?" asked d'Urberville.
"I was not attending," she said. "I heard you, I believe, though I
fancied it was a carriage and horses. I was in a sort of dream."
"Ah! you heard the d'Urberville Coach, perhaps. You know the legend,
I suppose?"
"No. My--somebody was going to tell it me once, but didn't."
"If you are a genuine d'Urberville I ought not to tell you either,
I suppose. As for me, I'm a sham one, so it doesn't matter. It is
rather dismal. It is that this sound of a non-existent coach can
only be heard by one of d'Urberville blood, and it is held to be
of ill-omen to the one who hears it. It has to do with a murder,
committed by one of the family, centuries ago."
"Now you have begun it, finish it."
"Very well. One of the family is said to have abducted some
beautiful woman, who tried to escape from the coach in which he was
carrying her off, and in the struggle he killed her--or she killed
him--I forget which. Such is one version of the tale... I see that
your tubs and buckets are packed. Going away, aren't you?"
"Yes, to-morrow--Old Lady Day."
"I heard you were, but could hardly believe it; it seems so sudden.
Why is it?"
"Father's was the last life on the property, and when that dropped we
had no further right to stay. Though we might, perhaps, have stayed
as weekly tenants--if it had not been for me."
"What about you?"
"I am not a--proper woman."
D'Urberville's face flushed.
"What a blasted shame! Miserable snobs! May their dirty souls
be burnt to cinders!" he exclaimed in tones of ironic resentment.
"That's why you are going, is it? Turned out?"
"We are not turned out exactly; but as they said we should have to go
soon, it was best to go now everybody was moving, because there are
better chances."
"Where are you going to?"
"Kingsbere. We have taken rooms there. Mother is so foolish about
father's people that she will go there."
"But your mother's family are not fit for lodgings, and in a little
hole of a town like that. Now why not come to my garden-house at
Trantridge? There are hardly any poultry now, since my mother's
death; but there's the house, as you know it, and the garden. It
can be whitewashed in a day, and your mother can live there quite
comfortably; and I will put the children to a good school. Really
I ought to do something for you!"
"But we have already taken the rooms at Kingsbere!" she declared.
"And we can wait there--"
"Wait--what for? For that nice husband, no doubt. Now look here,
Tess, I know what men are, and, bearing in mind the _grounds_ of
your separation, I am quite positive he will never make it up with
you. Now, though I have been your enemy, I am your friend, even
if you won't believe it. Come to this cottage of mine. We'll get
up a regular colony of fowls, and your mother can attend to them
excellently; and the children can go to school."
Tess breathed more and more quickly, and at length she said--
"How do I know that you would do all this? Your views may
change--and then--we should be--my mother would be--homeless
again."
"O no--no. I would guarantee you against such as that in writing, if
necessary. Think it over."
Tess shook her head. But d'Urberville persisted; she had seldom seen
him so determined; he would not take a negative.
"Please just tell your mother," he said, in emphatic tones. "It is
her business to judge--not yours. I shall get the house swept out
and whitened to-morrow morning, and fires lit; and it will be dry by
the evening, so that you can come straight there. Now mind, I shall
expect you."
Tess again shook her head, her throat swelling with complicated
emotion. She could not look up at d'Urberville.
"I owe you something for the past, you know," he resumed. "And you
cured me, too, of that craze; so I am glad--"
"I would rather you had kept the craze, so that you had kept the
practice which went with it!"
"I am glad of this opportunity of repaying you a little. To-morrow I
shall expect to hear your mother's goods unloading... Give me your
hand on it now--dear, beautiful Tess!"
With the last sentence he had dropped his voice to a murmur, and put
his hand in at the half-open casement. With stormy eyes she pulled
the stay-bar quickly, and, in doing so, caught his arm between the
casement and the stone mullion.
"Damnation--you are very cruel!" he said, snatching out his arm.
"No, no!--I know you didn't do it on purpose. Well I shall expect
you, or your mother and children at least."
"I shall not come--I have plenty of money!" she cried.
"Where?"
"At my father-in-law's, if I ask for it."
"IF you ask for it. But you won't, Tess; I know you; you'll never
ask for it--you'll starve first!"
With these words he rode off. Just at the corner of the street he
met the man with the paint-pot, who asked him if he had deserted the
brethren.
"You go to the devil!" said d'Urberville.
Tess remained where she was a long while, till a sudden rebellious
sense of injustice caused the region of her eyes to swell with the
rush of hot tears thither. Her husband, Angel Clare himself, had,
like others, dealt out hard measure to her; surely he had! She had
never before admitted such a thought; but he had surely! Never
in her life--she could swear it from the bottom of her soul--had
she ever intended to do wrong; yet these hard judgements had
come. Whatever her sins, they were not sins of intention, but of
inadvertence, and why should she have been punished so persistently?
She passionately seized the first piece of paper that came to hand,
and scribbled the following lines:
O why have you treated me so monstrously, Angel! I do
not deserve it. I have thought it all over carefully,
and I can never, never forgive you! You know that I
did not intend to wrong you--why have you so wronged
me? You are cruel, cruel indeed! I will try to forget
you. It is all injustice I have received at your
hands!
T.
She watched till the postman passed by, ran out to him with
her epistle, and then again took her listless place inside the
window-panes.
It was just as well to write like that as to write tenderly. How
could he give way to entreaty? The facts had not changed: there was
no new event to alter his opinion.
It grew darker, the fire-light shining over the room. The two
biggest of the younger children had gone out with their mother; the
four smallest, their ages ranging from three-and-a-half years to
eleven, all in black frocks, were gathered round the hearth babbling
their own little subjects. Tess at length joined them, without
lighting a candle.
"This is the last night that we shall sleep here, dears, in the house
where we were born," she said quickly. "We ought to think of it,
oughtn't we?"
They all became silent; with the impressibility of their age they
were ready to burst into tears at the picture of finality she had
conjured up, though all the day hitherto they had been rejoicing in
the idea of a new place. Tess changed the subject.
"Sing to me, dears," she said.
"What shall we sing?"
"Anything you know; I don't mind."
There was a momentary pause; it was broken, first, in one little
tentative note; then a second voice strengthened it, and a third
and a fourth chimed in unison, with words they had learnt at the
Sunday-school--
Here we suffer grief and pain,
Here we meet to part again;
In Heaven we part no more.
The four sang on with the phlegmatic passivity of persons who had
long ago settled the question, and there being no mistake about it,
felt that further thought was not required. With features strained
hard to enunciate the syllables they continued to regard the centre
of the flickering fire, the notes of the youngest straying over into
the pauses of the rest.
Tess turned from them, and went to the window again. Darkness had
now fallen without, but she put her face to the pane as though to
peer into the gloom. It was really to hide her tears. If she could
only believe what the children were singing; if she were only sure,
how different all would now be; how confidently she would leave them
to Providence and their future kingdom! But, in default of that, it
behoved her to do something; to be their Providence; for to Tess,
as to not a few millions of others, there was ghastly satire in the
poet's lines--
Not in utter nakedness
But trailing clouds of glory do we come.
To her and her like, birth itself was an ordeal of degrading personal
compulsion, whose gratuitousness nothing in the result seemed to
justify, and at best could only palliate.
In the shades of the wet road she soon discerned her mother with tall
'Liza-Lu and Abraham. Mrs Durbeyfield's pattens clicked up to the
door, and Tess opened it.
"I see the tracks of a horse outside the window," said Joan. "Hev
somebody called?"
"No," said Tess.
The children by the fire looked gravely at her, and one murmured--
"Why, Tess, the gentleman a-horseback!"
"He didn't call," said Tess. "He spoke to me in passing."
"Who was the gentleman?" asked the mother. "Your husband?"
"No. He'll never, never come," answered Tess in stony hopelessness.
"Then who was it?"
"Oh, you needn't ask. You've seen him before, and so have I."
"Ah! What did he say?" said Joan curiously.
"I will tell you when we are settled in our lodging at Kingsbere
to-morrow--every word."
It was not her husband, she had said. Yet a consciousness that in a
physical sense this man alone was her husband seemed to weigh on her
more and more.
| 2,581 | Phase VI: "The Convert," Chapter Fifty-One | https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-51 | It's April 6--Old Lady Day--the day that lots of farm workers change positions and move from farm to farm looking for new work. When Joan Durbeyfield was a girl, everyone stayed their whole lives on one farm, but nowadays everyone likes to be on the move all the time. All the big farm owners liked to have as many cottages and houses available as possible to rent out to the migrant workers. Now that Jack Durbeyfield is dead, the local farm owners are legally able to evict the rest of the Durbeyfields. They might not have been evicted, except that Tess has a reputation as an "improper" woman. Tess, Mrs. Durbeyfield, 'Liza-Lu, Abraham, and the younger children all have to move someplace else. Mrs. Durbeyfield and the children are all out running errands in preparation for their departure, so Tess is home alone. Tess is bitter, and angry at the universe. She's even angry with Angel, and in the heat of her despair she scribbles him an angry note and mails it before she can think better of it. Alec comes up, and asks through the open window why they're moving. Tess tells him that it's because her father is dead, and because she's not considered a "proper" woman. They're going to Kingsbere, where the D'Urbervilles originally lived. Alec asks that they come and live in the garden cottage at Trantridge, which used to be used as the poultry house. He says that they can fix it up quickly, and her mother can take care of the poultry, and the younger children can go to school. She refuses, but is clearly tempted by the offer to look after her siblings. He's determined, and asks her to let her mother decide. He gets a little bit too flirty in saying goodbye, so she slams the window on his fingers. That night, Tess gets her younger siblings to sing to her, and they choose a sad song, but it goes with her mood. Mrs. Durbeyfield sees the tracks of Alec's horse, and asks if he had come, and what he had said. Tess promises to tell her after they've settled at Kingsbere. | null | 360 | 1 | [
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161 | false | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/03.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/Sense and Sensibility/section_0_part_3.txt | Sense and Sensibility.chapter 3 | chapter 3 | null | {"name": "Chapter 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-1-10", "summary": "Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters stay at Norland for a few months, because it is difficult to find a new home which they can afford with their small income. She knows of John Dashwood's promise to his father, her late husband, and this reassures her; neither she nor her husband were certain of John's sincerity, but he has been kind to her and her daughters, which means that he feels some sort of obligation at least. However, she does not like Fanny Dashwood at all, and would have left Norland sooner had it not been for the friendship developing between Elinor and Edward Ferrars, Fanny's brother. Edward is very shy, but is a pleasant and kind person once people become familiar with him. Mrs. Dashwood is glad at the attraction between him and Elinor, more because he is nice and good-hearted than the fact that his family is very wealthy. Although his mother and sister have great ambitions for him, he is a very retiring sort, and wants a quiet life and peace instead. Mrs. Dashwood grows to admire him, and believes that the affection between him and Elinor will lead to marriage. However, Marianne does not approve so much, as she finds Edward less dashing and charming than is ideal. Marianne requires a man who is far more passionate yet has all of Edward's virtues; she despairs that she will never find such a man, though her mother reassures her.", "analysis": "Money again becomes an issue, as it will be a determining factor in how well the girls marry. Although Mrs. Dashwood believes that money will not prove to be much of an obstacle if a couple is in love, reality is that money does and will play a part in the Dashwood girls' hopes for marriage. Mrs. Dashwood is perhaps too hopeful and idealistic in her appraisal that there are no financial barriers to Elinor and Edward's relationship; for in Austen's time, women of good family but little money would certainly not be able to acquire a match with a wealthy, high-born gentleman like Edward. Austen's dry, witty tone is evident in her description of Edward coming into Mrs. Dashwood's favor; Austen states that Mrs. Dashwood only began to take notice of him after Elinor stated how different he was from his sister, and this \"recommended him most forcibly\" to Mrs. Dashwood. This sort of comment epitomizes the combination of understatement, a wry tone, and sharp observation which marks Austen's appraisal of an often ridiculous society and its less pleasing members. The contrast between Elinor and Marianne is highlighted through their ideas of a suitable man. Elinor's model of a suitable man is Edward, very virtuous, kind, though rather sedate. Marianne wants someone more dashing, artistic, and passionate, to coincide with her own interests and qualities. However, that she also says she would like a man with all of Edward's virtues foreshadows that she may end up with a man who is more sensible than she expects, and likely more tempered in his passions than she is"} |
Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any
disinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased
to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when
her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other
exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy
remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her
inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for
to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could
hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and
ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier
judgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which
her mother would have approved.
Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on
the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last
earthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no
more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her
daughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was
persuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000L would support her in
affluence. For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own
heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his
merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity. His attentive
behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare
was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the
liberality of his intentions.
The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for
her daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge
of her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded;
and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal
affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it
impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular
circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to
the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at Norland.
This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and
the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young
man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's
establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of
his time there.
Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of
interest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died
very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence,
for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the
will of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either
consideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable,
that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality.
It was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune
should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of
disposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by
every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.
Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any
peculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his
manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident
to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome,
his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart.
His understanding was good, and his education had given it solid
improvement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to
answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him
distinguished--as--they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a
fine figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to
interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to
see him connected with some of the great men of the day. Mrs. John
Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these
superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her
ambition to see him driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for
great men or barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic comfort
and the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother
who was more promising.
Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged
much of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such
affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. She saw
only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He
did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation.
She was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a
reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference
between him and his sister. It was a contrast which recommended him
most forcibly to her mother.
"It is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough.
It implies everything amiable. I love him already."
"I think you will like him," said Elinor, "when you know more of him."
"Like him!" replied her mother with a smile. "I feel no sentiment of
approbation inferior to love."
"You may esteem him."
"I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love."
Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her manners
were attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily
comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor
perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his
worth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all
her established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was no
longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper
affectionate.
No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to
Elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and
looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.
"In a few months, my dear Marianne." said she, "Elinor will, in all
probability be settled for life. We shall miss her; but SHE will be
happy."
"Oh! Mama, how shall we do without her?"
"My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few
miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will
gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother. I have the highest
opinion in the world of Edward's heart. But you look grave, Marianne;
do you disapprove your sister's choice?"
"Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider it with some surprise.
Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet--he is not
the kind of young man--there is something wanting--his figure is not
striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man
who could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit,
that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides
all this, I am afraid, Mama, he has no real taste. Music seems
scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very
much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their
worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while
she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as
a lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be
united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every
point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the
same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh! mama, how
spiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last night!
I felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much
composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my
seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost
driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such
dreadful indifference!"
"He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose.
I thought so at the time; but you WOULD give him Cowper."
"Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!--but we must allow
for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she
may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke MY
heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility.
Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I
shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He
must have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must
ornament his goodness with every possible charm."
"Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in
life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate
than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your
destiny be different from hers!"
| 1,437 | Chapter 3 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-1-10 | Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters stay at Norland for a few months, because it is difficult to find a new home which they can afford with their small income. She knows of John Dashwood's promise to his father, her late husband, and this reassures her; neither she nor her husband were certain of John's sincerity, but he has been kind to her and her daughters, which means that he feels some sort of obligation at least. However, she does not like Fanny Dashwood at all, and would have left Norland sooner had it not been for the friendship developing between Elinor and Edward Ferrars, Fanny's brother. Edward is very shy, but is a pleasant and kind person once people become familiar with him. Mrs. Dashwood is glad at the attraction between him and Elinor, more because he is nice and good-hearted than the fact that his family is very wealthy. Although his mother and sister have great ambitions for him, he is a very retiring sort, and wants a quiet life and peace instead. Mrs. Dashwood grows to admire him, and believes that the affection between him and Elinor will lead to marriage. However, Marianne does not approve so much, as she finds Edward less dashing and charming than is ideal. Marianne requires a man who is far more passionate yet has all of Edward's virtues; she despairs that she will never find such a man, though her mother reassures her. | Money again becomes an issue, as it will be a determining factor in how well the girls marry. Although Mrs. Dashwood believes that money will not prove to be much of an obstacle if a couple is in love, reality is that money does and will play a part in the Dashwood girls' hopes for marriage. Mrs. Dashwood is perhaps too hopeful and idealistic in her appraisal that there are no financial barriers to Elinor and Edward's relationship; for in Austen's time, women of good family but little money would certainly not be able to acquire a match with a wealthy, high-born gentleman like Edward. Austen's dry, witty tone is evident in her description of Edward coming into Mrs. Dashwood's favor; Austen states that Mrs. Dashwood only began to take notice of him after Elinor stated how different he was from his sister, and this "recommended him most forcibly" to Mrs. Dashwood. This sort of comment epitomizes the combination of understatement, a wry tone, and sharp observation which marks Austen's appraisal of an often ridiculous society and its less pleasing members. The contrast between Elinor and Marianne is highlighted through their ideas of a suitable man. Elinor's model of a suitable man is Edward, very virtuous, kind, though rather sedate. Marianne wants someone more dashing, artistic, and passionate, to coincide with her own interests and qualities. However, that she also says she would like a man with all of Edward's virtues foreshadows that she may end up with a man who is more sensible than she expects, and likely more tempered in his passions than she is | 241 | 267 | [
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161 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/45.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Sense and Sensibility/section_44_part_0.txt | Sense and Sensibility.chapter 45 | chapter 45 | null | {"name": "Chapter 45", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility61.asp", "summary": "Willoughby pours out his heart to Elinor. He had heard about Marianne's illness and thus decided to undertake a journey to Cleveland. He insists on talking extensively to Elinor. He tells her about his genuine affection for Marianne. In the beginning he had the intention of only flirting with her, since he had wanted to marry a wealthy girl. His dalliance with Marianne had to be cut short because of Mrs. Smith. The old lady had insisted that Willoughby marry Miss Williams, and when he had refused to obey her order, she had disowned him. Hence, Willoughby had to leave for London. In the city he had met Miss Grey, who is wealthy, and had become engaged to her. Marianne's letter had reached the hand of his fiancee, who had made him write the offensive letter to Marianne, whose heart was broken. Willoughby concludes his tale with regret at marrying the wealthy but cold Miss Grey.", "analysis": "Notes Willoughby arrives at Cleveland in order to clear his conscience because he has feared that Marianne might die from this strange illness. He portrays himself as a pitiable creature, dominated by a rich but cruel wife. He tries to justify his actions with Miss Williams and professes love for Marianne. At the end of his emotional tale, he still appears as a heartless man who has deceived two innocent girls. Even Elinor, who possesses a generous heart, fails to excuse him for his wrongs. She also condemns his criticism of his wife. She considers his behavior unpardonable and allows him to relate his tale only out of a sense of courtesy. CHAPTER 45 Summary After Willoughby leaves, Elinor continues to think about what he has told her. Elinor's generous heart sympathizes with Willoughby's plight, even though she considers him selfish in the ultimate analysis. She is one of the few characters prepared to listen to Willoughby after all that he has done. Mrs. Dashwood arrives in great agony. Elinor relieves her of her anxiety by informing her immediately about Marianne's recovery. Nevertheless, Mrs. Dashwood rushes in to meet her sick daughter. Marianne is delighted to see her mother. After their reunion, Mrs. Dashwood reveals to Elinor that Colonel Brandon has confessed his love for Marianne and his desire to marry her. She thinks highly of Brandon and is glad about the prospect of her daughter becoming his wife. Notes Elinor, aware of her mother's anxiety, informs her immediately about Marianne's recovery, thus sparing the elderly lady from further agony. She also offers solace to her mother. Mrs. Dashwood is like Marianne in her temperament. She is sensitive, emotional and judgmental. She criticizes Willoughby and praises Brandon because the Colonel has professed his love for Marianne. She attributes exaggerated defects and merits to Willoughby and Brandon respectively, according to the changed circumstances. Mrs. Dashwood even finds fault with Willoughby's appearance and manners because he has rejected her daughter. CHAPTER 46 Summary Marianne recovers steadily. She is grateful to the Colonel for taking the trouble of bringing her mother to Cleveland, and at such short notice. Brandon is overwhelmed by the attention she gives him. He arranges a special carriage to take the family to Barton and prepares to leave for Delaford. Marianne bears the journey well and becomes emotional upon reaching Barton. At home, she devises a program to keep herself occupied. Elinor is relieved to see her sister's renewed zest for life. One day, as they go out for a walk, Marianne takes Elinor to the spot where she fell and where Willoughby rescued her. Elinor informs Marianne of Willoughby's visit to Cleveland and relates his tale of confession. Marianne is moved to tears and asks Elinor to share the facts with her mother as well. Notes The chapter presents a mature Marianne. She appears confident and cheerful. She withstands the pressures of the journey with a smile. She is thankful to those who have helped her to recover. She is courteous enough to express her gratitude to the Colonel. She also shows a desire to make the best of her life. At Barton, she resolves to utilize her time by reading, practicing music and appreciating the beauty of nature through walks. She wants to forget the past and start life anew. Her sincere desire is to divert her mind from thoughts of Willoughby \"by religion, by reason, by constant employment.\" Marianne regrets her past behavior with friends and acquaintances. Her days of sickness have made her contemplative: she emerges from the illness a different person. She resolves to understand and appreciate the views of the people around her. Elinor, who had been burdened with Willoughby's story, finally gets the opportunity to reveal it to Marianne: when Marianne asks Elinor to gauge the true feelings of Willoughby for her, Elinor relates Willoughby's confession to her. Marianne is moved to tears after hearing the story, but at the same time, she is relieved to hear the facts."} |
Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the
sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a
crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness
was the general result, to think even of her sister.
Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most
worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a
degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made
her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a
tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged
within herself--to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his
influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not
in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that
open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess;
and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even
innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long before
she could feel his influence less.
When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her
just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of
her hopes. Elinor's heart was full. The past, the present, the
future, Willoughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's
expected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits
which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful
of betraying herself to her sister. Short was the time, however, in
which that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after
Willoughby's leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the
sound of another carriage.--Eager to save her mother from every
unnecessary moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the
hall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive and support
her as she entered it.
Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced
almost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to
inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but SHE, waiting neither
for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief;--and her
mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much
overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears. She
was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her
friend;--and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to
speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals
to press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once her
gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss
of the moment. He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than
her own.
As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her
first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child,
rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.
Elinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only
checked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther
sleep;--but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when
the life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing
her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for
conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by
every nurse around her. Mrs. Dashwood WOULD sit up with her all night;
and Elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed. But
the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the
most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by
irritation of spirits. Willoughby, "poor Willoughby," as she now
allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would
not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now
acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before. But her
promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful. She
dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne
might be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be
happy with another; and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower.
Then, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to HIS
sufferings and his constancy far more than to his rival's, the reward
of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs.
Willoughby's death.
The shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened
to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her
uneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out
for Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further
intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival,
that the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away,
as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection.
Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of
Mrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly
declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world. Elinor could
not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes
wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward. But Mrs.
Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment
which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to
think only of what would increase it. Marianne was restored to her
from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken
judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had
contributed to place her;--and in her recovery she had yet another
source of joy unthought of by Elinor. It was thus imparted to her, as
soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.
"At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know all my
happiness. Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has told me so himself."
Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and
not surprised, was all silent attention.
"You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your
composure now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my
family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you as
the object most desirable. And I believe Marianne will be the most
happy with him of the two."
Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because
satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age,
characters, or feelings, could be given;--but her mother must always be
carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and
therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.
"He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It came
out quite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could
talk of nothing but my child;--he could not conceal his distress; I saw
that it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship,
as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy--or rather,
not thinking at all, I suppose--giving way to irresistible feelings,
made me acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for
Marianne. He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of
seeing her."
Here, however, Elinor perceived,--not the language, not the professions
of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's
active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose.
"His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby
ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or
constant--which ever we are to call it--has subsisted through all the
knowledge of dear Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless
young man!--and without selfishness--without encouraging a hope!--could
he have seen her happy with another--Such a noble mind!--such openness,
such sincerity!--no one can be deceived in HIM."
"Colonel Brandon's character," said Elinor, "as an excellent man, is
well established."
"I know it is,"--replied her mother seriously, "or after such a warning,
I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased
by it. But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready
friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men."
"His character, however," answered Elinor, "does not rest on ONE act of
kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of the
case, would have prompted him. To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he
has been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect him;
and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very
considerable; and so highly do I value and esteem him, that if Marianne
can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to think our
connection the greatest blessing to us in the world. What answer did
you give him?--Did you allow him to hope?"
"Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.
Marianne might at that moment be dying. But he did not ask for hope or
encouragement. His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible
effusion to a soothing friend--not an application to a parent. Yet
after a time I DID say, for at first I was quite overcome--that if she
lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in
promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful
security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every
encouragement in my power. Time, a very little time, I tell him, will
do everything;--Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a
man as Willoughby.-- His own merits must soon secure it."
"To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made
him equally sanguine."
"No.--He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change
in it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again
free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a
difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her. There,
however, he is quite mistaken. His age is only so much beyond hers as
to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed;--and
his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make
your sister happy. And his person, his manners too, are all in his
favour. My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so
handsome as Willoughby--but at the same time, there is something much
more pleasing in his countenance.-- There was always a something,--if
you remember,--in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I did not like."
Elinor could NOT remember it;--but her mother, without waiting for her
assent, continued,
"And his manners, the Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to
me than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to
be more solidly attaching to Marianne. Their gentleness, their genuine
attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much
more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness--often
artificial, and often ill-timed of the other. I am very sure myself,
that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved
himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with
HIM, as she will be with Colonel Brandon."
She paused.--Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her
dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.
"At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me," added Mrs.
Dashwood, "even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability,--for I
hear it is a large village,--indeed there certainly MUST be some small
house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our
present situation."
Poor Elinor!--here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!--but
her spirit was stubborn.
"His fortune too!--for at my time of life you know, everybody cares
about THAT;--and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it
really is, I am sure it must be a good one."
Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and
Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her
friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.
| 1,927 | Chapter 45 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility61.asp | Willoughby pours out his heart to Elinor. He had heard about Marianne's illness and thus decided to undertake a journey to Cleveland. He insists on talking extensively to Elinor. He tells her about his genuine affection for Marianne. In the beginning he had the intention of only flirting with her, since he had wanted to marry a wealthy girl. His dalliance with Marianne had to be cut short because of Mrs. Smith. The old lady had insisted that Willoughby marry Miss Williams, and when he had refused to obey her order, she had disowned him. Hence, Willoughby had to leave for London. In the city he had met Miss Grey, who is wealthy, and had become engaged to her. Marianne's letter had reached the hand of his fiancee, who had made him write the offensive letter to Marianne, whose heart was broken. Willoughby concludes his tale with regret at marrying the wealthy but cold Miss Grey. | Notes Willoughby arrives at Cleveland in order to clear his conscience because he has feared that Marianne might die from this strange illness. He portrays himself as a pitiable creature, dominated by a rich but cruel wife. He tries to justify his actions with Miss Williams and professes love for Marianne. At the end of his emotional tale, he still appears as a heartless man who has deceived two innocent girls. Even Elinor, who possesses a generous heart, fails to excuse him for his wrongs. She also condemns his criticism of his wife. She considers his behavior unpardonable and allows him to relate his tale only out of a sense of courtesy. CHAPTER 45 Summary After Willoughby leaves, Elinor continues to think about what he has told her. Elinor's generous heart sympathizes with Willoughby's plight, even though she considers him selfish in the ultimate analysis. She is one of the few characters prepared to listen to Willoughby after all that he has done. Mrs. Dashwood arrives in great agony. Elinor relieves her of her anxiety by informing her immediately about Marianne's recovery. Nevertheless, Mrs. Dashwood rushes in to meet her sick daughter. Marianne is delighted to see her mother. After their reunion, Mrs. Dashwood reveals to Elinor that Colonel Brandon has confessed his love for Marianne and his desire to marry her. She thinks highly of Brandon and is glad about the prospect of her daughter becoming his wife. Notes Elinor, aware of her mother's anxiety, informs her immediately about Marianne's recovery, thus sparing the elderly lady from further agony. She also offers solace to her mother. Mrs. Dashwood is like Marianne in her temperament. She is sensitive, emotional and judgmental. She criticizes Willoughby and praises Brandon because the Colonel has professed his love for Marianne. She attributes exaggerated defects and merits to Willoughby and Brandon respectively, according to the changed circumstances. Mrs. Dashwood even finds fault with Willoughby's appearance and manners because he has rejected her daughter. CHAPTER 46 Summary Marianne recovers steadily. She is grateful to the Colonel for taking the trouble of bringing her mother to Cleveland, and at such short notice. Brandon is overwhelmed by the attention she gives him. He arranges a special carriage to take the family to Barton and prepares to leave for Delaford. Marianne bears the journey well and becomes emotional upon reaching Barton. At home, she devises a program to keep herself occupied. Elinor is relieved to see her sister's renewed zest for life. One day, as they go out for a walk, Marianne takes Elinor to the spot where she fell and where Willoughby rescued her. Elinor informs Marianne of Willoughby's visit to Cleveland and relates his tale of confession. Marianne is moved to tears and asks Elinor to share the facts with her mother as well. Notes The chapter presents a mature Marianne. She appears confident and cheerful. She withstands the pressures of the journey with a smile. She is thankful to those who have helped her to recover. She is courteous enough to express her gratitude to the Colonel. She also shows a desire to make the best of her life. At Barton, she resolves to utilize her time by reading, practicing music and appreciating the beauty of nature through walks. She wants to forget the past and start life anew. Her sincere desire is to divert her mind from thoughts of Willoughby "by religion, by reason, by constant employment." Marianne regrets her past behavior with friends and acquaintances. Her days of sickness have made her contemplative: she emerges from the illness a different person. She resolves to understand and appreciate the views of the people around her. Elinor, who had been burdened with Willoughby's story, finally gets the opportunity to reveal it to Marianne: when Marianne asks Elinor to gauge the true feelings of Willoughby for her, Elinor relates Willoughby's confession to her. Marianne is moved to tears after hearing the story, but at the same time, she is relieved to hear the facts. | 156 | 668 | [
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28,054 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/77.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_76_part_0.txt | The Brothers Karamazov.book 11.chapter 8 | book 11, chapter 8 | null | {"name": "Book 11, Chapter 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-11-chapter-8", "summary": "A blizzard starts up as Ivan heads over to Smerdyakov's. On the way he bumps into a peasant and shoves him violently out of the way. The peasant lies on the ground, unconscious, but Ivan doesn't help - nor does he seem to care that the peasant is dead. At Smerdyakov's, Maria informs Ivan that Smerdyakov is quite ill. When Ivan enters, Smerdyakov is laid up in bed, and Ivan notices that his eyes are yellow . Smerdyakov taunts Ivan with the suggestion that they killed Fyodor together. When Ivan calls him on it, Smerdyakov pulls out from his sock - bam! - a wad of 3,000 roubles. Ivan is flabbergasted by the sight of the incriminating evidence. Smerdyakov admits that he faked his epileptic fit on the day of the murder. And the money was never under Fyodor's mattress, as everyone, including Dmitri, thought; Smerdyakov had convinced Fyodor to hide it behind the icons. Smerdyakov slyly suggests that Ivan is actually the real murderer because he is just a simple servant, while Ivan is the mastermind. Ivan rejects this point and tells Smerdyakov that he's a lot smarter than people give him credit for. Smerdyakov had predicted that Dmitri would come out and try to steal the money that night, so when Dmitri finally left after hitting Grigory, Smerdyakov had gone up to Fyodor's window. Fyodor had been terrified by Dmitri's visit, so Smerdyakov tricked him into believing that Grushenka was outside, waiting to visit him. When Fyodor opened his window to look, Smerdyakov grabbed a cast-iron inkstand and clopped Fyodor over the head with it. Then he stole the money, leaving the envelope on the floor as if Dmitri had opened it up in a frenzy, and hid the money in the hollow of an apple tree in the yard. When Ivan asks Smerdyakov about the gate that Grigory had insisted was open, Smerdyakov smiles and confirms that it was closed; Grigory was simply confused. Ivan denounces Smerdyakov and tells him that the two of them are going to reveal everything at Dmitri's trial tomorrow. To Ivan's surprise, Smerdyakov offers him the 3,000 roubles. Ivan tells him this money doesn't change his mind and leaves. On the way back, Ivan comes across the unconscious peasant in the road. This time he picks him up and carries him on his back to get some help at a nearby cottage. Ivan thinks he might go directly to the commissioner to reveal everything, but then decides to wait until Dmitri's trial for the great revelation. Back in his own room, Ivan feels irritable and can't help staring at the empty sofa across from him.", "analysis": ""} | Chapter VIII. The Third And Last Interview With Smerdyakov
When he was half-way there, the keen dry wind that had been blowing early
that morning rose again, and a fine dry snow began falling thickly. It did
not lie on the ground, but was whirled about by the wind, and soon there
was a regular snowstorm. There were scarcely any lamp-posts in the part of
the town where Smerdyakov lived. Ivan strode alone in the darkness,
unconscious of the storm, instinctively picking out his way. His head
ached and there was a painful throbbing in his temples. He felt that his
hands were twitching convulsively. Not far from Marya Kondratyevna's
cottage, Ivan suddenly came upon a solitary drunken little peasant. He was
wearing a coarse and patched coat, and was walking in zigzags, grumbling
and swearing to himself. Then suddenly he would begin singing in a husky
drunken voice:
"Ach, Vanka's gone to Petersburg;
I won't wait till he comes back."
But he broke off every time at the second line and began swearing again;
then he would begin the same song again. Ivan felt an intense hatred for
him before he had thought about him at all. Suddenly he realized his
presence and felt an irresistible impulse to knock him down. At that
moment they met, and the peasant with a violent lurch fell full tilt
against Ivan, who pushed him back furiously. The peasant went flying
backwards and fell like a log on the frozen ground. He uttered one
plaintive "O--oh!" and then was silent. Ivan stepped up to him. He was
lying on his back, without movement or consciousness. "He will be frozen,"
thought Ivan, and he went on his way to Smerdyakov's.
In the passage, Marya Kondratyevna, who ran out to open the door with a
candle in her hand, whispered that Smerdyakov was very ill, "It's not that
he's laid up, but he seems not himself, and he even told us to take the
tea away; he wouldn't have any."
"Why, does he make a row?" asked Ivan coarsely.
"Oh, dear, no, quite the contrary, he's very quiet. Only please don't talk
to him too long," Marya Kondratyevna begged him. Ivan opened the door and
stepped into the room.
It was over-heated as before, but there were changes in the room. One of
the benches at the side had been removed, and in its place had been put a
large old mahogany leather sofa, on which a bed had been made up, with
fairly clean white pillows. Smerdyakov was sitting on the sofa, wearing
the same dressing-gown. The table had been brought out in front of the
sofa, so that there was hardly room to move. On the table lay a thick book
in yellow cover, but Smerdyakov was not reading it. He seemed to be
sitting doing nothing. He met Ivan with a slow silent gaze, and was
apparently not at all surprised at his coming. There was a great change in
his face; he was much thinner and sallower. His eyes were sunken and there
were blue marks under them.
"Why, you really are ill?" Ivan stopped short. "I won't keep you long, I
won't even take off my coat. Where can one sit down?"
He went to the other end of the table, moved up a chair and sat down on
it.
"Why do you look at me without speaking? I've only come with one question,
and I swear I won't go without an answer. Has the young lady, Katerina
Ivanovna, been with you?"
Smerdyakov still remained silent, looking quietly at Ivan as before.
Suddenly, with a motion of his hand, he turned his face away.
"What's the matter with you?" cried Ivan.
"Nothing."
"What do you mean by 'nothing'?"
"Yes, she has. It's no matter to you. Let me alone."
"No, I won't let you alone. Tell me, when was she here?"
"Why, I'd quite forgotten about her," said Smerdyakov, with a scornful
smile, and turning his face to Ivan again, he stared at him with a look of
frenzied hatred, the same look that he had fixed on him at their last
interview, a month before.
"You seem very ill yourself, your face is sunken; you don't look like
yourself," he said to Ivan.
"Never mind my health, tell me what I ask you."
"But why are your eyes so yellow? The whites are quite yellow. Are you so
worried?" He smiled contemptuously and suddenly laughed outright.
"Listen; I've told you I won't go away without an answer!" Ivan cried,
intensely irritated.
"Why do you keep pestering me? Why do you torment me?" said Smerdyakov,
with a look of suffering.
"Damn it! I've nothing to do with you. Just answer my question and I'll go
away."
"I've no answer to give you," said Smerdyakov, looking down again.
"You may be sure I'll make you answer!"
"Why are you so uneasy?" Smerdyakov stared at him, not simply with
contempt, but almost with repulsion. "Is this because the trial begins to-
morrow? Nothing will happen to you; can't you believe that at last? Go
home, go to bed and sleep in peace, don't be afraid of anything."
"I don't understand you.... What have I to be afraid of to-morrow?" Ivan
articulated in astonishment, and suddenly a chill breath of fear did in
fact pass over his soul. Smerdyakov measured him with his eyes.
"You don't understand?" he drawled reproachfully. "It's a strange thing a
sensible man should care to play such a farce!"
Ivan looked at him speechless. The startling, incredibly supercilious tone
of this man who had once been his valet, was extraordinary in itself. He
had not taken such a tone even at their last interview.
"I tell you, you've nothing to be afraid of. I won't say anything about
you; there's no proof against you. I say, how your hands are trembling!
Why are your fingers moving like that? Go home, _you_ did not murder him."
Ivan started. He remembered Alyosha.
"I know it was not I," he faltered.
"Do you?" Smerdyakov caught him up again.
Ivan jumped up and seized him by the shoulder.
"Tell me everything, you viper! Tell me everything!"
Smerdyakov was not in the least scared. He only riveted his eyes on Ivan
with insane hatred.
"Well, it was you who murdered him, if that's it," he whispered furiously.
Ivan sank back on his chair, as though pondering something. He laughed
malignantly.
"You mean my going away. What you talked about last time?"
"You stood before me last time and understood it all, and you understand
it now."
"All I understand is that you are mad."
"Aren't you tired of it? Here we are face to face; what's the use of going
on keeping up a farce to each other? Are you still trying to throw it all
on me, to my face? _You_ murdered him; you are the real murderer, I was
only your instrument, your faithful servant, and it was following your
words I did it."
"_Did_ it? Why, did you murder him?" Ivan turned cold.
Something seemed to give way in his brain, and he shuddered all over with
a cold shiver. Then Smerdyakov himself looked at him wonderingly; probably
the genuineness of Ivan's horror struck him.
"You don't mean to say you really did not know?" he faltered
mistrustfully, looking with a forced smile into his eyes. Ivan still gazed
at him, and seemed unable to speak.
Ach, Vanka's gone to Petersburg;
I won't wait till he comes back,
suddenly echoed in his head.
"Do you know, I am afraid that you are a dream, a phantom sitting before
me," he muttered.
"There's no phantom here, but only us two and one other. No doubt he is
here, that third, between us."
"Who is he? Who is here? What third person?" Ivan cried in alarm, looking
about him, his eyes hastily searching in every corner.
"That third is God Himself--Providence. He is the third beside us now. Only
don't look for Him, you won't find Him."
"It's a lie that you killed him!" Ivan cried madly. "You are mad, or
teasing me again!"
Smerdyakov, as before, watched him curiously, with no sign of fear. He
could still scarcely get over his incredulity; he still fancied that Ivan
knew everything and was trying to "throw it all on him to his face."
"Wait a minute," he said at last in a weak voice, and suddenly bringing up
his left leg from under the table, he began turning up his trouser leg. He
was wearing long white stockings and slippers. Slowly he took off his
garter and fumbled to the bottom of his stocking. Ivan gazed at him, and
suddenly shuddered in a paroxysm of terror.
"He's mad!" he cried, and rapidly jumping up, he drew back, so that he
knocked his back against the wall and stood up against it, stiff and
straight. He looked with insane terror at Smerdyakov, who, entirely
unaffected by his terror, continued fumbling in his stocking, as though he
were making an effort to get hold of something with his fingers and pull
it out. At last he got hold of it and began pulling it out. Ivan saw that
it was a piece of paper, or perhaps a roll of papers. Smerdyakov pulled it
out and laid it on the table.
"Here," he said quietly.
"What is it?" asked Ivan, trembling.
"Kindly look at it," Smerdyakov answered, still in the same low tone.
Ivan stepped up to the table, took up the roll of paper and began
unfolding it, but suddenly he drew back his fingers, as though from
contact with a loathsome reptile.
"Your hands keep twitching," observed Smerdyakov, and he deliberately
unfolded the bundle himself. Under the wrapper were three packets of
hundred-rouble notes.
"They are all here, all the three thousand roubles; you need not count
them. Take them," Smerdyakov suggested to Ivan, nodding at the notes. Ivan
sank back in his chair. He was as white as a handkerchief.
"You frightened me ... with your stocking," he said, with a strange grin.
"Can you really not have known till now?" Smerdyakov asked once more.
"No, I did not know. I kept thinking of Dmitri. Brother, brother! Ach!" He
suddenly clutched his head in both hands.
"Listen. Did you kill him alone? With my brother's help or without?"
"It was only with you, with your help, I killed him, and Dmitri
Fyodorovitch is quite innocent."
"All right, all right. Talk about me later. Why do I keep on trembling? I
can't speak properly."
"You were bold enough then. You said 'everything was lawful,' and how
frightened you are now," Smerdyakov muttered in surprise. "Won't you have
some lemonade? I'll ask for some at once. It's very refreshing. Only I
must hide this first."
And again he motioned at the notes. He was just going to get up and call
at the door to Marya Kondratyevna to make some lemonade and bring it them,
but, looking for something to cover up the notes that she might not see
them, he first took out his handkerchief, and as it turned out to be very
dirty, took up the big yellow book that Ivan had noticed at first lying on
the table, and put it over the notes. The book was _The Sayings of the
Holy Father Isaac the Syrian_. Ivan read it mechanically.
"I won't have any lemonade," he said. "Talk of me later. Sit down and tell
me how you did it. Tell me all about it."
"You'd better take off your greatcoat, or you'll be too hot." Ivan, as
though he'd only just thought of it, took off his coat, and, without
getting up from his chair, threw it on the bench.
"Speak, please, speak."
He seemed calmer. He waited, feeling sure that Smerdyakov would tell him
_all_ about it.
"How it was done?" sighed Smerdyakov. "It was done in a most natural way,
following your very words."
"Of my words later," Ivan broke in again, apparently with complete self-
possession, firmly uttering his words, and not shouting as before. "Only
tell me in detail how you did it. Everything, as it happened. Don't forget
anything. The details, above everything, the details, I beg you."
"You'd gone away, then I fell into the cellar."
"In a fit or in a sham one?"
"A sham one, naturally. I shammed it all. I went quietly down the steps to
the very bottom and lay down quietly, and as I lay down I gave a scream,
and struggled, till they carried me out."
"Stay! And were you shamming all along, afterwards, and in the hospital?"
"No, not at all. Next day, in the morning, before they took me to the
hospital, I had a real attack and a more violent one than I've had for
years. For two days I was quite unconscious."
"All right, all right. Go on."
"They laid me on the bed. I knew I'd be the other side of the partition,
for whenever I was ill, Marfa Ignatyevna used to put me there, near them.
She's always been very kind to me, from my birth up. At night I moaned,
but quietly. I kept expecting Dmitri Fyodorovitch to come."
"Expecting him? To come to you?"
"Not to me. I expected him to come into the house, for I'd no doubt that
he'd come that night, for being without me and getting no news, he'd be
sure to come and climb over the fence, as he used to, and do something."
"And if he hadn't come?"
"Then nothing would have happened. I should never have brought myself to
it without him."
"All right, all right ... speak more intelligibly, don't hurry; above all,
don't leave anything out!"
"I expected him to kill Fyodor Pavlovitch. I thought that was certain, for
I had prepared him for it ... during the last few days.... He knew about
the knocks, that was the chief thing. With his suspiciousness and the fury
which had been growing in him all those days, he was bound to get into the
house by means of those taps. That was inevitable, so I was expecting
him."
"Stay," Ivan interrupted; "if he had killed him, he would have taken the
money and carried it away; you must have considered that. What would you
have got by it afterwards? I don't see."
"But he would never have found the money. That was only what I told him,
that the money was under the mattress. But that wasn't true. It had been
lying in a box. And afterwards I suggested to Fyodor Pavlovitch, as I was
the only person he trusted, to hide the envelope with the notes in the
corner behind the ikons, for no one would have guessed that place,
especially if they came in a hurry. So that's where the envelope lay, in
the corner behind the ikons. It would have been absurd to keep it under
the mattress; the box, anyway, could be locked. But all believe it was
under the mattress. A stupid thing to believe. So if Dmitri Fyodorovitch
had committed the murder, finding nothing, he would either have run away
in a hurry, afraid of every sound, as always happens with murderers, or he
would have been arrested. So I could always have clambered up to the ikons
and have taken away the money next morning or even that night, and it
would have all been put down to Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I could reckon upon
that."
"But what if he did not kill him, but only knocked him down?"
"If he did not kill him, of course, I would not have ventured to take the
money, and nothing would have happened. But I calculated that he would
beat him senseless, and I should have time to take it then, and then I'd
make out to Fyodor Pavlovitch that it was no one but Dmitri Fyodorovitch
who had taken the money after beating him."
"Stop ... I am getting mixed. Then it was Dmitri after all who killed him;
you only took the money?"
"No, he didn't kill him. Well, I might as well have told you now that he
was the murderer.... But I don't want to lie to you now, because ...
because if you really haven't understood till now, as I see for myself,
and are not pretending, so as to throw your guilt on me to my very face,
you are still responsible for it all, since you knew of the murder and
charged me to do it, and went away knowing all about it. And so I want to
prove to your face this evening that you are the only real murderer in the
whole affair, and I am not the real murderer, though I did kill him. You
are the rightful murderer."
"Why, why, am I a murderer? Oh, God!" Ivan cried, unable to restrain
himself at last, and forgetting that he had put off discussing himself
till the end of the conversation. "You still mean that Tchermashnya? Stay,
tell me, why did you want my consent, if you really took Tchermashnya for
consent? How will you explain that now?"
"Assured of your consent, I should have known that you wouldn't have made
an outcry over those three thousand being lost, even if I'd been
suspected, instead of Dmitri Fyodorovitch, or as his accomplice; on the
contrary, you would have protected me from others.... And when you got
your inheritance you would have rewarded me when you were able, all the
rest of your life. For you'd have received your inheritance through me,
seeing that if he had married Agrafena Alexandrovna, you wouldn't have had
a farthing."
"Ah! Then you intended to worry me all my life afterwards," snarled Ivan.
"And what if I hadn't gone away then, but had informed against you?"
"What could you have informed? That I persuaded you to go to Tchermashnya?
That's all nonsense. Besides, after our conversation you would either have
gone away or have stayed. If you had stayed, nothing would have happened.
I should have known that you didn't want it done, and should have
attempted nothing. As you went away, it meant you assured me that you
wouldn't dare to inform against me at the trial, and that you'd overlook
my having the three thousand. And, indeed, you couldn't have prosecuted me
afterwards, because then I should have told it all in the court; that is,
not that I had stolen the money or killed him--I shouldn't have said
that--but that you'd put me up to the theft and the murder, though I didn't
consent to it. That's why I needed your consent, so that you couldn't have
cornered me afterwards, for what proof could you have had? I could always
have cornered you, revealing your eagerness for your father's death, and I
tell you the public would have believed it all, and you would have been
ashamed for the rest of your life."
"Was I then so eager, was I?" Ivan snarled again.
"To be sure you were, and by your consent you silently sanctioned my doing
it." Smerdyakov looked resolutely at Ivan. He was very weak and spoke
slowly and wearily, but some hidden inner force urged him on. He evidently
had some design. Ivan felt that.
"Go on," he said. "Tell me what happened that night."
"What more is there to tell! I lay there and I thought I heard the master
shout. And before that Grigory Vassilyevitch had suddenly got up and came
out, and he suddenly gave a scream, and then all was silence and darkness.
I lay there waiting, my heart beating; I couldn't bear it. I got up at
last, went out. I saw the window open on the left into the garden, and I
stepped to the left to listen whether he was sitting there alive, and I
heard the master moving about, sighing, so I knew he was alive. 'Ech!' I
thought. I went to the window and shouted to the master, 'It's I.' And he
shouted to me, 'He's been, he's been; he's run away.' He meant Dmitri
Fyodorovitch had been. 'He's killed Grigory!' 'Where?' I whispered.
'There, in the corner,' he pointed. He was whispering, too. 'Wait a bit,'
I said. I went to the corner of the garden to look, and there I came upon
Grigory Vassilyevitch lying by the wall, covered with blood, senseless. So
it's true that Dmitri Fyodorovitch has been here, was the thought that
came into my head, and I determined on the spot to make an end of it, as
Grigory Vassilyevitch, even if he were alive, would see nothing of it, as
he lay there senseless. The only risk was that Marfa Ignatyevna might wake
up. I felt that at the moment, but the longing to get it done came over
me, till I could scarcely breathe. I went back to the window to the master
and said, 'She's here, she's come; Agrafena Alexandrovna has come, wants
to be let in.' And he started like a baby. 'Where is she?' he fairly
gasped, but couldn't believe it. 'She's standing there,' said I. 'Open.'
He looked out of the window at me, half believing and half distrustful,
but afraid to open. 'Why, he is afraid of me now,' I thought. And it was
funny. I bethought me to knock on the window-frame those taps we'd agreed
upon as a signal that Grushenka had come, in his presence, before his
eyes. He didn't seem to believe my word, but as soon as he heard the taps,
he ran at once to open the door. He opened it. I would have gone in, but
he stood in the way to prevent me passing. 'Where is she? Where is she?'
He looked at me, all of a tremble. 'Well,' thought I, 'if he's so
frightened of me as all that, it's a bad look out!' And my legs went weak
with fright that he wouldn't let me in or would call out, or Marfa
Ignatyevna would run up, or something else might happen. I don't remember
now, but I must have stood pale, facing him. I whispered to him, 'Why,
she's there, there, under the window; how is it you don't see her?' I
said. 'Bring her then, bring her.' 'She's afraid,' said I; 'she was
frightened at the noise, she's hidden in the bushes; go and call to her
yourself from the study.' He ran to the window, put the candle in the
window. 'Grushenka,' he cried, 'Grushenka, are you here?' Though he cried
that, he didn't want to lean out of the window, he didn't want to move
away from me, for he was panic-stricken; he was so frightened he didn't
dare to turn his back on me. 'Why, here she is,' said I. I went up to the
window and leaned right out of it. 'Here she is; she's in the bush,
laughing at you, don't you see her?' He suddenly believed it; he was all
of a shake--he was awfully crazy about her--and he leaned right out of the
window. I snatched up that iron paper-weight from his table; do you
remember, weighing about three pounds? I swung it and hit him on the top
of the skull with the corner of it. He didn't even cry out. He only sank
down suddenly, and I hit him again and a third time. And the third time I
knew I'd broken his skull. He suddenly rolled on his back, face upwards,
covered with blood. I looked round. There was no blood on me, not a spot.
I wiped the paper-weight, put it back, went up to the ikons, took the
money out of the envelope, and flung the envelope on the floor and the
pink ribbon beside it. I went out into the garden all of a tremble,
straight to the apple-tree with a hollow in it--you know that hollow. I'd
marked it long before and put a rag and a piece of paper ready in it. I
wrapped all the notes in the rag and stuffed it deep down in the hole. And
there it stayed for over a fortnight. I took it out later, when I came out
of the hospital. I went back to my bed, lay down and thought, 'If Grigory
Vassilyevitch has been killed outright it may be a bad job for me, but if
he is not killed and recovers, it will be first-rate, for then he'll bear
witness that Dmitri Fyodorovitch has been here, and so he must have killed
him and taken the money.' Then I began groaning with suspense and
impatience, so as to wake Marfa Ignatyevna as soon as possible. At last
she got up and she rushed to me, but when she saw Grigory Vassilyevitch
was not there, she ran out, and I heard her scream in the garden. And that
set it all going and set my mind at rest."
He stopped. Ivan had listened all the time in dead silence without
stirring or taking his eyes off him. As he told his story Smerdyakov
glanced at him from time to time, but for the most part kept his eyes
averted. When he had finished he was evidently agitated and was breathing
hard. The perspiration stood out on his face. But it was impossible to
tell whether it was remorse he was feeling, or what.
"Stay," cried Ivan, pondering. "What about the door? If he only opened the
door to you, how could Grigory have seen it open before? For Grigory saw
it before you went."
It was remarkable that Ivan spoke quite amicably, in a different tone, not
angry as before, so if any one had opened the door at that moment and
peeped in at them, he would certainly have concluded that they were
talking peaceably about some ordinary, though interesting, subject.
"As for that door and Grigory Vassilyevitch's having seen it open, that's
only his fancy," said Smerdyakov, with a wry smile. "He is not a man, I
assure you, but an obstinate mule. He didn't see it, but fancied he had
seen it, and there's no shaking him. It's just our luck he took that
notion into his head, for they can't fail to convict Dmitri Fyodorovitch
after that."
"Listen ..." said Ivan, beginning to seem bewildered again and making an
effort to grasp something. "Listen. There are a lot of questions I want to
ask you, but I forget them ... I keep forgetting and getting mixed up.
Yes. Tell me this at least, why did you open the envelope and leave it
there on the floor? Why didn't you simply carry off the envelope?... When
you were telling me, I thought you spoke about it as though it were the
right thing to do ... but why, I can't understand...."
"I did that for a good reason. For if a man had known all about it, as I
did for instance, if he'd seen those notes before, and perhaps had put
them in that envelope himself, and had seen the envelope sealed up and
addressed, with his own eyes, if such a man had done the murder, what
should have made him tear open the envelope afterwards, especially in such
desperate haste, since he'd know for certain the notes must be in the
envelope? No, if the robber had been some one like me, he'd simply have
put the envelope straight in his pocket and got away with it as fast as he
could. But it'd be quite different with Dmitri Fyodorovitch. He only knew
about the envelope by hearsay; he had never seen it, and if he'd found it,
for instance, under the mattress, he'd have torn it open as quickly as
possible to make sure the notes were in it. And he'd have thrown the
envelope down, without having time to think that it would be evidence
against him. Because he was not an habitual thief and had never directly
stolen anything before, for he is a gentleman born, and if he did bring
himself to steal, it would not be regular stealing, but simply taking what
was his own, for he'd told the whole town he meant to before, and had even
bragged aloud before every one that he'd go and take his property from
Fyodor Pavlovitch. I didn't say that openly to the prosecutor when I was
being examined, but quite the contrary, I brought him to it by a hint, as
though I didn't see it myself, and as though he'd thought of it himself
and I hadn't prompted him; so that Mr. Prosecutor's mouth positively
watered at my suggestion."
"But can you possibly have thought of all that on the spot?" cried Ivan,
overcome with astonishment. He looked at Smerdyakov again with alarm.
"Mercy on us! Could any one think of it all in such a desperate hurry? It
was all thought out beforehand."
"Well ... well, it was the devil helped you!" Ivan cried again. "No, you
are not a fool, you are far cleverer than I thought...."
He got up, obviously intending to walk across the room. He was in terrible
distress. But as the table blocked his way, and there was hardly room to
pass between the table and the wall, he only turned round where he stood
and sat down again. Perhaps the impossibility of moving irritated him, as
he suddenly cried out almost as furiously as before.
"Listen, you miserable, contemptible creature! Don't you understand that
if I haven't killed you, it's simply because I am keeping you to answer
to-morrow at the trial. God sees," Ivan raised his hand, "perhaps I, too,
was guilty; perhaps I really had a secret desire for my father's ...
death, but I swear I was not as guilty as you think, and perhaps I didn't
urge you on at all. No, no, I didn't urge you on! But no matter, I will
give evidence against myself to-morrow at the trial. I'm determined to! I
shall tell everything, everything. But we'll make our appearance together.
And whatever you may say against me at the trial, whatever evidence you
give, I'll face it; I am not afraid of you. I'll confirm it all myself!
But you must confess, too! You must, you must; we'll go together. That's
how it shall be!"
Ivan said this solemnly and resolutely and from his flashing eyes alone it
could be seen that it would be so.
"You are ill, I see; you are quite ill. Your eyes are yellow," Smerdyakov
commented, without the least irony, with apparent sympathy in fact.
"We'll go together," Ivan repeated. "And if you won't go, no matter, I'll
go alone."
Smerdyakov paused as though pondering.
"There'll be nothing of the sort, and you won't go," he concluded at last
positively.
"You don't understand me," Ivan exclaimed reproachfully.
"You'll be too much ashamed, if you confess it all. And, what's more, it
will be no use at all, for I shall say straight out that I never said
anything of the sort to you, and that you are either ill (and it looks
like it, too), or that you're so sorry for your brother that you are
sacrificing yourself to save him and have invented it all against me, for
you've always thought no more of me than if I'd been a fly. And who will
believe you, and what single proof have you got?"
"Listen, you showed me those notes just now to convince me."
Smerdyakov lifted the book off the notes and laid it on one side.
"Take that money away with you," Smerdyakov sighed.
"Of course, I shall take it. But why do you give it to me, if you
committed the murder for the sake of it?" Ivan looked at him with great
surprise.
"I don't want it," Smerdyakov articulated in a shaking voice, with a
gesture of refusal. "I did have an idea of beginning a new life with that
money in Moscow or, better still, abroad. I did dream of it, chiefly
because 'all things are lawful.' That was quite right what you taught me,
for you talked a lot to me about that. For if there's no everlasting God,
there's no such thing as virtue, and there's no need of it. You were right
there. So that's how I looked at it."
"Did you come to that of yourself?" asked Ivan, with a wry smile.
"With your guidance."
"And now, I suppose, you believe in God, since you are giving back the
money?"
"No, I don't believe," whispered Smerdyakov.
"Then why are you giving it back?"
"Leave off ... that's enough!" Smerdyakov waved his hand again. "You used
to say yourself that everything was lawful, so now why are you so upset,
too? You even want to go and give evidence against yourself.... Only
there'll be nothing of the sort! You won't go to give evidence,"
Smerdyakov decided with conviction.
"You'll see," said Ivan.
"It isn't possible. You are very clever. You are fond of money, I know
that. You like to be respected, too, for you're very proud; you are far
too fond of female charms, too, and you mind most of all about living in
undisturbed comfort, without having to depend on any one--that's what you
care most about. You won't want to spoil your life for ever by taking such
a disgrace on yourself. You are like Fyodor Pavlovitch, you are more like
him than any of his children; you've the same soul as he had."
"You are not a fool," said Ivan, seeming struck. The blood rushed to his
face. "You are serious now!" he observed, looking suddenly at Smerdyakov
with a different expression.
"It was your pride made you think I was a fool. Take the money."
Ivan took the three rolls of notes and put them in his pocket without
wrapping them in anything.
"I shall show them at the court to-morrow," he said.
"Nobody will believe you, as you've plenty of money of your own; you may
simply have taken it out of your cash-box and brought it to the court."
Ivan rose from his seat.
"I repeat," he said, "the only reason I haven't killed you is that I need
you for to-morrow, remember that, don't forget it!"
"Well, kill me. Kill me now," Smerdyakov said, all at once looking
strangely at Ivan. "You won't dare do that even!" he added, with a bitter
smile. "You won't dare to do anything, you, who used to be so bold!"
"Till to-morrow," cried Ivan, and moved to go out.
"Stay a moment.... Show me those notes again."
Ivan took out the notes and showed them to him. Smerdyakov looked at them
for ten seconds.
"Well, you can go," he said, with a wave of his hand. "Ivan Fyodorovitch!"
he called after him again.
"What do you want?" Ivan turned without stopping.
"Good-by!"
"Till to-morrow!" Ivan cried again, and he walked out of the cottage.
The snowstorm was still raging. He walked the first few steps boldly, but
suddenly began staggering. "It's something physical," he thought with a
grin. Something like joy was springing up in his heart. He was conscious
of unbounded resolution; he would make an end of the wavering that had so
tortured him of late. His determination was taken, "and now it will not be
changed," he thought with relief. At that moment he stumbled against
something and almost fell down. Stopping short, he made out at his feet
the peasant he had knocked down, still lying senseless and motionless. The
snow had almost covered his face. Ivan seized him and lifted him in his
arms. Seeing a light in the little house to the right he went up, knocked
at the shutters, and asked the man to whom the house belonged to help him
carry the peasant to the police-station, promising him three roubles. The
man got ready and came out. I won't describe in detail how Ivan succeeded
in his object, bringing the peasant to the police-station and arranging
for a doctor to see him at once, providing with a liberal hand for the
expenses. I will only say that this business took a whole hour, but Ivan
was well content with it. His mind wandered and worked incessantly.
"If I had not taken my decision so firmly for to-morrow," he reflected
with satisfaction, "I should not have stayed a whole hour to look after
the peasant, but should have passed by, without caring about his being
frozen. I am quite capable of watching myself, by the way," he thought at
the same instant, with still greater satisfaction, "although they have
decided that I am going out of my mind!"
Just as he reached his own house he stopped short, asking himself suddenly
hadn't he better go at once to the prosecutor and tell him everything. He
decided the question by turning back to the house. "Everything together
to-morrow!" he whispered to himself, and, strange to say, almost all his
gladness and self-satisfaction passed in one instant.
As he entered his own room he felt something like a touch of ice on his
heart, like a recollection or, more exactly, a reminder, of something
agonizing and revolting that was in that room now, at that moment, and had
been there before. He sank wearily on his sofa. The old woman brought him
a samovar; he made tea, but did not touch it. He sat on the sofa and felt
giddy. He felt that he was ill and helpless. He was beginning to drop
asleep, but got up uneasily and walked across the room to shake off his
drowsiness. At moments he fancied he was delirious, but it was not illness
that he thought of most. Sitting down again, he began looking round, as
though searching for something. This happened several times. At last his
eyes were fastened intently on one point. Ivan smiled, but an angry flush
suffused his face. He sat a long time in his place, his head propped on
both arms, though he looked sideways at the same point, at the sofa that
stood against the opposite wall. There was evidently something, some
object, that irritated him there, worried him and tormented him.
| 5,883 | Book 11, Chapter 8 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-11-chapter-8 | A blizzard starts up as Ivan heads over to Smerdyakov's. On the way he bumps into a peasant and shoves him violently out of the way. The peasant lies on the ground, unconscious, but Ivan doesn't help - nor does he seem to care that the peasant is dead. At Smerdyakov's, Maria informs Ivan that Smerdyakov is quite ill. When Ivan enters, Smerdyakov is laid up in bed, and Ivan notices that his eyes are yellow . Smerdyakov taunts Ivan with the suggestion that they killed Fyodor together. When Ivan calls him on it, Smerdyakov pulls out from his sock - bam! - a wad of 3,000 roubles. Ivan is flabbergasted by the sight of the incriminating evidence. Smerdyakov admits that he faked his epileptic fit on the day of the murder. And the money was never under Fyodor's mattress, as everyone, including Dmitri, thought; Smerdyakov had convinced Fyodor to hide it behind the icons. Smerdyakov slyly suggests that Ivan is actually the real murderer because he is just a simple servant, while Ivan is the mastermind. Ivan rejects this point and tells Smerdyakov that he's a lot smarter than people give him credit for. Smerdyakov had predicted that Dmitri would come out and try to steal the money that night, so when Dmitri finally left after hitting Grigory, Smerdyakov had gone up to Fyodor's window. Fyodor had been terrified by Dmitri's visit, so Smerdyakov tricked him into believing that Grushenka was outside, waiting to visit him. When Fyodor opened his window to look, Smerdyakov grabbed a cast-iron inkstand and clopped Fyodor over the head with it. Then he stole the money, leaving the envelope on the floor as if Dmitri had opened it up in a frenzy, and hid the money in the hollow of an apple tree in the yard. When Ivan asks Smerdyakov about the gate that Grigory had insisted was open, Smerdyakov smiles and confirms that it was closed; Grigory was simply confused. Ivan denounces Smerdyakov and tells him that the two of them are going to reveal everything at Dmitri's trial tomorrow. To Ivan's surprise, Smerdyakov offers him the 3,000 roubles. Ivan tells him this money doesn't change his mind and leaves. On the way back, Ivan comes across the unconscious peasant in the road. This time he picks him up and carries him on his back to get some help at a nearby cottage. Ivan thinks he might go directly to the commissioner to reveal everything, but then decides to wait until Dmitri's trial for the great revelation. Back in his own room, Ivan feels irritable and can't help staring at the empty sofa across from him. | null | 443 | 1 | [
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5,658 | true | cliffnotes | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_34_to_35.txt | finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Lord Jim/section_20_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapters 34-35 | chapters 34-35 | null | {"name": "Chapters 34-35", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219145744/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/l/lord-jim/summary-and-analysis/chapters-3435", "summary": "The footsteps which Marlow heard that night were Jim's, but Marlow was unable to talk any further with Jewel that night -- or with Jim. He left, and as he walked away in the cool darkness of the night, he was awed anew at Jim's plans for a coffee plantation on Patusan, along with all of Jim's other plans and his seemingly inexhaustible energy; Marlow could not understand Jim's optimistic enthusiasm for ever so many experiments.\" Marlow confesses that he stood alone that night long enough to succumb to \"a sentimental mood.\" He felt strange and melancholy, remote and lost. Here he was in Patusan, in this forgotten, obscure corner of the world, where he was privy to terrible secrets, and where a man's destiny was being decided and where a woman's love was breaking her heart. Marlow knew that the essence of that moment and the emotions of that moment would be lost tomorrow, and even if that moment were remembered, it would never again seem as real as it did at that moment; it would always seem as if it were an illusion. And yet it is that moment which Marlow has tried to recount for his listeners. Marlow's moment of insight into Jim's destiny was shattered by Cornelius, who bolted out of the undergrowth, \"vermin-like\" and running toward Marlow, whining and cringing, trying to confide in him. Usually, Marlow says, he was so repulsed by the creature that a quick glance at him had always caused him to slink away. But that night, I let him capture me without even a show of resistance.\" Marlow says that he felt \"doomed to be the recipient of confidences.\" Cornelius came immediately to the point. He wanted Marlow to talk to Jim and ask him for \"some money in exchange for the girl.\" He had raised her, and she had been someone else's child. Now he was an old man, and he felt that a \"suitable present\" should be given to him when Jim decided to \"go home.\" Marlow insisted that Jim was not preparing to leave; in fact, he said \"the time will never come.\" Jim would never go home, Marlow emphasized. Cornelius nearly went into convulsions when he heard this statement. He cried out that he would be \"trampled\" by Jim until the day he died. He leaned his head against the fence and began uttering threats and blasphemies in Portuguese, mingled with groans and cries of sickness. It was, says Marlow, \"an inexpressibly grotesque and vile performance,\" and so he departed. Next morning, as Marlow was leaving, he watched the houses of Patusan disappearing behind him. The trees and the river and the people all disappeared, but their clear-cut, indelible, unchanging, unfaded images were stamped upon Marlow's memory. All of these memories, especially those of the people, are suspended now-flat replicas filed away forever, unchanging. All unchanging, that is, except Marlow's memory of Jim. Marlow can't be certain of his final image of Jim. \"No magician's wand can immobilize him under my eyes,\" he says, because \"he is one of us.\" Jim accompanied Marlow on the first stage of his journey back to \"the real world,\" and after they landed on a bit of white beach, Jim noticed a fisherman signaling to him and he knew what must be done. Tomorrow, he told Marlow, he would meet with Rajah Allang and discuss the fisherman's problems concerning some turtle eggs, no doubt weighing the fisherman's claim against those of Rajah Allang's men. As Jim said, \"the old rip can't get it into his head that . . .\" and Marlow finished Jim's sentence: that you have changed all that.\" The two men shook hands then, and Marlow told Jim that he would be returning to England in a year or so, and Jim asked Marlow to \"Tell them and then he stopped. \"Tell them nothing,\" he said finally. Marlow clamored on board his schooner. The sun had set, and the western horizon was a blaze of gold and crimson. He saw two half-naked fishermen talking to their \"white lord.\" As Marlow sailed away, the white figure of Jim, pasted against the stillness of the sea, became only a tiny white speck. And, suddenly, Marlow says, \"I lost him. . . .\"", "analysis": "These two chapters end Marlow's direct association with Lord Jim. The rest of Jim's story will be given to us by reports, documents, and letters concerning Jim, along with Jewel's and Tamb' Itam's reports of Jim. We hear again that Jewel refuses to believe that Jim is not \"good enough\" for the outside world, and Marlow's attempts to convince her of Jim's loyalty by his explanations \"only succeeded in adding to her anguish the hint of some mysterious collusion, of an inexplicable and incomprehensible conspiracy to keep her forever in the dark.\" Marlow was ready to leave because he was now convinced that his earlier views of Jim were the correct ones -- that is, Jim had indeed proved to all concerned that \"he was one of us,\" and now Marlow saw that all of his efforts on Jim's behalf and all of his trust in Jim's essential goodness had been fully justified; thus, Marlow was now content to leave Jim to his own destiny, knowing full well that they would never meet again -- that is, that he would never return to Patusan and that Jim would never leave Patusan. These chapters also present more of Cornelius, a villainous man whom Marlow completely misreads. Marlow considers Cornelius to be such a repulsive, spiteful, cringing, insidious insect that he, Cornelius, is not really dangerous. Marlow, in essence, dismisses this obnoxious creature as being \"too insignificant to be dangerous.\" In terms of Cornelius' treachery with \"Gentleman Brown\" later, we realize that Marlow is wrong in his interpretation of Comelius' \"insignificance.\""} | Marlow swung his legs out, got up quickly, and staggered a little, as
though he had been set down after a rush through space. He leaned his
back against the balustrade and faced a disordered array of long cane
chairs. The bodies prone in them seemed startled out of their torpor by
his movement. One or two sat up as if alarmed; here and there a cigar
glowed yet; Marlow looked at them all with the eyes of a man returning
from the excessive remoteness of a dream. A throat was cleared; a calm
voice encouraged negligently, 'Well.'
'Nothing,' said Marlow with a slight start. 'He had told her--that's
all. She did not believe him--nothing more. As to myself, I do not know
whether it be just, proper, decent for me to rejoice or to be sorry. For
my part, I cannot say what I believed--indeed I don't know to this day,
and never shall probably. But what did the poor devil believe himself?
Truth shall prevail--don't you know Magna est veritas el . . . Yes, when
it gets a chance. There is a law, no doubt--and likewise a law regulates
your luck in the throwing of dice. It is not Justice the servant of men,
but accident, hazard, Fortune--the ally of patient Time--that holds an
even and scrupulous balance. Both of us had said the very same thing.
Did we both speak the truth--or one of us did--or neither? . . .'
Marlow paused, crossed his arms on his breast, and in a changed tone--
'She said we lied. Poor soul! Well--let's leave it to Chance, whose ally
is Time, that cannot be hurried, and whose enemy is Death, that will not
wait. I had retreated--a little cowed, I must own. I had tried a fall
with fear itself and got thrown--of course. I had only succeeded in
adding to her anguish the hint of some mysterious collusion, of an
inexplicable and incomprehensible conspiracy to keep her for ever in the
dark. And it had come easily, naturally, unavoidably, by his act, by her
own act! It was as though I had been shown the working of the implacable
destiny of which we are the victims--and the tools. It was appalling
to think of the girl whom I had left standing there motionless; Jim's
footsteps had a fateful sound as he tramped by, without seeing me, in
his heavy laced boots. "What? No lights!" he said in a loud, surprised
voice. "What are you doing in the dark--you two?" Next moment he caught
sight of her, I suppose. "Hallo, girl!" he cried cheerily. "Hallo, boy!"
she answered at once, with amazing pluck.
'This was their usual greeting to each other, and the bit of swagger she
would put into her rather high but sweet voice was very droll, pretty,
and childlike. It delighted Jim greatly. This was the last occasion on
which I heard them exchange this familiar hail, and it struck a chill
into my heart. There was the high sweet voice, the pretty effort, the
swagger; but it all seemed to die out prematurely, and the playful call
sounded like a moan. It was too confoundedly awful. "What have you done
with Marlow?" Jim was asking; and then, "Gone down--has he? Funny I
didn't meet him. . . . You there, Marlow?"
'I didn't answer. I wasn't going in--not yet at any rate. I really
couldn't. While he was calling me I was engaged in making my escape
through a little gate leading out upon a stretch of newly cleared
ground. No; I couldn't face them yet. I walked hastily with lowered head
along a trodden path. The ground rose gently, the few big trees had been
felled, the undergrowth had been cut down and the grass fired. He had a
mind to try a coffee-plantation there. The big hill, rearing its double
summit coal-black in the clear yellow glow of the rising moon, seemed
to cast its shadow upon the ground prepared for that experiment. He was
going to try ever so many experiments; I had admired his energy, his
enterprise, and his shrewdness. Nothing on earth seemed less real now
than his plans, his energy, and his enthusiasm; and raising my eyes, I
saw part of the moon glittering through the bushes at the bottom of the
chasm. For a moment it looked as though the smooth disc, falling from
its place in the sky upon the earth, had rolled to the bottom of that
precipice: its ascending movement was like a leisurely rebound; it
disengaged itself from the tangle of twigs; the bare contorted limb of
some tree, growing on the slope, made a black crack right across its
face. It threw its level rays afar as if from a cavern, and in this
mournful eclipse-like light the stumps of felled trees uprose very dark,
the heavy shadows fell at my feet on all sides, my own moving shadow,
and across my path the shadow of the solitary grave perpetually
garlanded with flowers. In the darkened moonlight the interlaced
blossoms took on shapes foreign to one's memory and colours indefinable
to the eye, as though they had been special flowers gathered by no man,
grown not in this world, and destined for the use of the dead alone.
Their powerful scent hung in the warm air, making it thick and heavy
like the fumes of incense. The lumps of white coral shone round the dark
mound like a chaplet of bleached skulls, and everything around was so
quiet that when I stood still all sound and all movement in the world
seemed to come to an end.
'It was a great peace, as if the earth had been one grave, and for a
time I stood there thinking mostly of the living who, buried in remote
places out of the knowledge of mankind, still are fated to share in its
tragic or grotesque miseries. In its noble struggles too--who knows?
The human heart is vast enough to contain all the world. It is valiant
enough to bear the burden, but where is the courage that would cast it
off?
'I suppose I must have fallen into a sentimental mood; I only know that
I stood there long enough for the sense of utter solitude to get hold
of me so completely that all I had lately seen, all I had heard, and the
very human speech itself, seemed to have passed away out of existence,
living only for a while longer in my memory, as though I had been the
last of mankind. It was a strange and melancholy illusion, evolved
half-consciously like all our illusions, which I suspect only to be
visions of remote unattainable truth, seen dimly. This was, indeed, one
of the lost, forgotten, unknown places of the earth; I had looked under
its obscure surface; and I felt that when to-morrow I had left it for
ever, it would slip out of existence, to live only in my memory till I
myself passed into oblivion. I have that feeling about me now; perhaps
it is that feeling which has incited me to tell you the story, to try to
hand over to you, as it were, its very existence, its reality--the truth
disclosed in a moment of illusion.
'Cornelius broke upon it. He bolted out, vermin-like, from the long
grass growing in a depression of the ground. I believe his house was
rotting somewhere near by, though I've never seen it, not having been
far enough in that direction. He ran towards me upon the path; his feet,
shod in dirty white shoes, twinkled on the dark earth; he pulled himself
up, and began to whine and cringe under a tall stove-pipe hat. His
dried-up little carcass was swallowed up, totally lost, in a suit of
black broadcloth. That was his costume for holidays and ceremonies, and
it reminded me that this was the fourth Sunday I had spent in Patusan.
All the time of my stay I had been vaguely aware of his desire to
confide in me, if he only could get me all to himself. He hung about
with an eager craving look on his sour yellow little face; but his
timidity had kept him back as much as my natural reluctance to have
anything to do with such an unsavoury creature. He would have succeeded,
nevertheless, had he not been so ready to slink off as soon as you
looked at him. He would slink off before Jim's severe gaze, before my
own, which I tried to make indifferent, even before Tamb' Itam's surly,
superior glance. He was perpetually slinking away; whenever seen he was
seen moving off deviously, his face over his shoulder, with either a
mistrustful snarl or a woe-begone, piteous, mute aspect; but no assumed
expression could conceal this innate irremediable abjectness of his
nature, any more than an arrangement of clothing can conceal some
monstrous deformity of the body.
'I don't know whether it was the demoralisation of my utter defeat in
my encounter with a spectre of fear less than an hour ago, but I let
him capture me without even a show of resistance. I was doomed to be
the recipient of confidences, and to be confronted with unanswerable
questions. It was trying; but the contempt, the unreasoned contempt, the
man's appearance provoked, made it easier to bear. He couldn't possibly
matter. Nothing mattered, since I had made up my mind that Jim, for
whom alone I cared, had at last mastered his fate. He had told me he
was satisfied . . . nearly. This is going further than most of us dare.
I--who have the right to think myself good enough--dare not. Neither
does any of you here, I suppose? . . .'
Marlow paused, as if expecting an answer. Nobody spoke.
'Quite right,' he began again. 'Let no soul know, since the truth can be
wrung out of us only by some cruel, little, awful catastrophe. But he
is one of us, and he could say he was satisfied . . . nearly. Just
fancy this! Nearly satisfied. One could almost envy him his catastrophe.
Nearly satisfied. After this nothing could matter. It did not matter who
suspected him, who trusted him, who loved him, who hated him--especially
as it was Cornelius who hated him.
'Yet after all this was a kind of recognition. You shall judge of a man
by his foes as well as by his friends, and this enemy of Jim was such as
no decent man would be ashamed to own, without, however, making too
much of him. This was the view Jim took, and in which I shared; but Jim
disregarded him on general grounds. "My dear Marlow," he said, "I feel
that if I go straight nothing can touch me. Indeed I do. Now you have
been long enough here to have a good look round--and, frankly, don't
you think I am pretty safe? It all depends upon me, and, by Jove! I have
lots of confidence in myself. The worst thing he could do would be to
kill me, I suppose. I don't think for a moment he would. He couldn't,
you know--not if I were myself to hand him a loaded rifle for the
purpose, and then turn my back on him. That's the sort of thing he is.
And suppose he would--suppose he could? Well--what of that? I didn't
come here flying for my life--did I? I came here to set my back against
the wall, and I am going to stay here . . ."
'"Till you are _quite_ satisfied," I struck in.
'We were sitting at the time under the roof in the stern of his boat;
twenty paddles flashed like one, ten on a side, striking the water with
a single splash, while behind our backs Tamb' Itam dipped silently right
and left, and stared right down the river, attentive to keep the long
canoe in the greatest strength of the current. Jim bowed his head, and
our last talk seemed to flicker out for good. He was seeing me off as
far as the mouth of the river. The schooner had left the day before,
working down and drifting on the ebb, while I had prolonged my stay
overnight. And now he was seeing me off.
'Jim had been a little angry with me for mentioning Cornelius at all.
I had not, in truth, said much. The man was too insignificant to be
dangerous, though he was as full of hate as he could hold. He had called
me "honourable sir" at every second sentence, and had whined at my elbow
as he followed me from the grave of his "late wife" to the gate of Jim's
compound. He declared himself the most unhappy of men, a victim, crushed
like a worm; he entreated me to look at him. I wouldn't turn my head to
do so; but I could see out of the corner of my eye his obsequious shadow
gliding after mine, while the moon, suspended on our right hand, seemed
to gloat serenely upon the spectacle. He tried to explain--as I've told
you--his share in the events of the memorable night. It was a matter of
expediency. How could he know who was going to get the upper hand? "I
would have saved him, honourable sir! I would have saved him for eighty
dollars," he protested in dulcet tones, keeping a pace behind me. "He
has saved himself," I said, "and he has forgiven you." I heard a sort of
tittering, and turned upon him; at once he appeared ready to take to his
heels. "What are you laughing at?" I asked, standing still. "Don't be
deceived, honourable sir!" he shrieked, seemingly losing all control
over his feelings. "_He_ save himself! He knows nothing, honourable
sir--nothing whatever. Who is he? What does he want here--the big thief?
What does he want here? He throws dust into everybody's eyes; he throws
dust into your eyes, honourable sir; but he can't throw dust into my
eyes. He is a big fool, honourable sir." I laughed contemptuously, and,
turning on my heel, began to walk on again. He ran up to my elbow and
whispered forcibly, "He's no more than a little child here--like a
little child--a little child." Of course I didn't take the slightest
notice, and seeing the time pressed, because we were approaching the
bamboo fence that glittered over the blackened ground of the clearing,
he came to the point. He commenced by being abjectly lachrymose. His
great misfortunes had affected his head. He hoped I would kindly forget
what nothing but his troubles made him say. He didn't mean anything
by it; only the honourable sir did not know what it was to be ruined,
broken down, trampled upon. After this introduction he approached the
matter near his heart, but in such a rambling, ejaculatory, craven
fashion, that for a long time I couldn't make out what he was driving
at. He wanted me to intercede with Jim in his favour. It seemed, too,
to be some sort of money affair. I heard time and again the words,
"Moderate provision--suitable present." He seemed to be claiming value
for something, and he even went the length of saying with some warmth
that life was not worth having if a man were to be robbed of everything.
I did not breathe a word, of course, but neither did I stop my ears.
The gist of the affair, which became clear to me gradually, was in this,
that he regarded himself as entitled to some money in exchange for the
girl. He had brought her up. Somebody else's child. Great trouble and
pains--old man now--suitable present. If the honourable sir would say
a word. . . . I stood still to look at him with curiosity, and fearful
lest I should think him extortionate, I suppose, he hastily brought
himself to make a concession. In consideration of a "suitable present"
given at once, he would, he declared, be willing to undertake the charge
of the girl, "without any other provision--when the time came for the
gentleman to go home." His little yellow face, all crumpled as though it
had been squeezed together, expressed the most anxious, eager avarice.
His voice whined coaxingly, "No more trouble--natural guardian--a sum of
money . . ."
'I stood there and marvelled. That kind of thing, with him, was
evidently a vocation. I discovered suddenly in his cringing attitude
a sort of assurance, as though he had been all his life dealing in
certitudes. He must have thought I was dispassionately considering his
proposal, because he became as sweet as honey. "Every gentleman made
a provision when the time came to go home," he began insinuatingly. I
slammed the little gate. "In this case, Mr. Cornelius," I said, "the
time will never come." He took a few seconds to gather this in. "What!"
he fairly squealed. "Why," I continued from my side of the gate,
"haven't you heard him say so himself? He will never go home." "Oh! this
is too much," he shouted. He would not address me as "honoured sir" any
more. He was very still for a time, and then without a trace of humility
began very low: "Never go--ah! He--he--he comes here devil knows
from where--comes here--devil knows why--to trample on me till I
die--ah--trample" (he stamped softly with both feet), "trample like
this--nobody knows why--till I die. . . ." His voice became quite
extinct; he was bothered by a little cough; he came up close to the
fence and told me, dropping into a confidential and piteous tone,
that he would not be trampled upon. "Patience--patience," he muttered,
striking his breast. I had done laughing at him, but unexpectedly he
treated me to a wild cracked burst of it. "Ha! ha! ha! We shall see! We
shall see! What! Steal from me! Steal from me everything! Everything!
Everything!" His head drooped on one shoulder, his hands were hanging
before him lightly clasped. One would have thought he had cherished
the girl with surpassing love, that his spirit had been crushed and his
heart broken by the most cruel of spoliations. Suddenly he lifted his
head and shot out an infamous word. "Like her mother--she is like her
deceitful mother. Exactly. In her face, too. In her face. The devil!"
He leaned his forehead against the fence, and in that position
uttered threats and horrible blasphemies in Portuguese in very weak
ejaculations, mingled with miserable plaints and groans, coming out with
a heave of the shoulders as though he had been overtaken by a deadly fit
of sickness. It was an inexpressibly grotesque and vile performance,
and I hastened away. He tried to shout something after me. Some
disparagement of Jim, I believe--not too loud though, we were too near
the house. All I heard distinctly was, "No more than a little child--a
little child."'
'But next morning, at the first bend of the river shutting off the
houses of Patusan, all this dropped out of my sight bodily, with its
colour, its design, and its meaning, like a picture created by fancy on
a canvas, upon which, after long contemplation, you turn your back for
the last time. It remains in the memory motionless, unfaded, with its
life arrested, in an unchanging light. There are the ambitions, the
fears, the hate, the hopes, and they remain in my mind just as I had
seen them--intense and as if for ever suspended in their expression. I
had turned away from the picture and was going back to the world where
events move, men change, light flickers, life flows in a clear stream,
no matter whether over mud or over stones. I wasn't going to dive into
it; I would have enough to do to keep my head above the surface. But
as to what I was leaving behind, I cannot imagine any alteration. The
immense and magnanimous Doramin and his little motherly witch of a
wife, gazing together upon the land and nursing secretly their dreams
of parental ambition; Tunku Allang, wizened and greatly perplexed;
Dain Waris, intelligent and brave, with his faith in Jim, with his
firm glance and his ironic friendliness; the girl, absorbed in her
frightened, suspicious adoration; Tamb' Itam, surly and faithful;
Cornelius, leaning his forehead against the fence under the moonlight--I
am certain of them. They exist as if under an enchanter's wand. But the
figure round which all these are grouped--that one lives, and I am not
certain of him. No magician's wand can immobilise him under my eyes. He
is one of us.
'Jim, as I've told you, accompanied me on the first stage of my journey
back to the world he had renounced, and the way at times seemed to
lead through the very heart of untouched wilderness. The empty reaches
sparkled under the high sun; between the high walls of vegetation the
heat drowsed upon the water, and the boat, impelled vigorously, cut her
way through the air that seemed to have settled dense and warm under the
shelter of lofty trees.
'The shadow of the impending separation had already put an immense space
between us, and when we spoke it was with an effort, as if to force our
low voices across a vast and increasing distance. The boat fairly flew;
we sweltered side by side in the stagnant superheated air; the smell of
mud, of mush, the primeval smell of fecund earth, seemed to sting our
faces; till suddenly at a bend it was as if a great hand far away had
lifted a heavy curtain, had flung open un immense portal. The light
itself seemed to stir, the sky above our heads widened, a far-off murmur
reached our ears, a freshness enveloped us, filled our lungs, quickened
our thoughts, our blood, our regrets--and, straight ahead, the forests
sank down against the dark-blue ridge of the sea.
'I breathed deeply, I revelled in the vastness of the opened horizon, in
the different atmosphere that seemed to vibrate with the toil of life,
with the energy of an impeccable world. This sky and this sea were open
to me. The girl was right--there was a sign, a call in them--something
to which I responded with every fibre of my being. I let my eyes roam
through space, like a man released from bonds who stretches his cramped
limbs, runs, leaps, responds to the inspiring elation of freedom. "This
is glorious!" I cried, and then I looked at the sinner by my side. He
sat with his head sunk on his breast and said "Yes," without raising his
eyes, as if afraid to see writ large on the clear sky of the offing the
reproach of his romantic conscience.
'I remember the smallest details of that afternoon. We landed on a bit
of white beach. It was backed by a low cliff wooded on the brow, draped
in creepers to the very foot. Below us the plain of the sea, of a serene
and intense blue, stretched with a slight upward tilt to the thread-like
horizon drawn at the height of our eyes. Great waves of glitter blew
lightly along the pitted dark surface, as swift as feathers chased by
the breeze. A chain of islands sat broken and massive facing the wide
estuary, displayed in a sheet of pale glassy water reflecting faithfully
the contour of the shore. High in the colourless sunshine a solitary
bird, all black, hovered, dropping and soaring above the same spot with
a slight rocking motion of the wings. A ragged, sooty bunch of flimsy
mat hovels was perched over its own inverted image upon a crooked
multitude of high piles the colour of ebony. A tiny black canoe put off
from amongst them with two tiny men, all black, who toiled exceedingly,
striking down at the pale water: and the canoe seemed to slide painfully
on a mirror. This bunch of miserable hovels was the fishing village
that boasted of the white lord's especial protection, and the two men
crossing over were the old headman and his son-in-law. They landed
and walked up to us on the white sand, lean, dark-brown as if dried
in smoke, with ashy patches on the skin of their naked shoulders
and breasts. Their heads were bound in dirty but carefully folded
headkerchiefs, and the old man began at once to state a complaint,
voluble, stretching a lank arm, screwing up at Jim his old bleared eyes
confidently. The Rajah's people would not leave them alone; there had
been some trouble about a lot of turtles' eggs his people had collected
on the islets there--and leaning at arm's-length upon his paddle, he
pointed with a brown skinny hand over the sea. Jim listened for a time
without looking up, and at last told him gently to wait. He would hear
him by-and-by. They withdrew obediently to some little distance, and sat
on their heels, with their paddles lying before them on the sand; the
silvery gleams in their eyes followed our movements patiently; and the
immensity of the outspread sea, the stillness of the coast, passing
north and south beyond the limits of my vision, made up one colossal
Presence watching us four dwarfs isolated on a strip of glistening sand.
'"The trouble is," remarked Jim moodily, "that for generations these
beggars of fishermen in that village there had been considered as the
Rajah's personal slaves--and the old rip can't get it into his head that
. . ."
'He paused. "That you have changed all that," I said.
'"Yes I've changed all that," he muttered in a gloomy voice.
'"You have had your opportunity," I pursued.
'"Have I?" he said. "Well, yes. I suppose so. Yes. I have got back my
confidence in myself--a good name--yet sometimes I wish . . . No! I
shall hold what I've got. Can't expect anything more." He flung his arm
out towards the sea. "Not out there anyhow." He stamped his foot upon
the sand. "This is my limit, because nothing less will do."
'We continued pacing the beach. "Yes, I've changed all that," he went
on, with a sidelong glance at the two patient squatting fishermen; "but
only try to think what it would be if I went away. Jove! can't you see
it? Hell loose. No! To-morrow I shall go and take my chance of drinking
that silly old Tunku Allang's coffee, and I shall make no end of fuss
over these rotten turtles' eggs. No. I can't say--enough. Never. I must
go on, go on for ever holding up my end, to feel sure that nothing can
touch me. I must stick to their belief in me to feel safe and to--to"
. . . He cast about for a word, seemed to look for it on the sea . . .
"to keep in touch with" . . . His voice sank suddenly to a murmur . . .
"with those whom, perhaps, I shall never see any more. With--with--you,
for instance."
'I was profoundly humbled by his words. "For God's sake," I said, "don't
set me up, my dear fellow; just look to yourself." I felt a gratitude,
an affection, for that straggler whose eyes had singled me out, keeping
my place in the ranks of an insignificant multitude. How little that
was to boast of, after all! I turned my burning face away; under the
low sun, glowing, darkened and crimson, like un ember snatched from the
fire, the sea lay outspread, offering all its immense stillness to the
approach of the fiery orb. Twice he was going to speak, but checked
himself; at last, as if he had found a formula--
'"I shall be faithful," he said quietly. "I shall be faithful," he
repeated, without looking at me, but for the first time letting his eyes
wander upon the waters, whose blueness had changed to a gloomy purple
under the fires of sunset. Ah! he was romantic, romantic. I recalled
some words of Stein's. . . . "In the destructive element immerse! . . .
To follow the dream, and again to follow the dream--and
so--always--usque ad finem . . ." He was romantic, but none the
less true. Who could tell what forms, what visions, what faces, what
forgiveness he could see in the glow of the west! . . . A small boat,
leaving the schooner, moved slowly, with a regular beat of two oars,
towards the sandbank to take me off. "And then there's Jewel," he said,
out of the great silence of earth, sky, and sea, which had mastered my
very thoughts so that his voice made me start. "There's Jewel." "Yes,"
I murmured. "I need not tell you what she is to me," he pursued.
"You've seen. In time she will come to understand . . ." "I hope so," I
interrupted. "She trusts me, too," he mused, and then changed his tone.
"When shall we meet next, I wonder?" he said.
'"Never--unless you come out," I answered, avoiding his glance. He
didn't seem to be surprised; he kept very quiet for a while.
'"Good-bye, then," he said, after a pause. "Perhaps it's just as well."
'We shook hands, and I walked to the boat, which waited with her nose
on the beach. The schooner, her mainsail set and jib-sheet to windward,
curveted on the purple sea; there was a rosy tinge on her sails. "Will
you be going home again soon?" asked Jim, just as I swung my leg over
the gunwale. "In a year or so if I live," I said. The forefoot grated on
the sand, the boat floated, the wet oars flashed and dipped once, twice.
Jim, at the water's edge, raised his voice. "Tell them . . ." he began.
I signed to the men to cease rowing, and waited in wonder. Tell who? The
half-submerged sun faced him; I could see its red gleam in his eyes that
looked dumbly at me. . . . "No--nothing," he said, and with a slight
wave of his hand motioned the boat away. I did not look again at the
shore till I had clambered on board the schooner.
'By that time the sun had set. The twilight lay over the east, and the
coast, turned black, extended infinitely its sombre wall that seemed the
very stronghold of the night; the western horizon was one great blaze of
gold and crimson in which a big detached cloud floated dark and still,
casting a slaty shadow on the water beneath, and I saw Jim on the beach
watching the schooner fall off and gather headway.
'The two half-naked fishermen had arisen as soon as I had gone; they
were no doubt pouring the plaint of their trifling, miserable, oppressed
lives into the ears of the white lord, and no doubt he was listening to
it, making it his own, for was it not a part of his luck--the luck "from
the word Go"--the luck to which he had assured me he was so completely
equal? They, too, I should think, were in luck, and I was sure their
pertinacity would be equal to it. Their dark-skinned bodies vanished on
the dark background long before I had lost sight of their protector. He
was white from head to foot, and remained persistently visible with
the stronghold of the night at his back, the sea at his feet, the
opportunity by his side--still veiled. What do you say? Was it still
veiled? I don't know. For me that white figure in the stillness of coast
and sea seemed to stand at the heart of a vast enigma. The twilight
was ebbing fast from the sky above his head, the strip of sand had sunk
already under his feet, he himself appeared no bigger than a child--then
only a speck, a tiny white speck, that seemed to catch all the light
left in a darkened world. . . . And, suddenly, I lost him. . . .
| 4,936 | Chapters 34-35 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201219145744/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/l/lord-jim/summary-and-analysis/chapters-3435 | The footsteps which Marlow heard that night were Jim's, but Marlow was unable to talk any further with Jewel that night -- or with Jim. He left, and as he walked away in the cool darkness of the night, he was awed anew at Jim's plans for a coffee plantation on Patusan, along with all of Jim's other plans and his seemingly inexhaustible energy; Marlow could not understand Jim's optimistic enthusiasm for ever so many experiments." Marlow confesses that he stood alone that night long enough to succumb to "a sentimental mood." He felt strange and melancholy, remote and lost. Here he was in Patusan, in this forgotten, obscure corner of the world, where he was privy to terrible secrets, and where a man's destiny was being decided and where a woman's love was breaking her heart. Marlow knew that the essence of that moment and the emotions of that moment would be lost tomorrow, and even if that moment were remembered, it would never again seem as real as it did at that moment; it would always seem as if it were an illusion. And yet it is that moment which Marlow has tried to recount for his listeners. Marlow's moment of insight into Jim's destiny was shattered by Cornelius, who bolted out of the undergrowth, "vermin-like" and running toward Marlow, whining and cringing, trying to confide in him. Usually, Marlow says, he was so repulsed by the creature that a quick glance at him had always caused him to slink away. But that night, I let him capture me without even a show of resistance." Marlow says that he felt "doomed to be the recipient of confidences." Cornelius came immediately to the point. He wanted Marlow to talk to Jim and ask him for "some money in exchange for the girl." He had raised her, and she had been someone else's child. Now he was an old man, and he felt that a "suitable present" should be given to him when Jim decided to "go home." Marlow insisted that Jim was not preparing to leave; in fact, he said "the time will never come." Jim would never go home, Marlow emphasized. Cornelius nearly went into convulsions when he heard this statement. He cried out that he would be "trampled" by Jim until the day he died. He leaned his head against the fence and began uttering threats and blasphemies in Portuguese, mingled with groans and cries of sickness. It was, says Marlow, "an inexpressibly grotesque and vile performance," and so he departed. Next morning, as Marlow was leaving, he watched the houses of Patusan disappearing behind him. The trees and the river and the people all disappeared, but their clear-cut, indelible, unchanging, unfaded images were stamped upon Marlow's memory. All of these memories, especially those of the people, are suspended now-flat replicas filed away forever, unchanging. All unchanging, that is, except Marlow's memory of Jim. Marlow can't be certain of his final image of Jim. "No magician's wand can immobilize him under my eyes," he says, because "he is one of us." Jim accompanied Marlow on the first stage of his journey back to "the real world," and after they landed on a bit of white beach, Jim noticed a fisherman signaling to him and he knew what must be done. Tomorrow, he told Marlow, he would meet with Rajah Allang and discuss the fisherman's problems concerning some turtle eggs, no doubt weighing the fisherman's claim against those of Rajah Allang's men. As Jim said, "the old rip can't get it into his head that . . ." and Marlow finished Jim's sentence: that you have changed all that." The two men shook hands then, and Marlow told Jim that he would be returning to England in a year or so, and Jim asked Marlow to "Tell them and then he stopped. "Tell them nothing," he said finally. Marlow clamored on board his schooner. The sun had set, and the western horizon was a blaze of gold and crimson. He saw two half-naked fishermen talking to their "white lord." As Marlow sailed away, the white figure of Jim, pasted against the stillness of the sea, became only a tiny white speck. And, suddenly, Marlow says, "I lost him. . . ." | These two chapters end Marlow's direct association with Lord Jim. The rest of Jim's story will be given to us by reports, documents, and letters concerning Jim, along with Jewel's and Tamb' Itam's reports of Jim. We hear again that Jewel refuses to believe that Jim is not "good enough" for the outside world, and Marlow's attempts to convince her of Jim's loyalty by his explanations "only succeeded in adding to her anguish the hint of some mysterious collusion, of an inexplicable and incomprehensible conspiracy to keep her forever in the dark." Marlow was ready to leave because he was now convinced that his earlier views of Jim were the correct ones -- that is, Jim had indeed proved to all concerned that "he was one of us," and now Marlow saw that all of his efforts on Jim's behalf and all of his trust in Jim's essential goodness had been fully justified; thus, Marlow was now content to leave Jim to his own destiny, knowing full well that they would never meet again -- that is, that he would never return to Patusan and that Jim would never leave Patusan. These chapters also present more of Cornelius, a villainous man whom Marlow completely misreads. Marlow considers Cornelius to be such a repulsive, spiteful, cringing, insidious insect that he, Cornelius, is not really dangerous. Marlow, in essence, dismisses this obnoxious creature as being "too insignificant to be dangerous." In terms of Cornelius' treachery with "Gentleman Brown" later, we realize that Marlow is wrong in his interpretation of Comelius' "insignificance." | 713 | 260 | [
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28,054 | false | sparknotes | all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/96.txt | finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_15_part_3.txt | The Brothers Karamazov.epilogue.chapter 3 | chapter 3 | null | {"name": "Chapter 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section16/", "summary": "Ilyushechka's Funeral. The Speech at the Stone Ilyusha is dead, and Alyosha must now attend his funeral. He discusses Dmitri's case with Kolya and some of Ilyusha's other friends. He asks them earnestly always to hang on to the feeling of closeness, love, and companionship that they now share. The crowd of schoolboys cheers Alyosha adoringly.", "analysis": "Epilogue, Chapters 1-3 The epilogue of the novel discusses the redemption of the main characters. The first part of the novel's short epilogue completes the redemption of Katerina, which begins at the trial when she cries out to save Ivan. In bringing Ivan back to her house to recover from his illness, Katerina has finally become capable of seeking her own happiness in the world honestly and without choosing to suffer merely to point out the guilt of those who make her suffer. She and Dmitri are now fully capable of forgiving one another because they have both been purged of the sins that have plagued them for so long. Though Dmitri has not lost the desire to repent for his sins through suffering--a desire very different from Katerina's urge to suffer in order to draw attention to the sins of others--he is willing to accept the escape plan because he has come to the mature realization that there is more to goodness and faith than suffering. His spirit will be stronger if he can be with Grushenka. Grushenka's inability to forgive Katerina shows that her own redemption is incomplete. She is still proud, but, as Alyosha realizes when he scolds Dmitri for criticizing her, she is on the right path. The novel ends, paradoxically, on notes of warmth, hope, and optimism in the middle of a funeral. Alyosha's words to the schoolboys again emphasize his influence with children and the promise that influence holds for the future. As in Book X, Alyosha emerges as a natural teacher, capable of continuing Zosima's legacy of faith, love, and forgiveness throughout his life. The novel's last words are very hopeful: Kolya leads the schoolboys in chanting, \"Hurrah for Karamazov. The use of the family surname is significant here, since throughout the novel, characters have discussed \"the Karamazov quality\" and \"the Karamazov legacy\" as being defined by Fyodor Pavlovich's violence, uncontrolled passion, and lust. The final words of the novel imply that the Karamazov legacy has changed: it is no longer defined by Fyodor Pavlovich, but by Alyosha. The Karamazov family has been redeemed"} | 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.
| 3,885 | Chapter 3 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section16/ | Ilyushechka's Funeral. The Speech at the Stone Ilyusha is dead, and Alyosha must now attend his funeral. He discusses Dmitri's case with Kolya and some of Ilyusha's other friends. He asks them earnestly always to hang on to the feeling of closeness, love, and companionship that they now share. The crowd of schoolboys cheers Alyosha adoringly. | Epilogue, Chapters 1-3 The epilogue of the novel discusses the redemption of the main characters. The first part of the novel's short epilogue completes the redemption of Katerina, which begins at the trial when she cries out to save Ivan. In bringing Ivan back to her house to recover from his illness, Katerina has finally become capable of seeking her own happiness in the world honestly and without choosing to suffer merely to point out the guilt of those who make her suffer. She and Dmitri are now fully capable of forgiving one another because they have both been purged of the sins that have plagued them for so long. Though Dmitri has not lost the desire to repent for his sins through suffering--a desire very different from Katerina's urge to suffer in order to draw attention to the sins of others--he is willing to accept the escape plan because he has come to the mature realization that there is more to goodness and faith than suffering. His spirit will be stronger if he can be with Grushenka. Grushenka's inability to forgive Katerina shows that her own redemption is incomplete. She is still proud, but, as Alyosha realizes when he scolds Dmitri for criticizing her, she is on the right path. The novel ends, paradoxically, on notes of warmth, hope, and optimism in the middle of a funeral. Alyosha's words to the schoolboys again emphasize his influence with children and the promise that influence holds for the future. As in Book X, Alyosha emerges as a natural teacher, capable of continuing Zosima's legacy of faith, love, and forgiveness throughout his life. The novel's last words are very hopeful: Kolya leads the schoolboys in chanting, "Hurrah for Karamazov. The use of the family surname is significant here, since throughout the novel, characters have discussed "the Karamazov quality" and "the Karamazov legacy" as being defined by Fyodor Pavlovich's violence, uncontrolled passion, and lust. The final words of the novel imply that the Karamazov legacy has changed: it is no longer defined by Fyodor Pavlovich, but by Alyosha. The Karamazov family has been redeemed | 57 | 351 | [
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110 | true | cliffnotes | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/chapters_42_to_44.txt | finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_10_part_0.txt | Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapters 42-44 | chapters 42-44 | null | {"name": "Chapters 42-44", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219151046/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary-and-analysis/phase-the-fifth-the-woman-pays-chapters-4244", "summary": "To ward off the men who might find her attractive, Tess puts on a handkerchief as though she has a toothache and clips her eyebrows. She arrives at Flintcomb-Ash to find Marian already at work. Marian calls the farm a \"starve-acre place,\" not like the lush dairy at Talbothays. The work is digging rutabagas, harvesting corn, and making the thatch for roofs. It is indeed difficult work for men and women alike. Tess agrees to work until April 6, also know as \"Old Lady-Day.\" The two friends work in the rain and snow at the farm. Marian writes to Izz Huett, who later comes to Flintcomb-Ash for work as well. One day, when it is too cold to dig swedes, the ladies are sent by the farmer to make roof thatching in a nearby farm. Also working there are Dark Car and the Queen of Diamonds, both former employees of the d'Urbervilles at The Slopes. These \"two Amazionian sisters\" do not remember Tess from their previous encounter. Tess meets her employer, the farmer, the same man who had insulted her in town in Chapter 33 and who appears again in a second chance encounter in Chapter 41. He is mean and vengeful toward Tess, telling her, \"But we'll see which is master here.\" He urges the girls to work harder, and Tess stays behind to finish her work with Izz and Marian. Tess is overcome by exhaustion and faints. As she recovers on a haystack, she overhears Izz tell the story of Angel asking her to accompany him to Brazil. Tess decides to contact Angel's parents to ask about Angel. The next Sunday, Tess sets out for Emminster, a 30-mile roundtrip walk for her. A year has passed since her marriage to Angel, and she is determined to make her plight known to her in-laws and to see if they have heard from Angel. She removes her walking boots, stashes them in a nearby bush and puts on her dress boots to impress her in-laws. Angel's brothers discover Tess' boots, not knowing she is nearby, and takes them back to the Clare's vicarage. Tess loses her nerve to see the Clares and returns to Flintcomb-Ash dejected and depressed. On the way back to the farm, Tess encounters Alec d'Urberville, now an evangelical \"fire and brimstone\" street preacher.", "analysis": "The contrast between Flintcomb-Ash and Talbothays is clear. Flintcomb-Ash is described as \"sublime in its dreariness.\" Conversely, Talbothays is portrayed as ideal and beautiful, \"the verdant plain so well watered by the river Var or Froom.\" Flintcomb has Farmer Groby, a mean-spirited man who demands that his workers work even harder. Mr. Crick gets results from his workers with humor and aplomb, even regaling them with his humorous tales, as evidenced by the William Dewy tale from Chapter 17 and the Jack Dollop tales from Chapters 21 and 29. The indifference that Angel's brothers show towards Tess is not altogether surprising based on what we already know of them. However, it is Tess' first encounter with her brothers-in-law, and she hears for herself their contempt for her marriage to Angel and for Angel himself -- \"His ill-considered marriage seems to have completed that estrangement from me which was begun by his extraordinary opinions.\" The brothers, both ministers themselves, have little regard for those in desperate situations, reserving their charity to those they deem worthy to receive it. Mercy Chant, whose name implies sympathy and kindness, adds her own insensitive opinion when Tess' boots are discovered in some bushes, viewing them as belonging to \"ome impostor who wished to come into town barefoot, perhaps, and so excite our sympathies.\" Thus, all three -- Mercy, Cuthbert, and Felix -- display a lack of compassion that Tess could use at that moment. Hardy further emphasizes the uncharitable nature of these three in his descriptions: Hardy describes the brothers as \"starched and ironed\"; he describes Mercy as \"a trifle guindee and prudish.\" The word guindee in French means \"stiff\" or \"formal.\" This episode recalls earlier episodes in which action or inaction rest on a single turn of fate. By encountering her brothers-in-law first, Tess is exposed to unkind and uncharitable notions about herself and her marriage to Angel. Hardy says \"it was somewhat unfortunate that she had encountered the sons and not the father, who, despite his narrowness, was far less starched and ironed than they, and had to the full the gift of charity.\" If Tess had met her father and mother-in-law first, the outcome might have been different. In these chapters, Tess also is reunited with Alec d'Urberville, who is in the guise of a street corner minister. Alec claims to have repented of his former sins, recanting his past excesses, taking up the teachings of Reverend Clare and the lessons of St. Paul. Nevertheless, as is made clear in the following chapters, Alec is a hollow cleric. Even though he himself condemns the faithless in his sermons, he will leave his ministry to pursue Tess. Glossary mommet a term of abuse or contempt. \"dust and ashes\" Job 42:6. Cybele the Many-breasted Phrygian fertility goddess who, in the form of a mother with many breasts, symbolizes nature. \"clipsed or colled\" embraced. swede-hacking a swede is a Swedish turnip, or rutabaga. Old Lady Day April 6, date used to set the beginning or ending of employment. copy-holders people who hold land by copyhold. wroppers wrappers. \"early Italian conception of the two Marys\"` because of their weepings and pensive looks, they resemble painted representations from the Renaissance of Mary, the mother of Christ, and Mary Magdalen after the death of Jesus. \"like the moves of a chess player\" death is sometimes represented as a chess player. reed-drawing preparing straw to be used as thatching material. \"white pillar of a cloud\" from Exodus 13:21. percipience a perceiving, esp. keenly or readily. premonitory giving previous warning or notice. thirtover thwart-over, meaning perverse. guindee stiff, stilted, formal . prudish like or characteristic of a prude; too modest or proper. impressibility the state of being impressed or impressionable. contravene to go against; oppose; conflict with; violate; to disagree with in argument; contradict. habiliments clothing; dress; attire. supervened came or happened as something extraneous or unexpected; to take place; ensued. \"Publicans and Sinners . . . Scribes and Pharisees\" they were biased in favor of those who had fallen. publican in Britain, any owner or proprietor of a pub. Antinomian a believer in the Christian doctrine that faith alone, not obedience to the moral law, is necessary for salvation. \"O foolish Galatians . . . \" from Galatians 3:1."} |
It was now broad day, and she started again, emerging cautiously upon
the highway. But there was no need for caution; not a soul was at
hand, and Tess went onward with fortitude, her recollection of the
birds' silent endurance of their night of agony impressing upon her
the relativity of sorrows and the tolerable nature of her own, if she
could once rise high enough to despise opinion. But that she could
not do so long as it was held by Clare.
She reached Chalk-Newton, and breakfasted at an inn, where several
young men were troublesomely complimentary to her good looks.
Somehow she felt hopeful, for was it not possible that her husband
also might say these same things to her even yet? She was bound to
take care of herself on the chance of it, and keep off these casual
lovers. To this end Tess resolved to run no further risks from her
appearance. As soon as she got out of the village she entered a
thicket and took from her basket one of the oldest field-gowns, which
she had never put on even at the dairy--never since she had worked
among the stubble at Marlott. She also, by a felicitous thought,
took a handkerchief from her bundle and tied it round her face under
her bonnet, covering her chin and half her cheeks and temples, as if
she were suffering from toothache. Then with her little scissors,
by the aid of a pocket looking-glass, she mercilessly nipped her
eyebrows off, and thus insured against aggressive admiration, she
went on her uneven way.
"What a mommet of a maid!" said the next man who met her to a
companion.
Tears came into her eyes for very pity of herself as she heard him.
"But I don't care!" she said. "O no--I don't care! I'll always be
ugly now, because Angel is not here, and I have nobody to take care
of me. My husband that was is gone away, and never will love me any
more; but I love him just the same, and hate all other men, and like
to make 'em think scornfully of me!"
Thus Tess walks on; a figure which is part of the landscape; a
fieldwoman pure and simple, in winter guise; a gray serge cape, a
red woollen cravat, a stuff skirt covered by a whitey-brown rough
wrapper, and buff-leather gloves. Every thread of that old attire
has become faded and thin under the stroke of raindrops, the burn of
sunbeams, and the stress of winds. There is no sign of young passion
in her now--
The maiden's mouth is cold
. . .
Fold over simple fold
Binding her head.
Inside this exterior, over which the eye might have roved as over a
thing scarcely percipient, almost inorganic, there was the record of
a pulsing life which had learnt too well, for its years, of the dust
and ashes of things, of the cruelty of lust and the fragility of
love.
Next day the weather was bad, but she trudged on, the honesty,
directness, and impartiality of elemental enmity disconcerting her
but little. Her object being a winter's occupation and a winter's
home, there was no time to lose. Her experience of short hirings
had been such that she was determined to accept no more.
Thus she went forward from farm to farm in the direction of the place
whence Marian had written to her, which she determined to make use of
as a last shift only, its rumoured stringencies being the reverse of
tempting. First she inquired for the lighter kinds of employment,
and, as acceptance in any variety of these grew hopeless, applied
next for the less light, till, beginning with the dairy and poultry
tendance that she liked best, she ended with the heavy and course
pursuits which she liked least--work on arable land: work of such
roughness, indeed, as she would never have deliberately voluteered
for.
Towards the second evening she reached the irregular chalk table-land
or plateau, bosomed with semi-globular tumuli--as if Cybele the
Many-breasted were supinely extended there--which stretched between
the valley of her birth and the valley of her love.
Here the air was dry and cold, and the long cart-roads were blown
white and dusty within a few hours after rain. There were few trees,
or none, those that would have grown in the hedges being mercilessly
plashed down with the quickset by the tenant-farmers, the natural
enemies of tree, bush, and brake. In the middle distance ahead of
her she could see the summits of Bulbarrow and of Nettlecombe Tout,
and they seemed friendly. They had a low and unassuming aspect from
this upland, though as approached on the other side from Blackmoor
in her childhood they were as lofty bastions against the sky.
Southerly, at many miles' distance, and over the hills and ridges
coastward, she could discern a surface like polished steel: it was
the English Channel at a point far out towards France.
Before her, in a slight depression, were the remains of a village.
She had, in fact, reached Flintcomb-Ash, the place of Marian's
sojourn. There seemed to be no help for it; hither she was doomed to
come. The stubborn soil around her showed plainly enough that the
kind of labour in demand here was of the roughest kind; but it was
time to rest from searching, and she resolved to stay, particularly
as it began to rain. At the entrance to the village was a cottage
whose gable jutted into the road, and before applying for a lodging
she stood under its shelter, and watched the evening close in.
"Who would think I was Mrs Angel Clare!" she said.
The wall felt warm to her back and shoulders, and she found that
immediately within the gable was the cottage fireplace, the heat of
which came through the bricks. She warmed her hands upon them, and
also put her cheek--red and moist with the drizzle--against their
comforting surface. The wall seemed to be the only friend she had.
She had so little wish to leave it that she could have stayed there
all night.
Tess could hear the occupants of the cottage--gathered together after
their day's labour--talking to each other within, and the rattle of
their supper-plates was also audible. But in the village-street she
had seen no soul as yet. The solitude was at last broken by the
approach of one feminine figure, who, though the evening was cold,
wore the print gown and the tilt-bonnet of summer time. Tess
instinctively thought it might be Marian, and when she came near
enough to be distinguishable in the gloom, surely enough it was
she. Marian was even stouter and redder in the face than formerly,
and decidedly shabbier in attire. At any previous period of her
existence Tess would hardly have cared to renew the acquaintance in
such conditions; but her loneliness was excessive, and she responded
readily to Marian's greeting.
Marian was quite respectful in her inquiries, but seemed much moved
by the fact that Tess should still continue in no better condition
than at first; though she had dimly heard of the separation.
"Tess--Mrs Clare--the dear wife of dear he! And is it really so bad
as this, my child? Why is your cwomely face tied up in such a way?
Anybody been beating 'ee? Not HE?"
"No, no, no! I merely did it not to be clipsed or colled, Marian."
She pulled off in disgust a bandage which could suggest such wild
thoughts.
"And you've got no collar on" (Tess had been accustomed to wear a
little white collar at the dairy).
"I know it, Marian."
"You've lost it travelling."
"I've not lost it. The truth is, I don't care anything about my
looks; and so I didn't put it on."
"And you don't wear your wedding-ring?"
"Yes, I do; but not in public. I wear it round my neck on a ribbon.
I don't wish people to think who I am by marriage, or that I am
married at all; it would be so awkward while I lead my present life."
Marian paused.
"But you BE a gentleman's wife; and it seems hardly fair that you
should live like this!"
"O yes it is, quite fair; though I am very unhappy."
"Well, well. HE married you--and you can be unhappy!"
"Wives are unhappy sometimes; from no fault of their husbands--from
their own."
"You've no faults, deary; that I'm sure of. And he's none. So it
must be something outside ye both."
"Marian, dear Marian, will you do me a good turn without asking
questions? My husband has gone abroad, and somehow I have overrun my
allowance, so that I have to fall back upon my old work for a time.
Do not call me Mrs Clare, but Tess, as before. Do they want a hand
here?"
"O yes; they'll take one always, because few care to come. 'Tis a
starve-acre place. Corn and swedes are all they grow. Though I be
here myself, I feel 'tis a pity for such as you to come."
"But you used to be as good a dairywoman as I."
"Yes; but I've got out o' that since I took to drink. Lord, that's
the only comfort I've got now! If you engage, you'll be set
swede-hacking. That's what I be doing; but you won't like it."
"O--anything! Will you speak for me?"
"You will do better by speaking for yourself."
"Very well. Now, Marian, remember--nothing about HIM if I get the
place. I don't wish to bring his name down to the dirt."
Marian, who was really a trustworthy girl though of coarser grain
than Tess, promised anything she asked.
"This is pay-night," she said, "and if you were to come with me you
would know at once. I be real sorry that you are not happy; but 'tis
because he's away, I know. You couldn't be unhappy if he were here,
even if he gie'd ye no money--even if he used you like a drudge."
"That's true; I could not!"
They walked on together and soon reached the farmhouse, which was
almost sublime in its dreariness. There was not a tree within sight;
there was not, at this season, a green pasture--nothing but fallow
and turnips everywhere, in large fields divided by hedges plashed to
unrelieved levels.
Tess waited outside the door of the farmhouse till the group of
workfolk had received their wages, and then Marian introduced her.
The farmer himself, it appeared, was not at home, but his wife, who
represented him this evening, made no objection to hiring Tess, on
her agreeing to remain till Old Lady-Day. Female field-labour was
seldom offered now, and its cheapness made it profitable for tasks
which women could perform as readily as men.
Having signed the agreement, there was nothing more for Tess to do
at present than to get a lodging, and she found one in the house at
whose gable-wall she had warmed herself. It was a poor subsistence
that she had ensured, but it would afford a shelter for the winter
at any rate.
That night she wrote to inform her parents of her new address, in
case a letter should arrive at Marlott from her husband. But she
did not tell them of the sorriness of her situation: it might have
brought reproach upon him.
There was no exaggeration in Marian's definition of Flintcomb-Ash
farm as a starve-acre place. The single fat thing on the soil was
Marian herself; and she was an importation. Of the three classes of
village, the village cared for by its lord, the village cared for by
itself, and the village uncared for either by itself or by its lord
(in other words, the village of a resident squires's tenantry, the
village of free- or copy-holders, and the absentee-owner's village,
farmed with the land) this place, Flintcomb-Ash, was the third.
But Tess set to work. Patience, that blending of moral courage with
physical timidity, was now no longer a minor feature in Mrs Angel
Clare; and it sustained her.
The swede-field in which she and her companion were set hacking was
a stretch of a hundred odd acres in one patch, on the highest ground
of the farm, rising above stony lanchets or lynchets--the outcrop of
siliceous veins in the chalk formation, composed of myriads of loose
white flints in bulbous, cusped, and phallic shapes. The upper half
of each turnip had been eaten off by the live-stock, and it was the
business of the two women to grub up the lower or earthy half of the
root with a hooked fork called a hacker, that it might be eaten also.
Every leaf of the vegetable having already been consumed, the whole
field was in colour a desolate drab; it was a complexion without
features, as if a face, from chin to brow, should be only an expanse
of skin. The sky wore, in another colour, the same likeness; a white
vacuity of countenance with the lineaments gone. So these two upper
and nether visages confronted each other all day long, the white face
looking down on the brown face, and the brown face looking up at the
white face, without anything standing between them but the two girls
crawling over the surface of the former like flies.
Nobody came near them, and their movements showed a mechanical
regularity; their forms standing enshrouded in Hessian "wroppers"--
sleeved brown pinafores, tied behind to the bottom, to keep their
gowns from blowing about--scant skirts revealing boots that reached
high up the ankles, and yellow sheepskin gloves with gauntlets. The
pensive character which the curtained hood lent to their bent heads
would have reminded the observer of some early Italian conception of
the two Marys.
They worked on hour after hour, unconscious of the forlorn aspect
they bore in the landscape, not thinking of the justice or injustice
of their lot. Even in such a position as theirs it was possible
to exist in a dream. In the afternoon the rain came on again, and
Marian said that they need not work any more. But if they did not
work they would not be paid; so they worked on. It was so high a
situation, this field, that the rain had no occasion to fall, but
raced along horizontally upon the yelling wind, sticking into them
like glass splinters till they were wet through. Tess had not
known till now what was really meant by that. There are degrees of
dampness, and a very little is called being wet through in common
talk. But to stand working slowly in a field, and feel the creep of
rain-water, first in legs and shoulders, then on hips and head, then
at back, front, and sides, and yet to work on till the leaden light
diminishes and marks that the sun is down, demands a distinct modicum
of stoicism, even of valour.
Yet they did not feel the wetness so much as might be supposed. They
were both young, and they were talking of the time when they lived
and loved together at Talbothays Dairy, that happy green tract of
land where summer had been liberal in her gifts; in substance to
all, emotionally to these. Tess would fain not have conversed with
Marian of the man who was legally, if not actually, her husband;
but the irresistible fascination of the subject betrayed her into
reciprocating Marian's remarks. And thus, as has been said, though
the damp curtains of their bonnets flapped smartly into their faces,
and their wrappers clung about them to wearisomeness, they lived all
this afternoon in memories of green, sunny, romantic Talbothays.
"You can see a gleam of a hill within a few miles o' Froom Valley
from here when 'tis fine," said Marian.
"Ah! Can you?" said Tess, awake to the new value of this locality.
So the two forces were at work here as everywhere, the inherent will
to enjoy, and the circumstantial will against enjoyment. Marian's
will had a method of assisting itself by taking from her pocket as
the afternoon wore on a pint bottle corked with white rag, from which
she invited Tess to drink. Tess's unassisted power of dreaming,
however, being enough for her sublimation at present, she declined
except the merest sip, and then Marian took a pull from the spirits.
"I've got used to it," she said, "and can't leave it off now. 'Tis
my only comfort--You see I lost him: you didn't; and you can do
without it perhaps."
Tess thought her loss as great as Marian's, but upheld by the dignity
of being Angel's wife, in the letter at least, she accepted Marian's
differentiation.
Amid this scene Tess slaved in the morning frosts and in
the afternoon rains. When it was not swede-grubbing it was
swede-trimming, in which process they sliced off the earth and the
fibres with a bill-hook before storing the roots for future use. At
this occupation they could shelter themselves by a thatched hurdle if
it rained; but if it was frosty even their thick leather gloves could
not prevent the frozen masses they handled from biting their fingers.
Still Tess hoped. She had a conviction that sooner or later the
magnanimity which she persisted in reckoning as a chief ingredient
of Clare's character would lead him to rejoin her.
Marian, primed to a humorous mood, would discover the queer-shaped
flints aforesaid, and shriek with laughter, Tess remaining severely
obtuse. They often looked across the country to where the Var or
Froom was know to stretch, even though they might not be able to see
it; and, fixing their eyes on the cloaking gray mist, imagined the
old times they had spent out there.
"Ah," said Marian, "how I should like another or two of our old set
to come here! Then we could bring up Talbothays every day here
afield, and talk of he, and of what nice times we had there, and o'
the old things we used to know, and make it all come back a'most, in
seeming!" Marian's eyes softened, and her voice grew vague as the
visions returned. "I'll write to Izz Huett," she said. "She's
biding at home doing nothing now, I know, and I'll tell her we be
here, and ask her to come; and perhaps Retty is well enough now."
Tess had nothing to say against the proposal, and the next she heard
of this plan for importing old Talbothays' joys was two or three days
later, when Marian informed her that Izz had replied to her inquiry,
and had promised to come if she could.
There had not been such a winter for years. It came on in stealthy
and measured glides, like the moves of a chess-player. One morning
the few lonely trees and the thorns of the hedgerows appeared as if
they had put off a vegetable for an animal integument. Every twig
was covered with a white nap as of fur grown from the rind during the
night, giving it four times its usual stoutness; the whole bush or
tree forming a staring sketch in white lines on the mournful gray
of the sky and horizon. Cobwebs revealed their presence on sheds
and walls where none had ever been observed till brought out into
visibility by the crystallizing atmosphere, hanging like loops of
white worsted from salient points of the out-houses, posts, and
gates.
After this season of congealed dampness came a spell of dry frost,
when strange birds from behind the North Pole began to arrive
silently on the upland of Flintcomb-Ash; gaunt spectral creatures
with tragical eyes--eyes which had witnessed scenes of cataclysmal
horror in inaccessible polar regions of a magnitude such as no human
being had ever conceived, in curdling temperatures that no man could
endure; which had beheld the crash of icebergs and the slide of
snow-hills by the shooting light of the Aurora; been half blinded
by the whirl of colossal storms and terraqueous distortions; and
retained the expression of feature that such scenes had engendered.
These nameless birds came quite near to Tess and Marian, but of
all they had seen which humanity would never see, they brought no
account. The traveller's ambition to tell was not theirs, and, with
dumb impassivity, they dismissed experiences which they did not
value for the immediate incidents of this homely upland--the trivial
movements of the two girls in disturbing the clods with their hackers
so as to uncover something or other that these visitants relished as
food.
Then one day a peculiar quality invaded the air of this open country.
There came a moisture which was not of rain, and a cold which was not
of frost. It chilled the eyeballs of the twain, made their brows
ache, penetrated to their skeletons, affecting the surface of the
body less than its core. They knew that it meant snow, and in the
night the snow came. Tess, who continued to live at the cottage with
the warm gable that cheered any lonely pedestrian who paused beside
it, awoke in the night, and heard above the thatch noises which
seemed to signify that the roof had turned itself into a gymnasium
of all the winds. When she lit her lamp to get up in the morning
she found that the snow had blown through a chink in the casement,
forming a white cone of the finest powder against the inside, and had
also come down the chimney, so that it lay sole-deep upon the floor,
on which her shoes left tracks when she moved about. Without, the
storm drove so fast as to create a snow-mist in the kitchen; but as
yet it was too dark out-of-doors to see anything.
Tess knew that it was impossible to go on with the swedes; and by
the time she had finished breakfast beside the solitary little lamp,
Marian arrived to tell her that they were to join the rest of the
women at reed-drawing in the barn till the weather changed. As soon,
therefore, as the uniform cloak of darkness without began to turn
to a disordered medley of grays, they blew out the lamp, wrapped
themselves up in their thickest pinners, tied their woollen cravats
round their necks and across their chests, and started for the barn.
The snow had followed the birds from the polar basin as a white
pillar of a cloud, and individual flakes could not be seen. The
blast smelt of icebergs, arctic seas, whales, and white bears,
carrying the snow so that it licked the land but did not deepen on
it. They trudged onwards with slanted bodies through the flossy
fields, keeping as well as they could in the shelter of hedges,
which, however, acted as strainers rather than screens. The air,
afflicted to pallor with the hoary multitudes that infested it,
twisted and spun them eccentrically, suggesting an achromatic chaos
of things. But both the young women were fairly cheerful; such
weather on a dry upland is not in itself dispiriting.
"Ha-ha! the cunning northern birds knew this was coming," said
Marian. "Depend upon't, they keep just in front o't all the way from
the North Star. Your husband, my dear, is, I make no doubt, having
scorching weather all this time. Lord, if he could only see his
pretty wife now! Not that this weather hurts your beauty at all--in
fact, it rather does it good."
"You mustn't talk about him to me, Marian," said Tess severely.
"Well, but--surely you care for'n! Do you?"
Instead of answering, Tess, with tears in her eyes, impulsively faced
in the direction in which she imagined South America to lie, and,
putting up her lips, blew out a passionate kiss upon the snowy wind.
"Well, well, I know you do. But 'pon my body, it is a rum life for
a married couple! There--I won't say another word! Well, as for
the weather, it won't hurt us in the wheat-barn; but reed-drawing is
fearful hard work--worse than swede-hacking. I can stand it because
I'm stout; but you be slimmer than I. I can't think why maister
should have set 'ee at it."
They reached the wheat-barn and entered it. One end of the long
structure was full of corn; the middle was where the reed-drawing was
carried on, and there had already been placed in the reed-press the
evening before as many sheaves of wheat as would be sufficient for
the women to draw from during the day.
"Why, here's Izz!" said Marian.
Izz it was, and she came forward. She had walked all the way from
her mother's home on the previous afternoon, and, not deeming the
distance so great, had been belated, arriving, however, just before
the snow began, and sleeping at the alehouse. The farmer had agreed
with her mother at market to take her on if she came to-day, and she
had been afraid to disappoint him by delay.
In addition to Tess, Marian, and Izz, there were two women from a
neighbouring village; two Amazonian sisters, whom Tess with a start
remembered as Dark Car, the Queen of Spades, and her junior, the
Queen of Diamonds--those who had tried to fight with her in the
midnight quarrel at Trantridge. They showed no recognition of her,
and possibly had none, for they had been under the influence of
liquor on that occasion, and were only temporary sojourners there
as here. They did all kinds of men's work by preference, including
well-sinking, hedging, ditching, and excavating, without any sense of
fatigue. Noted reed-drawers were they too, and looked round upon the
other three with some superciliousness.
Putting on their gloves, all set to work in a row in front of the
press, an erection formed of two posts connected by a cross-beam,
under which the sheaves to be drawn from were laid ears outward, the
beam being pegged down by pins in the uprights, and lowered as the
sheaves diminished.
The day hardened in colour, the light coming in at the barndoors
upwards from the snow instead of downwards from the sky. The girls
pulled handful after handful from the press; but by reason of the
presence of the strange women, who were recounting scandals, Marian
and Izz could not at first talk of old times as they wished to do.
Presently they heard the muffled tread of a horse, and the farmer
rode up to the barndoor. When he had dismounted he came close to
Tess, and remained looking musingly at the side of her face. She had
not turned at first, but his fixed attitude led her to look round,
when she perceived that her employer was the native of Trantridge
from whom she had taken flight on the high-road because of his
allusion to her history.
He waited till she had carried the drawn bundles to the pile outside,
when he said, "So you be the young woman who took my civility in such
ill part? Be drowned if I didn't think you might be as soon as I
heard of your being hired! Well, you thought you had got the better
of me the first time at the inn with your fancy-man, and the second
time on the road, when you bolted; but now I think I've got the
better you." He concluded with a hard laugh.
Tess, between the Amazons and the farmer, like a bird caught in a
clap-net, returned no answer, continuing to pull the straw. She
could read character sufficiently well to know by this time that she
had nothing to fear from her employer's gallantry; it was rather the
tyranny induced by his mortification at Clare's treatment of him.
Upon the whole she preferred that sentiment in man and felt brave
enough to endure it.
"You thought I was in love with 'ee I suppose? Some women are such
fools, to take every look as serious earnest. But there's nothing
like a winter afield for taking that nonsense out o' young wenches'
heads; and you've signed and agreed till Lady-Day. Now, are you
going to beg my pardon?"
"I think you ought to beg mine."
"Very well--as you like. But we'll see which is master here. Be
they all the sheaves you've done to-day?"
"Yes, sir."
"'Tis a very poor show. Just see what they've done over there"
(pointing to the two stalwart women). "The rest, too, have done
better than you."
"They've all practised it before, and I have not. And I thought it
made no difference to you as it is task work, and we are only paid
for what we do."
"Oh, but it does. I want the barn cleared."
"I am going to work all the afternoon instead of leaving at two as
the others will do."
He looked sullenly at her and went away. Tess felt that she could
not have come to a much worse place; but anything was better than
gallantry. When two o'clock arrived the professional reed-drawers
tossed off the last half-pint in their flagon, put down their hooks,
tied their last sheaves, and went away. Marian and Izz would have
done likewise, but on hearing that Tess meant to stay, to make up
by longer hours for her lack of skill, they would not leave her.
Looking out at the snow, which still fell, Marian exclaimed, "Now,
we've got it all to ourselves." And so at last the conversation
turned to their old experiences at the dairy; and, of course, the
incidents of their affection for Angel Clare.
"Izz and Marian," said Mrs Angel Clare, with a dignity which was
extremely touching, seeing how very little of a wife she was: "I
can't join in talk with you now, as I used to do, about Mr Clare; you
will see that I cannot; because, although he is gone away from me for
the present, he is my husband."
Izz was by nature the sauciest and most caustic of all the four girls
who had loved Clare. "He was a very splendid lover, no doubt," she
said; "but I don't think he is a too fond husband to go away from you
so soon."
"He had to go--he was obliged to go, to see about the land over
there!" pleaded Tess.
"He might have tided 'ee over the winter."
"Ah--that's owing to an accident--a misunderstanding; and we won't
argue it," Tess answered, with tearfulness in her words. "Perhaps
there's a good deal to be said for him! He did not go away, like
some husbands, without telling me; and I can always find out where
he is."
After this they continued for some long time in a reverie, as they
went on seizing the ears of corn, drawing out the straw, gathering
it under their arms, and cutting off the ears with their bill-hooks,
nothing sounding in the barn but the swish of the straw and the
crunch of the hook. Then Tess suddenly flagged, and sank down upon
the heap of wheat-ears at her feet.
"I knew you wouldn't be able to stand it!" cried Marian. "It wants
harder flesh than yours for this work."
Just then the farmer entered. "Oh, that's how you get on when I am
away," he said to her.
"But it is my own loss," she pleaded. "Not yours."
"I want it finished," he said doggedly, as he crossed the barn and
went out at the other door.
"Don't 'ee mind him, there's a dear," said Marian. "I've worked here
before. Now you go and lie down there, and Izz and I will make up
your number."
"I don't like to let you do that. I'm taller than you, too."
However, she was so overcome that she consented to lie down awhile,
and reclined on a heap of pull-tails--the refuse after the straight
straw had been drawn--thrown up at the further side of the barn. Her
succumbing had been as largely owning to agitation at the re-opening
the subject of her separation from her husband as to the hard work.
She lay in a state of percipience without volition, and the rustle of
the straw and the cutting of the ears by the others had the weight of
bodily touches.
She could hear from her corner, in addition to these noises, the
murmur of their voices. She felt certain that they were continuing
the subject already broached, but their voices were so low that she
could not catch the words. At last Tess grew more and more anxious
to know what they were saying, and, persuading herself that she felt
better, she got up and resumed work.
Then Izz Huett broke down. She had walked more than a dozen miles
the previous evening, had gone to bed at midnight, and had risen
again at five o'clock. Marian alone, thanks to her bottle of liquor
and her stoutness of build, stood the strain upon back and arms
without suffering. Tess urged Izz to leave off, agreeing, as she
felt better, to finish the day without her, and make equal division
of the number of sheaves.
Izz accepted the offer gratefully, and disappeared through the great
door into the snowy track to her lodging. Marian, as was the case
every afternoon at this time on account of the bottle, began to feel
in a romantic vein.
"I should not have thought it of him--never!" she said in a dreamy
tone. "And I loved him so! I didn't mind his having YOU. But this
about Izz is too bad!"
Tess, in her start at the words, narrowly missed cutting off a finger
with the bill-hook.
"Is it about my husband?" she stammered.
"Well, yes. Izz said, 'Don't 'ee tell her'; but I am sure I can't
help it! It was what he wanted Izz to do. He wanted her to go off
to Brazil with him."
Tess's face faded as white as the scene without, and its curves
straightened. "And did Izz refuse to go?" she asked.
"I don't know. Anyhow he changed his mind."
"Pooh--then he didn't mean it! 'Twas just a man's jest!"
"Yes he did; for he drove her a good-ways towards the station."
"He didn't take her!"
They pulled on in silence till Tess, without any premonitory
symptoms, burst out crying.
"There!" said Marian. "Now I wish I hadn't told 'ee!"
"No. It is a very good thing that you have done! I have been living
on in a thirtover, lackaday way, and have not seen what it may lead
to! I ought to have sent him a letter oftener. He said I could not
go to him, but he didn't say I was not to write as often as I liked.
I won't dally like this any longer! I have been very wrong and
neglectful in leaving everything to be done by him!"
The dim light in the barn grew dimmer, and they could see to work no
longer. When Tess had reached home that evening, and had entered
into the privacy of her little white-washed chamber, she began
impetuously writing a letter to Clare. But falling into doubt, she
could not finish it. Afterwards she took the ring from the ribbon on
which she wore it next her heart, and retained it on her finger all
night, as if to fortify herself in the sensation that she was really
the wife of this elusive lover of hers, who could propose that Izz
should go with him abroad, so shortly after he had left her. Knowing
that, how could she write entreaties to him, or show that she cared
for him any more?
By the disclosure in the barn her thoughts were led anew in the
direction which they had taken more than once of late--to the distant
Emminster Vicarage. It was through her husband's parents that she
had been charged to send a letter to Clare if she desired; and to
write to them direct if in difficulty. But that sense of her having
morally no claim upon him had always led Tess to suspend her impulse
to send these notes; and to the family at the Vicarage, therefore,
as to her own parents since her marriage, she was virtually
non-existent. This self-effacement in both directions had been quite
in consonance with her independent character of desiring nothing
by way of favour or pity to which she was not entitled on a fair
consideration of her deserts. She had set herself to stand or fall
by her qualities, and to waive such merely technical claims upon a
strange family as had been established for her by the flimsy fact of
a member of that family, in a season of impulse, writing his name in
a church-book beside hers.
But now that she was stung to a fever by Izz's tale, there was a
limit to her powers of renunciation. Why had her husband not written
to her? He had distinctly implied that he would at least let her
know of the locality to which he had journeyed; but he had not sent a
line to notify his address. Was he really indifferent? But was he
ill? Was it for her to make some advance? Surely she might summon
the courage of solicitude, call at the Vicarage for intelligence, and
express her grief at his silence. If Angel's father were the good
man she had heard him represented to be, he would be able to enter
into her heart-starved situation. Her social hardships she could
conceal.
To leave the farm on a week-day was not in her power; Sunday was
the only possible opportunity. Flintcomb-Ash being in the middle
of the cretaceous tableland over which no railway had climbed as
yet, it would be necessary to walk. And the distance being fifteen
miles each way she would have to allow herself a long day for the
undertaking by rising early.
A fortnight later, when the snow had gone, and had been followed by
a hard black frost, she took advantage of the state of the roads to
try the experiment. At four o'clock that Sunday morning she came
downstairs and stepped out into the starlight. The weather was still
favourable, the ground ringing under her feet like an anvil.
Marian and Izz were much interested in her excursion, knowing that
the journey concerned her husband. Their lodgings were in a cottage
a little further along the lane, but they came and assisted Tess
in her departure, and argued that she should dress up in her very
prettiest guise to captivate the hearts of her parents-in-law; though
she, knowing of the austere and Calvinistic tenets of old Mr Clare,
was indifferent, and even doubtful. A year had now elapsed since
her sad marriage, but she had preserved sufficient draperies from
the wreck of her then full wardrobe to clothe her very charmingly as
a simple country girl with no pretensions to recent fashion; a soft
gray woollen gown, with white crape quilling against the pink skin of
her face and neck, and a black velvet jacket and hat.
"'Tis a thousand pities your husband can't see 'ee now--you do look
a real beauty!" said Izz Huett, regarding Tess as she stood on
the threshold between the steely starlight without and the yellow
candlelight within. Izz spoke with a magnanimous abandonment of
herself to the situation; she could not be--no woman with a heart
bigger than a hazel-nut could be--antagonistic to Tess in her
presence, the influence which she exercised over those of her own sex
being of a warmth and strength quite unusual, curiously overpowering
the less worthy feminine feelings of spite and rivalry.
With a final tug and touch here, and a slight brush there, they let
her go; and she was absorbed into the pearly air of the fore-dawn.
They heard her footsteps tap along the hard road as she stepped out
to her full pace. Even Izz hoped she would win, and, though without
any particular respect for her own virtue, felt glad that she had
been prevented wronging her friend when momentarily tempted by Clare.
It was a year ago, all but a day, that Clare had married Tess, and
only a few days less than a year that he had been absent from her.
Still, to start on a brisk walk, and on such an errand as hers, on a
dry clear wintry morning, through the rarefied air of these chalky
hogs'-backs, was not depressing; and there is no doubt that her dream
at starting was to win the heart of her mother-in-law, tell her whole
history to that lady, enlist her on her side, and so gain back the
truant.
In time she reached the edge of the vast escarpment below which
stretched the loamy Vale of Blackmoor, now lying misty and still
in the dawn. Instead of the colourless air of the uplands, the
atmosphere down there was a deep blue. Instead of the great
enclosures of a hundred acres in which she was now accustomed to
toil, there were little fields below her of less than half-a-dozen
acres, so numerous that they looked from this height like the meshes
of a net. Here the landscape was whitey-brown; down there, as in
Froom Valley, it was always green. Yet it was in that vale that her
sorrow had taken shape, and she did not love it as formerly. Beauty
to her, as to all who have felt, lay not in the thing, but in what
the thing symbolized.
Keeping the Vale on her right, she steered steadily westward; passing
above the Hintocks, crossing at right-angles the high-road from
Sherton-Abbas to Casterbridge, and skirting Dogbury Hill and
High-Stoy, with the dell between them called "The Devil's Kitchen".
Still following the elevated way she reached Cross-in-Hand, where
the stone pillar stands desolate and silent, to mark the site of a
miracle, or murder, or both. Three miles further she cut across the
straight and deserted Roman road called Long-Ash Lane; leaving which
as soon as she reached it she dipped down a hill by a transverse lane
into the small town or village of Evershead, being now about halfway
over the distance. She made a halt here, and breakfasted a second
time, heartily enough--not at the Sow-and-Acorn, for she avoided
inns, but at a cottage by the church.
The second half of her journey was through a more gentle country, by
way of Benvill Lane. But as the mileage lessened between her and the
spot of her pilgrimage, so did Tess's confidence decrease, and her
enterprise loom out more formidably. She saw her purpose in such
staring lines, and the landscape so faintly, that she was sometimes
in danger of losing her way. However, about noon she paused by a
gate on the edge of the basin in which Emminster and its Vicarage
lay.
The square tower, beneath which she knew that at that moment the
Vicar and his congregation were gathered, had a severe look in
her eyes. She wished that she had somehow contrived to come on a
week-day. Such a good man might be prejudiced against a woman who
had chosen Sunday, never realizing the necessities of her case.
But it was incumbent upon her to go on now. She took off the thick
boots in which she had walked thus far, put on her pretty thin ones
of patent leather, and, stuffing the former into the hedge by the
gatepost where she might readily find them again, descended the hill;
the freshness of colour she had derived from the keen air thinning
away in spite of her as she drew near the parsonage.
Tess hoped for some accident that might favour her, but nothing
favoured her. The shrubs on the Vicarage lawn rustled uncomfortably
in the frosty breeze; she could not feel by any stretch of
imagination, dressed to her highest as she was, that the house was
the residence of near relations; and yet nothing essential, in nature
or emotion, divided her from them: in pains, pleasures, thoughts,
birth, death, and after-death, they were the same.
She nerved herself by an effort, entered the swing-gate, and rang
the door-bell. The thing was done; there could be no retreat. No;
the thing was not done. Nobody answered to her ringing. The effort
had to be risen to and made again. She rang a second time, and the
agitation of the act, coupled with her weariness after the fifteen
miles' walk, led her to support herself while she waited by resting
her hand on her hip and her elbow against the wall of the porch. The
wind was so nipping that the ivy-leaves had become wizened and gray,
each tapping incessantly upon its neighbour with a disquieting stir
of her nerves. A piece of blood-stained paper, caught up from some
meat-buyer's dust-heap, beat up and down the road without the gate;
too flimsy to rest, too heavy to fly away; and a few straws kept it
company.
The second peal had been louder, and still nobody came. Then she
walked out of the porch, opened the gate, and passed through. And
though she looked dubiously at the house-front as if inclined to
return, it was with a breath of relied that she closed the gate. A
feeling haunted her that she might have been recognized (though how
she could not tell), and orders been given not to admit her.
Tess went as far as the corner. She had done all she could do; but
determined not to escape present trepidation at the expense of future
distress, she walked back again quite past the house, looking up at
all the windows.
Ah--the explanation was that they were all at church, every one. She
remembered her husband saying that his father always insisted upon
the household, servants included, going to morning-service, and,
as a consequence, eating cold food when they came home. It was,
therefore, only necessary to wait till the service was over. She
would not make herself conspicuous by waiting on the spot, and she
started to get past the church into the lane. But as she reached the
churchyard-gate the people began pouring out, and Tess found herself
in the midst of them.
The Emminster congregation looked at her as only a congregation of
small country-townsfolk walking home at its leisure can look at a
woman out of the common whom it perceives to be a stranger. She
quickened her pace, and ascended the road by which she had come,
to find a retreat between its hedges till the Vicar's family should
have lunched, and it might be convenient for them to receive her.
She soon distanced the churchgoers, except two youngish men, who,
linked arm-in-arm, were beating up behind her at a quick step.
As they drew nearer she could hear their voices engaged in earnest
discourse, and, with the natural quickness of a woman in her
situation, did not fail to recognize in those noises the quality
of her husband's tones. The pedestrians were his two brothers.
Forgetting all her plans, Tess's one dread was lest they should
overtake her now, in her disorganized condition, before she was
prepared to confront them; for though she felt that they could not
identify her, she instinctively dreaded their scrutiny. The more
briskly they walked, the more briskly walked she. They were plainly
bent upon taking a short quick stroll before going indoors to lunch
or dinner, to restore warmth to limbs chilled with sitting through a
long service.
Only one person had preceded Tess up the hill--a ladylike young
woman, somewhat interesting, though, perhaps, a trifle _guindee_
and prudish. Tess had nearly overtaken her when the speed of her
brothers-in-law brought them so nearly behind her back that she could
hear every word of their conversation. They said nothing, however,
which particularly interested her till, observing the young lady
still further in front, one of them remarked, "There is Mercy Chant.
Let us overtake her."
Tess knew the name. It was the woman who had been destined for
Angel's life-companion by his and her parents, and whom he probably
would have married but for her intrusive self. She would have known
as much without previous information if she had waited a moment, for
one of the brothers proceeded to say: "Ah! poor Angel, poor Angel!
I never see that nice girl without more and more regretting his
precipitancy in throwing himself away upon a dairymaid, or whatever
she may be. It is a queer business, apparently. Whether she has
joined him yet or not I don't know; but she had not done so some
months ago when I heard from him."
"I can't say. He never tells me anything nowadays. His
ill-considered marriage seems to have completed that estrangement
from me which was begun by his extraordinary opinions."
Tess beat up the long hill still faster; but she could not outwalk
them without exciting notice. At last they outsped her altogether,
and passed her by. The young lady still further ahead heard their
footsteps and turned. Then there was a greeting and a shaking of
hands, and the three went on together.
They soon reached the summit of the hill, and, evidently intending
this point to be the limit of their promenade, slackened pace and
turned all three aside to the gate whereat Tess had paused an hour
before that time to reconnoitre the town before descending into it.
During their discourse one of the clerical brothers probed the hedge
carefully with his umbrella, and dragged something to light.
"Here's a pair of old boots," he said. "Thrown away, I suppose, by
some tramp or other."
"Some imposter who wished to come into the town barefoot, perhaps,
and so excite our sympathies," said Miss Chant. "Yes, it must have
been, for they are excellent walking-boots--by no means worn out.
What a wicked thing to do! I'll carry them home for some poor
person."
Cuthbert Clare, who had been the one to find them, picked them up for
her with the crook of his stick; and Tess's boots were appropriated.
She, who had heard this, walked past under the screen of her woollen
veil till, presently looking back, she perceived that the church
party had left the gate with her boots and retreated down the hill.
Thereupon our heroine resumed her walk. Tears, blinding tears, were
running down her face. She knew that it was all sentiment, all
baseless impressibility, which had caused her to read the scene as
her own condemnation; nevertheless she could not get over it; she
could not contravene in her own defenceless person all those untoward
omens. It was impossible to think of returning to the Vicarage.
Angel's wife felt almost as if she had been hounded up that hill like
a scorned thing by those--to her--superfine clerics. Innocently
as the slight had been inflicted, it was somewhat unfortunate that
she had encountered the sons and not the father, who, despite his
narrowness, was far less starched and ironed than they, and had to
the full the gift of charity. As she again thought of her dusty
boots she almost pitied those habiliments for the quizzing to which
they had been subjected, and felt how hopeless life was for their
owner.
"Ah!" she said, still sighing in pity of herself, "THEY didn't know
that I wore those over the roughest part of the road to save these
pretty ones HE bought for me--no--they did not know it! And they
didn't think that HE chose the colour o' my pretty frock--no--how
could they? If they had known perhaps they would not have cared,
for they don't care much for him, poor thing!"
Then she grieved for the beloved man whose conventional standard of
judgement had caused her all these latter sorrows; and she went her
way without knowing that the greatest misfortune of her life was this
feminine loss of courage at the last and critical moment through her
estimating her father-in-law by his sons. Her present condition was
precisely one which would have enlisted the sympathies of old Mr and
Mrs Clare. Their hearts went out of them at a bound towards extreme
cases, when the subtle mental troubles of the less desperate among
mankind failed to win their interest or regard. In jumping at
Publicans and Sinners they would forget that a word might be said for
the worries of Scribes and Pharisees; and this defect or limitation
might have recommended their own daughter-in-law to them at this
moment as a fairly choice sort of lost person for their love.
Thereupon she began to plod back along the road by which she had come
not altogether full of hope, but full of a conviction that a crisis
in her life was approaching. No crisis, apparently, had supervened;
and there was nothing left for her to do but to continue upon that
starve-acre farm till she could again summon courage to face the
Vicarage. She did, indeed, take sufficient interest in herself to
throw up her veil on this return journey, as if to let the world see
that she could at least exhibit a face such as Mercy Chant could
not show. But it was done with a sorry shake of the head. "It is
nothing--it is nothing!" she said. "Nobody loves it; nobody sees it.
Who cares about the looks of a castaway like me!"
Her journey back was rather a meander than a march. It had no
sprightliness, no purpose; only a tendency. Along the tedious length
of Benvill Lane she began to grow tired, and she leant upon gates and
paused by milestones.
She did not enter any house till, at the seventh or eighth mile, she
descended the steep long hill below which lay the village or townlet
of Evershead, where in the morning she had breakfasted with such
contrasting expectations. The cottage by the church, in which she
again sat down, was almost the first at that end of the village, and
while the woman fetched her some milk from the pantry, Tess, looking
down the street, perceived that the place seemed quite deserted.
"The people are gone to afternoon service, I suppose?" she said.
"No, my dear," said the old woman. "'Tis too soon for that; the
bells hain't strook out yet. They be all gone to hear the preaching
in yonder barn. A ranter preaches there between the services--an
excellent, fiery, Christian man, they say. But, Lord, I don't go to
hear'n! What comes in the regular way over the pulpit is hot enough
for I."
Tess soon went onward into the village, her footsteps echoing against
the houses as though it were a place of the dead. Nearing the
central part, her echoes were intruded on by other sounds; and seeing
the barn not far off the road, she guessed these to be the utterances
of the preacher.
His voice became so distinct in the still clear air that she could
soon catch his sentences, though she was on the closed side of
the barn. The sermon, as might be expected, was of the extremest
antinomian type; on justification by faith, as expounded in the
theology of St Paul. This fixed idea of the rhapsodist was delivered
with animated enthusiasm, in a manner entirely declamatory, for he
had plainly no skill as a dialectician. Although Tess had not heard
the beginning of the address, she learnt what the text had been from
its constant iteration--
"O foolish galatians, who hath bewitched you, that ye
should not obey the truth, before whose eyes Jesus Christ
hath been evidently set forth, crucified among you?"
Tess was all the more interested, as she stood listening behind, in
finding that the preacher's doctrine was a vehement form of the view
of Angel's father, and her interest intensified when the speaker
began to detail his own spiritual experiences of how he had come by
those views. He had, he said, been the greatest of sinners. He had
scoffed; he had wantonly associated with the reckless and the lewd.
But a day of awakening had come, and, in a human sense, it had been
brought about mainly by the influence of a certain clergyman, whom he
had at first grossly insulted; but whose parting words had sunk into
his heart, and had remained there, till by the grace of Heaven they
had worked this change in him, and made him what they saw him.
But more startling to Tess than the doctrine had been the voice,
which, impossible as it seemed, was precisely that of Alec
d'Urberville. Her face fixed in painful suspense, she came round
to the front of the barn, and passed before it. The low winter sun
beamed directly upon the great double-doored entrance on this side;
one of the doors being open, so that the rays stretched far in over
the threshing-floor to the preacher and his audience, all snugly
sheltered from the northern breeze. The listeners were entirely
villagers, among them being the man whom she had seen carrying the
red paint-pot on a former memorable occasion. But her attention
was given to the central figure, who stood upon some sacks of corn,
facing the people and the door. The three o'clock sun shone full
upon him, and the strange enervating conviction that her seducer
confronted her, which had been gaining ground in Tess ever since she
had heard his words distinctly, was at last established as a fact
indeed.
END OF PHASE THE FIFTH
Phase the Sixth: The Convert
| 9,030 | Chapters 42-44 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201219151046/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/t/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary-and-analysis/phase-the-fifth-the-woman-pays-chapters-4244 | To ward off the men who might find her attractive, Tess puts on a handkerchief as though she has a toothache and clips her eyebrows. She arrives at Flintcomb-Ash to find Marian already at work. Marian calls the farm a "starve-acre place," not like the lush dairy at Talbothays. The work is digging rutabagas, harvesting corn, and making the thatch for roofs. It is indeed difficult work for men and women alike. Tess agrees to work until April 6, also know as "Old Lady-Day." The two friends work in the rain and snow at the farm. Marian writes to Izz Huett, who later comes to Flintcomb-Ash for work as well. One day, when it is too cold to dig swedes, the ladies are sent by the farmer to make roof thatching in a nearby farm. Also working there are Dark Car and the Queen of Diamonds, both former employees of the d'Urbervilles at The Slopes. These "two Amazionian sisters" do not remember Tess from their previous encounter. Tess meets her employer, the farmer, the same man who had insulted her in town in Chapter 33 and who appears again in a second chance encounter in Chapter 41. He is mean and vengeful toward Tess, telling her, "But we'll see which is master here." He urges the girls to work harder, and Tess stays behind to finish her work with Izz and Marian. Tess is overcome by exhaustion and faints. As she recovers on a haystack, she overhears Izz tell the story of Angel asking her to accompany him to Brazil. Tess decides to contact Angel's parents to ask about Angel. The next Sunday, Tess sets out for Emminster, a 30-mile roundtrip walk for her. A year has passed since her marriage to Angel, and she is determined to make her plight known to her in-laws and to see if they have heard from Angel. She removes her walking boots, stashes them in a nearby bush and puts on her dress boots to impress her in-laws. Angel's brothers discover Tess' boots, not knowing she is nearby, and takes them back to the Clare's vicarage. Tess loses her nerve to see the Clares and returns to Flintcomb-Ash dejected and depressed. On the way back to the farm, Tess encounters Alec d'Urberville, now an evangelical "fire and brimstone" street preacher. | The contrast between Flintcomb-Ash and Talbothays is clear. Flintcomb-Ash is described as "sublime in its dreariness." Conversely, Talbothays is portrayed as ideal and beautiful, "the verdant plain so well watered by the river Var or Froom." Flintcomb has Farmer Groby, a mean-spirited man who demands that his workers work even harder. Mr. Crick gets results from his workers with humor and aplomb, even regaling them with his humorous tales, as evidenced by the William Dewy tale from Chapter 17 and the Jack Dollop tales from Chapters 21 and 29. The indifference that Angel's brothers show towards Tess is not altogether surprising based on what we already know of them. However, it is Tess' first encounter with her brothers-in-law, and she hears for herself their contempt for her marriage to Angel and for Angel himself -- "His ill-considered marriage seems to have completed that estrangement from me which was begun by his extraordinary opinions." The brothers, both ministers themselves, have little regard for those in desperate situations, reserving their charity to those they deem worthy to receive it. Mercy Chant, whose name implies sympathy and kindness, adds her own insensitive opinion when Tess' boots are discovered in some bushes, viewing them as belonging to "ome impostor who wished to come into town barefoot, perhaps, and so excite our sympathies." Thus, all three -- Mercy, Cuthbert, and Felix -- display a lack of compassion that Tess could use at that moment. Hardy further emphasizes the uncharitable nature of these three in his descriptions: Hardy describes the brothers as "starched and ironed"; he describes Mercy as "a trifle guindee and prudish." The word guindee in French means "stiff" or "formal." This episode recalls earlier episodes in which action or inaction rest on a single turn of fate. By encountering her brothers-in-law first, Tess is exposed to unkind and uncharitable notions about herself and her marriage to Angel. Hardy says "it was somewhat unfortunate that she had encountered the sons and not the father, who, despite his narrowness, was far less starched and ironed than they, and had to the full the gift of charity." If Tess had met her father and mother-in-law first, the outcome might have been different. In these chapters, Tess also is reunited with Alec d'Urberville, who is in the guise of a street corner minister. Alec claims to have repented of his former sins, recanting his past excesses, taking up the teachings of Reverend Clare and the lessons of St. Paul. Nevertheless, as is made clear in the following chapters, Alec is a hollow cleric. Even though he himself condemns the faithless in his sermons, he will leave his ministry to pursue Tess. Glossary mommet a term of abuse or contempt. "dust and ashes" Job 42:6. Cybele the Many-breasted Phrygian fertility goddess who, in the form of a mother with many breasts, symbolizes nature. "clipsed or colled" embraced. swede-hacking a swede is a Swedish turnip, or rutabaga. Old Lady Day April 6, date used to set the beginning or ending of employment. copy-holders people who hold land by copyhold. wroppers wrappers. "early Italian conception of the two Marys"` because of their weepings and pensive looks, they resemble painted representations from the Renaissance of Mary, the mother of Christ, and Mary Magdalen after the death of Jesus. "like the moves of a chess player" death is sometimes represented as a chess player. reed-drawing preparing straw to be used as thatching material. "white pillar of a cloud" from Exodus 13:21. percipience a perceiving, esp. keenly or readily. premonitory giving previous warning or notice. thirtover thwart-over, meaning perverse. guindee stiff, stilted, formal . prudish like or characteristic of a prude; too modest or proper. impressibility the state of being impressed or impressionable. contravene to go against; oppose; conflict with; violate; to disagree with in argument; contradict. habiliments clothing; dress; attire. supervened came or happened as something extraneous or unexpected; to take place; ensued. "Publicans and Sinners . . . Scribes and Pharisees" they were biased in favor of those who had fallen. publican in Britain, any owner or proprietor of a pub. Antinomian a believer in the Christian doctrine that faith alone, not obedience to the moral law, is necessary for salvation. "O foolish Galatians . . . " from Galatians 3:1. | 387 | 715 | [
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28,054 | false | sparknotes | all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/62.txt | finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_11_part_9.txt | The Brothers Karamazov.book 9.chapter 9 | book 9, chapter 9 | null | {"name": "book 9, Chapter 9", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section12/", "summary": "Mitya Is Taken Away Grushenka is called in to testify. Dmitri swears to her that he did not kill his father, and she believes him. But the officers nevertheless decide to keep him in prison to await a trial. Dmitri says good-bye to Grushenka, asking her to forgive him for everything he has done. Grushenka delivers an impassioned promise to love and remain loyal to Dmitri forever.", "analysis": "Book IX: The Preliminary Investigation, Chapters 1-9 This book is devoted to a description of the circumstantial evidence that makes Dmitri appear guilty of Fyodor Pavlovich's murder. The question of whether Dmitri is guilty symbolically represents the greater question of whether human nature is fundamentally good or sinful, so the legal proceedings against Dmitri represent the trial of the human spirit. Just as Book V, especially in the Grand Inquisitor chapter, presents the novel's indictment of God, Book IX begins its indictment of humanity. This book recounts Dmitri's past in detail, and the stories of his innumerable sins are retold, as though to summarize the moral failings that lie at the heart of the case. Dmitri has lied to everyone, stolen from and cheated Katerina, turned to violence against Grigory, and been unable to control his passions for Grushenka. In short, he has committed the most common and universal sins of mankind. Dmitri's bizarre, almost gleeful reaction to this list of sins reveals the seeds of his redemption. In Zosima's anecdote of the murder in Book VI, Dostoevsky has drawn our attention to a peculiar psychological phenomenon: the desire of a guilty man to confess his guilt. The murderer in this anecdote had gotten away with his crime, but he could never find happiness because he was desperate to confess his guilt. As Zosima indicates in his argument with Ivan over ecclesiastical courts in Book II, conscience is the sternest judge of all. Even a criminal who has gotten away with his crime can be judged by his conscience. Like the murderer in Zosima's anecdote, Dmitri has a conscience that judges him harshly, and also like the murderer, Dmitri is guilty, not of the charge of killing his father, but of all the lies, acts of violence, and other sins of his past. Like the murderer, part of Dmitri longs for his crimes to be known and judged, so he can find redemption in the suffering of his punishment. Dmitri's glee throughout this passage is due in part to Grushenka's declaration of love for him. But he also experiences relief to be in the hands of the police and to hear his crimes discussed openly and critically. This review of his past sins may seem like a damning indictment of humanity, but it is actually the first step in Dmitri's transformation from a tormented and sinful man into a faithful and loving one"} | Chapter IX. They Carry Mitya Away
When the protocol had been signed, Nikolay Parfenovitch turned solemnly to
the prisoner and read him the "Committal," setting forth, that in such a
year, on such a day, in such a place, the investigating lawyer of such-
and-such a district court, having examined so-and-so (to wit, Mitya)
accused of this and of that (all the charges were carefully written out)
and having considered that the accused, not pleading guilty to the charges
made against him, had brought forward nothing in his defense, while the
witnesses, so-and-so, and so-and-so, and the circumstances such-and-such
testify against him, acting in accordance with such-and-such articles of
the Statute Book, and so on, has ruled, that, in order to preclude so-and-
so (Mitya) from all means of evading pursuit and judgment he be detained
in such-and-such a prison, which he hereby notifies to the accused and
communicates a copy of this same "Committal" to the deputy prosecutor, and
so on, and so on.
In brief, Mitya was informed that he was, from that moment, a prisoner,
and that he would be driven at once to the town, and there shut up in a
very unpleasant place. Mitya listened attentively, and only shrugged his
shoulders.
"Well, gentlemen, I don't blame you. I'm ready.... I understand that
there's nothing else for you to do."
Nikolay Parfenovitch informed him gently that he would be escorted at once
by the rural police officer, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, who happened to be on
the spot....
"Stay," Mitya interrupted, suddenly, and impelled by uncontrollable
feeling he pronounced, addressing all in the room:
"Gentlemen, we're all cruel, we're all monsters, we all make men weep, and
mothers, and babes at the breast, but of all, let it be settled here, now,
of all I am the lowest reptile! I've sworn to amend, and every day I've
done the same filthy things. I understand now that such men as I need a
blow, a blow of destiny to catch them as with a noose, and bind them by a
force from without. Never, never should I have risen of myself! But the
thunderbolt has fallen. I accept the torture of accusation, and my public
shame, I want to suffer and by suffering I shall be purified. Perhaps I
shall be purified, gentlemen? But listen, for the last time, I am not
guilty of my father's blood. I accept my punishment, not because I killed
him, but because I meant to kill him, and perhaps I really might have
killed him. Still I mean to fight it out with you. I warn you of that.
I'll fight it out with you to the end, and then God will decide. Good-by,
gentlemen, don't be vexed with me for having shouted at you during the
examination. Oh, I was still such a fool then.... In another minute I
shall be a prisoner, but now, for the last time, as a free man, Dmitri
Karamazov offers you his hand. Saying good-by to you, I say it to all
men."
His voice quivered and he stretched out his hand, but Nikolay
Parfenovitch, who happened to stand nearest to him, with a sudden, almost
nervous movement, hid his hands behind his back. Mitya instantly noticed
this, and started. He let his outstretched hand fall at once.
"The preliminary inquiry is not yet over," Nikolay Parfenovitch faltered,
somewhat embarrassed. "We will continue it in the town, and I, for my
part, of course, am ready to wish you all success ... in your defense....
As a matter of fact, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, I've always been disposed to
regard you as, so to speak, more unfortunate than guilty. All of us here,
if I may make bold to speak for all, we are all ready to recognize that
you are, at bottom, a young man of honor, but, alas, one who has been
carried away by certain passions to a somewhat excessive degree...."
Nikolay Parfenovitch's little figure was positively majestic by the time
he had finished speaking. It struck Mitya that in another minute this
"boy" would take his arm, lead him to another corner, and renew their
conversation about "girls." But many quite irrelevant and inappropriate
thoughts sometimes occur even to a prisoner when he is being led out to
execution.
"Gentlemen, you are good, you are humane, may I see _her_ to say 'good-by'
for the last time?" asked Mitya.
"Certainly, but considering ... in fact, now it's impossible except in the
presence of--"
"Oh, well, if it must be so, it must!"
Grushenka was brought in, but the farewell was brief, and of few words,
and did not at all satisfy Nikolay Parfenovitch. Grushenka made a deep bow
to Mitya.
"I have told you I am yours, and I will be yours. I will follow you for
ever, wherever they may send you. Farewell; you are guiltless, though
you've been your own undoing."
Her lips quivered, tears flowed from her eyes.
"Forgive me, Grusha, for my love, for ruining you, too, with my love."
Mitya would have said something more, but he broke off and went out. He
was at once surrounded by men who kept a constant watch on him. At the
bottom of the steps to which he had driven up with such a dash the day
before with Andrey's three horses, two carts stood in readiness. Mavriky
Mavrikyevitch, a sturdy, thick-set man with a wrinkled face, was annoyed
about something, some sudden irregularity. He was shouting angrily. He
asked Mitya to get into the cart with somewhat excessive surliness.
"When I stood him drinks in the tavern, the man had quite a different
face," thought Mitya, as he got in. At the gates there was a crowd of
people, peasants, women and drivers. Trifon Borissovitch came down the
steps too. All stared at Mitya.
"Forgive me at parting, good people!" Mitya shouted suddenly from the
cart.
"Forgive us too!" he heard two or three voices.
"Good-by to you, too, Trifon Borissovitch!"
But Trifon Borissovitch did not even turn round. He was, perhaps, too
busy. He, too, was shouting and fussing about something. It appeared that
everything was not yet ready in the second cart, in which two constables
were to accompany Mavriky Mavrikyevitch. The peasant who had been ordered
to drive the second cart was pulling on his smock, stoutly maintaining
that it was not his turn to go, but Akim's. But Akim was not to be seen.
They ran to look for him. The peasant persisted and besought them to wait.
"You see what our peasants are, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch. They've no shame!"
exclaimed Trifon Borissovitch. "Akim gave you twenty-five copecks the day
before yesterday. You've drunk it all and now you cry out. I'm simply
surprised at your good-nature, with our low peasants, Mavriky
Mavrikyevitch, that's all I can say."
"But what do we want a second cart for?" Mitya put in. "Let's start with
the one, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch. I won't be unruly, I won't run away from
you, old fellow. What do we want an escort for?"
"I'll trouble you, sir, to learn how to speak to me if you've never been
taught. I'm not 'old fellow' to you, and you can keep your advice for
another time!" Mavriky Mavrikyevitch snapped out savagely, as though glad
to vent his wrath.
Mitya was reduced to silence. He flushed all over. A moment later he felt
suddenly very cold. The rain had ceased, but the dull sky was still
overcast with clouds, and a keen wind was blowing straight in his face.
"I've taken a chill," thought Mitya, twitching his shoulders.
At last Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, too, got into the cart, sat down heavily,
and, as though without noticing it, squeezed Mitya into the corner. It is
true that he was out of humor and greatly disliked the task that had been
laid upon him.
"Good-by, Trifon Borissovitch!" Mitya shouted again, and felt himself,
that he had not called out this time from good-nature, but involuntarily,
from resentment.
But Trifon Borissovitch stood proudly, with both hands behind his back,
and staring straight at Mitya with a stern and angry face, he made no
reply.
"Good-by, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, good-by!" he heard all at once the voice of
Kalganov, who had suddenly darted out. Running up to the cart he held out
his hand to Mitya. He had no cap on.
Mitya had time to seize and press his hand.
"Good-by, dear fellow! I shan't forget your generosity," he cried warmly.
But the cart moved and their hands parted. The bell began ringing and
Mitya was driven off.
Kalganov ran back, sat down in a corner, bent his head, hid his face in
his hands, and burst out crying. For a long while he sat like that, crying
as though he were a little boy instead of a young man of twenty. Oh, he
believed almost without doubt in Mitya's guilt.
"What are these people? What can men be after this?" he exclaimed
incoherently, in bitter despondency, almost despair. At that moment he had
no desire to live.
"Is it worth it? Is it worth it?" exclaimed the boy in his grief.
| 1,391 | book 9, Chapter 9 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section12/ | Mitya Is Taken Away Grushenka is called in to testify. Dmitri swears to her that he did not kill his father, and she believes him. But the officers nevertheless decide to keep him in prison to await a trial. Dmitri says good-bye to Grushenka, asking her to forgive him for everything he has done. Grushenka delivers an impassioned promise to love and remain loyal to Dmitri forever. | Book IX: The Preliminary Investigation, Chapters 1-9 This book is devoted to a description of the circumstantial evidence that makes Dmitri appear guilty of Fyodor Pavlovich's murder. The question of whether Dmitri is guilty symbolically represents the greater question of whether human nature is fundamentally good or sinful, so the legal proceedings against Dmitri represent the trial of the human spirit. Just as Book V, especially in the Grand Inquisitor chapter, presents the novel's indictment of God, Book IX begins its indictment of humanity. This book recounts Dmitri's past in detail, and the stories of his innumerable sins are retold, as though to summarize the moral failings that lie at the heart of the case. Dmitri has lied to everyone, stolen from and cheated Katerina, turned to violence against Grigory, and been unable to control his passions for Grushenka. In short, he has committed the most common and universal sins of mankind. Dmitri's bizarre, almost gleeful reaction to this list of sins reveals the seeds of his redemption. In Zosima's anecdote of the murder in Book VI, Dostoevsky has drawn our attention to a peculiar psychological phenomenon: the desire of a guilty man to confess his guilt. The murderer in this anecdote had gotten away with his crime, but he could never find happiness because he was desperate to confess his guilt. As Zosima indicates in his argument with Ivan over ecclesiastical courts in Book II, conscience is the sternest judge of all. Even a criminal who has gotten away with his crime can be judged by his conscience. Like the murderer in Zosima's anecdote, Dmitri has a conscience that judges him harshly, and also like the murderer, Dmitri is guilty, not of the charge of killing his father, but of all the lies, acts of violence, and other sins of his past. Like the murderer, part of Dmitri longs for his crimes to be known and judged, so he can find redemption in the suffering of his punishment. Dmitri's glee throughout this passage is due in part to Grushenka's declaration of love for him. But he also experiences relief to be in the hands of the police and to hear his crimes discussed openly and critically. This review of his past sins may seem like a damning indictment of humanity, but it is actually the first step in Dmitri's transformation from a tormented and sinful man into a faithful and loving one | 67 | 403 | [
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110 | false | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/55.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_6_part_2.txt | Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 54 | chapter 54 | null | {"name": "Chapter 54", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-7-chapters-53-59", "summary": "Angel travels to find Tess, passing Cross-in-Hand and Flintcomb-Ash. He discovers there that nobody knew a Mrs. Clare, but they did know about Tess. Angel travels to Marlott, where he learns that John Durbeyfield is dead and his widow and children had left for Kingsbere. He sees John Durbeyfield's tomb, with its inscription \"How Are the Mighty Fallen. Eventually, Angel finds Joan Durbeyfield, who tells him that Tess has not come home. When Angel asks whether Tess would want him to look for her, Joan Durbeyfield claims no emphatically, but Angel replies that he is sure that she would because he knows Tess better. Joan admits that she has never really known her daughter, and tells Angel that Tess is at Sandbourne.", "analysis": "Angel continues to demonstrate his great will to find his wife, as when he demands of Joan Durbeyfield that he know where Tess is located. Hardy constructs this chapter as a retelling of Tess's actions during her separation from Angel, as Angel himself finds himself in Flintcomb-Ash, Marlott and Kingsbere and he learns that John Durbeyfield has died. This serves as a reminder of Tess's travails as a suffering Angel retraces these steps. This seems a trial for Angel, particularly during his confrontation with Joan Durbeyfield; she gives the location of her daughter only after Angel proves his devotion to Tess. This confrontation also demonstrates a growth for Joan Durbeyfield, who realizes her own failings and responsibility for Tess's troubles by admitting that she has never really known her daughter. Joan has viewed Tess as an instrument for her and her husband's plans, yet only now realizes that her ill treatment has caused Tess's downfall"} |
In a quarter of an hour Clare was leaving the house, whence his
mother watched his thin figure as it disappeared into the street.
He had declined to borrow his father's old mare, well knowing of
its necessity to the household. He went to the inn, where he hired
a trap, and could hardly wait during the harnessing. In a very few
minutes after, he was driving up the hill out of the town which,
three or four months earlier in the year, Tess had descended with
such hopes and ascended with such shattered purposes.
Benvill Lane soon stretched before him, its hedges and trees purple
with buds; but he was looking at other things, and only recalled
himself to the scene sufficiently to enable him to keep the way. In
something less than an hour-and-a-half he had skirted the south of
the King's Hintock estates and ascended to the untoward solitude of
Cross-in-Hand, the unholy stone whereon Tess had been compelled by
Alec d'Urberville, in his whim of reformation, to swear the strange
oath that she would never wilfully tempt him again. The pale and
blasted nettle-stems of the preceding year even now lingered nakedly
in the banks, young green nettles of the present spring growing from
their roots.
Thence he went along the verge of the upland overhanging the other
Hintocks, and, turning to the right, plunged into the bracing
calcareous region of Flintcomb-Ash, the address from which she had
written to him in one of the letters, and which he supposed to be
the place of sojourn referred to by her mother. Here, of course, he
did not find her; and what added to his depression was the discovery
that no "Mrs Clare" had ever been heard of by the cottagers or by
the farmer himself, though Tess was remembered well enough by her
Christian name. His name she had obviously never used during their
separation, and her dignified sense of their total severance was
shown not much less by this abstention than by the hardships she had
chosen to undergo (of which he now learnt for the first time) rather
than apply to his father for more funds.
From this place they told him Tess Durbeyfield had gone, without due
notice, to the home of her parents on the other side of Blackmoor,
and it therefore became necessary to find Mrs Durbeyfield. She had
told him she was not now at Marlott, but had been curiously reticent
as to her actual address, and the only course was to go to Marlott
and inquire for it. The farmer who had been so churlish with Tess
was quite smooth-tongued to Clare, and lent him a horse and man to
drive him towards Marlott, the gig he had arrived in being sent back
to Emminster; for the limit of a day's journey with that horse was
reached.
Clare would not accept the loan of the farmer's vehicle for a further
distance than to the outskirts of the Vale, and, sending it back with
the man who had driven him, he put up at an inn, and next day entered
on foot the region wherein was the spot of his dear Tess's birth.
It was as yet too early in the year for much colour to appear in the
gardens and foliage; the so-called spring was but winter overlaid
with a thin coat of greenness, and it was of a parcel with his
expectations.
The house in which Tess had passed the years of her childhood was
now inhabited by another family who had never known her. The new
residents were in the garden, taking as much interest in their own
doings as if the homestead had never passed its primal time in
conjunction with the histories of others, beside which the histories
of these were but as a tale told by an idiot. They walked about the
garden paths with thoughts of their own concerns entirely uppermost,
bringing their actions at every moment in jarring collision with the
dim ghosts behind them, talking as though the time when Tess lived
there were not one whit intenser in story than now. Even the spring
birds sang over their heads as if they thought there was nobody
missing in particular.
On inquiry of these precious innocents, to whom even the name of
their predecessors was a failing memory, Clare learned that John
Durbeyfield was dead; that his widow and children had left Marlott,
declaring that they were going to live at Kingsbere, but instead of
doing so had gone on to another place they mentioned. By this time
Clare abhorred the house for ceasing to contain Tess, and hastened
away from its hated presence without once looking back.
His way was by the field in which he had first beheld her at the
dance. It was as bad as the house--even worse. He passed on through
the churchyard, where, amongst the new headstones, he saw one of a
somewhat superior design to the rest. The inscription ran thus:
In memory of John Durbeyfield, rightly d'Urberville, of
the once powerful family of that Name, and Direct
Descendant through an illustrious Line from Sir Pagan
d'Urberville, one of the Knights of the Conqueror. Died
March 10th, 18--
HOW ARE THE MIGHTY FALLEN.
Some man, apparently the sexton, had observed Clare standing there,
and drew nigh. "Ah, sir, now that's a man who didn't want to lie
here, but wished to be carried to Kingsbere, where his ancestors be."
"And why didn't they respect his wish?"
"Oh--no money. Bless your soul, sir, why--there, I wouldn't wish to
say it everywhere, but--even this headstone, for all the flourish
wrote upon en, is not paid for."
"Ah, who put it up?"
The man told the name of a mason in the village, and, on leaving the
churchyard, Clare called at the mason's house. He found that the
statement was true, and paid the bill. This done, he turned in the
direction of the migrants.
The distance was too long for a walk, but Clare felt such a strong
desire for isolation that at first he would neither hire a conveyance
nor go to a circuitous line of railway by which he might eventually
reach the place. At Shaston, however, he found he must hire; but
the way was such that he did not enter Joan's place till about seven
o'clock in the evening, having traversed a distance of over twenty
miles since leaving Marlott.
The village being small he had little difficulty in finding Mrs
Durbeyfield's tenement, which was a house in a walled garden,
remote from the main road, where she had stowed away her clumsy old
furniture as best she could. It was plain that for some reason or
other she had not wished him to visit her, and he felt his call to
be somewhat of an intrusion. She came to the door herself, and the
light from the evening sky fell upon her face.
This was the first time that Clare had ever met her, but he was too
preoccupied to observe more than that she was still a handsome woman,
in the garb of a respectable widow. He was obliged to explain that
he was Tess's husband, and his object in coming there, and he did it
awkwardly enough. "I want to see her at once," he added. "You said
you would write to me again, but you have not done so."
"Because she've not come home," said Joan.
"Do you know if she is well?"
"I don't. But you ought to, sir," said she.
"I admit it. Where is she staying?"
From the beginning of the interview Joan had disclosed her
embarrassment by keeping her hand to the side of her cheek.
"I--don't know exactly where she is staying," she answered. "She
was--but--"
"Where was she?"
"Well, she is not there now."
In her evasiveness she paused again, and the younger children had by
this time crept to the door, where, pulling at his mother's skirts,
the youngest murmured--
"Is this the gentleman who is going to marry Tess?"
"He has married her," Joan whispered. "Go inside."
Clare saw her efforts for reticence, and asked--
"Do you think Tess would wish me to try and find her? If not, of
course--"
"I don't think she would."
"Are you sure?"
"I am sure she wouldn't."
He was turning away; and then he thought of Tess's tender letter.
"I am sure she would!" he retorted passionately. "I know her better
than you do."
"That's very likely, sir; for I have never really known her."
"Please tell me her address, Mrs Durbeyfield, in kindness to a lonely
wretched man!" Tess's mother again restlessly swept her cheek with
her vertical hand, and seeing that he suffered, she at last said, is
a low voice--
"She is at Sandbourne."
"Ah--where there? Sandbourne has become a large place, they say."
"I don't know more particularly than I have said--Sandbourne. For
myself, I was never there."
It was apparent that Joan spoke the truth in this, and he pressed her
no further.
"Are you in want of anything?" he said gently.
"No, sir," she replied. "We are fairly well provided for."
Without entering the house Clare turned away. There was a station
three miles ahead, and paying off his coachman, he walked thither.
The last train to Sandbourne left shortly after, and it bore Clare
on its wheels.
| 1,482 | Chapter 54 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-7-chapters-53-59 | Angel travels to find Tess, passing Cross-in-Hand and Flintcomb-Ash. He discovers there that nobody knew a Mrs. Clare, but they did know about Tess. Angel travels to Marlott, where he learns that John Durbeyfield is dead and his widow and children had left for Kingsbere. He sees John Durbeyfield's tomb, with its inscription "How Are the Mighty Fallen. Eventually, Angel finds Joan Durbeyfield, who tells him that Tess has not come home. When Angel asks whether Tess would want him to look for her, Joan Durbeyfield claims no emphatically, but Angel replies that he is sure that she would because he knows Tess better. Joan admits that she has never really known her daughter, and tells Angel that Tess is at Sandbourne. | Angel continues to demonstrate his great will to find his wife, as when he demands of Joan Durbeyfield that he know where Tess is located. Hardy constructs this chapter as a retelling of Tess's actions during her separation from Angel, as Angel himself finds himself in Flintcomb-Ash, Marlott and Kingsbere and he learns that John Durbeyfield has died. This serves as a reminder of Tess's travails as a suffering Angel retraces these steps. This seems a trial for Angel, particularly during his confrontation with Joan Durbeyfield; she gives the location of her daughter only after Angel proves his devotion to Tess. This confrontation also demonstrates a growth for Joan Durbeyfield, who realizes her own failings and responsibility for Tess's troubles by admitting that she has never really known her daughter. Joan has viewed Tess as an instrument for her and her husband's plans, yet only now realizes that her ill treatment has caused Tess's downfall | 122 | 155 | [
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110 | false | novelguide | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/15.txt | finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_2_part_4.txt | Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter xv | chapter xv | null | {"name": "Chapter XV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase2-chapter12-15", "summary": "Tess attempts to put her \"un-doing at Trantridge\" behind her and comes to realize that she must leave Marlott if she is ever to find happiness. In springtime, she accepts a job as a milkmaid at Talbothays Dairy. With this new chance in life \"she would be the dairy maid Tess, and nothing more\".", "analysis": "In the first eleven chapters, \"Phase I, The Maiden,\" Hardy structures a plotline that will ultimately lead to Tess's demise. The term maiden in the traditional sense simply means virgin. After a female has had sexual relations, she is referred to as a woman. When Tess sets off for Trantridge she is an innocent child. Indeed, she says as much to her mother after she returns home in shame at the end of chapter eleven. In \"Phase Two, Maiden No more,\" the plot unfolds in the birth of the aptly named Sorrow. Although she is a different person entirely from the young maiden, at the end of this section the woman Tess is given another chance at life. There are no more dreams of castles and dashing men; Tess is more grounded, as it were, and accepts her lot as a simple milkmaid. From the beginning it is clear that Tess's chances of success are slim. Life has dealt her a rough hand: a drunken father, a simpleton mother who doesn't even tell her teenage daughter about the facts of life before letting her go off alone with a man: \"why didn't you tell me there was danger in men-folk. Why didn't you warn me. Nor can she rely on her neighbors or the church. Hardy especially takes the Church to task. Tess is marginalized by the congregation and sits in the back of the church next to the bier, a platform upon which a coffin stands, which Hardy utilizes as a foreshadowing device to associate Tess with death. Shamed and ignored, Tess is forced to leave the church, and while the parson is kind enough to assure tell her of son's salvation, he will only allow the young mother to bury her child in the dark of night. In this regard, Hardy demonstrates a remarkable ability to evoke pathos and forces the reader to become even more emotionally engaged with Tess, who lives a life of mental torture. Despite her problems, Tess manages to bear the heavy load and falls back into life by taking a job in another locale. In other words, despite being beaten and knocked down, Tess has the tenacity and the wherewithal to get back up and fight. And, although she could have benefited monetarily by accepting Alec's offer she retains her honor. Alec d'Urberville, on the other hand, is a sham, bereft of honor, a phony without a real name. When compared to this rake, Tess becomes even more admirable. It would seem then that such a strong-spirited character should achieve the heights of success. However, Hardy, who has oftentimes been criticized for his deeply pessimistic attitude concerning the individual, will stick by his theory about fate by forcing his character to endure increasingly difficult hardships. Close attention should also be paid to Hardy's utilization of setting. He places his sad heroine in some of the loveliest settings ever created. Indeed, the novel evokes the fine bucolic, rustic settings popular in the pastoral paintings of the era. However, there is one item in the setting that seems out of order: the scarlet colored thrashing machine which helps speed up the work. In this era England was changing into an ever more industrial \"modernistic\" nation, as also witnessed by Hardy's reference to railroad tracks dividing the land. As the Industrial Revolution spread, villagers were forced to leave the land for the factories of London and other cities. Attention should also be paid to Hardy's use of the seasons. The novel begins in springtime, proceeds through summer to September and the Chase incident, Tess's return home in October, the harvest the following year, then springtime yet again and Tess's new optimism"} |
"By experience," says Roger Ascham, "we find out a short way by
a long wandering." Not seldom that long wandering unfits us for
further travel, and of what use is our experience to us then? Tess
Durbeyfield's experience was of this incapacitating kind. At last
she had learned what to do; but who would now accept her doing?
If before going to the d'Urbervilles' she had vigorously moved under
the guidance of sundry gnomic texts and phrases known to her and to
the world in general, no doubt she would never have been imposed on.
But it had not been in Tess's power--nor is it in anybody's power--to
feel the whole truth of golden opinions while it is possible to
profit by them. She--and how many more--might have ironically said
to God with Saint Augustine: "Thou hast counselled a better course
than Thou hast permitted."
She remained at her father's house during the winter months, plucking
fowls, or cramming turkeys and geese, or making clothes for her
sisters and brothers out of some finery which d'Urberville had given
her, and she had put by with contempt. Apply to him she would not.
But she would often clasp her hands behind her head and muse when she
was supposed to be working hard.
She philosophically noted dates as they came past in the revolution
of the year; the disastrous night of her undoing at Trantridge with
its dark background of The Chase; also the dates of the baby's birth
and death; also her own birthday; and every other day individualized
by incidents in which she had taken some share. She suddenly thought
one afternoon, when looking in the glass at her fairness, that there
was yet another date, of greater importance to her than those; that
of her own death, when all these charms would have disappeared; a day
which lay sly and unseen among all the other days of the year, giving
no sign or sound when she annually passed over it; but not the less
surely there. When was it? Why did she not feel the chill of each
yearly encounter with such a cold relation? She had Jeremy Taylor's
thought that some time in the future those who had known her would
say: "It is the ----th, the day that poor Tess Durbeyfield died"; and
there would be nothing singular to their minds in the statement. Of
that day, doomed to be her terminus in time through all the ages, she
did not know the place in month, week, season or year.
Almost at a leap Tess thus changed from simple girl to complex woman.
Symbols of reflectiveness passed into her face, and a note of tragedy
at times into her voice. Her eyes grew larger and more eloquent.
She became what would have been called a fine creature; her aspect
was fair and arresting; her soul that of a woman whom the turbulent
experiences of the last year or two had quite failed to demoralize.
But for the world's opinion those experiences would have been simply
a liberal education.
She had held so aloof of late that her trouble, never generally
known, was nearly forgotten in Marlott. But it became evident to her
that she could never be really comfortable again in a place which
had seen the collapse of her family's attempt to "claim kin"--and,
through her, even closer union--with the rich d'Urbervilles. At
least she could not be comfortable there till long years should have
obliterated her keen consciousness of it. Yet even now Tess felt the
pulse of hopeful life still warm within her; she might be happy in
some nook which had no memories. To escape the past and all that
appertained thereto was to annihilate it, and to do that she would
have to get away.
Was once lost always lost really true of chastity? she would ask
herself. She might prove it false if she could veil bygones. The
recuperative power which pervaded organic nature was surely not
denied to maidenhood alone.
She waited a long time without finding opportunity for a new
departure. A particularly fine spring came round, and the stir of
germination was almost audible in the buds; it moved her, as it moved
the wild animals, and made her passionate to go. At last, one day in
early May, a letter reached her from a former friend of her mother's,
to whom she had addressed inquiries long before--a person whom she
had never seen--that a skilful milkmaid was required at a dairy-house
many miles to the southward, and that the dairyman would be glad to
have her for the summer months.
It was not quite so far off as could have been wished; but it was
probably far enough, her radius of movement and repute having been
so small. To persons of limited spheres, miles are as geographical
degrees, parishes as counties, counties as provinces and kingdoms.
On one point she was resolved: there should be no more d'Urberville
air-castles in the dreams and deeds of her new life. She would be
the dairymaid Tess, and nothing more. Her mother knew Tess's feeling
on this point so well, though no words had passed between them on the
subject, that she never alluded to the knightly ancestry now.
Yet such is human inconsistency that one of the interests of the
new place to her was the accidental virtues of its lying near her
forefathers' country (for they were not Blakemore men, though her
mother was Blakemore to the bone). The dairy called Talbothays,
for which she was bound, stood not remotely from some of the former
estates of the d'Urbervilles, near the great family vaults of her
granddames and their powerful husbands. She would be able to look at
them, and think not only that d'Urberville, like Babylon, had fallen,
but that the individual innocence of a humble descendant could lapse
as silently. All the while she wondered if any strange good thing
might come of her being in her ancestral land; and some spirit within
her rose automatically as the sap in the twigs. It was unexpected
youth, surging up anew after its temporary check, and bringing with
it hope, and the invincible instinct towards self-delight.
END OF PHASE THE SECOND
Phase the Third: The Rally
| 984 | Chapter XV | https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase2-chapter12-15 | Tess attempts to put her "un-doing at Trantridge" behind her and comes to realize that she must leave Marlott if she is ever to find happiness. In springtime, she accepts a job as a milkmaid at Talbothays Dairy. With this new chance in life "she would be the dairy maid Tess, and nothing more". | In the first eleven chapters, "Phase I, The Maiden," Hardy structures a plotline that will ultimately lead to Tess's demise. The term maiden in the traditional sense simply means virgin. After a female has had sexual relations, she is referred to as a woman. When Tess sets off for Trantridge she is an innocent child. Indeed, she says as much to her mother after she returns home in shame at the end of chapter eleven. In "Phase Two, Maiden No more," the plot unfolds in the birth of the aptly named Sorrow. Although she is a different person entirely from the young maiden, at the end of this section the woman Tess is given another chance at life. There are no more dreams of castles and dashing men; Tess is more grounded, as it were, and accepts her lot as a simple milkmaid. From the beginning it is clear that Tess's chances of success are slim. Life has dealt her a rough hand: a drunken father, a simpleton mother who doesn't even tell her teenage daughter about the facts of life before letting her go off alone with a man: "why didn't you tell me there was danger in men-folk. Why didn't you warn me. Nor can she rely on her neighbors or the church. Hardy especially takes the Church to task. Tess is marginalized by the congregation and sits in the back of the church next to the bier, a platform upon which a coffin stands, which Hardy utilizes as a foreshadowing device to associate Tess with death. Shamed and ignored, Tess is forced to leave the church, and while the parson is kind enough to assure tell her of son's salvation, he will only allow the young mother to bury her child in the dark of night. In this regard, Hardy demonstrates a remarkable ability to evoke pathos and forces the reader to become even more emotionally engaged with Tess, who lives a life of mental torture. Despite her problems, Tess manages to bear the heavy load and falls back into life by taking a job in another locale. In other words, despite being beaten and knocked down, Tess has the tenacity and the wherewithal to get back up and fight. And, although she could have benefited monetarily by accepting Alec's offer she retains her honor. Alec d'Urberville, on the other hand, is a sham, bereft of honor, a phony without a real name. When compared to this rake, Tess becomes even more admirable. It would seem then that such a strong-spirited character should achieve the heights of success. However, Hardy, who has oftentimes been criticized for his deeply pessimistic attitude concerning the individual, will stick by his theory about fate by forcing his character to endure increasingly difficult hardships. Close attention should also be paid to Hardy's utilization of setting. He places his sad heroine in some of the loveliest settings ever created. Indeed, the novel evokes the fine bucolic, rustic settings popular in the pastoral paintings of the era. However, there is one item in the setting that seems out of order: the scarlet colored thrashing machine which helps speed up the work. In this era England was changing into an ever more industrial "modernistic" nation, as also witnessed by Hardy's reference to railroad tracks dividing the land. As the Industrial Revolution spread, villagers were forced to leave the land for the factories of London and other cities. Attention should also be paid to Hardy's use of the seasons. The novel begins in springtime, proceeds through summer to September and the Chase incident, Tess's return home in October, the harvest the following year, then springtime yet again and Tess's new optimism | 54 | 615 | [
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110 | false | novelguide | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/38.txt | finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_5_part_3.txt | Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter xxxvii | chapter xxxvii | null | {"name": "Chapter XXXVII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase5-chapter35-44", "summary": "The night before returning to Marlott, Tess awakens in the night to find Angel hovering over her while sleepwalking. Dead. dead. dead. he whispers, wraps her in a sheet, carries her outside over a narrow bridge to the churchyard, where he places her in a coffin. He remembers nothing. Angel gives Tess fifty pounds and tells her she can call on his father in case of emergency. She is not to come to him but to wait to hear from him after he learns to live with her past", "analysis": ""} |
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.
| 3,093 | Chapter XXXVII | https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase5-chapter35-44 | The night before returning to Marlott, Tess awakens in the night to find Angel hovering over her while sleepwalking. Dead. dead. dead. he whispers, wraps her in a sheet, carries her outside over a narrow bridge to the churchyard, where he places her in a coffin. He remembers nothing. Angel gives Tess fifty pounds and tells her she can call on his father in case of emergency. She is not to come to him but to wait to hear from him after he learns to live with her past | null | 89 | 1 | [
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110 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/59.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_57_part_0.txt | Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 58 | chapter 58 | null | {"name": "Phase VII: \"Fulfillment,\" Chapter Fifty-Eight", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-58", "summary": "The next morning, Angel wakes up early and sneaks out to buy some food at a nearby village. Tess doesn't want to leave the house, since they're so secluded there from the outside world. Angel agrees to stay another night. Unfortunately, the caretaker of the house comes by to check things out early the next morning, and sees them while they're asleep. She assumes that they're a rich couple who decided to elope, and doesn't wake them, but she does go to ask her neighbors about what to do. They wake up a few minutes later, and have a vague fear that something's wrong, so they set out again. Angel decides that they had better avoid London and try to make for Bristol, a coastal town where they can find a ship, instead. They head cross-country, and walk well into the night. The moon is behind a cloud, and they almost walk into a huge upright stone. After asking themselves where they could possibly be, they feel around and discover that they're in a huge circle of upright stones, some of which have equally huge stones lying crossways above them. It's Stonehenge, they realize. Tess stretches out on one of the horizontal stones, which is still warm from the sun, even though it's dark now. She asks Angel to look after 'Liza-Lu if anything should happen to her. Angel promises. Tess goes further, and asks if he would marry 'Liza-Lu if she should die, which she figures she probably will. Angel objects--he doesn't want Tess to die, and it would be kind of weird to marry his sister-in-law. Eventually, Tess falls asleep, and Angel stays next to her, holding her hand. Just as the sun comes up, Angel realizes that they're surrounded by men coming to arrest Tess. He looks for a weapon, but the man in front tells him it's no use. Angel then begs for them at least to allow Tess to finish her sleep, which they agree to. She's not surprised when she wakes up, and says she's ready.", "analysis": ""} |
The night was strangely solemn and still. In the small hours she
whispered to him the whole story of how he had walked in his sleep
with her in his arms across the Froom stream, at the imminent risk of
both their lives, and laid her down in the stone coffin at the ruined
abbey. He had never known of that till now.
"Why didn't you tell me next day?" he said. "It might have prevented
much misunderstanding and woe."
"Don't think of what's past!" said she. "I am not going to think
outside of now. Why should we! Who knows what to-morrow has in
store?"
But it apparently had no sorrow. The morning was wet and foggy, and
Clare, rightly informed that the caretaker only opened the windows
on fine days, ventured to creep out of their chamber and explore the
house, leaving Tess asleep. There was no food on the premises, but
there was water, and he took advantage of the fog to emerge from the
mansion and fetch tea, bread, and butter from a shop in a little
place two miles beyond, as also a small tin kettle and spirit-lamp,
that they might get fire without smoke. His re-entry awoke her; and
they breakfasted on what he had brought.
They were indisposed to stir abroad, and the day passed, and the
night following, and the next, and next; till, almost without their
being aware, five days had slipped by in absolute seclusion, not a
sight or sound of a human being disturbing their peacefulness, such
as it was. The changes of the weather were their only events, the
birds of the New Forest their only company. By tacit consent they
hardly once spoke of any incident of the past subsequent to their
wedding-day. The gloomy intervening time seemed to sink into chaos,
over which the present and prior times closed as if it never had
been. Whenever he suggested that they should leave their shelter,
and go forwards towards Southampton or London, she showed a strange
unwillingness to move.
"Why should we put an end to all that's sweet and lovely!" she
deprecated. "What must come will come." And, looking through the
shutter-chink: "All is trouble outside there; inside here content."
He peeped out also. It was quite true; within was affection, union,
error forgiven: outside was the inexorable.
"And--and," she said, pressing her cheek against his, "I fear that
what you think of me now may not last. I do not wish to outlive your
present feeling for me. I would rather not. I would rather be dead
and buried when the time comes for you to despise me, so that it may
never be known to me that you despised me."
"I cannot ever despise you."
"I also hope that. But considering what my life has been, I cannot
see why any man should, sooner or later, be able to help despising
me.... How wickedly mad I was! Yet formerly I never could bear to
hurt a fly or a worm, and the sight of a bird in a cage used often to
make me cry."
They remained yet another day. In the night the dull sky cleared,
and the result was that the old caretaker at the cottage awoke early.
The brilliant sunrise made her unusually brisk; she decided to open
the contiguous mansion immediately, and to air it thoroughly on such
a day. Thus it occurred that, having arrived and opened the lower
rooms before six o'clock, she ascended to the bedchambers, and was
about to turn the handle of the one wherein they lay. At that moment
she fancied she could hear the breathing of persons within. Her
slippers and her antiquity had rendered her progress a noiseless one
so far, and she made for instant retreat; then, deeming that her
hearing might have deceived her, she turned anew to the door and
softly tried the handle. The lock was out of order, but a piece of
furniture had been moved forward on the inside, which prevented her
opening the door more than an inch or two. A stream of morning light
through the shutter-chink fell upon the faces of the pair, wrapped in
profound slumber, Tess's lips being parted like a half-opened flower
near his cheek. The caretaker was so struck with their innocent
appearance, and with the elegance of Tess's gown hanging across a
chair, her silk stockings beside it, the pretty parasol, and the
other habits in which she had arrived because she had none else, that
her first indignation at the effrontery of tramps and vagabonds gave
way to a momentary sentimentality over this genteel elopement, as it
seemed. She closed the door, and withdrew as softly as she had come,
to go and consult with her neighbours on the odd discovery.
Not more than a minute had elapsed after her withdrawal when Tess
woke, and then Clare. Both had a sense that something had disturbed
them, though they could not say what; and the uneasy feeling which
it engendered grew stronger. As soon as he was dressed he narrowly
scanned the lawn through the two or three inches of shutter-chink.
"I think we will leave at once," said he. "It is a fine day. And I
cannot help fancying somebody is about the house. At any rate, the
woman will be sure to come to-day."
She passively assented, and putting the room in order, they took up
the few articles that belonged to them, and departed noiselessly.
When they had got into the Forest she turned to take a last look at
the house.
"Ah, happy house--goodbye!" she said. "My life can only be a
question of a few weeks. Why should we not have stayed there?"
"Don't say it, Tess! We shall soon get out of this district
altogether. We'll continue our course as we've begun it, and keep
straight north. Nobody will think of looking for us there. We shall
be looked for at the Wessex ports if we are sought at all. When we
are in the north we will get to a port and away."
Having thus persuaded her, the plan was pursued, and they kept a
bee-line northward. Their long repose at the manor-house lent them
walking power now; and towards mid-day they found that they were
approaching the steepled city of Melchester, which lay directly in
their way. He decided to rest her in a clump of trees during the
afternoon, and push onward under cover of darkness. At dusk Clare
purchased food as usual, and their night march began, the boundary
between Upper and Mid-Wessex being crossed about eight o'clock.
To walk across country without much regard to roads was not new
to Tess, and she showed her old agility in the performance. The
intercepting city, ancient Melchester, they were obliged to pass
through in order to take advantage of the town bridge for crossing a
large river that obstructed them. It was about midnight when they
went along the deserted streets, lighted fitfully by the few lamps,
keeping off the pavement that it might not echo their footsteps.
The graceful pile of cathedral architecture rose dimly on their left
hand, but it was lost upon them now. Once out of the town they
followed the turnpike-road, which after a few miles plunged across an
open plain.
Though the sky was dense with cloud, a diffused light from some
fragment of a moon had hitherto helped them a little. But the moon
had now sunk, the clouds seemed to settle almost on their heads, and
the night grew as dark as a cave. However, they found their way
along, keeping as much on the turf as possible that their tread might
not resound, which it was easy to do, there being no hedge or fence
of any kind. All around was open loneliness and black solitude, over
which a stiff breeze blew.
They had proceeded thus gropingly two or three miles further when
on a sudden Clare became conscious of some vast erection close in
his front, rising sheer from the grass. They had almost struck
themselves against it.
"What monstrous place is this?" said Angel.
"It hums," said she. "Hearken!"
He listened. The wind, playing upon the edifice, produced a booming
tune, like the note of some gigantic one-stringed harp. No other
sound came from it, and lifting his hand and advancing a step or
two, Clare felt the vertical surface of the structure. It seemed to
be of solid stone, without joint or moulding. Carrying his fingers
onward he found that what he had come in contact with was a colossal
rectangular pillar; by stretching out his left hand he could feel a
similar one adjoining. At an indefinite height overhead something
made the black sky blacker, which had the semblance of a vast
architrave uniting the pillars horizontally. They carefully entered
beneath and between; the surfaces echoed their soft rustle; but they
seemed to be still out of doors. The place was roofless. Tess drew
her breath fearfully, and Angel, perplexed, said--
"What can it be?"
Feeling sideways they encountered another tower-like pillar, square
and uncompromising as the first; beyond it another and another. The
place was all doors and pillars, some connected above by continuous
architraves.
"A very Temple of the Winds," he said.
The next pillar was isolated; others composed a trilithon; others
were prostrate, their flanks forming a causeway wide enough for a
carriage; and it was soon obvious that they made up a forest of
monoliths grouped upon the grassy expanse of the plain. The couple
advanced further into this pavilion of the night till they stood in
its midst.
"It is Stonehenge!" said Clare.
"The heathen temple, you mean?"
"Yes. Older than the centuries; older than the d'Urbervilles! Well,
what shall we do, darling? We may find shelter further on."
But Tess, really tired by this time, flung herself upon an oblong
slab that lay close at hand, and was sheltered from the wind by a
pillar. Owing to the action of the sun during the preceding day, the
stone was warm and dry, in comforting contrast to the rough and chill
grass around, which had damped her skirts and shoes.
"I don't want to go any further, Angel," she said, stretching out her
hand for his. "Can't we bide here?"
"I fear not. This spot is visible for miles by day, although it does
not seem so now."
"One of my mother's people was a shepherd hereabouts, now I think of
it. And you used to say at Talbothays that I was a heathen. So now
I am at home."
He knelt down beside her outstretched form, and put his lips upon
hers.
"Sleepy are you, dear? I think you are lying on an altar."
"I like very much to be here," she murmured. "It is so solemn and
lonely--after my great happiness--with nothing but the sky above my
face. It seems as if there were no folk in the world but we two;
and I wish there were not--except 'Liza-Lu."
Clare though she might as well rest here till it should get a little
lighter, and he flung his overcoat upon her, and sat down by her
side.
"Angel, if anything happens to me, will you watch over 'Liza-Lu for
my sake?" she asked, when they had listened a long time to the wind
among the pillars.
"I will."
"She is so good and simple and pure. O, Angel--I wish you would
marry her if you lose me, as you will do shortly. O, if you would!"
"If I lose you I lose all! And she is my sister-in-law."
"That's nothing, dearest. People marry sister-laws continually about
Marlott; and 'Liza-Lu is so gentle and sweet, and she is growing
so beautiful. O, I could share you with her willingly when we are
spirits! If you would train her and teach her, Angel, and bring her
up for your own self! ... She had all the best of me without the bad
of me; and if she were to become yours it would almost seem as if
death had not divided us... Well, I have said it. I won't mention
it again."
She ceased, and he fell into thought. In the far north-east sky he
could see between the pillars a level streak of light. The uniform
concavity of black cloud was lifting bodily like the lid of a pot,
letting in at the earth's edge the coming day, against which the
towering monoliths and trilithons began to be blackly defined.
"Did they sacrifice to God here?" asked she.
"No," said he.
"Who to?"
"I believe to the sun. That lofty stone set away by itself is in the
direction of the sun, which will presently rise behind it."
"This reminds me, dear," she said. "You remember you never would
interfere with any belief of mine before we were married? But I knew
your mind all the same, and I thought as you thought--not from any
reasons of my own, but because you thought so. Tell me now, Angel,
do you think we shall meet again after we are dead? I want to know."
He kissed her to avoid a reply at such a time.
"O, Angel--I fear that means no!" said she, with a suppressed sob.
"And I wanted so to see you again--so much, so much! What--not even
you and I, Angel, who love each other so well?"
Like a greater than himself, to the critical question at the critical
time he did not answer; and they were again silent. In a minute or
two her breathing became more regular, her clasp of his hand relaxed,
and she fell asleep. The band of silver paleness along the east
horizon made even the distant parts of the Great Plain appear dark
and near; and the whole enormous landscape bore that impress of
reserve, taciturnity, and hesitation which is usual just before day.
The eastward pillars and their architraves stood up blackly against
the light, and the great flame-shaped Sun-stone beyond them; and the
Stone of Sacrifice midway. Presently the night wind died out, and
the quivering little pools in the cup-like hollows of the stones lay
still. At the same time something seemed to move on the verge of the
dip eastward--a mere dot. It was the head of a man approaching them
from the hollow beyond the Sun-stone. Clare wished they had gone
onward, but in the circumstances decided to remain quiet. The figure
came straight towards the circle of pillars in which they were.
He heard something behind him, the brush of feet. Turning, he saw
over the prostrate columns another figure; then before he was aware,
another was at hand on the right, under a trilithon, and another on
the left. The dawn shone full on the front of the man westward, and
Clare could discern from this that he was tall, and walked as if
trained. They all closed in with evident purpose. Her story then
was true! Springing to his feet, he looked around for a weapon,
loose stone, means of escape, anything. By this time the nearest
man was upon him.
"It is no use, sir," he said. "There are sixteen of us on the Plain,
and the whole country is reared."
"Let her finish her sleep!" he implored in a whisper of the men as
they gathered round.
When they saw where she lay, which they had not done till then, they
showed no objection, and stood watching her, as still as the pillars
around. He went to the stone and bent over her, holding one poor
little hand; her breathing now was quick and small, like that of a
lesser creature than a woman. All waited in the growing light, their
faces and hands as if they were silvered, the remainder of their
figures dark, the stones glistening green-gray, the Plain still a
mass of shade. Soon the light was strong, and a ray shone upon her
unconscious form, peering under her eyelids and waking her.
"What is it, Angel?" she said, starting up. "Have they come for me?"
"Yes, dearest," he said. "They have come."
"It is as it should be," she murmured. "Angel, I am almost glad--yes,
glad! This happiness could not have lasted. It was too much. I
have had enough; and now I shall not live for you to despise me!"
She stood up, shook herself, and went forward, neither of the men
having moved.
"I am ready," she said quietly.
| 2,622 | Phase VII: "Fulfillment," Chapter Fifty-Eight | https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-58 | The next morning, Angel wakes up early and sneaks out to buy some food at a nearby village. Tess doesn't want to leave the house, since they're so secluded there from the outside world. Angel agrees to stay another night. Unfortunately, the caretaker of the house comes by to check things out early the next morning, and sees them while they're asleep. She assumes that they're a rich couple who decided to elope, and doesn't wake them, but she does go to ask her neighbors about what to do. They wake up a few minutes later, and have a vague fear that something's wrong, so they set out again. Angel decides that they had better avoid London and try to make for Bristol, a coastal town where they can find a ship, instead. They head cross-country, and walk well into the night. The moon is behind a cloud, and they almost walk into a huge upright stone. After asking themselves where they could possibly be, they feel around and discover that they're in a huge circle of upright stones, some of which have equally huge stones lying crossways above them. It's Stonehenge, they realize. Tess stretches out on one of the horizontal stones, which is still warm from the sun, even though it's dark now. She asks Angel to look after 'Liza-Lu if anything should happen to her. Angel promises. Tess goes further, and asks if he would marry 'Liza-Lu if she should die, which she figures she probably will. Angel objects--he doesn't want Tess to die, and it would be kind of weird to marry his sister-in-law. Eventually, Tess falls asleep, and Angel stays next to her, holding her hand. Just as the sun comes up, Angel realizes that they're surrounded by men coming to arrest Tess. He looks for a weapon, but the man in front tells him it's no use. Angel then begs for them at least to allow Tess to finish her sleep, which they agree to. She's not surprised when she wakes up, and says she's ready. | null | 342 | 1 | [
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44,747 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/30.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_29_part_0.txt | The Red and the Black.part 1.chapter 30 | part 1, chapter 30 | null | {"name": "Part 1, Chapter 30", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-1-chapter-30", "summary": "Father Pirard travels to Paris to meet with the Marquis de La Mole. He asks Pirard if he'd consider leaving the priesthood to become his personal assistant. The salary is generous, but Pirard declines. He suggests Julien Sorel as an alternative. The marquis agrees. Julien gets the letter asking him to come to Paris immediately. He travels to the bishop's house to say he's leaving. He says goodbye to his friend Fouqe too. Before leaving, he rides back to Verrieres and buys a ladder. He brings the ladder back to the de Renal house and uses it to sneak up into Madame de Renal's bedroom. She is shocked to see him, but also happy. The two of them spend the night together and he waits a long time before leaving. While they talk, he realizes that the five hundred francs from Paris was not from her. When he finally leaves, some servants hear him and start shooting, thinking he's a burglar. He escapes, though.", "analysis": ""} | CHAPTER XXX
AN AMBITIOUS MAN
There is only one nobility, the title of duke; a marquis is
ridiculous; the word duke makes one turn round.
_Edinburgh Review_.
The Marquis de la Mole received the abbe Pirard without any of those
aristocratic mannerisms whose very politeness is at the same time so
impertinent to one who understands them. It would have been a waste of
time, and the Marquis was sufficiently expeditious in big affairs to
have no time to lose.
He had been intriguing for six months to get both the king and people
to accept a minister who, as a matter of gratitude, was to make him a
Duke. The Marquis had been asking his Besancon advocate for years on
end for a clear and precise summary of his Franche-Comte lawsuits. How
could the celebrated advocate explain to him what he did not understand
himself? The little square of paper which the abbe handed him explained
the whole matter.
"My dear abbe," said the Marquis to him, having got through in less
than five minutes all polite formulae of personal questions. "My dear
abbe, in the midst of my pretended prosperity I lack the time to occupy
myself seriously with two little matters which are rather important,
my family and my affairs. I manage the fortune of my house on a large
scale. I can carry it far. I manage my pleasures, and that is the first
consideration in my eyes," he added, as he saw a look of astonishment
in the abbe Pirard's eyes. Although a man of common sense, the abbe was
surprised to hear a man talk so frankly about his pleasures.
"Work doubtless exists in Paris," continued the great lord, "but it is
perched on the fifth story, and as soon as I take anyone up, he takes
an apartment on the second floor, and his wife starts a day at home;
the result is no more work and no more efforts except either to be, or
appear to be, a society man. That is the only thing they bother about,
as soon as they have got their bread and butter.
"For my lawsuits, yes, for every single one of them, I have, to put it
plainly, advocates who quarrel to death. One died of consumption the
day before yesterday. Taking my business all round, would you believe,
monsieur, that for three years I have given up all hope of finding a
man who deigns, during the time he is acting as my clerk, to give a
little serious thought to what he is doing. Besides, all this is only a
preliminary.
"I respect you and would venture to add that, although I only see you
for the first time to-day, I like you. Will you be my secretary at a
salary of eight hundred francs or even double. I shall still be the
gainer by it, I swear to you, and I will manage to reserve that fine
living for you for the day when we shall no longer be able to agree."
The abbe refused, but the genuine embarrassment in which he saw the
Marquis suggested an idea to him towards the end of the conversation.
"I have left in the depths of my seminary a poor young man who, if I
mistake not, will be harshly persecuted. If he were only a simple monk
he would be already _in pace_. So far this young man only knows Latin
and the Holy Scriptures, but it is not impossible that he will one day
exhibit great talent, either for preaching or the guiding of souls. I
do not know what he will do, but he has the sacred fire. He may go far.
I thought of giving him to our Bishop, if we had ever had one who was a
little of your way of considering men and things."
"What is your young man's extraction?" said the Marquis.
"He is said to be the son of a carpenter in our mountains. I rather
believe he is the natural son of some rich man. I have seen him receive
an anonymous or pseudonymous letter with a bill for five hundred
francs."
"Oh, it is Julien Sorel," said the Marquis.
"How do you know his name?" said the abbe, in astonishment, reddening
at his question.
"That's what I'm not going to tell you," answered the Marquis.
"Well," replied the abbe, "you might try making him your secretary. He
has energy. He has a logical mind. In a word, it's worth trying."
"Why not?" said the Marquis. "But would he be the kind of man to allow
his palm to be greased by the Prefect of Police or any one else and
then spy on me? That is only my objection."
After hearing the favourable assurances of the abbe Pirard, the Marquis
took a thousand franc note.
"Send this journey money to Julien Sorel. Let him come to me."
"One sees at once," said the abbe Pirard, "that you live in Paris.
You do not know the tyranny which weighs us poor provincials down,
and particularly those priests who are not friendly to the Jesuits.
They will refuse to let Julien Sorel leave. They will manage to cloak
themselves in the most clever excuses. They will answer me that he is
ill, that his letters were lost in the post, etc., etc."
"I will get a letter from the minister to the Bishop, one of these
days," answered the Marquis.
"I was forgetting to warn you of one thing," said the abbe. "This young
man, though of low birth, has a high spirit. He will be of no use if
you madden his pride. You will make him stupid."
"That pleases me," said the Marquis. "I will make him my son's comrade.
Will that be enough for you?"
Some time afterwards, Julien received a letter in an unknown writing,
and bearing the Chelon postmark. He found in it a draft on a Besancon
merchant, and instructions to present himself at Paris without delay.
The letter was signed in a fictitious name, but Julien had felt a
thrill in opening it. A leaf of a tree had fallen down at his feet. It
was the agreed signal between himself and the abbe Pirard.
Within an hour's time, Julien was summoned to the Bishop's Palace,
where he found himself welcomed with a quite paternal benevolence. My
lord quoted Horace and at the same time complimented him very adroitly
on the exalted destiny which awaited him in Paris in such a way as
to elicit an explanation by way of thanks. Julien was unable to say
anything, simply because he did not know anything, and my Lord showed
him much consideration. One of the little priests in the bishopric
wrote to the mayor, who hastened to bring in person a signed passport,
where the name of the traveller had been left in blank.
Before midnight of the same evening, Julien was at Fouque's. His
friend's shrewd mind was more astonished than pleased with the future
which seemed to await his friend.
"You will finish up," said that Liberal voter, "with a place in the
Government, which will compel you to take some step which will be
calumniated. It will only be by your own disgrace that I shall have
news of you. Remember that, even from the financial standpoint, it is
better to earn a hundred louis in a good timber business, of which
one is his own master, than to receive four thousand francs from a
Government, even though it were that of King Solomon."
Julien saw nothing in this except the pettiness of spirit of a country
bourgeois. At last he was going to make an appearance in the theatre of
great events. Everything was over-shadowed in his eyes by the happiness
of going to Paris, which he imagined to be populated by people of
intellect, full of intrigues and full of hypocrisy, but as polite as
the Bishop of Besancon and the Bishop of Agde. He represented to his
friend that he was deprived of any free choice in the matter by the
abbe Pirard's letter.'
The following day he arrived at Verrieres about noon. He felt the
happiest of men for he counted on seeing Madame de Renal again. He
went first to his protector the good abbe Chelan. He met with a severe
welcome.
"Do you think you are under any obligation to me?" said M. Chelan to
him, without answering his greeting. "You will take breakfast with me.
During that time I will have a horse hired for you and you will leave
Verrieres without seeing anyone."
"Hearing is obeying," answered Julien with a demeanour smacking of
the seminary, and the only questions now discussed were theology and
classical Latin.
He mounted his horse, rode a league, and then perceiving a wood and
not seeing any one who could notice him enter, he plunged into it.
At sunset, he sent away the horse. Later, he entered the cottage of
a peasant, who consented to sell him a ladder and to follow him with
it to the little wood which commands the _Cours de la Fidelite_ at
Verrieres.
"I have been following a poor mutineer of a conscript ... or a
smuggler," said the peasant as he took leave of him, "but what does
it matter? My ladder has been well paid for, and I myself have done a
thing or two in that line."
The night was very black. Towards one o'clock in the morning, Julien,
laden with his ladder, entered Verrieres. He descended as soon as he
could into the bed of the stream, which is banked within two walls, and
traverses M. de Renal's magnificent gardens at a depth of ten feet.
Julien easily climbed up the ladder. "How will the watch dogs welcome
me," he thought. "It all turns on that." The dogs barked and galloped
towards him, but he whistled softly and they came and caressed him.
Then climbing from terrace to terrace he easily managed, although all
the grills were shut, to get as far as the window of Madame de Renal's
bedroom which, on the garden side, was only eight or six feet above the
ground. There was a little heart shaped opening in the shutters which
Julien knew well. To his great disappointment, this little opening was
not illuminated by the flare of a little night-light inside.
"Good God," he said to himself. "This room is not occupied by Madame de
Renal. Where can she be sleeping? The family must be at Verrieres since
I have found the dogs here, but I might meet M. de Renal himself, or
even a stranger in this room without a light, and then what a scandal!"
The most prudent course was to retreat, but this idea horrified Julien.
"If it's a stranger, I will run away for all I'm worth, and leave my
ladder behind me, but if it is she, what a welcome awaits me! I can
well imagine that she has fallen into a mood of penitence and the most
exalted piety, but after all, she still has some remembrance of me,
since she has written to me." This bit of reasoning decided him.
With a beating heart, but resolved none the less to see her or perish
in the attempt, he threw some little pebbles against the shutter.
No answer. He leaned his long ladder beside the window, and himself
knocked on the shutter, at first softly, and then more strongly.
"However dark it is, they may still shoot me," thought Julien. This
idea made the mad adventure simply a question of bravery.
"This room is not being slept in to-night," he thought, "or whatever
person might be there would have woken up by now. So far as it is
concerned, therefore, no further precautions are needed. I must only
try not to be heard by the persons sleeping in the other rooms."
He descended, placed his ladder against one of the shutters, climbed
up again, and placing his hand through the heart-shaped opening, was
fortunate enough to find pretty quickly the wire which is attached to
the hook which closed the shutter. He pulled this wire. It was with an
ineffable joy that he felt that the shutter was no longer held back,
and yielded to his effort.
I must open it bit by bit and let her recognise my voice. He opened the
shutter enough to pass his head through it, while he repeated in a low
voice, "It's a friend."
He pricked up his ears and assured himself that nothing disturbed the
profound silence of the room, but there could be no doubt about it,
there was no light, even half-extinguished, on the mantelpiece. It was
a very bad sign.
"Look out for the gun-shot," he reflected a little, then he ventured
to knock against the window with his finger. No answer. He knocked
harder. I must finish it one way or another, even if I have to break
the window. When he was knocking very hard, he thought he could catch
a glimpse through the darkness of something like a white shadow that
was crossing the room. At last there was no doubt about it. He saw a
shadow which appeared to advance with extreme slowness. Suddenly he saw
a cheek placed against the pane to which his eye was glued.
He shuddered and went away a little, but the night was so black that
he could not, even at this distance, distinguish if it were Madame de
Renal. He was frightened of her crying out at first in alarm. He heard
the dogs prowling and growling around the foot of the ladder. "It is
I," he repeated fairly loudly. "A friend."
No answer. The white phantom had disappeared.
"Deign to open to me. I must speak to you. I am too unhappy." And he
knocked hard enough to break the pane.
A crisp sound followed. The casement fastening of the window yielded.
He pushed the casement and leaped lightly into the room.
The white phantom flitted away from him. He took hold of its arms. It
was a woman. All his ideas of courage vanished. "If it is she, what is
she going to say?" What were his emotions when a little cry gave him to
understand, that it was Madame de Renal?
He clasped her in his arms. She trembled and scarcely had the strength
to push him away.
"Unhappy man. What are you doing?" Her agonised voice could scarcely
articulate the words.
Julien thought that her voice rang with the most genuine indignation.
"I have come to see you after a cruel separation of more than fourteen
months."
"Go away, leave me at once. Oh, M. Chelan, why did you prevent me
writing to him? I could then have foreseen this horror." She pushed
him away with a truly extraordinary strength. "Heaven has deigned to
enlighten me," she repeated in a broken voice. "Go away! Flee!"
"After fourteen months of unhappiness I shall certainly not leave you
without a word. I want to know all you have done. Yes, I have loved
you enough to deserve this confidence. I want to know everything."
This authoritative tone dominated Madame de Renal's heart in spite of
herself. Julien, who was hugging her passionately and resisting her
efforts to get loose, left off clasping her in his arms. This reassured
Madame de Renal a little.
"I will take away the ladder," he said, "to prevent it compromising
us in case some servant should be awakened by the noise, and go on a
round."
"Oh leave me, leave me!" she cried with an admirable anger. "What
do men matter to me! It is God who sees the awful scene you are now
making. You are abusing meanly the sentiments which I had for you but
have no longer. Do you hear, Monsieur Julien?"
He took away the ladder very slowly so as not to make a noise.
"Is your husband in town, dear," he said to her not in order to defy
her but as a sheer matter of habit.
"Don't talk to me like that, I beg you, or I will call my husband. I
feel only too guilty in not having sent you away before. I pity you,"
she said to him, trying to wound his, as she well knew, irritable pride.
This refusal of all endearments, this abrupt way of breaking so tender
a tie which he thought still subsisted, carried the transports of
Julien's love to the point of delirium.
"What! is it possible you do not love me?" he said to her, with one of
those accents that come straight from the heart and impose a severe
strain on the cold equanimity of the listener.
She did not answer. As for him, he wept bitterly.
In fact he had no longer the strength to speak.
"So I am completely forgotten by the one being who ever loved me, what
is the good of living on henceforth?" As soon as he had no longer to
fear the danger of meeting a man all his courage had left him; his
heart now contained no emotion except that of love.
He wept for a long time in silence.
He took her hand; she tried to take it away, and after a few almost
convulsive moments, surrendered it to him. It was extremely dark; they
were both sitting on Madame de Renal's bed.
"What a change from fourteen months ago," thought Julien, and his tears
redoubled. "So absence is really bound to destroy all human sentiments."
"Deign to tell me what has happened to you?" Julien said at last.
"My follies," answered Madame de Renal in a hard voice whose frigid
intonation contained in it a certain element of reproach, "were no
doubt known in the town when you left, your conduct was so imprudent.
Some time afterwards when I was in despair the venerable Chelan came to
see me. He tried in vain for a long time to obtain a confession. One
day he took me to that church at Dijon where I made my first communion.
In that place he ventured to speak himself----" Madame de Renal
was interrupted by her tears. "What a moment of shame. I confessed
everything. The good man was gracious enough not to overwhelm me with
the weight of his indignation. He grieved with me. During that time I
used to write letters to you every day which I never ventured to send.
I hid them carefully and when I was more than usually unhappy I shut
myself up in my room and read over my letters."
"At last M. Chelan induced me to hand them over to him, some of them
written a little more discreetly were sent to you, you never answered."
"I never received any letters from you, I swear!"
"Great heavens! Who can have intercepted them? Imagine my grief until
the day I saw you in the cathedral. I did not know if you were still
alive."
"God granted me the grace of understanding how much I was sinning
towards Him, towards my children, towards my husband," went on Madame
de Renal. "He never loved me in the way that I then thought that you
had loved me."
Julien rushed into her arms, as a matter of fact without any particular
purpose and feeling quite beside himself. But Madame de Renal repelled
him and continued fairly firmly.
"My venerable friend, M. Chelan, made me understand that in marrying I
had plighted all my affections, even those which I did not then know,
and which I had never felt before a certain fatal attachment ... after
the great sacrifice of the letters that were so dear to me, my life has
flowed on, if not happily, at any rate calmly. Do not disturb it. Be
a friend to me, my best friend." Julien covered her hand with kisses.
She perceived he was still crying. "Do not cry, you pain me so much.
Tell me, in your turn, what you have been doing," Julien was unable
to speak. "I want to know the life you lead at the seminary," she
repeated. "And then you will go."
Without thinking about what he was saying Julien spoke of the
numberless intrigues and jealousies which he had first encountered, and
then of the great serenity of his life after he had been made a tutor.
"It was then," he added, "that after a long silence which was no doubt
intended to make me realise what I see only too clearly to-day, that
you no longer loved me and that I had become a matter of indifference
to you...."
Madame de Renal wrung her hands.
"It was then that you sent me the sum of five hundred francs."
"Never," said Madame de Renal.
"It was a letter stamped Paris and signed Paul Sorel so as to avert
suspicion."
There was a little discussion about how the letter could possibly have
originated.
The psychological situation was altered. Without knowing it Julien had
abandoned his solemn tone; they were now once more on the footing of a
tender affection. It was so dark that they did not see each other but
the tone of their voices was eloquent of everything. Julien clasped
his arm round his love's waist. This movement had its dangers. She
tried to put Julien's arms away from her; at this juncture he cleverly
diverted her attention by an interesting detail in his story. The arm
was practically forgotten and remained in its present position.
After many conjectures as to the origin of the five hundred francs
letter, Julien took up his story. He regained a little of his
self-control as he spoke of his past life, which compared with what he
was now experiencing interested him so little. His attention was now
concentrated on the final outcome of of his visit. "You will have to
go," were the curt words he heard from time to time.
"What a disgrace for me if I am dismissed. My remorse will embitter all
my life," he said to himself, "she will never write to me. God knows
when I shall come back to this part of the country." From this moment
Julien's heart became rapidly oblivious of all the heavenly delights of
his present position.
Seated as he was close to a woman whom he adored and practically
clasping her in his arms in this room, the scene of his former
happiness, amid a deep obscurity, seeing quite clearly as he did that
she had just started crying, and feeling that she was sobbing from the
heaving of her chest, he was unfortunate enough to turn into a cold
diplomatist, nearly as cold as in those days when in the courtyard
of the seminary he found himself the butt of some malicious joke on
the part of one of his comrades who was stronger than he was. Julien
protracted his story by talking of his unhappy life since his departure
from Verrieres.
"So," said Madame de Renal to herself, "after a year's absence and
deprived almost entirely of all tokens of memory while I myself was
forgetting him, he only thought of the happy days that he had had in
Verrieres." Her sobs redoubled. Julien saw the success of his story.
He realised that he must play his last card. He abruptly mentioned a
letter he had just received from Paris.
"I have taken leave of my Lord Bishop."
"What! you are not going back to Besancon? You are leaving us for ever?"
"Yes," answered Julien resolutely, "yes, I am leaving a country where I
have been forgotten even by the woman whom I loved more than anyone in
my life; I am leaving it and I shall never see it again. I am going to
Paris."
"You are going to Paris, dear," exclaimed Madame de Renal.
Her voice was almost choked by her tears and showed the extremity of
her trouble. Julien had need of this encouragement. He was on the point
of executing a manoeuvre which might decide everything against him; and
up to the time of this exclamation he could not tell what effect he was
producing as he was unable to see. He no longer hesitated. The fear of
remorse gave him complete control over himself. He coldly added as he
got up.
"Yes, madame, I leave you for ever. May you be happy. Adieu."
He moved some steps towards the window. He began to open it. Madame de
Renal rushed to him and threw herself into his arms. So it was in this
way that, after a dialogue lasting three hours, Julien obtained what he
desired so passionately during the first two hours.
Madame de Renal's return to her tender feelings and this overshadowing
of her remorse would have been a divine happiness had they come a
little earlier; but, as they had been obtained by artifice, they were
simply a pleasure. Julien insisted on lighting the night-light in spite
of his mistress's opposition.
"Do you wish me then," he said to her "to have no recollection of
having seen you. Is the love in those charming eyes to be lost to me
for ever? Is the whiteness of that pretty hand to remain invisible?
Remember that perhaps I am leaving you for a very long time."
Madame de Renal could refuse him nothing. His argument made her melt
into tears. But the dawn was beginning to throw into sharp relief the
outlines of the pine trees on the mountain east of Verrieres. Instead
of going away Julien, drunk with pleasure, asked Madame de Renal to let
him pass the day in her room and leave the following night.
"And why not?" she answered. "This fatal relapse robs me of all my
respect and will mar all my life," and she pressed him to her heart.
"My husband is no longer the same; he has suspicions, he believes I led
him the way I wanted in all this business, and shows great irritation
against me. If he hears the slightest noise I shall be ruined, he will
hound me out like the unhappy woman that I am."
"Ah here we have a phrase of M. Chelan's," said Julien "you would not
have talked like that before my cruel departure to the seminary; in
those days you used to love me."
Julien was rewarded for the frigidity which he put into those words. He
saw his love suddenly forget the danger which her husband's presence
compelled her to run, in thinking of the much greater danger of seeing
Julien doubt her love. The daylight grew rapidly brighter and vividly
illuminated the room. Julien savoured once more all the deliciousness
of pride, when he saw this charming woman in his arms and almost at his
feet, the only woman whom he had ever loved, and who had been entirely
absorbed only a few hours before by her fear of a terrible God and her
devotion to her duties. Resolutions, fortified by a year's persuasion,
had failed to hold out against his courage.
They soon heard a noise in the house. A matter that Madame de Renal had
not thought of began to trouble her.
"That wicked Elisa will come into the room. What are we to do with this
enormous ladder?" she said to her sweetheart, "where are we to hide it?
I will take it to the loft," she exclaimed suddenly half playfully.
"But you will have to pass through the servants' room," said Julien in
astonishment.
"I will leave the ladder in the corridor and will call the servant and
send him on an errand."
"Think of some explanation to have ready in the event of a servant
passing the ladder and noticing it in the corridor."
"Yes, my angel," said Madame de Renal giving him a kiss "as for you,
dear, remember to hide under the bed pretty quickly if Elisa enters
here during my absence."
Julien was astonished by this sudden gaiety--"So" he thought, "the
approach of a real danger instead of troubling her gives her back
her spirits before she forgets her remorse. Truly a superior woman.
Yes, that's a heart over which it is glorious to reign." Julien was
transported with delight.
Madame de Renal took the ladder, which was obviously too heavy for her.
Julien went to her help. He was admiring that elegant figure which was
so far from betokening any strength when she suddenly seized the ladder
without assistance and took it up as if it had been a chair. She took
it rapidly into the corridor of the third storey where she laid it
alongside the wall. She called a servant, and in order to give him time
to dress himself, went up into the dovecot.
Five minutes later, when she came back to the corridor, she found no
signs of the ladder. What had happened to it? If Julien had been out
of the house she would not have minded the danger in the least. But
supposing her husband were to see the ladder just now, the incident
might be awful. Madame de Renal ran all over the house.
Madame de Renal finally discovered the ladder under the roof where the
servant had carried it and even hid it.
"What does it matter what happens in twenty-four hours," she thought,
"when Julien will be gone?"
She had a vague idea that she ought to take leave of life but what
mattered her duty? He was restored to her after a separation which she
had thought eternal. She was seeing him again and the efforts he had
made to reach her showed the extent of his love.
"What shall I say to my husband," she said to him. "If the servant
tells him he found this ladder?" She was pensive for a moment. "They
will need twenty-four hours to discover the peasant who sold it
to you." And she threw herself into Julien's arms and clasped him
convulsively.
"Oh, if I could only die like this," she cried covering him with
kisses. "But you mustn't die of starvation," she said with a smile.
"Come, I will first hide you in Madame Derville's room which is always
locked." She went and watched at the other end of the corridor and
Julien ran in. "Mind you don't try and open if any one knocks," she
said as she locked him in. "Anyway it would only be a frolic of the
children as they play together."
"Get them to come into the garden under the window," said Julien, "so
that I may have the pleasure of seeing them. Make them speak."
"Yes, yes," cried Madame de Renal to him as she went away. She soon
returned with oranges, biscuits and a bottle of Malaga wine. She had
not been able to steal any bread.
"What is your husband doing?" said Julien.
"He is writing out the figures of the bargains he is going to make with
the peasants."
But eight o'clock had struck and they were making a lot of noise in the
house. If Madame de Renal failed to put in an appearance, they would
look for her all over the house. She was obliged to leave him. Soon she
came back, in defiance of all prudence, bringing him a cup of coffee.
She was frightened lest he should die of starvation.
She managed after breakfast to bring the children under the window of
Madame Derville's room. He thought they had grown a great deal, but
they had begun to look common, or else his ideas had changed. Madame de
Renal spoke to them about Julien. The elder answered in an affectionate
tone and regretted his old tutor, but he found that the younger
children had almost forgotten him.
M. de Renal did not go out that morning; he was going up and downstairs
incessantly engaged in bargaining with some peasants to whom he was
selling potatoes.
Madame de Renal did not have an instant to give to her prisoner until
dinner-time. When the bell had been rung and dinner had been served,
it occurred to her to steal a plate of warm soup for him. As she
noiselessly approached the door of the room which he occupied, she
found herself face to face with the servant who had hid the ladder
in the morning. At the time he too was going noiselessly along the
corridor, as though listening for something. The servant took himself
off in some confusion.
Madame de Renal boldly entered Julien's room. The news of this
encounter made him shudder.
"You are frightened," she said to him, "but I would brave all the
dangers in the world without flinching. There is only one thing I fear,
and that is the moment when I shall be alone after you have left," and
she left him and ran downstairs.
"Ah," thought Julien ecstatically, "remorse is the only danger which
this sublime soul is afraid of."
At last evening came. Monsieur de Renal went to the Casino.
His wife had given out that she was suffering from an awful headache.
She went to her room, hastened to dismiss Elisa and quickly got up in
order to let Julien out.
He was literally starving. Madame de Renal went to the pantry to fetch
some bread. Julien heard a loud cry. Madame de Renal came back and told
him that when she went to the dark pantry and got near the cupboard
where they kept the bread, she had touched a woman's arm as she
stretched out her hand. It was Elisa who had uttered the cry Julien had
heard.
"What was she doing there?"
"Stealing some sweets or else spying on us," said Madame de Renal with
complete indifference, "but luckily I found a pie and a big loaf of
bread."
"But what have you got there?" said Julien pointing to the pockets of
her apron.
Madame de Renal had forgotten that they had been filled with bread
since dinner.
Julien clasped her in his arms with the most lively passion. She had
never seemed to him so beautiful. "I could not meet a woman of greater
character even at Paris," he said confusedly to himself. She combined
all the clumsiness of a woman who was but little accustomed to paying
attentions of this kind, with all the genuine courage of a person who
is only afraid of dangers of quite a different sphere and quite a
different kind of awfulness.
While Julien was enjoying his supper with a hearty appetite and his
sweetheart was rallying him on the simplicity of the meal, the door of
the room was suddenly shaken violently. It was M. de Renal.
"Why have you shut yourself in?" he cried to her.
Julien had only just time to slip under the sofa.
On any ordinary day Madame de Renal would have been upset by this
question which was put with true conjugal harshness; but she realised
that M. de Renal had only to bend down a little to notice Julien, for
M. de Renal had flung himself into the chair opposite the sofa which
Julien had been sitting in one moment before.
Her headache served as an excuse for everything. While her husband on
his side went into a long-winded account of the billiards pool which he
had won at Casino, "yes, to be sure a nineteen franc pool," he added.
She noticed Julien's hat on a chair three paces in front of them.
Her self-possession became twice as great, she began to undress, and
rapidly passing one minute behind her husband threw her dress over the
chair with the hat on it.
At last M. de Renal left. She begged Julien to start over again his
account of his life at the Seminary. "I was not listening to you
yesterday all the time you were speaking, I was only thinking of
prevailing on myself to send you away."
She was the personification of indiscretion. They talked very loud and
about two o'clock in the morning they were interrupted by a violent
knock at the door. It was M. de Renal again.
"Open quickly, there are thieves in the house!" he said. "Saint Jean
found their ladder this morning."
"This is the end of everything," cried Madame de Renal, throwing
herself into Julien's arms. "He will kill both of us, he doesn't
believe there are any thieves. I will die in your arms, and be more
happy in my death than I ever was in my life." She made no attempt to
answer her husband who was beginning to lose his temper, but started
kissing Julien passionately.
"Save Stanislas's mother," he said to her with an imperious look. "I
will jump down into the courtyard through the lavatory window, and
escape in the garden; the dogs have recognised me. Make my clothes into
a parcel and throw them into the garden as soon as you can. In the
meanwhile let him break the door down. But above all, no confession, I
forbid you to confess, it is better that he should suspect rather than
be certain."
"You will kill yourself as you jump!" was her only answer and her only
anxiety.
She went with him to the lavatory window; she then took sufficient time
to hide his clothes. She finally opened the door to her husband who was
boiling with rage. He looked in the room and in the lavatory without
saying a word and disappeared. Julien's clothes were thrown down to
him; he seized them and ran rapidly towards the bottom of the garden in
the direction of the Doubs.
As he was running he heard a bullet whistle past him, and heard at the
same time the report of a gun.
"It is not M. de Renal," he thought, "he's far too bad a shot." The
dogs ran silently at his side, the second shot apparently broke the paw
of one dog, for he began to whine piteously. Julien jumped the wall of
the terrace, did fifty paces under cover, and began to fly in another
direction. He heard voices calling and had a distinct view of his enemy
the servant firing a gun; a farmer also began to shoot away from the
other side of the garden. Julien had already reached the bank of the
Doubs where he dressed himself.
An hour later he was a league from Verrieres on the Geneva road. "If
they had suspicions," thought Julien, "they will look for me on the
Paris road."
| 5,929 | Part 1, Chapter 30 | https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-1-chapter-30 | Father Pirard travels to Paris to meet with the Marquis de La Mole. He asks Pirard if he'd consider leaving the priesthood to become his personal assistant. The salary is generous, but Pirard declines. He suggests Julien Sorel as an alternative. The marquis agrees. Julien gets the letter asking him to come to Paris immediately. He travels to the bishop's house to say he's leaving. He says goodbye to his friend Fouqe too. Before leaving, he rides back to Verrieres and buys a ladder. He brings the ladder back to the de Renal house and uses it to sneak up into Madame de Renal's bedroom. She is shocked to see him, but also happy. The two of them spend the night together and he waits a long time before leaving. While they talk, he realizes that the five hundred francs from Paris was not from her. When he finally leaves, some servants hear him and start shooting, thinking he's a burglar. He escapes, though. | null | 164 | 1 | [
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110 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/15.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_5_part_2.txt | Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 15 | chapter 15 | null | {"name": "CHAPTER 15", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD24.asp", "summary": "Tess remains with her parents during the winter months. The loss of her baby in August has made her even more pensive and melancholy. She longs to leave Marlott and work some place where she can hide from her past. After waiting for over a year, she finally gets a job as a milkmaid at the Talbothay's farm. In springtime, she departs without hesitation, for she knows that she can never find peace in Marlott, where they judge her by her past.", "analysis": "Notes Tess slips into an almost trance-like existence without emotion or sentiment. Her indelible memories, however, continue to remind her that her future holds nothing in store for her except sorrow and grief. She accepts her fate without complaining, for unhappiness by now, has simply become a way of life for this poor country girl. Hardy seems to challenge the idea that a fallen woman cannot have a future. He sounds pragmatic when he indicates that she could recover from the sin of her lost chastity if she is successful in veiling her past. At the end of the chapter, Tess is leaving Marlott and her accusers behind. It is important to notice that it is spring when Tess departs to find a new life for herself. It is significant because spring is the time of new beginnings and hope, foreshadowing that Tess may finally be moving towards happiness"} |
"By experience," says Roger Ascham, "we find out a short way by
a long wandering." Not seldom that long wandering unfits us for
further travel, and of what use is our experience to us then? Tess
Durbeyfield's experience was of this incapacitating kind. At last
she had learned what to do; but who would now accept her doing?
If before going to the d'Urbervilles' she had vigorously moved under
the guidance of sundry gnomic texts and phrases known to her and to
the world in general, no doubt she would never have been imposed on.
But it had not been in Tess's power--nor is it in anybody's power--to
feel the whole truth of golden opinions while it is possible to
profit by them. She--and how many more--might have ironically said
to God with Saint Augustine: "Thou hast counselled a better course
than Thou hast permitted."
She remained at her father's house during the winter months, plucking
fowls, or cramming turkeys and geese, or making clothes for her
sisters and brothers out of some finery which d'Urberville had given
her, and she had put by with contempt. Apply to him she would not.
But she would often clasp her hands behind her head and muse when she
was supposed to be working hard.
She philosophically noted dates as they came past in the revolution
of the year; the disastrous night of her undoing at Trantridge with
its dark background of The Chase; also the dates of the baby's birth
and death; also her own birthday; and every other day individualized
by incidents in which she had taken some share. She suddenly thought
one afternoon, when looking in the glass at her fairness, that there
was yet another date, of greater importance to her than those; that
of her own death, when all these charms would have disappeared; a day
which lay sly and unseen among all the other days of the year, giving
no sign or sound when she annually passed over it; but not the less
surely there. When was it? Why did she not feel the chill of each
yearly encounter with such a cold relation? She had Jeremy Taylor's
thought that some time in the future those who had known her would
say: "It is the ----th, the day that poor Tess Durbeyfield died"; and
there would be nothing singular to their minds in the statement. Of
that day, doomed to be her terminus in time through all the ages, she
did not know the place in month, week, season or year.
Almost at a leap Tess thus changed from simple girl to complex woman.
Symbols of reflectiveness passed into her face, and a note of tragedy
at times into her voice. Her eyes grew larger and more eloquent.
She became what would have been called a fine creature; her aspect
was fair and arresting; her soul that of a woman whom the turbulent
experiences of the last year or two had quite failed to demoralize.
But for the world's opinion those experiences would have been simply
a liberal education.
She had held so aloof of late that her trouble, never generally
known, was nearly forgotten in Marlott. But it became evident to her
that she could never be really comfortable again in a place which
had seen the collapse of her family's attempt to "claim kin"--and,
through her, even closer union--with the rich d'Urbervilles. At
least she could not be comfortable there till long years should have
obliterated her keen consciousness of it. Yet even now Tess felt the
pulse of hopeful life still warm within her; she might be happy in
some nook which had no memories. To escape the past and all that
appertained thereto was to annihilate it, and to do that she would
have to get away.
Was once lost always lost really true of chastity? she would ask
herself. She might prove it false if she could veil bygones. The
recuperative power which pervaded organic nature was surely not
denied to maidenhood alone.
She waited a long time without finding opportunity for a new
departure. A particularly fine spring came round, and the stir of
germination was almost audible in the buds; it moved her, as it moved
the wild animals, and made her passionate to go. At last, one day in
early May, a letter reached her from a former friend of her mother's,
to whom she had addressed inquiries long before--a person whom she
had never seen--that a skilful milkmaid was required at a dairy-house
many miles to the southward, and that the dairyman would be glad to
have her for the summer months.
It was not quite so far off as could have been wished; but it was
probably far enough, her radius of movement and repute having been
so small. To persons of limited spheres, miles are as geographical
degrees, parishes as counties, counties as provinces and kingdoms.
On one point she was resolved: there should be no more d'Urberville
air-castles in the dreams and deeds of her new life. She would be
the dairymaid Tess, and nothing more. Her mother knew Tess's feeling
on this point so well, though no words had passed between them on the
subject, that she never alluded to the knightly ancestry now.
Yet such is human inconsistency that one of the interests of the
new place to her was the accidental virtues of its lying near her
forefathers' country (for they were not Blakemore men, though her
mother was Blakemore to the bone). The dairy called Talbothays,
for which she was bound, stood not remotely from some of the former
estates of the d'Urbervilles, near the great family vaults of her
granddames and their powerful husbands. She would be able to look at
them, and think not only that d'Urberville, like Babylon, had fallen,
but that the individual innocence of a humble descendant could lapse
as silently. All the while she wondered if any strange good thing
might come of her being in her ancestral land; and some spirit within
her rose automatically as the sap in the twigs. It was unexpected
youth, surging up anew after its temporary check, and bringing with
it hope, and the invincible instinct towards self-delight.
END OF PHASE THE SECOND
Phase the Third: The Rally
| 984 | CHAPTER 15 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD24.asp | Tess remains with her parents during the winter months. The loss of her baby in August has made her even more pensive and melancholy. She longs to leave Marlott and work some place where she can hide from her past. After waiting for over a year, she finally gets a job as a milkmaid at the Talbothay's farm. In springtime, she departs without hesitation, for she knows that she can never find peace in Marlott, where they judge her by her past. | Notes Tess slips into an almost trance-like existence without emotion or sentiment. Her indelible memories, however, continue to remind her that her future holds nothing in store for her except sorrow and grief. She accepts her fate without complaining, for unhappiness by now, has simply become a way of life for this poor country girl. Hardy seems to challenge the idea that a fallen woman cannot have a future. He sounds pragmatic when he indicates that she could recover from the sin of her lost chastity if she is successful in veiling her past. At the end of the chapter, Tess is leaving Marlott and her accusers behind. It is important to notice that it is spring when Tess departs to find a new life for herself. It is significant because spring is the time of new beginnings and hope, foreshadowing that Tess may finally be moving towards happiness | 82 | 149 | [
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107 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/20.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Far From the Madding Crowd/section_19_part_0.txt | Far From the Madding Crowd.chapter 20 | chapter 20 | null | {"name": "Chapter 20", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-20", "summary": "Now we're with Bathsheba, who's sitting around and worrying about this whole thing she's started with Boldwood. She admits to herself that she likes him, but she doesn't like-like him. The day after Boldwood's proposal, Bathsheba visits Gabriel Oak at the bottom of her garden. She asks him whether the men are saying anything about her hanging out with Boldwood. He admits that people are talking about her and Boldwood marrying, and then holds her hands to show her how to hold shears to a grindstone. She tells Oak that she wants him to go around and set the record straight; she won't be marrying Boldwood. Oak says he has something to say about the way Bathsheba has led Boldwood on, but she says she doesn't want to hear it. When he persists, though, she snaps and orders him to leave her farm and never come back. So he does.", "analysis": ""} |
PERPLEXITY--GRINDING THE SHEARS--A QUARREL
"He is so disinterested and kind to offer me all that I can desire,"
Bathsheba mused.
Yet Farmer Boldwood, whether by nature kind or the reverse to kind,
did not exercise kindness, here. The rarest offerings of the purest
loves are but a self-indulgence, and no generosity at all.
Bathsheba, not being the least in love with him, was eventually able
to look calmly at his offer. It was one which many women of her own
station in the neighbourhood, and not a few of higher rank, would
have been wild to accept and proud to publish. In every point of
view, ranging from politic to passionate, it was desirable that she,
a lonely girl, should marry, and marry this earnest, well-to-do,
and respected man. He was close to her doors: his standing was
sufficient: his qualities were even supererogatory. Had she felt,
which she did not, any wish whatever for the married state in the
abstract, she could not reasonably have rejected him, being a woman
who frequently appealed to her understanding for deliverance from
her whims. Boldwood as a means to marriage was unexceptionable: she
esteemed and liked him, yet she did not want him. It appears that
ordinary men take wives because possession is not possible without
marriage, and that ordinary women accept husbands because marriage
is not possible without possession; with totally differing aims the
method is the same on both sides. But the understood incentive on
the woman's part was wanting here. Besides, Bathsheba's position
as absolute mistress of a farm and house was a novel one, and the
novelty had not yet begun to wear off.
But a disquiet filled her which was somewhat to her credit, for it
would have affected few. Beyond the mentioned reasons with which
she combated her objections, she had a strong feeling that, having
been the one who began the game, she ought in honesty to accept the
consequences. Still the reluctance remained. She said in the same
breath that it would be ungenerous not to marry Boldwood, and that
she couldn't do it to save her life.
Bathsheba's was an impulsive nature under a deliberative aspect. An
Elizabeth in brain and a Mary Stuart in spirit, she often performed
actions of the greatest temerity with a manner of extreme discretion.
Many of her thoughts were perfect syllogisms; unluckily they always
remained thoughts. Only a few were irrational assumptions; but,
unfortunately, they were the ones which most frequently grew into
deeds.
The next day to that of the declaration she found Gabriel Oak at the
bottom of her garden, grinding his shears for the sheep-shearing.
All the surrounding cottages were more or less scenes of the same
operation; the scurr of whetting spread into the sky from all parts
of the village as from an armoury previous to a campaign. Peace and
war kiss each other at their hours of preparation--sickles, scythes,
shears, and pruning-hooks, ranking with swords, bayonets, and lances,
in their common necessity for point and edge.
Cainy Ball turned the handle of Gabriel's grindstone, his head
performing a melancholy see-saw up and down with each turn of the
wheel. Oak stood somewhat as Eros is represented when in the act of
sharpening his arrows: his figure slightly bent, the weight of his
body thrown over on the shears, and his head balanced side-ways, with
a critical compression of the lips and contraction of the eyelids to
crown the attitude.
His mistress came up and looked upon them in silence for a minute or
two; then she said--
"Cain, go to the lower mead and catch the bay mare. I'll turn the
winch of the grindstone. I want to speak to you, Gabriel."
Cain departed, and Bathsheba took the handle. Gabriel had glanced up
in intense surprise, quelled its expression, and looked down again.
Bathsheba turned the winch, and Gabriel applied the shears.
The peculiar motion involved in turning a wheel has a wonderful
tendency to benumb the mind. It is a sort of attenuated variety of
Ixion's punishment, and contributes a dismal chapter to the history
of gaols. The brain gets muddled, the head grows heavy, and the
body's centre of gravity seems to settle by degrees in a leaden lump
somewhere between the eyebrows and the crown. Bathsheba felt the
unpleasant symptoms after two or three dozen turns.
"Will you turn, Gabriel, and let me hold the shears?" she said. "My
head is in a whirl, and I can't talk."
Gabriel turned. Bathsheba then began, with some awkwardness,
allowing her thoughts to stray occasionally from her story to attend
to the shears, which required a little nicety in sharpening.
"I wanted to ask you if the men made any observations on my going
behind the sedge with Mr. Boldwood yesterday?"
"Yes, they did," said Gabriel. "You don't hold the shears right,
miss--I knew you wouldn't know the way--hold like this."
He relinquished the winch, and inclosing her two hands completely in
his own (taking each as we sometimes slap a child's hand in teaching
him to write), grasped the shears with her. "Incline the edge so,"
he said.
Hands and shears were inclined to suit the words, and held thus for a
peculiarly long time by the instructor as he spoke.
"That will do," exclaimed Bathsheba. "Loose my hands. I won't have
them held! Turn the winch."
Gabriel freed her hands quietly, retired to his handle, and the
grinding went on.
"Did the men think it odd?" she said again.
"Odd was not the idea, miss."
"What did they say?"
"That Farmer Boldwood's name and your own were likely to be flung
over pulpit together before the year was out."
"I thought so by the look of them! Why, there's nothing in it. A
more foolish remark was never made, and I want you to contradict it!
that's what I came for."
Gabriel looked incredulous and sad, but between his moments of
incredulity, relieved.
"They must have heard our conversation," she continued.
"Well, then, Bathsheba!" said Oak, stopping the handle, and gazing
into her face with astonishment.
"Miss Everdene, you mean," she said, with dignity.
"I mean this, that if Mr. Boldwood really spoke of marriage, I bain't
going to tell a story and say he didn't to please you. I have
already tried to please you too much for my own good!"
Bathsheba regarded him with round-eyed perplexity. She did not know
whether to pity him for disappointed love of her, or to be angry with
him for having got over it--his tone being ambiguous.
"I said I wanted you just to mention that it was not true I was going
to be married to him," she murmured, with a slight decline in her
assurance.
"I can say that to them if you wish, Miss Everdene. And I could
likewise give an opinion to 'ee on what you have done."
"I daresay. But I don't want your opinion."
"I suppose not," said Gabriel bitterly, and going on with his
turning, his words rising and falling in a regular swell and cadence
as he stooped or rose with the winch, which directed them, according
to his position, perpendicularly into the earth, or horizontally
along the garden, his eyes being fixed on a leaf upon the ground.
With Bathsheba a hastened act was a rash act; but, as does not always
happen, time gained was prudence insured. It must be added, however,
that time was very seldom gained. At this period the single opinion
in the parish on herself and her doings that she valued as sounder
than her own was Gabriel Oak's. And the outspoken honesty of his
character was such that on any subject, even that of her love for,
or marriage with, another man, the same disinterestedness of opinion
might be calculated on, and be had for the asking. Thoroughly
convinced of the impossibility of his own suit, a high resolve
constrained him not to injure that of another. This is a lover's
most stoical virtue, as the lack of it is a lover's most venial sin.
Knowing he would reply truly she asked the question, painful as
she must have known the subject would be. Such is the selfishness
of some charming women. Perhaps it was some excuse for her thus
torturing honesty to her own advantage, that she had absolutely no
other sound judgment within easy reach.
"Well, what is your opinion of my conduct," she said, quietly.
"That it is unworthy of any thoughtful, and meek, and comely woman."
In an instant Bathsheba's face coloured with the angry crimson of
a Danby sunset. But she forbore to utter this feeling, and the
reticence of her tongue only made the loquacity of her face the more
noticeable.
The next thing Gabriel did was to make a mistake.
"Perhaps you don't like the rudeness of my reprimanding you, for I
know it is rudeness; but I thought it would do good."
She instantly replied sarcastically--
"On the contrary, my opinion of you is so low, that I see in your
abuse the praise of discerning people!"
"I am glad you don't mind it, for I said it honestly and with every
serious meaning."
"I see. But, unfortunately, when you try not to speak in jest you
are amusing--just as when you wish to avoid seriousness you sometimes
say a sensible word."
It was a hard hit, but Bathsheba had unmistakably lost her temper,
and on that account Gabriel had never in his life kept his own
better. He said nothing. She then broke out--
"I may ask, I suppose, where in particular my unworthiness lies? In
my not marrying you, perhaps!"
"Not by any means," said Gabriel quietly. "I have long given up
thinking of that matter."
"Or wishing it, I suppose," she said; and it was apparent that she
expected an unhesitating denial of this supposition.
Whatever Gabriel felt, he coolly echoed her words--
"Or wishing it either."
A woman may be treated with a bitterness which is sweet to her,
and with a rudeness which is not offensive. Bathsheba would have
submitted to an indignant chastisement for her levity had Gabriel
protested that he was loving her at the same time; the impetuosity
of passion unrequited is bearable, even if it stings and
anathematizes--there is a triumph in the humiliation, and a
tenderness in the strife. This was what she had been expecting,
and what she had not got. To be lectured because the lecturer saw
her in the cold morning light of open-shuttered disillusion was
exasperating. He had not finished, either. He continued in a more
agitated voice:--
"My opinion is (since you ask it) that you are greatly to blame for
playing pranks upon a man like Mr. Boldwood, merely as a pastime.
Leading on a man you don't care for is not a praiseworthy action.
And even, Miss Everdene, if you seriously inclined towards him, you
might have let him find it out in some way of true loving-kindness,
and not by sending him a valentine's letter."
Bathsheba laid down the shears.
"I cannot allow any man to--to criticise my private conduct!" she
exclaimed. "Nor will I for a minute. So you'll please leave the
farm at the end of the week!"
It may have been a peculiarity--at any rate it was a fact--that when
Bathsheba was swayed by an emotion of an earthly sort her lower lip
trembled: when by a refined emotion, her upper or heavenward one.
Her nether lip quivered now.
"Very well, so I will," said Gabriel calmly. He had been held to
her by a beautiful thread which it pained him to spoil by breaking,
rather than by a chain he could not break. "I should be even better
pleased to go at once," he added.
"Go at once then, in Heaven's name!" said she, her eyes flashing at
his, though never meeting them. "Don't let me see your face any
more."
"Very well, Miss Everdene--so it shall be."
And he took his shears and went away from her in placid dignity, as
Moses left the presence of Pharaoh.
| 1,882 | Chapter 20 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-20 | Now we're with Bathsheba, who's sitting around and worrying about this whole thing she's started with Boldwood. She admits to herself that she likes him, but she doesn't like-like him. The day after Boldwood's proposal, Bathsheba visits Gabriel Oak at the bottom of her garden. She asks him whether the men are saying anything about her hanging out with Boldwood. He admits that people are talking about her and Boldwood marrying, and then holds her hands to show her how to hold shears to a grindstone. She tells Oak that she wants him to go around and set the record straight; she won't be marrying Boldwood. Oak says he has something to say about the way Bathsheba has led Boldwood on, but she says she doesn't want to hear it. When he persists, though, she snaps and orders him to leave her farm and never come back. So he does. | null | 150 | 1 | [
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107 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/23.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Far From the Madding Crowd/section_22_part_0.txt | Far From the Madding Crowd.chapter 23 | chapter 23 | null | {"name": "Chapter 23", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-23", "summary": "Bathsheba decides to have a special supper to celebrate the shearing of her sheep. Everyone can tell that there's something that's gotten Bathsheba worked up, but no one knows what. Soon, though, Boldwood shows up for supper. As they all sit down, there's one man at the table that Bathsheba doesn't recognize at first. It turns out that the man is Pennyways, the old bailiff she caught stealing from her and fired. She demands that he leave, but the workmen convince her to let him stay. Besides, Pennyways is there because he has news about the runaway Fanny Robin. He says that he saw her in a nearby town of Melchester. Bathsheba wants him to continue with his story, but that's really all he has to say. There's some talk of Jan Coggan's wife having another baby, but she won't say one way or the other. When the eating is over, Jan Coggan sings a song for the table. Then Poorgrass sings one. Finally, they ask Bathsheba to sing to them, which she does with Gabriel accompanying her on his flute. Boldwood sings with her, too, shyly at first, but quickly swelling into a rich tone. Dude can sing. Later, Bathsheba wishes them all a good night and heads off, with Boldwood following her. Gabriel Oak goes off to walk alone under the trees. In the room with Bathsheba and Boldwood, we hear Bathsheba saying that she'll try to love Boldwood as best she can. However, she doesn't want to give him a promise right away. But she says there's a good chance she'll say yes soon. She just wants a few more weeks to think about it. She wishes him goodnight and he leaves.", "analysis": ""} |
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.
| 2,061 | Chapter 23 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-23 | Bathsheba decides to have a special supper to celebrate the shearing of her sheep. Everyone can tell that there's something that's gotten Bathsheba worked up, but no one knows what. Soon, though, Boldwood shows up for supper. As they all sit down, there's one man at the table that Bathsheba doesn't recognize at first. It turns out that the man is Pennyways, the old bailiff she caught stealing from her and fired. She demands that he leave, but the workmen convince her to let him stay. Besides, Pennyways is there because he has news about the runaway Fanny Robin. He says that he saw her in a nearby town of Melchester. Bathsheba wants him to continue with his story, but that's really all he has to say. There's some talk of Jan Coggan's wife having another baby, but she won't say one way or the other. When the eating is over, Jan Coggan sings a song for the table. Then Poorgrass sings one. Finally, they ask Bathsheba to sing to them, which she does with Gabriel accompanying her on his flute. Boldwood sings with her, too, shyly at first, but quickly swelling into a rich tone. Dude can sing. Later, Bathsheba wishes them all a good night and heads off, with Boldwood following her. Gabriel Oak goes off to walk alone under the trees. In the room with Bathsheba and Boldwood, we hear Bathsheba saying that she'll try to love Boldwood as best she can. However, she doesn't want to give him a promise right away. But she says there's a good chance she'll say yes soon. She just wants a few more weeks to think about it. She wishes him goodnight and he leaves. | null | 285 | 1 | [
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12,915 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/12915-chapters/11.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The White Devil/section_10_part_0.txt | The White Devil.act 5.scene 1 | act 5, scene 1 | null | {"name": "Act 5, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210510044810/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-white-devil/summary/act-5-scene-1", "summary": "After Vittoria and the Duke are married, Brachiano, Flamineo, Marcello, Hortensio,Vittoria, Cornelia, Zanche, and others pass over the stage in a procession. Only Flamineo and Hortensio remain behind. Flamineo says this marriage has made him the happiest he's been in a long time, and they talk about the Moor who is visiting the court. Flamineo says that the Moor seems like a great soldier. They also mention the Moor's companions, two Hungarian noblemen and former warriors who have become monks, now retiring to join the Capuchin order. Flamineo and Hortensio keep talking about the Moor: he is a Christian, and, according to Flamineo, he has an admirably low tolerance for courtly nonsense. He seems to understand that nobles are just as flawed as everyone else. Brachiano, the Moor , the Capuchin monks , and Antonelli all enter. Brachiano praises Mulinassar, and asks him to stay to see some fights at some barriers they'll build tonight, along with ambassadors who are there for the wedding. Mulinassar agrees, and Brachiano, Hortensio, and Flamineo exit. The remaining people on stage--Francisco, Lodovico, Gasparo, and Antonelli--all re-state their vows for revenge, embracing. Lodovico wishes they could poison Brachiano's tennis racket or saddle or do something cool like that. Francisco is open to sneaky stuff, but he kind of wishes he could've killed Brachiano on an open and fair field of fight. Lodovico, Antonelli, and Gasparo all exit, and Flamineo, Marcello, and Zanche re-enter. Marcello says that Flamineo is having an affair with Zanche, and Flamineo acts mildly dismissive, saying women tend to stick where their affection throws them. Zanche says she'll talk to the Moor--since she's a moor, as well--soon, when she gets the chance. She exits. Flamineo and Marcello chat with Mulinassar. Flamineo asks Mulinassar to tell them his exploits, but he's reluctant to toot his own horn. He also won't flatter the duke, since he believes all men are equal made of the same clay. Flamineo says he would probably boast about his war service if he had to beg in churches. Marcello says he's a soldier too, but hasn't made much money. Flamineo says good soldiers aren't recognized in peacetime. He'd personally rather be a cardinal's minion and get away with villainy. Flamineo talks about people he's heard of who went to fight the Turks and discovered they only earned enough money to buy themselves wooden legs and bandages. Francisco exits. Hortensio, a young Lord, and Zanche enter. The young Lord says they're getting ready to fight , and Flamineo disparages this young Lord to Hortensio. Flamineo tells Hortensio that he loves Zanche, but nervously and with caution, since she knows about his villainy. He's promised to marry her, but he acts like it wasn't a serious thing. Zanche comes over, and accuses Flamineo of being cool towards her. He says that's a good thing, and disputes with her when she asks if he remembers the promises he made her: yeah, he remembers them, but they were the like the prayers sailors make in a storm before things calm down and they go back to drinking. Cornelia enters and hits Zanche, telling her to go back to the kitchen. Cornelia exits. Zanche complains about Cornelia, and then Marcello calls her a strumpet and kicks her. Flamineo defends Zanche and argues with Marcello. As the argument heats up, Marcello threatens to cut Zanche's throat. Flamineo says he thinks Marcello might be the product of adultery, and Marcello says that they might end up killing one another. All exit, except for Zanche. Francisco, as Mulinassar, enters. Zanche confesses her love for him, and says that she'll give him a decent dowry if he marries her. Mulinassar says he'll consider the idea. She also says that she can tell him blood-curdling secrets, and Francisco thinks he might be able to get some good intel out of her. They both exit.", "analysis": ""} | ACT V SCENE I
A passage over the stage of Brachiano, Flamineo, Marcello, Hortensio,
Corombona, Cornelia, Zanche, and others: Flamineo and Hortensio remain.
Flam. In all the weary minutes of my life,
Day ne'er broke up till now. This marriage
Confirms me happy.
Hort. 'Tis a good assurance.
Saw you not yet the Moor that 's come to court?
Flam. Yes, and conferr'd with him i' th' duke's closet.
I have not seen a goodlier personage,
Nor ever talk'd with man better experience'd
In State affairs, or rudiments of war.
He hath, by report, serv'd the Venetian
In Candy these twice seven years, and been chief
In many a bold design.
Hort. What are those two
That bear him company?
Flam. Two noblemen of Hungary, that, living in the emperor's service as
commanders, eight years since, contrary to the strict Order of
Capuchins; but, being not well settled in their undertaking, they left
their Order, and returned to court; for which, being after troubled in
conscience, they vowed their service against the enemies of Christ,
went to Malta, were there knighted, and in their return back, at this
great solemnity, they are resolved for ever to forsake the world, and
settle themselves here in a house of Capuchins in Padua.
Hort. 'Tis strange.
Flam. One thing makes it so: they have vowed for ever to wear, next
their bare bodies, those coats of mail they served in.
Hort. Hard penance!
Is the Moor a Christian?
Flam. He is.
Hort. Why proffers he his service to our duke?
Flam. Because he understands there 's like to grow
Some wars between us and the Duke of Florence,
In which he hopes employment.
I never saw one in a stern bold look
Wear more command, nor in a lofty phrase
Express more knowing, or more deep contempt
As if he travell'd all the princes' courts
Of Christendom: in all things strives t' express,
That all, that should dispute with him, may know,
Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright,
But look'd to near, have neither heat nor light.
The duke.
Enter Brachiano, Francisco disguised like Mulinassar, Lodovico
and Gasparo, bearing their swords, their helmets down, Antonelli,
Farnese.
Brach. You are nobly welcome. We have heard at full
Your honourable service 'gainst the Turk.
To you, brave Mulinassar, we assign
A competent pension: and are inly sorry,
The vows of those two worthy gentlemen
Make them incapable of our proffer'd bounty.
Your wish is, you may leave your warlike swords
For monuments in our chapel: I accept it,
As a great honour done me, and must crave
Your leave to furnish out our duchess' revels.
Only one thing, as the last vanity
You e'er shall view, deny me not to stay
To see a barriers prepar'd to-night:
You shall have private standings. It hath pleas'd
The great ambassadors of several princes,
In their return from Rome to their own countries,
To grace our marriage, and to honour me
With such a kind of sport.
Fran. I shall persuade them to stay, my lord.
Brach. Set on there to the presence.
[Exeunt Brachiano, Flamineo, and Hortensio.
Lodo. Noble my lord, most fortunately welcome;
[The conspirators her embrace.
You have our vows, seal'd with the sacrament,
To second your attempts.
Gas. And all things ready;
He could not have invented his own ruin
(Had he despair'd) with more propriety.
Lodo. You would not take my way.
Fran. 'Tis better order'd.
Lodo. T' have poison'd his prayer-book, or a pair of beads,
The pummel of his saddle, his looking-glass,
Or th' handle of his racket,--O, that, that!
That while he had been bandying at tennis,
He might have sworn himself to hell, and strook
His soul into the hazard! Oh, my lord,
I would have our plot be ingenious,
And have it hereafter recorded for example,
Rather than borrow example.
Fran. There 's now way
More speeding that this thought on.
Lodo. On, then.
Fran. And yet methinks that this revenge is poor,
Because it steals upon him like a thief:
To have ta'en him by the casque in a pitch'd field,
Led him to Florence----
Lodo. It had been rare: and there
Have crown'd him with a wreath of stinking garlic,
T' have shown the sharpness of his government,
And rankness of his lust. Flamineo comes.
[Exeunt Lodovico, Antonelli, and Gasparo.
Enter Flamineo, Marcello, and Zanche
Marc. Why doth this devil haunt you, say?
Flam. I know not:
For by this light, I do not conjure for her.
'Tis not so great a cunning as men think,
To raise the devil; for here 's one up already;
The greatest cunning were to lay him down.
Marc. She is your shame.
Flam. I pray thee pardon her.
In faith, you see, women are like to burs,
Where their affection throws them, there they 'll stick.
Zan. That is my countryman, a goodly person;
When he 's at leisure, I 'll discourse with him
In our own language.
Flam. I beseech you do. [Exit Zanche.
How is 't, brave soldier? Oh, that I had seen
Some of your iron days! I pray relate
Some of your service to us.
Fran. 'Tis a ridiculous thing for a man to be his own chronicle: I did
never wash my mouth with mine own praise, for fear of getting a
stinking breath.
Marc. You 're too stoical. The duke will expect other discourse from
you.
Fran. I shall never flatter him: I have studied man too much to do
that. What difference is between the duke and I? no more than between
two bricks, all made of one clay: only 't may be one is placed in top
of a turret, the other in the bottom of a well, by mere chance. If I
were placed as high as the duke, I should stick as fast, make as fair a
show, and bear out weather equally.
Flam. If this soldier had a patent to beg in churches, then he would
tell them stories.
Marc. I have been a soldier too.
Fran. How have you thrived?
Marc. Faith, poorly.
Fran. That 's the misery of peace: only outsides are then respected.
As ships seem very great upon the river, which show very little upon
the seas, so some men i' th' court seem Colossuses in a chamber, who,
if they came into the field, would appear pitiful pigmies.
Flam. Give me a fair room yet hung with arras, and some great cardinal
to lug me by th' ears, as his endeared minion.
Fran. And thou mayest do the devil knows what villainy.
Flam. And safely.
Fran. Right: you shall see in the country, in harvest-time, pigeons,
though they destroy never so much corn, the farmer dare not present the
fowling-piece to them: why? because they belong to the lord of the
manor; whilst your poor sparrows, that belong to the Lord of Heaven,
they go to the pot for 't.
Flam. I will now give you some politic instruction. The duke says he
will give you pension; that 's but bare promise; get it under his hand.
For I have known men that have come from serving against the Turk, for
three or four months they have had pension to buy them new wooden legs,
and fresh plasters; but after, 'twas not to be had. And this miserable
courtesy shows as if a tormentor should give hot cordial drinks to one
three-quarters dead o' th' rack, only to fetch the miserable soul again
to endure more dog-days.
[Exit Francisco. Enter Hortensio, a young Lord, Zanche, and two more.
How now, gallants? what, are they ready for the barriers?
Young Lord. Yes: the lords are putting on their armour.
Hort. What 's he?
Flam. A new upstart; one that swears like a falconer, and will lie in
the duke's ear day by day, like a maker of almanacs: and yet I knew
him, since he came to th' court, smell worse of sweat than an under
tennis-court keeper.
Hort. Look you, yonder 's your sweet mistress.
Flam. Thou art my sworn brother: I 'll tell thee, I do love that Moor,
that witch, very constrainedly. She knows some of my villainy. I do
love her just as a man holds a wolf by the ears; but for fear of her
turning upon me, and pulling out my throat, I would let her go to the
devil.
Hort. I hear she claims marriage of thee.
Flam. 'Faith, I made to her some such dark promise; and, in seeking to
fly from 't, I run on, like a frighted dog with a bottle at 's tail,
that fain would bite it off, and yet dares not look behind him. Now,
my precious gipsy.
Zan. Ay, your love to me rather cools than heats.
Flam. Marry, I am the sounder lover; we have many wenches about the
town heat too fast.
Hort. What do you think of these perfumed gallants, then?
Flam. Their satin cannot save them: I am confident
They have a certain spice of the disease;
For they that sleep with dogs shall rise with fleas.
Zan. Believe it, a little painting and gay clothes make you loathe me.
Flam. How, love a lady for painting or gay apparel? I 'll unkennel one
example more for thee. AEsop had a foolish dog that let go the flesh to
catch the shadow; I would have courtiers be better diners.
Zan. You remember your oaths?
Flam. Lovers' oaths are like mariners' prayers, uttered in extremity;
but when the tempest is o'er, and that the vessel leaves tumbling, they
fall from protesting to drinking. And yet, amongst gentlemen,
protesting and drinking go together, and agree as well as shoemakers
and Westphalia bacon: they are both drawers on; for drink draws on
protestation, and protestation draws on more drink. Is not this
discourse better now than the morality of your sunburnt gentleman?
Enter Cornelia
Corn. Is this your perch, you haggard? fly to th' stews.
[Strikes Zanche.
Flam. You should be clapped by th' heels now: strike i' th' court!
[Exit Cornelia.
Zan. She 's good for nothing, but to make her maids
Catch cold a-nights: they dare not use a bedstaff,
For fear of her light fingers.
Marc. You 're a strumpet,
An impudent one. [Kicks Zanche.
Flam. Why do you kick her, say?
Do you think that she 's like a walnut tree?
Must she be cudgell'd ere she bear good fruit?
Marc. She brags that you shall marry her.
Flam. What then?
Marc. I had rather she were pitch'd upon a stake,
In some new-seeded garden, to affright
Her fellow crows thence.
Flam. You 're a boy, a fool,
Be guardian to your hound; I am of age.
Marc. If I take her near you, I 'll cut her throat.
Flam. With a fan of feather?
Marc. And, for you, I 'll whip
This folly from you.
Flam. Are you choleric?
I 'll purge it with rhubarb.
Hort. Oh, your brother!
Flam. Hang him,
He wrongs me most, that ought t' offend me least:
I do suspect my mother play'd foul play,
When she conceiv'd thee.
Marc. Now, by all my hopes,
Like the two slaughter'd sons of OEdipus,
The very flames of our affection
Shall turn two ways. Those words I 'll make thee answer
With thy heart-blood.
Flam. Do, like the geese in the progress;
You know where you shall find me.
Marc. Very good. [Exit Flamineo.
And thou be'st a noble friend, bear him my sword,
And bid him fit the length on 't.
Young Lord. Sir, I shall. [Exeunt all but Zanche.
Zan. He comes. Hence petty thought of my disgrace!
[Enter Francisco.
I ne'er lov'd my complexion till now,
'Cause I may boldly say, without a blush,
I love you.
Fran. Your love is untimely sown; there 's a spring at Michaelmas, but
'tis but a faint one: I am sunk in years, and I have vowed never to
marry.
Zan. Alas! poor maids get more lovers than husbands: yet you may
mistake my wealth. For, as when ambassadors are sent to congratulate
princes, there 's commonly sent along with them a rich present, so
that, though the prince like not the ambassador's person, nor words,
yet he likes well of the presentment; so I may come to you in the same
manner, and be better loved for my dowry than my virtue.
Fran. I 'll think on the motion.
Zan. Do; I 'll now detain you no longer. At your better leisure, I 'll
tell you things shall startle your blood:
Nor blame me that this passion I reveal;
Lovers die inward that their flames conceal.
Fran. Of all intelligence this may prove the best:
Sure I shall draw strange fowl from this foul nest. [Exeunt.
| 2,816 | Act 5, Scene 1 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210510044810/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-white-devil/summary/act-5-scene-1 | After Vittoria and the Duke are married, Brachiano, Flamineo, Marcello, Hortensio,Vittoria, Cornelia, Zanche, and others pass over the stage in a procession. Only Flamineo and Hortensio remain behind. Flamineo says this marriage has made him the happiest he's been in a long time, and they talk about the Moor who is visiting the court. Flamineo says that the Moor seems like a great soldier. They also mention the Moor's companions, two Hungarian noblemen and former warriors who have become monks, now retiring to join the Capuchin order. Flamineo and Hortensio keep talking about the Moor: he is a Christian, and, according to Flamineo, he has an admirably low tolerance for courtly nonsense. He seems to understand that nobles are just as flawed as everyone else. Brachiano, the Moor , the Capuchin monks , and Antonelli all enter. Brachiano praises Mulinassar, and asks him to stay to see some fights at some barriers they'll build tonight, along with ambassadors who are there for the wedding. Mulinassar agrees, and Brachiano, Hortensio, and Flamineo exit. The remaining people on stage--Francisco, Lodovico, Gasparo, and Antonelli--all re-state their vows for revenge, embracing. Lodovico wishes they could poison Brachiano's tennis racket or saddle or do something cool like that. Francisco is open to sneaky stuff, but he kind of wishes he could've killed Brachiano on an open and fair field of fight. Lodovico, Antonelli, and Gasparo all exit, and Flamineo, Marcello, and Zanche re-enter. Marcello says that Flamineo is having an affair with Zanche, and Flamineo acts mildly dismissive, saying women tend to stick where their affection throws them. Zanche says she'll talk to the Moor--since she's a moor, as well--soon, when she gets the chance. She exits. Flamineo and Marcello chat with Mulinassar. Flamineo asks Mulinassar to tell them his exploits, but he's reluctant to toot his own horn. He also won't flatter the duke, since he believes all men are equal made of the same clay. Flamineo says he would probably boast about his war service if he had to beg in churches. Marcello says he's a soldier too, but hasn't made much money. Flamineo says good soldiers aren't recognized in peacetime. He'd personally rather be a cardinal's minion and get away with villainy. Flamineo talks about people he's heard of who went to fight the Turks and discovered they only earned enough money to buy themselves wooden legs and bandages. Francisco exits. Hortensio, a young Lord, and Zanche enter. The young Lord says they're getting ready to fight , and Flamineo disparages this young Lord to Hortensio. Flamineo tells Hortensio that he loves Zanche, but nervously and with caution, since she knows about his villainy. He's promised to marry her, but he acts like it wasn't a serious thing. Zanche comes over, and accuses Flamineo of being cool towards her. He says that's a good thing, and disputes with her when she asks if he remembers the promises he made her: yeah, he remembers them, but they were the like the prayers sailors make in a storm before things calm down and they go back to drinking. Cornelia enters and hits Zanche, telling her to go back to the kitchen. Cornelia exits. Zanche complains about Cornelia, and then Marcello calls her a strumpet and kicks her. Flamineo defends Zanche and argues with Marcello. As the argument heats up, Marcello threatens to cut Zanche's throat. Flamineo says he thinks Marcello might be the product of adultery, and Marcello says that they might end up killing one another. All exit, except for Zanche. Francisco, as Mulinassar, enters. Zanche confesses her love for him, and says that she'll give him a decent dowry if he marries her. Mulinassar says he'll consider the idea. She also says that she can tell him blood-curdling secrets, and Francisco thinks he might be able to get some good intel out of her. They both exit. | null | 645 | 1 | [
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1,929 | true | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/1929-chapters/act_i.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/The School for Scandal/section_0_part_0.txt | The School for Scandal.act i.scene i-scene ii | act i | null | {"name": "Act I", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180409073536/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-school-for-scandal/study-guide/summary-act-i", "summary": "The play starts with two prologues that set up the themes of scandal, rumors, and public appearance. Act I begins by presenting Lady Sneerwell, a wealthy widow, and her servant, Snake, gossiping as they usually do. Lady Sneerwell gossips because, in her past, someone destroyed her reputation. Lady Sneerwell reveals to Snake why she is so involved in matters concerning Sir Peter Teazle, his ward Maria, and the young brothers Charles and Joseph Surface: Joseph loves Maria, but Maria loves Charles, whom Lady Sneerwell also loves. Lady Sneerwell and Joseph have been plotting to make Maria and Charles drift apart by putting out a rumor that Charles and Sir Peter's wife, Teazle, are having an affair. Lady Sneerwell will be sending Snake to execute this plot. After Lady Sneerwell finishes explaining, Joseph enters. Snake leaves, and Joseph then tells Lady Sneerwell that he suspects Snake of not being entirely faithful to them and their secret plan, because Snake has been in conversation with Rowley, who was his father's steward. Maria now enters, having tried to escape Sir Benjamin Backbite, another man vying for her love, and his uncle Crabtree. She complains that she did not want to stay with Backbite and his uncle because they were talking badly about others. Maria is followed by Mrs. Candour, and then by Sir Benjamin Backbite and his uncle Crabtree, who start gossiping that the Surface brothers' rich uncle will soon return to England from the East Indies. Crabtree also lauds Sir Benjamin's poetic sensibilities. They then start gossiping about Charles' financial situation, so Maria chooses to leave. Mrs. Candour follows her to try to help, and then Crabtree and Benjamin follow as well. Scene II begins with a soliloquy by Sir Peter about his wife's spending habits. Rowley arrives and the two talk about Maria, discussing how she rejected Joseph and seems to like Charles. Rowley defends Charles and then tells Sir Peter that Sir Oliver arrived from the East Indies. Sir Peter fears that Sir Oliver will make fun of him for getting married, but he is excited to see a friend whom he last saw sixteen years ago.", "analysis": "Beginning with a prologue was fairly commonplace at the time of Sheridan's writing. These prologues are used to directly address the audience and set up some of the themes or issues of the play. Sometimes, these prologues were not even written by the playwright, much like the forward of a book. In this play, the audience first sees a \"portrait\" written by the playwright, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, followed by a prologue written by a man named Mr. Garric. From the beginning of the play proper, characters' names are important for understanding characters' personalities and Sheridan's sense of humor and irony. In the first scene, Lady Sneerwell talks to Snake openly about their plot to spread a nasty, false rumor about Charles Surface and Lady Sneerwell's personal reasons for enjoying creating scandal. Lady Sneerwell's name combines her social status with her major character trait of judging others . Snake's name is slightly more metaphorical, evoking ideas of sneakiness. This sneakiness is why Lady Sneerwell chooses him to do her bidding; ironically, it is also the character trait that allows Snake to reveal Lady Sneerwell's plot in the end. Lady Sneerwell's forwardness and honesty with Snake might be surprising in a Comedy of Manners. For example, she says directly, \"Wounded myself, in the early part of my life, by the envenomed tongue of slander, I confess I have since known no pleasure equal to the reducing others to the level of my own injured reputation\" . However, this honesty and self-awareness in the first scene allows the audience to contrast her manner in private with her behavior in the public sphere, where she constantly throws attention on others rather than drawing it to her own situation. Act I Scene I introduces many of the important characters and relationships of the play. When Maria is introduced, there is immediate contrast between her own manner and beliefs and those of the rest of the characters. In Maria's second line of the play, she explains why she fled from conversation with Benjamin Backbite, saying, \"his conversation is a perpetual libel on all his acquaintance\" , meaning that he, like Lady Sneerwell, is a gossip. Throughout the play, Maria is used as a symbol of innocence and purity. The love Joseph, Charles, and Benjamin all have for her could suggest either that society still sought morality in the midst of all the scandal and gossip that most people partook in, or that women specifically were expected to be seen as moral and pure. One of the major issue raised in Act I is the relation between mean gossip and wit. Maria suggests that she loses respect for wit when wit is used to hurt or spread gossip about another; in her words, when she \"see it in company with malice\" . However, Lady Sneerwell responds that the two concepts are inextricably linked. Sheridan is perhaps challenging his audience, and especially viewers who are highly educated or writers themselves, to contemplate whether all wit must have a \"barb that makes it stick\" . If nothing else, as a writer of satire, Sheridan certainly had to confront the relation between wit and meanness personally."} | PROLOGUE WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK
A school for Scandal! tell me, I beseech you,
Needs there a school this modish art to teach you?
No need of lessons now, the knowing think;
We might as well be taught to eat and drink.
Caused by a dearth of scandal, should the vapours
Distress our fair ones--let them read the papers;
Their powerful mixtures such disorders hit;
Crave what you will--there's quantum sufficit.
"Lord!" cries my Lady Wormwood (who loves tattle,
And puts much salt and pepper in her prattle),
Just risen at noon, all night at cards when threshing
Strong tea and scandal--"Bless me, how refreshing!
Give me the papers, Lisp--how bold and free! [Sips.]
LAST NIGHT LORD L. [Sips] WAS CAUGHT WITH LADY D.
For aching heads what charming sal volatile! [Sips.]
IF MRS. B. WILL STILL CONTINUE FLIRTING,
WE HOPE SHE'LL draw, OR WE'LL undraw THE CURTAIN.
Fine satire, poz--in public all abuse it,
But, by ourselves [Sips], our praise we can't refuse it.
Now, Lisp, read you--there, at that dash and star:"
"Yes, ma'am--A CERTAIN LORD HAD BEST BEWARE,
WHO LIVES NOT TWENTY MILES FROM GROSVENOR SQUARE;
FOR, SHOULD HE LADY W. FIND WILLING,
WORMWOOD IS BITTER"----"Oh! that's me! the villain!
Throw it behind the fire, and never more
Let that vile paper come within my door."
Thus at our friends we laugh, who feel the dart;
To reach our feelings, we ourselves must smart.
Is our young bard so young, to think that he
Can stop the full spring-tide of calumny?
Knows he the world so little, and its trade?
Alas! the devil's sooner raised than laid.
So strong, so swift, the monster there's no gagging:
Cut Scandal's head off, still the tongue is wagging.
Proud of your smiles once lavishly bestow'd,
Again our young Don Quixote takes the road;
To show his gratitude he draws his pen,
And seeks his hydra, Scandal, in his den.
For your applause all perils he would through--
He'll fight--that's write--a cavalliero true,
Till every drop of blood--that's ink--is spilt for you.
ACT I SCENE I.
--LADY SNEERWELL'S House
LADY SNEERWELL at her dressing table with LAPPET; MISS VERJUICE drinking
chocolate
LADY SNEERWELL. The Paragraphs you say were all inserted:
VERJUICE. They were Madam--and as I copied them myself in a feigned Hand
there can be no suspicion whence they came.
LADY SNEERWELL. Did you circulate the Report of Lady Brittle's Intrigue
with Captain Boastall?
VERJUICE. Madam by this Time Lady Brittle is the Talk of half the
Town--and I doubt not in a week the Men will toast her as a Demirep.
LADY SNEERWELL. What have you done as to the insinuation as to a certain
Baronet's Lady and a certain Cook.
VERJUICE. That is in as fine a Train as your Ladyship could wish. I told
the story yesterday to my own maid with directions to communicate it
directly to my Hairdresser. He I am informed has a Brother who courts a
Milliners' Prentice in Pallmall whose mistress has a first cousin whose
sister is Feme [Femme] de Chambre to Mrs. Clackit--so that in the
common course of Things it must reach Mrs. Clackit's Ears within
four-and-twenty hours and then you know the Business is as good as done.
LADY SNEERWELL. Why truly Mrs. Clackit has a very pretty Talent--a great
deal of industry--yet--yes--been tolerably successful in her way--To my
knowledge she has been the cause of breaking off six matches[,] of three
sons being disinherited and four Daughters being turned out of Doors.
Of three several Elopements, as many close confinements--nine separate
maintenances and two Divorces.--nay I have more than once traced her
causing a Tete-a-Tete in the Town and Country Magazine--when the Parties
perhaps had never seen each other's Faces before in the course of their
Lives.
VERJUICE. She certainly has Talents.
LADY SNEERWELL. But her manner is gross.
VERJUICE. 'Tis very true. She generally designs well[,] has a free
tongue and a bold invention--but her colouring is too dark and her
outline often extravagant--She wants that delicacy of Tint--and
mellowness of sneer--which distinguish your Ladyship's Scandal.
LADY SNEERWELL. Ah you are Partial Verjuice.
VERJUICE. Not in the least--everybody allows that Lady Sneerwell can do
more with a word or a Look than many can with the most laboured Detail
even when they happen to have a little truth on their side to support
it.
LADY SNEERWELL. Yes my dear Verjuice. I am no Hypocrite to deny the
satisfaction I reap from the Success of my Efforts. Wounded myself, in
the early part of my Life by the envenomed Tongue of Slander I confess
I have since known no Pleasure equal to the reducing others to the Level
of my own injured Reputation.
VERJUICE. Nothing can be more natural--But my dear Lady Sneerwell There
is one affair in which you have lately employed me, wherein, I confess I
am at a Loss to guess your motives.
LADY SNEERWELL. I conceive you mean with respect to my neighbour, Sir
Peter Teazle, and his Family--Lappet.--And has my conduct in this matter
really appeared to you so mysterious?
[Exit MAID.]
VERJUICE. Entirely so.
LADY SNEERWELL. [VERJUICE.?] An old Batchelor as Sir Peter was[,] having
taken a young wife from out of the Country--as Lady Teazle is--are
certainly fair subjects for a little mischievous raillery--but here are
two young men--to whom Sir Peter has acted as a kind of Guardian since
their Father's death, the eldest possessing the most amiable Character
and universally well spoken of[,] the youngest the most dissipated
and extravagant young Fellow in the Kingdom, without Friends or
caracter--the former one an avowed admirer of yours and apparently
your Favourite[,] the latter attached to Maria Sir Peter's ward--and
confessedly beloved by her. Now on the face of these circumstances it
is utterly unaccountable to me why you a young Widow with no great
jointure--should not close with the passion of a man of such character
and expectations as Mr. Surface--and more so why you should be so
uncommonly earnest to destroy the mutual Attachment subsisting between
his Brother Charles and Maria.
LADY SNEERWELL. Then at once to unravel this mistery--I must inform you
that Love has no share whatever in the intercourse between Mr. Surface
and me.
VERJUICE. No!
LADY SNEERWELL. His real attachment is to Maria or her Fortune--but
finding in his Brother a favoured Rival, He has been obliged to mask his
Pretensions--and profit by my Assistance.
VERJUICE. Yet still I am more puzzled why you should interest yourself
in his success.
LADY SNEERWELL. Heavens! how dull you are! cannot you surmise the
weakness which I hitherto, thro' shame have concealed even from
you--must I confess that Charles--that Libertine, that extravagant, that
Bankrupt in Fortune and Reputation--that He it is for whom I am thus
anxious and malicious and to gain whom I would sacrifice--everything----
VERJUICE. Now indeed--your conduct appears consistent and I no longer
wonder at your enmity to Maria, but how came you and Surface so
confidential?
LADY SNEERWELL. For our mutual interest--but I have found out him a long
time since[,] altho' He has contrived to deceive everybody beside--I
know him to be artful selfish and malicious--while with Sir Peter, and
indeed with all his acquaintance, He passes for a youthful Miracle of
Prudence--good sense and Benevolence.
VERJUICE. Yes yes--I know Sir Peter vows He has not his equal in
England; and, above all, He praises him as a MAN OF SENTIMENT.
LADY SNEERWELL. True and with the assistance of his sentiments and
hypocrisy he has brought Sir Peter entirely in his interests with
respect to Maria and is now I believe attempting to flatter Lady Teazle
into the same good opinion towards him--while poor Charles has no Friend
in the House--though I fear he has a powerful one in Maria's Heart,
against whom we must direct our schemes.
SERVANT. Mr. Surface.
LADY SNEERWELL. Shew him up. He generally calls about this Time. I don't
wonder at People's giving him to me for a Lover.
Enter SURFACE
SURFACE. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how do you do to-day--your most
obedient.
LADY SNEERWELL. Miss Verjuice has just been arraigning me on our mutual
attachment now; but I have informed her of our real views and the
Purposes for which our Geniuses at present co-operate. You know
how useful she has been to us--and believe me the confidence is not
ill-placed.
SURFACE. Madam, it is impossible for me to suspect that a Lady of Miss
Verjuice's sensibility and discernment----
LADY SNEERWELL. Well--well--no compliments now--but tell me when you saw
your mistress or what is more material to me your Brother.
SURFACE. I have not seen either since I saw you--but I can inform you
that they are at present at Variance--some of your stories have taken
good effect on Maria.
LADY SNEERWELL. Ah! my dear Verjuice the merit of this belongs to you.
But do your Brother's Distresses encrease?
SURFACE. Every hour. I am told He had another execution in his house
yesterday--in short his Dissipation and extravagance exceed anything I
have ever heard of.
LADY SNEERWELL. Poor Charles!
SURFACE. True Madam--notwithstanding his Vices one can't help feeling
for him--ah poor Charles! I'm sure I wish it was in my Power to be of
any essential Service to him--for the man who does not share in
the Distresses of a Brother--even though merited by his own
misconduct--deserves----
LADY SNEERWELL. O Lud you are going to be moral, and forget that you are
among Friends.
SURFACE. Egad, that's true--I'll keep that sentiment till I see Sir
Peter. However it is certainly a charity to rescue Maria from such a
Libertine who--if He is to be reclaim'd, can be so only by a Person of
your Ladyship's superior accomplishments and understanding.
VERJUICE. 'Twould be a Hazardous experiment.
SURFACE. But--Madam--let me caution you to place no more confidence in
our Friend Snake the Libeller--I have lately detected him in frequent
conference with old Rowland [Rowley] who was formerly my Father's
Steward and has never been a friend of mine.
LADY SNEERWELL. I'm not disappointed in Snake, I never suspected the
fellow to have virtue enough to be faithful even to his own Villany.
Enter MARIA
Maria my dear--how do you do--what's the matter?
MARIA. O here is that disagreeable lover of mine, Sir Benjamin Backbite,
has just call'd at my guardian's with his odious Uncle Crabtree--so I
slipt out and ran hither to avoid them.
LADY SNEERWELL. Is that all?
VERJUICE. Lady Sneerwell--I'll go and write the Letter I mention'd to
you.
SURFACE. If my Brother Charles had been of the Party, madam, perhaps you
would not have been so much alarmed.
LADY SNEERWELL. Nay now--you are severe for I dare swear the Truth
of the matter is Maria heard YOU were here--but my dear--what has Sir
Benjamin done that you should avoid him so----
MARIA. Oh He has done nothing--but his conversation is a perpetual Libel
on all his Acquaintance.
SURFACE. Aye and the worst of it is there is no advantage in not knowing
Them, for He'll abuse a stranger just as soon as his best Friend--and
Crabtree is as bad.
LADY SNEERWELL. Nay but we should make allowance[--]Sir Benjamin is a
wit and a poet.
MARIA. For my Part--I own madam--wit loses its respect with me, when I
see it in company with malice.--What do you think, Mr. Surface?
SURFACE. Certainly, Madam, to smile at the jest which plants a Thorn on
another's Breast is to become a principal in the mischief.
LADY SNEERWELL. Pshaw--there's no possibility of being witty without a
little [ill] nature--the malice of a good thing is the Barb that makes
it stick.--What's your opinion, Mr. Surface?
SURFACE. Certainly madam--that conversation where the Spirit of Raillery
is suppressed will ever appear tedious and insipid--
MARIA. Well I'll not debate how far Scandal may be allowable--but in a
man I am sure it is always contemtable.--We have Pride, envy, Rivalship,
and a Thousand motives to depreciate each other--but the male-slanderer
must have the cowardice of a woman before He can traduce one.
LADY SNEERWELL. I wish my Cousin Verjuice hadn't left us--she should
embrace you.
SURFACE. Ah! she's an old maid and is privileged of course.
Enter SERVANT
Madam Mrs. Candour is below and if your Ladyship's at leisure will leave
her carriage.
LADY SNEERWELL. Beg her to walk in. Now, Maria[,] however here is a
Character to your Taste, for tho' Mrs. Candour is a little talkative
everybody allows her to be the best-natured and best sort of woman.
MARIA. Yes with a very gross affectation of good Nature and
Benevolence--she does more mischief than the Direct malice of old
Crabtree.
SURFACE. Efaith 'tis very true Lady Sneerwell--Whenever I hear the
current running again the characters of my Friends, I never think them
in such Danger as when Candour undertakes their Defence.
LADY SNEERWELL. Hush here she is----
Enter MRS. CANDOUR
MRS. CANDOUR. My dear Lady Sneerwell how have you been this Century.
I have never seen you tho' I have heard of you very often.--Mr.
Surface--the World says scandalous things of you--but indeed it is
no matter what the world says, for I think one hears nothing else but
scandal.
SURFACE. Just so, indeed, Ma'am.
MRS. CANDOUR. Ah Maria Child--what[!] is the whole affair off between
you and Charles? His extravagance; I presume--The Town talks of nothing
else----
MARIA. I am very sorry, Ma'am, the Town has so little to do.
MRS. CANDOUR. True, true, Child; but there's no stopping people's
Tongues. I own I was hurt to hear it--as I indeed was to learn from the
same quarter that your guardian, Sir Peter[,] and Lady Teazle have not
agreed lately so well as could be wish'd.
MARIA. 'Tis strangely impertinent for people to busy themselves so.
MRS. CANDOUR. Very true, Child; but what's to be done? People will
talk--there's no preventing it.--why it was but yesterday I was told
that Miss Gadabout had eloped with Sir Filagree Flirt. But, Lord! there
is no minding what one hears; tho' to be sure I had this from very good
authority.
MARIA. Such reports are highly scandalous.
MRS. CANDOUR. So they are Child--shameful! shameful! but the world is
so censorious no character escapes. Lord, now! who would have suspected
your friend, Miss Prim, of an indiscretion Yet such is the ill-nature
of people, that they say her unkle stopped her last week just as she was
stepping into a Postchaise with her Dancing-master.
MARIA. I'll answer for't there are no grounds for the Report.
MRS. CANDOUR. Oh, no foundation in the world I dare swear[;] no more
probably than for the story circulated last month, of Mrs. Festino's
affair with Colonel Cassino--tho' to be sure that matter was never
rightly clear'd up.
SURFACE. The license of invention some people take is monstrous indeed.
MARIA. 'Tis so but in my opinion, those who report such things are
equally culpable.
MRS. CANDOUR. To be sure they are[;] Tale Bearers are as bad as the Tale
makers--'tis an old observation and a very true one--but what's to be
done as I said before--how will you prevent People from talking--to-day,
Mrs. Clackitt assured me, Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon were at last become
mere man and wife--like [the rest of their] acquaintance--she likewise
hinted that a certain widow in the next street had got rid of her Dropsy
and recovered her shape in a most surprising manner--at the same [time]
Miss Tattle, who was by affirm'd, that Lord Boffalo had discover'd his
Lady at a house of no extraordinary Fame--and that Sir Harry Bouquet and
Tom Saunter were to measure swords on a similar Provocation. But--Lord!
do you think I would report these Things--No, no[!] Tale Bearers as I
said before are just as bad as the talemakers.
SURFACE. Ah! Mrs. Candour, if everybody had your Forbearance and good
nature--
MRS. CANDOUR. I confess Mr. Surface I cannot bear to hear People
traduced behind their Backs[;] and when ugly circumstances come out
against our acquaintances I own I always love to think the best--by the
bye I hope 'tis not true that your Brother is absolutely ruin'd--
SURFACE. I am afraid his circumstances are very bad indeed, Ma'am--
MRS. CANDOUR. Ah! I heard so--but you must tell him to keep up his
Spirits--everybody almost is in the same way--Lord Spindle, Sir Thomas
Splint, Captain Quinze, and Mr. Nickit--all up, I hear, within this
week; so, if Charles is undone, He'll find half his Acquaintance ruin'd
too, and that, you know, is a consolation--
SURFACE. Doubtless, Ma'am--a very great one.
Enter SERVANT
SERVANT. Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite.
LADY SNEERWELL. Soh! Maria, you see your lover pursues you--Positively
you shan't escape.
Enter CRABTREE and SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE
CRABTREE. Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand. Mrs. Candour I don't believe
you are acquainted with my Nephew Sir Benjamin Backbite--Egad, Ma'am, He
has a pretty wit--and is a pretty Poet too isn't He Lady Sneerwell?
SIR BENJAMIN. O fie, Uncle!
CRABTREE. Nay egad it's true--I back him at a Rebus or a Charade against
the best Rhymer in the Kingdom--has your Ladyship heard the Epigram he
wrote last week on Lady Frizzle's Feather catching Fire--Do Benjamin
repeat it--or the Charade you made last Night extempore at Mrs.
Drowzie's conversazione--Come now your first is the Name of a Fish, your
second a great naval commander--and
SIR BENJAMIN. Dear Uncle--now--prithee----
CRABTREE. Efaith, Ma'am--'twould surprise you to hear how ready he is at
all these Things.
LADY SNEERWELL. I wonder Sir Benjamin you never publish anything.
SIR BENJAMIN. To say truth, Ma'am, 'tis very vulgar to Print and as my
little Productions are mostly Satires and Lampoons I find they
circulate more by giving copies in confidence to the Friends of the
Parties--however I have some love-Elegies, which, when favoured with
this lady's smile I mean to give to the Public.
[Pointing to MARIA.]
CRABTREE. 'Fore Heaven, ma'am, they'll immortalize you--you'll be handed
down to Posterity, like Petrarch's Laura, or Waller's Sacharissa.
SIR BENJAMIN. Yes Madam I think you will like them--when you shall see
in a beautiful Quarto Page how a neat rivulet of Text shall meander
thro' a meadow of margin--'fore Gad, they will be the most elegant
Things of their kind--
CRABTREE. But Ladies, have you heard the news?
MRS. CANDOUR. What, Sir, do you mean the Report of----
CRABTREE. No ma'am that's not it.--Miss Nicely is going to be married to
her own Footman.
MRS. CANDOUR. Impossible!
CRABTREE. Ask Sir Benjamin.
SIR BENJAMIN. 'Tis very true, Ma'am--everything is fixed and the wedding
Livery bespoke.
CRABTREE. Yes and they say there were pressing reasons for't.
MRS. CANDOUR. It cannot be--and I wonder any one should believe such a
story of so prudent a Lady as Miss Nicely.
SIR BENJAMIN. O Lud! ma'am, that's the very reason 'twas believed at
once. She has always been so cautious and so reserved, that everybody
was sure there was some reason for it at bottom.
LADY SNEERWELL. Yes a Tale of Scandal is as fatal to the Reputation of
a prudent Lady of her stamp as a Fever is generally to those of the
strongest Constitutions, but there is a sort of puny sickly Reputation,
that is always ailing yet will outlive the robuster characters of a
hundred Prudes.
SIR BENJAMIN. True Madam there are Valetudinarians in Reputation as well
as constitution--who being conscious of their weak Part, avoid the
least breath of air, and supply their want of Stamina by care and
circumspection--
MRS. CANDOUR. Well but this may be all mistake--You know, Sir Benjamin
very trifling circumstances often give rise to the most injurious Tales.
CRABTREE. That they do I'll be sworn Ma'am--did you ever hear how
Miss Shepherd came to lose her Lover and her Character last summer at
Tunbridge--Sir Benjamin you remember it--
SIR BENJAMIN. O to be sure the most whimsical circumstance--
LADY SNEERWELL. How was it Pray--
CRABTREE. Why one evening at Mrs. Ponto's Assembly--the conversation
happened to turn on the difficulty of breeding Nova-Scotia Sheep in
this country--says a young Lady in company[, "]I have known instances
of it[--]for Miss Letitia Shepherd, a first cousin of mine, had a
Nova-Scotia Sheep that produced her Twins.["--"]What!["] cries the old
Dowager Lady Dundizzy (who you know is as deaf as a Post), ["]has Miss
Letitia Shepherd had twins["]--This Mistake--as you may imagine, threw
the whole company into a fit of Laughing--However 'twas the next morning
everywhere reported and in a few Days believed by the whole Town, that
Miss Letitia Shepherd had actually been brought to Bed of a fine Boy
and Girl--and in less than a week there were People who could name the
Father, and the Farm House where the Babies were put out to Nurse.
LADY SNEERWELL. Strange indeed!
CRABTREE. Matter of Fact, I assure you--O Lud! Mr. Surface pray is it
true that your uncle Sir Oliver is coming home--
SURFACE. Not that I know of indeed Sir.
CRABTREE. He has been in the East Indies a long time--you can scarcely
remember him--I believe--sad comfort on his arrival to hear how your
Brother has gone on!
SURFACE. Charles has been imprudent Sir to be sure[;] but I hope no Busy
people have already prejudiced Sir Oliver against him--He may reform--
SIR BENJAMIN. To be sure He may--for my Part I never believed him to be
so utterly void of Principle as People say--and tho' he has lost all his
Friends I am told nobody is better spoken of--by the Jews.
CRABTREE. That's true egad nephew--if the Old Jewry was a Ward I believe
Charles would be an alderman--no man more popular there, 'fore Gad I
hear He pays as many annuities as the Irish Tontine and that whenever
He's sick they have Prayers for the recovery of his Health in the
synagogue--
SIR BENJAMIN. Yet no man lives in greater Splendour:--they tell me when
He entertains his Friends--He can sit down to dinner with a dozen of his
own Securities, have a score Tradesmen waiting in the Anti-Chamber, and
an officer behind every guest's Chair.
SURFACE. This may be entertainment to you Gentlemen but you pay very
little regard to the Feelings of a Brother.
MARIA. Their malice is intolerable--Lady Sneerwell I must wish you a
good morning--I'm not very well.
[Exit MARIA.]
MRS. CANDOUR. O dear she chang'd colour very much!
LADY SNEERWELL. Do Mrs. Candour follow her--she may want assistance.
MRS. CANDOUR. That I will with all my soul ma'am.--Poor dear Girl--who
knows--what her situation may be!
[Exit MRS. CANDOUR.]
LADY SNEERWELL. 'Twas nothing but that she could not bear to hear
Charles reflected on notwithstanding their difference.
SIR BENJAMIN. The young Lady's Penchant is obvious.
CRABTREE. But Benjamin--you mustn't give up the Pursuit for that--follow
her and put her into good humour--repeat her some of your verses--come,
I'll assist you--
SIR BENJAMIN. Mr. Surface I did not mean to hurt you--but depend on't
your Brother is utterly undone--
[Going.]
CRABTREE. O Lud! aye--undone--as ever man was--can't raise a guinea.
SIR BENJAMIN. And everything sold--I'm told--that was movable--
[Going.]
CRABTREE. I was at his house--not a thing left but some empty Bottles
that were overlooked and the Family Pictures, which I believe are framed
in the Wainscot.
[Going.]
SIR BENJAMIN. And I'm very sorry to hear also some bad stories against
him.
[Going.]
CRABTREE. O He has done many mean things--that's certain!
SIR BENJAMIN. But however as He is your Brother----
[Going.]
CRABTREE. We'll tell you all another opportunity.
[Exeunt.]
LADY SNEERWELL. Ha! ha! ha! 'tis very hard for them to leave a subject
they have not quite run down.
SURFACE. And I believe the Abuse was no more acceptable to your Ladyship
than Maria.
LADY SNEERWELL. I doubt her Affections are farther engaged than we
imagin'd but the Family are to be here this Evening so you may as
well dine where you are and we shall have an opportunity of observing
farther--in the meantime, I'll go and plot Mischief and you shall study
Sentiments.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II.
--SIR PETER'S House
Enter SIR PETER
SIR PETER. When an old Bachelor takes a young Wife--what is He to
expect--'Tis now six months since Lady Teazle made me the happiest
of men--and I have been the most miserable Dog ever since that ever
committed wedlock. We tift a little going to church--and came to a
Quarrel before the Bells had done ringing--I was more than once nearly
chok'd with gall during the Honeymoon--and had lost all comfort in Life
before my Friends had done wishing me Joy--yet I chose with caution--a
girl bred wholly in the country--who never knew luxury beyond one silk
gown--nor dissipation above the annual Gala of a Race-Ball--Yet she now
plays her Part in all the extravagant Fopperies of the Fashion and the
Town, with as ready a Grace as if she had never seen a Bush nor a
grass Plot out of Grosvenor-Square! I am sneered at by my old
acquaintance--paragraphed--in the news Papers--She dissipates my
Fortune, and contradicts all my Humours--yet the worst of it is I doubt
I love her or I should never bear all this. However I'll never be weak
enough to own it.
Enter ROWLEY
ROWLEY. Sir Peter, your servant:--how is 't with you Sir--
SIR PETER. Very bad--Master Rowley--very bad[.] I meet with nothing but
crosses and vexations--
ROWLEY. What can have happened to trouble you since yesterday?
SIR PETER. A good--question to a married man--
ROWLEY. Nay I'm sure your Lady Sir Peter can't be the cause of your
uneasiness.
SIR PETER. Why has anybody told you she was dead[?]
ROWLEY. Come, come, Sir Peter, you love her, notwithstanding your
tempers do not exactly agree.
SIR PETER. But the Fault is entirely hers, Master Rowley--I am myself,
the sweetest temper'd man alive, and hate a teasing temper; and so I
tell her a hundred Times a day--
ROWLEY. Indeed!
SIR PETER. Aye and what is very extraordinary in all our disputes she
is always in the wrong! But Lady Sneerwell, and the Set she meets at her
House, encourage the perverseness of her Disposition--then to complete
my vexations--Maria--my Ward--whom I ought to have the Power of a Father
over, is determined to turn Rebel too and absolutely refuses the man
whom I have long resolved on for her husband--meaning I suppose, to
bestow herself on his profligate Brother.
ROWLEY. You know Sir Peter I have always taken the Liberty to differ
with you on the subject of these two young Gentlemen--I only wish you
may not be deceived in your opinion of the elder. For Charles, my life
on't! He will retrieve his errors yet--their worthy Father, once my
honour'd master, was at his years nearly as wild a spark.
SIR PETER. You are wrong, Master Rowley--on their Father's Death you
know I acted as a kind of Guardian to them both--till their uncle Sir
Oliver's Eastern Bounty gave them an early independence. Of course no
person could have more opportunities of judging of their Hearts--and I
was never mistaken in my life. Joseph is indeed a model for the young
men of the Age--He is a man of Sentiment--and acts up to the Sentiments
he professes--but for the other[,] take my word for't [if] he had any
grain of Virtue by descent--he has dissipated it with the rest of his
inheritance. Ah! my old Friend, Sir Oliver will be deeply mortified when
he finds how Part of his Bounty has been misapplied.
ROWLEY. I am sorry to find you so violent against the young man because
this may be the most critical Period of his Fortune. I came hither with
news that will surprise you.
SIR PETER. What! let me hear--
ROWLEY. Sir Oliver is arrived and at this moment in Town.
SIR PETER. How!--you astonish me--I thought you did not expect him this
month!--
ROWLEY. I did not--but his Passage has been remarkably quick.
SIR PETER. Egad I shall rejoice to see my old Friend--'Tis sixteen years
since we met--We have had many a Day together--but does he still enjoin
us not to inform his Nephews of his Arrival?
ROWLEY. Most strictly--He means, before He makes it known to make some
trial of their Dispositions and we have already planned something for
the purpose.
SIR PETER. Ah there needs no art to discover their merits--however he
shall have his way--but pray does he know I am married!
ROWLEY. Yes and will soon wish you joy.
SIR PETER. You may tell him 'tis too late--ah Oliver will laugh at
me--we used to rail at matrimony together--but He has been steady to his
Text--well He must be at my house tho'--I'll instantly give orders for
his Reception--but Master Rowley--don't drop a word that Lady Teazle and
I ever disagree.
ROWLEY. By no means.
SIR PETER. For I should never be able to stand Noll's jokes; so I'd have
him think that we are a very happy couple.
ROWLEY. I understand you--but then you must be very careful not to
differ while He's in the House with you.
SIR PETER. Egad--and so we must--that's impossible. Ah! Master Rowley
when an old Batchelor marries a young wife--He deserves--no the crime
carries the Punishment along with it.
[Exeunt.]
END OF THE FIRST ACT
| 4,669 | Act I | https://web.archive.org/web/20180409073536/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-school-for-scandal/study-guide/summary-act-i | The play starts with two prologues that set up the themes of scandal, rumors, and public appearance. Act I begins by presenting Lady Sneerwell, a wealthy widow, and her servant, Snake, gossiping as they usually do. Lady Sneerwell gossips because, in her past, someone destroyed her reputation. Lady Sneerwell reveals to Snake why she is so involved in matters concerning Sir Peter Teazle, his ward Maria, and the young brothers Charles and Joseph Surface: Joseph loves Maria, but Maria loves Charles, whom Lady Sneerwell also loves. Lady Sneerwell and Joseph have been plotting to make Maria and Charles drift apart by putting out a rumor that Charles and Sir Peter's wife, Teazle, are having an affair. Lady Sneerwell will be sending Snake to execute this plot. After Lady Sneerwell finishes explaining, Joseph enters. Snake leaves, and Joseph then tells Lady Sneerwell that he suspects Snake of not being entirely faithful to them and their secret plan, because Snake has been in conversation with Rowley, who was his father's steward. Maria now enters, having tried to escape Sir Benjamin Backbite, another man vying for her love, and his uncle Crabtree. She complains that she did not want to stay with Backbite and his uncle because they were talking badly about others. Maria is followed by Mrs. Candour, and then by Sir Benjamin Backbite and his uncle Crabtree, who start gossiping that the Surface brothers' rich uncle will soon return to England from the East Indies. Crabtree also lauds Sir Benjamin's poetic sensibilities. They then start gossiping about Charles' financial situation, so Maria chooses to leave. Mrs. Candour follows her to try to help, and then Crabtree and Benjamin follow as well. Scene II begins with a soliloquy by Sir Peter about his wife's spending habits. Rowley arrives and the two talk about Maria, discussing how she rejected Joseph and seems to like Charles. Rowley defends Charles and then tells Sir Peter that Sir Oliver arrived from the East Indies. Sir Peter fears that Sir Oliver will make fun of him for getting married, but he is excited to see a friend whom he last saw sixteen years ago. | Beginning with a prologue was fairly commonplace at the time of Sheridan's writing. These prologues are used to directly address the audience and set up some of the themes or issues of the play. Sometimes, these prologues were not even written by the playwright, much like the forward of a book. In this play, the audience first sees a "portrait" written by the playwright, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, followed by a prologue written by a man named Mr. Garric. From the beginning of the play proper, characters' names are important for understanding characters' personalities and Sheridan's sense of humor and irony. In the first scene, Lady Sneerwell talks to Snake openly about their plot to spread a nasty, false rumor about Charles Surface and Lady Sneerwell's personal reasons for enjoying creating scandal. Lady Sneerwell's name combines her social status with her major character trait of judging others . Snake's name is slightly more metaphorical, evoking ideas of sneakiness. This sneakiness is why Lady Sneerwell chooses him to do her bidding; ironically, it is also the character trait that allows Snake to reveal Lady Sneerwell's plot in the end. Lady Sneerwell's forwardness and honesty with Snake might be surprising in a Comedy of Manners. For example, she says directly, "Wounded myself, in the early part of my life, by the envenomed tongue of slander, I confess I have since known no pleasure equal to the reducing others to the level of my own injured reputation" . However, this honesty and self-awareness in the first scene allows the audience to contrast her manner in private with her behavior in the public sphere, where she constantly throws attention on others rather than drawing it to her own situation. Act I Scene I introduces many of the important characters and relationships of the play. When Maria is introduced, there is immediate contrast between her own manner and beliefs and those of the rest of the characters. In Maria's second line of the play, she explains why she fled from conversation with Benjamin Backbite, saying, "his conversation is a perpetual libel on all his acquaintance" , meaning that he, like Lady Sneerwell, is a gossip. Throughout the play, Maria is used as a symbol of innocence and purity. The love Joseph, Charles, and Benjamin all have for her could suggest either that society still sought morality in the midst of all the scandal and gossip that most people partook in, or that women specifically were expected to be seen as moral and pure. One of the major issue raised in Act I is the relation between mean gossip and wit. Maria suggests that she loses respect for wit when wit is used to hurt or spread gossip about another; in her words, when she "see it in company with malice" . However, Lady Sneerwell responds that the two concepts are inextricably linked. Sheridan is perhaps challenging his audience, and especially viewers who are highly educated or writers themselves, to contemplate whether all wit must have a "barb that makes it stick" . If nothing else, as a writer of satire, Sheridan certainly had to confront the relation between wit and meanness personally. | 357 | 528 | [
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107 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/26.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Far From the Madding Crowd/section_25_part_0.txt | Far From the Madding Crowd.chapter 26 | chapter 26 | null | {"name": "Chapter 26", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-26", "summary": "When he meets up with Bathsheba in the hay field, Troy continues assaulting her with compliment after compliment. She tries to fend him off with sarcasm and discouraging remarks, but he can't be stopped. Eventually, he makes her absolutely speechless with his compliments. He totally wears her down and she starts speaking kindly to him. Once she's speaking kindly to him, he says that he'll soon be leaving town with his regiment. He flat out tells her that he has loved her ever since he first saw her. Yikes, the guy is coming on a little strong, don't you think? Then Sergeant Troy outdoes himself by giving her a gold watch as a present. She says she can't possibly accept it, but he backs away before she can give it back. When Troy returns to working on the hay, Bathsheba can't even bring herself to look at her workmen. Her heart is pounding now, and it's clear that she's smitten with Troy.", "analysis": ""} |
SCENE ON THE VERGE OF THE HAY-MEAD
"Ah, Miss Everdene!" said the sergeant, touching his diminutive cap.
"Little did I think it was you I was speaking to the other night.
And yet, if I had reflected, the 'Queen of the Corn-market' (truth is
truth at any hour of the day or night, and I heard you so named in
Casterbridge yesterday), the 'Queen of the Corn-market.' I say, could
be no other woman. I step across now to beg your forgiveness a
thousand times for having been led by my feelings to express myself
too strongly for a stranger. To be sure I am no stranger to the
place--I am Sergeant Troy, as I told you, and I have assisted your
uncle in these fields no end of times when I was a lad. I have been
doing the same for you to-day."
"I suppose I must thank you for that, Sergeant Troy," said the Queen
of the Corn-market, in an indifferently grateful tone.
The sergeant looked hurt and sad. "Indeed you must not, Miss
Everdene," he said. "Why could you think such a thing necessary?"
"I am glad it is not."
"Why? if I may ask without offence."
"Because I don't much want to thank you for anything."
"I am afraid I have made a hole with my tongue that my heart will
never mend. O these intolerable times: that ill-luck should follow
a man for honestly telling a woman she is beautiful! 'Twas the most
I said--you must own that; and the least I could say--that I own
myself."
"There is some talk I could do without more easily than money."
"Indeed. That remark is a sort of digression."
"No. It means that I would rather have your room than your company."
"And I would rather have curses from you than kisses from any other
woman; so I'll stay here."
Bathsheba was absolutely speechless. And yet she could not help
feeling that the assistance he was rendering forbade a harsh repulse.
"Well," continued Troy, "I suppose there is a praise which is
rudeness, and that may be mine. At the same time there is a
treatment which is injustice, and that may be yours. Because a plain
blunt man, who has never been taught concealment, speaks out his mind
without exactly intending it, he's to be snapped off like the son of
a sinner."
"Indeed there's no such case between us," she said, turning away. "I
don't allow strangers to be bold and impudent--even in praise of me."
"Ah--it is not the fact but the method which offends you," he said,
carelessly. "But I have the sad satisfaction of knowing that my
words, whether pleasing or offensive, are unmistakably true. Would
you have had me look at you, and tell my acquaintance that you are
quite a common-place woman, to save you the embarrassment of being
stared at if they come near you? Not I. I couldn't tell any such
ridiculous lie about a beauty to encourage a single woman in England
in too excessive a modesty."
"It is all pretence--what you are saying!" exclaimed Bathsheba,
laughing in spite of herself at the sly method. "You have a rare
invention, Sergeant Troy. Why couldn't you have passed by me that
night, and said nothing?--that was all I meant to reproach you for."
"Because I wasn't going to. Half the pleasure of a feeling lies in
being able to express it on the spur of the moment, and I let out
mine. It would have been just the same if you had been the reverse
person--ugly and old--I should have exclaimed about it in the same
way."
"How long is it since you have been so afflicted with strong feeling,
then?"
"Oh, ever since I was big enough to know loveliness from deformity."
"'Tis to be hoped your sense of the difference you speak of doesn't
stop at faces, but extends to morals as well."
"I won't speak of morals or religion--my own or anybody else's.
Though perhaps I should have been a very good Christian if you pretty
women hadn't made me an idolater."
Bathsheba moved on to hide the irrepressible dimplings of merriment.
Troy followed, whirling his crop.
"But--Miss Everdene--you do forgive me?"
"Hardly."
"Why?"
"You say such things."
"I said you were beautiful, and I'll say so still; for, by G---- so you
are! The most beautiful ever I saw, or may I fall dead this instant!
Why, upon my ----"
"Don't--don't! I won't listen to you--you are so profane!" she said,
in a restless state between distress at hearing him and a _penchant_
to hear more.
"I again say you are a most fascinating woman. There's nothing
remarkable in my saying so, is there? I'm sure the fact is evident
enough. Miss Everdene, my opinion may be too forcibly let out
to please you, and, for the matter of that, too insignificant to
convince you, but surely it is honest, and why can't it be excused?"
"Because it--it isn't a correct one," she femininely murmured.
"Oh, fie--fie! Am I any worse for breaking the third of that
Terrible Ten than you for breaking the ninth?"
"Well, it doesn't seem QUITE true to me that I am fascinating," she
replied evasively.
"Not so to you: then I say with all respect that, if so, it is owing
to your modesty, Miss Everdene. But surely you must have been told
by everybody of what everybody notices? And you should take their
words for it."
"They don't say so exactly."
"Oh yes, they must!"
"Well, I mean to my face, as you do," she went on, allowing herself
to be further lured into a conversation that intention had rigorously
forbidden.
"But you know they think so?"
"No--that is--I certainly have heard Liddy say they do, but--" She
paused.
Capitulation--that was the purport of the simple reply, guarded as it
was--capitulation, unknown to herself. Never did a fragile tailless
sentence convey a more perfect meaning. The careless sergeant smiled
within himself, and probably too the devil smiled from a loop-hole in
Tophet, for the moment was the turning-point of a career. Her tone
and mien signified beyond mistake that the seed which was to lift the
foundation had taken root in the chink: the remainder was a mere
question of time and natural changes.
"There the truth comes out!" said the soldier, in reply. "Never tell
me that a young lady can live in a buzz of admiration without knowing
something about it. Ah, well, Miss Everdene, you are--pardon my
blunt way--you are rather an injury to our race than otherwise."
"How--indeed?" she said, opening her eyes.
"Oh, it is true enough. I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb
(an old country saying, not of much account, but it will do for a
rough soldier), and so I will speak my mind, regardless of your
pleasure, and without hoping or intending to get your pardon. Why,
Miss Everdene, it is in this manner that your good looks may do more
harm than good in the world." The sergeant looked down the mead in
critical abstraction. "Probably some one man on an average falls in
love with each ordinary woman. She can marry him: he is content,
and leads a useful life. Such women as you a hundred men always
covet--your eyes will bewitch scores on scores into an unavailing
fancy for you--you can only marry one of that many. Out of these
say twenty will endeavour to drown the bitterness of despised love
in drink; twenty more will mope away their lives without a wish or
attempt to make a mark in he world, because they have no ambition
apart from their attachment to you; twenty more--the susceptible
person myself possibly among them--will be always draggling after
you, getting where they may just see you, doing desperate things.
Men are such constant fools! The rest may try to get over their
passion with more or less success. But all these men will be
saddened. And not only those ninety-nine men, but the ninety-nine
women they might have married are saddened with them. There's my
tale. That's why I say that a woman so charming as yourself, Miss
Everdene, is hardly a blessing to her race."
The handsome sergeant's features were during this speech as rigid and
stern as John Knox's in addressing his gay young queen.
Seeing she made no reply, he said, "Do you read French?"
"No; I began, but when I got to the verbs, father died," she said
simply.
"I do--when I have an opportunity, which latterly has not been often
(my mother was a Parisienne)--and there's a proverb they have,
_Qui aime bien, chatie bien_--'He chastens who loves well.' Do you
understand me?"
"Ah!" she replied, and there was even a little tremulousness in the
usually cool girl's voice; "if you can only fight half as winningly
as you can talk, you are able to make a pleasure of a bayonet wound!"
And then poor Bathsheba instantly perceived her slip in making this
admission: in hastily trying to retrieve it, she went from bad to
worse. "Don't, however, suppose that _I_ derive any pleasure from
what you tell me."
"I know you do not--I know it perfectly," said Troy, with much hearty
conviction on the exterior of his face: and altering the expression
to moodiness; "when a dozen men are ready to speak tenderly to you,
and give the admiration you deserve without adding the warning you
need, it stands to reason that my poor rough-and-ready mixture of
praise and blame cannot convey much pleasure. Fool as I may be, I
am not so conceited as to suppose that!"
"I think you--are conceited, nevertheless," said Bathsheba, looking
askance at a reed she was fitfully pulling with one hand, having
lately grown feverish under the soldier's system of procedure--not
because the nature of his cajolery was entirely unperceived, but
because its vigour was overwhelming.
"I would not own it to anybody else--nor do I exactly to you. Still,
there might have been some self-conceit in my foolish supposition
the other night. I knew that what I said in admiration might be
an opinion too often forced upon you to give any pleasure, but I
certainly did think that the kindness of your nature might prevent
you judging an uncontrolled tongue harshly--which you have done--and
thinking badly of me and wounding me this morning, when I am working
hard to save your hay."
"Well, you need not think more of that: perhaps you did not mean to
be rude to me by speaking out your mind: indeed, I believe you did
not," said the shrewd woman, in painfully innocent earnest. "And I
thank you for giving help here. But--but mind you don't speak to me
again in that way, or in any other, unless I speak to you."
"Oh, Miss Bathsheba! That is too hard!"
"No, it isn't. Why is it?"
"You will never speak to me; for I shall not be here long. I am soon
going back again to the miserable monotony of drill--and perhaps
our regiment will be ordered out soon. And yet you take away the
one little ewe-lamb of pleasure that I have in this dull life
of mine. Well, perhaps generosity is not a woman's most marked
characteristic."
"When are you going from here?" she asked, with some interest.
"In a month."
"But how can it give you pleasure to speak to me?"
"Can you ask Miss Everdene--knowing as you do--what my offence is
based on?"
"If you do care so much for a silly trifle of that kind, then, I
don't mind doing it," she uncertainly and doubtingly answered. "But
you can't really care for a word from me? you only say so--I think
you only say so."
"That's unjust--but I won't repeat the remark. I am too gratified to
get such a mark of your friendship at any price to cavil at the tone.
I DO, Miss Everdene, care for it. You may think a man foolish to
want a mere word--just a good morning. Perhaps he is--I don't know.
But you have never been a man looking upon a woman, and that woman
yourself."
"Well."
"Then you know nothing of what such an experience is like--and Heaven
forbid that you ever should!"
"Nonsense, flatterer! What is it like? I am interested in knowing."
"Put shortly, it is not being able to think, hear, or look in
any direction except one without wretchedness, nor there without
torture."
"Ah, sergeant, it won't do--you are pretending!" she said, shaking
her head. "Your words are too dashing to be true."
"I am not, upon the honour of a soldier."
"But WHY is it so?--Of course I ask for mere pastime."
"Because you are so distracting--and I am so distracted."
"You look like it."
"I am indeed."
"Why, you only saw me the other night!"
"That makes no difference. The lightning works instantaneously. I
loved you then, at once--as I do now."
Bathsheba surveyed him curiously, from the feet upward, as high as
she liked to venture her glance, which was not quite so high as his
eyes.
"You cannot and you don't," she said demurely. "There is no such
sudden feeling in people. I won't listen to you any longer. Hear
me, I wish I knew what o'clock it is--I am going--I have wasted too
much time here already!"
The sergeant looked at his watch and told her. "What, haven't you a
watch, miss?" he inquired.
"I have not just at present--I am about to get a new one."
"No. You shall be given one. Yes--you shall. A gift, Miss
Everdene--a gift."
And before she knew what the young man was intending, a heavy gold
watch was in her hand.
"It is an unusually good one for a man like me to possess," he
quietly said. "That watch has a history. Press the spring and open
the back."
She did so.
"What do you see?"
"A crest and a motto."
"A coronet with five points, and beneath, _Cedit amor rebus_--'Love
yields to circumstance.' It's the motto of the Earls of Severn.
That watch belonged to the last lord, and was given to my mother's
husband, a medical man, for his use till I came of age, when it was
to be given to me. It was all the fortune that ever I inherited.
That watch has regulated imperial interests in its time--the stately
ceremonial, the courtly assignation, pompous travels, and lordly
sleeps. Now it is yours."
"But, Sergeant Troy, I cannot take this--I cannot!" she exclaimed,
with round-eyed wonder. "A gold watch! What are you doing? Don't
be such a dissembler!"
The sergeant retreated to avoid receiving back his gift, which she
held out persistently towards him. Bathsheba followed as he retired.
"Keep it--do, Miss Everdene--keep it!" said the erratic child of
impulse. "The fact of your possessing it makes it worth ten times
as much to me. A more plebeian one will answer my purpose just
as well, and the pleasure of knowing whose heart my old one beats
against--well, I won't speak of that. It is in far worthier hands
than ever it has been in before."
"But indeed I can't have it!" she said, in a perfect simmer of
distress. "Oh, how can you do such a thing; that is if you really
mean it! Give me your dead father's watch, and such a valuable one!
You should not be so reckless, indeed, Sergeant Troy!"
"I loved my father: good; but better, I love you more. That's how I
can do it," said the sergeant, with an intonation of such exquisite
fidelity to nature that it was evidently not all acted now. Her
beauty, which, whilst it had been quiescent, he had praised in jest,
had in its animated phases moved him to earnest; and though his
seriousness was less than she imagined, it was probably more than he
imagined himself.
Bathsheba was brimming with agitated bewilderment, and she said, in
half-suspicious accents of feeling, "Can it be! Oh, how can it be,
that you care for me, and so suddenly! You have seen so little
of me: I may not be really so--so nice-looking as I seem to you.
Please, do take it; Oh, do! I cannot and will not have it. Believe
me, your generosity is too great. I have never done you a single
kindness, and why should you be so kind to me?"
A factitious reply had been again upon his lips, but it was again
suspended, and he looked at her with an arrested eye. The truth was,
that as she now stood--excited, wild, and honest as the day--her
alluring beauty bore out so fully the epithets he had bestowed upon
it that he was quite startled at his temerity in advancing them as
false. He said mechanically, "Ah, why?" and continued to look at
her.
"And my workfolk see me following you about the field, and are
wondering. Oh, this is dreadful!" she went on, unconscious of the
transmutation she was effecting.
"I did not quite mean you to accept it at first, for it was my one
poor patent of nobility," he broke out, bluntly; "but, upon my soul,
I wish you would now. Without any shamming, come! Don't deny me the
happiness of wearing it for my sake? But you are too lovely even to
care to be kind as others are."
"No, no; don't say so! I have reasons for reserve which I cannot
explain."
"Let it be, then, let it be," he said, receiving back the watch at
last; "I must be leaving you now. And will you speak to me for these
few weeks of my stay?"
"Indeed I will. Yet, I don't know if I will! Oh, why did you come
and disturb me so!"
"Perhaps in setting a gin, I have caught myself. Such things have
happened. Well, will you let me work in your fields?" he coaxed.
"Yes, I suppose so; if it is any pleasure to you."
"Miss Everdene, I thank you."
"No, no."
"Good-bye!"
The sergeant brought his hand to the cap on the slope of his head,
saluted, and returned to the distant group of haymakers.
Bathsheba could not face the haymakers now. Her heart erratically
flitting hither and thither from perplexed excitement, hot, and
almost tearful, she retreated homeward, murmuring, "Oh, what have I
done! What does it mean! I wish I knew how much of it was true!"
| 2,897 | Chapter 26 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-26 | When he meets up with Bathsheba in the hay field, Troy continues assaulting her with compliment after compliment. She tries to fend him off with sarcasm and discouraging remarks, but he can't be stopped. Eventually, he makes her absolutely speechless with his compliments. He totally wears her down and she starts speaking kindly to him. Once she's speaking kindly to him, he says that he'll soon be leaving town with his regiment. He flat out tells her that he has loved her ever since he first saw her. Yikes, the guy is coming on a little strong, don't you think? Then Sergeant Troy outdoes himself by giving her a gold watch as a present. She says she can't possibly accept it, but he backs away before she can give it back. When Troy returns to working on the hay, Bathsheba can't even bring herself to look at her workmen. Her heart is pounding now, and it's clear that she's smitten with Troy. | null | 162 | 1 | [
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161 | true | sparknotes | all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/chapters_33_to_36.txt | finished_summaries/sparknotes/Sense and Sensibility/section_7_part_0.txt | Sense and Sensibility.chapters 33-36 | chapters 33-36 | null | {"name": "Chapters 33-36", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210123003206/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/sensibility/section8/", "summary": "Elinor and Marianne go on an errand to Gray's, the jeweler in town. They are annoyed by the presence of an impertinent coxcomb who stands before them in line and orders an elaborate toothpick case. As Elinor at last conducts her business, her brother enters the shop. John Dashwood confesses that he has been in town for two days but has not had time to visit his sisters. The next day, John pays a visit to his sisters at Mrs. Jennings's home. He takes a long walk with Elinor, during which he informs her that he would be very glad if she married Colonel Brandon. Elinor assures him that she has no intentions of doing so, but John insists on the desirability of the match. He also comments that Mrs. Ferrars expects her son, Edward, to marry the wealthy daughter of Miss Morton. Finally, Edward notes that Marianne's appearance has declined considerably in her time of misery, and thus she will no longer be able to find quite so wealthy a husband. Fanny Dashwood is initially reluctant to visit the Dashwoods because she is unsure if Mrs. Jennings is sophisticated enough for her, but she consents upon hearing her husband's favorable report. Fanny enjoys the company of Mrs. Jennings, and especially enjoys the company of Lady Middleton. She decides to host a dinner party at her home on Harley Street. She invites the Dashwood sisters, Mrs. Jennings, the Middletons, Colonel Brandon, and Mrs. Ferrars. Elinor is very worried about meeting Edward at the dinner party, and is relieved to learn that he is unable to attend. She strongly dislikes Mrs. Ferrars, a sour and sallow woman who seems to care only about seeing her son Edward marry rich. After dinner, the ladies withdraw into the drawing room. Much to Elinor's dismay, the subject of conversation is Harry Dashwood and Lady Middleton's second son, William, and whether one is taller than the other. When the gentlemen guests enter the room, John Dashwood shows off to Colonel Brandon a pair of screens that Elinor painted as a gift for her brother's family. Mrs. Ferrars insults Elinor's artwork and Marianne, furious at Mrs. Ferrars's rudeness, rushes to her sister's public defense. Colonel Brandon admires the \"affectionate heart\" of this girl, who cannot bear to witness her sister slighted. Mrs. Jennings is called away urgently by her daughter Mrs. Charlotte Palmer, who is expecting the birth of a child. Meanwhile, Lucy Steele visits the Dashwoods to tell Elinor how pleasantly surprised she was by Mrs. Ferrars's favorable behavior toward her at the party. In the middle of their conversation, the servant suddenly announces the arrival of Mr. Ferrars, and Edward walks into the room. He looks immediately uncomfortable upon realizing that both Lucy and Elinor are in attendance. Marianne, who does not know anything about Lucy's claims of an attachment to Edward, expresses her tremendous joy at his arrival. Marianne is surprised when Edward leaves so soon after, and remarks to Elinor that she cannot understand why Lucy calls so frequently . Elinor, bound by her pledge of secrecy to Lucy, cannot offer a single word of explanation. Mrs. Palmer gives birth to a son and heir, to the great pride and joy of Mrs. Jennings. Mr. Palmer, however, seems unaffected by the birth of his son and insists that the baby looks like all the other babies he has ever seen. Fanny's friend, Mrs. Dennison, invites her and John to a musical party and extends the invitation to the Dashwood girls, under the mistaken assumption that the girls are living with their half-brother's family. There, Elinor is introduced to Mr. Robert Ferrars and discovers that he is the very same coxcomb who stood before her in line at the jewelers. At the party, it occurs to John to invite his sisters to stay at his house in London, but Fanny objects on the grounds that she had just been planning to invite Anne and Lucy Steele to visit. Elinor worries that perhaps this invitation is a sign that Fanny has decided to support Lucy's engagement to her brother, Edward.", "analysis": "Commentary Austen's biting wit is quite evident here: as the omniscient narrator, she makes direct comments about her characters, and, within the story, she has some of her characters commment on other, less favorable figures. The first, more direct display of her wit is exemplified by her comments about the dinner party, hosted by Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood: John Dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in this, for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications for being agreeable: want of sense, either natural or improved; want of elegance, want of spirits, or want of temper. She passes judgment on her characters by pretending to cast their most negative attributes in a positive light: John Dashwood has nothing to say for himself, but there is \"no particular disgrace\" in this because his company is just as insipid as he. Usually, these acerbic observations are presented through Elinor's eyes, but here Austen, at her cruelest, satirizes her characters directly. The more indirect display of Austen's wit is exemplified by the personality and behavior of Mr. Palmer. Just after the lengthy and elaborate debate between doting mothers about the relative heights of their children, Austen informs her readers that Mr. Palmer, the father of a newborn son, did not find his child to be different from any other newborn infant, \"nor could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the world.\" Rather than informing her readers directly that Fanny Dashwood and Lady Middleton are irrational in their motherly affections, she accomplishes this through the character of Mr. Palmer, whose objectivity and indifference enable her to indirectly mock the mothers' excessive sentimentality. From Fanny's dinner party to Mrs. Dennison's musical party, these chapters underscore the extent to which a seemingly endless series of invitations governs the lives of the women in Austen's novel. The Dashwood women travel to Barton at the invitation of Sir John; Elinor and Marianne travel to London at the invitation of Mrs. Jennings; Marianne visits Willoughby's estate at Allenham at his invitation. Indeed, formal invitations to others' homes structure the social lives of all of Austen's heroines, and thus, although they travel frequently and widely, the wills of others circumscribe their mobility. In contrast, the men of the novel have agency in addition to mobility. They can come and go as they wish regardless of the invitations and expectations of others: Willoughby proclaims unexpectedly that he must go to Devonshire on business; Colonel Brandon suddenly interrupts the outing to Whitwell because he has urgent business in London; Edward comes and goes in no particular pattern. While the plot of the entire novel is structured around the physical movement of characters, only the male characters fully control their travels."} |
After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties, and
consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an
hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and
would do no more than accompany them to Gray's in Sackville Street,
where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few
old-fashioned jewels of her mother.
When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was
a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as
she had no business at Gray's, it was resolved, that while her young
friends transacted their's, she should pay her visit and return for
them.
On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before
them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to
their orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be done
was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the
quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is
probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness to
a quicker despatch. But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy
of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He was giving orders
for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and
ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and debating
for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were
finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to
bestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised
in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to
imprint on Elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of strong,
natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of
fashion.
Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and
resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on
the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of
the different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining
unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts
within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her, in
Mr. Gray's shop, as in her own bedroom.
At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls,
all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last
day on which his existence could be continued without the possession of
the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and
bestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as
seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with a
happy air of real conceit and affected indifference.
Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point
of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side.
She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise
to be her brother.
Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very
creditable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop. John Dashwood was really far
from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them
satisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and
attentive.
Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.
"I wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but it was
impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts at
Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars.
Harry was vastly pleased. THIS morning I had fully intended to call on
you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so
much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to bespeak Fanny a
seal. But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in
Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. I
understand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the Middletons
too, you must introduce me to THEM. As my mother-in-law's relations, I
shall be happy to show them every respect. They are excellent
neighbours to you in the country, I understand."
"Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness
in every particular, is more than I can express."
"I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed.
But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are
related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to
make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you
are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for
nothing! Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the
most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all
seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction to us
to hear it, I assure you."
Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to
be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs.
Jennings's servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for
them at the door.
Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs. Jennings
at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to
call on them the next day, took leave.
His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from
their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but she was so much engaged
with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where."
Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand
upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she
should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her
sisters to see her. His manners to THEM, though calm, were perfectly
kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel
Brandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity
which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be
equally civil to HIM.
After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him
to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton.
The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as
they were out of the house, his enquiries began.
"Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?"
"Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire."
"I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think,
Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable
establishment in life."
"Me, brother! what do you mean?"
"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What
is the amount of his fortune?"
"I believe about two thousand a year."
"Two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of
enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart it
were TWICE as much, for your sake."
"Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that
Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying ME."
"You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little
trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be
undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his
friends may all advise him against it. But some of those little
attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix
him, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why you should
not try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on
your side--in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is
quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable--you have
too much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man;
and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with
you and your family. It is a match that must give universal
satisfaction. In short, it is a kind of thing that"--lowering his
voice to an important whisper--"will be exceedingly welcome to ALL
PARTIES." Recollecting himself, however, he added, "That is, I mean to
say--your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled; Fanny
particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I assure
you. And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am
sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other day."
Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.
"It would be something remarkable, now," he continued, "something
droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the
same time. And yet it is not very unlikely."
"Is Mr. Edward Ferrars," said Elinor, with resolution, "going to be
married?"
"It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation.
He has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost
liberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if
the match takes place. The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter
of the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A very desirable
connection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place in
time. A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to
make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit. To give you
another instance of her liberality:--The other day, as soon as we came
to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now,
she put bank-notes into Fanny's hands to the amount of two hundred
pounds. And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great
expense while we are here."
He paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to say,
"Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be considerable;
but your income is a large one."
"Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not mean to
complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will
in time be better. The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on,
is a most serious drain. And then I have made a little purchase within
this half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place, where
old Gibson used to live. The land was so very desirable for me in
every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I felt it
my duty to buy it. I could not have answered it to my conscience to
let it fall into any other hands. A man must pay for his convenience;
and it HAS cost me a vast deal of money."
"More than you think it really and intrinsically worth."
"Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next day, for
more than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have
been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low,
that if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker's
hands, I must have sold out to very great loss."
Elinor could only smile.
"Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming to
Norland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the
Stanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they were)
to your mother. Far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he had an
undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose, but, in
consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of
linen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken away. You may
guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be from being
rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars's kindness is."
"Certainly," said Elinor; "and assisted by her liberality, I hope you
may yet live to be in easy circumstances."
"Another year or two may do much towards it," he gravely replied; "but
however there is still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone
laid of Fanny's green-house, and nothing but the plan of the
flower-garden marked out."
"Where is the green-house to be?"
"Upon the knoll behind the house. The old walnut trees are all come
down to make room for it. It will be a very fine object from many
parts of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before
it, and be exceedingly pretty. We have cleared away all the old thorns
that grew in patches over the brow."
Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very
thankful that Marianne was not present, to share the provocation.
Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the
necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his
next visit at Gray's his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he began
to congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.
"She seems a most valuable woman indeed--Her house, her style of
living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance
that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may
prove materially advantageous.--Her inviting you to town is certainly a
vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great a
regard for you, that in all probability when she dies you will not be
forgotten.-- She must have a great deal to leave."
"Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her
jointure, which will descend to her children."
"But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. Few
people of common prudence will do THAT; and whatever she saves, she
will be able to dispose of."
"And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her
daughters, than to us?"
"Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I
cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther.
Whereas, in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and
treating you in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on
her future consideration, which a conscientious woman would not
disregard. Nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can
hardly do all this, without being aware of the expectation it raises."
"But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, brother, your
anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far."
"Why, to be sure," said he, seeming to recollect himself, "people have
little, have very little in their power. But, my dear Elinor, what is
the matter with Marianne?-- she looks very unwell, has lost her colour,
and is grown quite thin. Is she ill?"
"She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several
weeks."
"I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any thing of an illness
destroys the bloom for ever! Hers has been a very short one! She was
as handsome a girl last September, as I ever saw; and as likely to
attract the man. There was something in her style of beauty, to please
them particularly. I remember Fanny used to say that she would marry
sooner and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly fond of
YOU, but so it happened to strike her. She will be mistaken, however.
I question whether Marianne NOW, will marry a man worth more than five
or six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and I am very much deceived if
YOU do not do better. Dorsetshire! I know very little of Dorsetshire;
but, my dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it;
and I think I can answer for your having Fanny and myself among the
earliest and best pleased of your visitors."
Elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no
likelihood of her marrying Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation
of too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really
resolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the
marriage by every possible attention. He had just compunction enough
for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly
anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from
Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means
of atoning for his own neglect.
They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John
came in before their visit ended. Abundance of civilities passed on
all sides. Sir John was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood
did not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very
good-natured fellow: while Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion in his
appearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and Mr. Dashwood
went away delighted with both.
"I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny," said he, as he
walked back with his sister. "Lady Middleton is really a most elegant
woman! Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know. And Mrs.
Jennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant
as her daughter. Your sister need not have any scruple even of
visiting HER, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case, and
very naturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow of a
man who had got all his money in a low way; and Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars
were both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her daughters
were such kind of women as Fanny would like to associate with. But now
I can carry her a most satisfactory account of both."
Mrs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband's judgment,
that she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her
daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former,
even the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means unworthy
her notice; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of the most
charming women in the world!
Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood. There was a
kind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually
attracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid
propriety of demeanor, and a general want of understanding.
The same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to the
good opinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Jennings,
and to HER she appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking woman
of uncordial address, who met her husband's sisters without any
affection, and almost without having anything to say to them; for of
the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley Street, she sat at least
seven minutes and a half in silence.
Elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not chuse to ask,
whether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny
voluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her that
his marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband's
expectations on Colonel Brandon were answered; because she believed
them still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be
too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. The
intelligence however, which SHE would not give, soon flowed from
another quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor's compassion
on being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr.
and Mrs. Dashwood. He dared not come to Bartlett's Buildings for fear
of detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to be
told, they could do nothing at present but write.
Edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short
time, by twice calling in Berkeley Street. Twice was his card found on
the table, when they returned from their morning's engagements. Elinor
was pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had
missed him.
The Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons, that,
though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to
give them--a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited
them to dine in Harley Street, where they had taken a very good house
for three months. Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were invited
likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel Brandon, who,
always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were, received his eager
civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure. They were to
meet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons were to
be of the party. The expectation of seeing HER, however, was enough to
make her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet
Edward's mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to
attend such an introduction, though she could now see her with perfect
indifference as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in
company with Mrs. Ferrars, her curiosity to know what she was like, was
as lively as ever.
The interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon
afterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing
that the Miss Steeles were also to be at it.
So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so agreeable
had their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was certainly
not so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as
Sir John to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit Street; and it
happened to be particularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as soon as
the Dashwoods' invitation was known, that their visit should begin a
few days before the party took place.
Their claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of the
gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not
have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but
as Lady Middleton's guests they must be welcome; and Lucy, who had long
wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of
their characters and her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity
of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier in her life,
than she was on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood's card.
On Elinor its effect was very different. She began immediately to
determine, that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his
mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the
first time, after all that passed, in the company of Lucy!--she hardly
knew how she could bear it!
These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and
certainly not at all on truth. They were relieved however, not by her
own recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself to
be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward
certainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to
be carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept
away by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal
when they were together.
The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies
to this formidable mother-in-law.
"Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!" said Lucy, as they walked up the stairs
together--for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings,
that they all followed the servant at the same time--"There is nobody
here but you, that can feel for me.--I declare I can hardly stand.
Good gracious!--In a moment I shall see the person that all my
happiness depends on--that is to be my mother!"--
Elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the
possibility of its being Miss Morton's mother, rather than her own,
whom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured
her, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her--to the utter
amazement of Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at
least to be an object of irrepressible envy to Elinor.
Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in
her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. Her
complexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and
naturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had
rescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it
the strong characters of pride and ill nature. She was not a woman of
many words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the
number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her, not
one fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited
determination of disliking her at all events.
Elinor could not NOW be made unhappy by this behaviour.-- A few months
ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars'
power to distress her by it now;--and the difference of her manners to
the Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble
her more, only amused her. She could not but smile to see the
graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very person-- for
Lucy was particularly distinguished--whom of all others, had they known
as much as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify; while
she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat
pointedly slighted by both. But while she smiled at a graciousness so
misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which
it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with which the Miss
Steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising them all
four.
Lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and Miss
Steele wanted only to be teazed about Dr. Davies to be perfectly happy.
The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every thing
bespoke the Mistress's inclination for show, and the Master's ability
to support it. In spite of the improvements and additions which were
making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once
been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a
loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had tried to
infer from it;--no poverty of any kind, except of conversation,
appeared--but there, the deficiency was considerable. John Dashwood
had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife
had still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in this; for it was
very much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all
laboured under one or other of these disqualifications for being
agreeable--Want of sense, either natural or improved--want of
elegance--want of spirits--or want of temper.
When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty
was particularly evident, for the gentlemen HAD supplied the discourse
with some variety--the variety of politics, inclosing land, and
breaking horses--but then it was all over; and one subject only engaged
the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative heights of
Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton's second son William, who were
nearly of the same age.
Had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined
too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was present, it
was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every body had a right
to be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over
again as often as they liked.
The parties stood thus:
The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the
tallest, politely decided in favour of the other.
The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity,
were equally earnest in support of their own descendant.
Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other,
thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not
conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world
between them; and Miss Steele, with yet greater address gave it, as
fast as she could, in favour of each.
Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William's side, by which
she offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the
necessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Marianne, when
called on for hers, offended them all, by declaring that she had no
opinion to give, as she had never thought about it.
Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty pair
of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and
brought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these screens,
catching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen
into the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel Brandon for
his admiration.
"These are done by my eldest sister," said he; "and you, as a man of
taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether
you have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she
is in general reckoned to draw extremely well."
The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship,
warmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by
Miss Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course
excited, they were handed round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars,
not aware of their being Elinor's work, particularly requested to look
at them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of Lady
Middletons's approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother,
considerately informing her, at the same time, that they were done by
Miss Dashwood.
"Hum"--said Mrs. Ferrars--"very pretty,"--and without regarding them at
all, returned them to her daughter.
Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude
enough,--for, colouring a little, she immediately said,
"They are very pretty, ma'am--an't they?" But then again, the dread of
having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her,
for she presently added,
"Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton's style of
painting, Ma'am?--She DOES paint most delightfully!--How beautifully
her last landscape is done!"
"Beautifully indeed! But SHE does every thing well."
Marianne could not bear this.--She was already greatly displeased with
Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's
expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by
it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth,
"This is admiration of a very particular kind!--what is Miss Morton to
us?--who knows, or who cares, for her?--it is Elinor of whom WE think
and speak."
And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands,
to admire them herself as they ought to be admired.
Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more
stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, "Miss
Morton is Lord Morton's daughter."
Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his
sister's audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth than
she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as they
were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable
in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister
slighted in the smallest point.
Marianne's feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs.
Ferrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell
such difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart
taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of
affectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister's
chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers,
said in a low, but eager, voice,
"Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them. Don't let them make YOU unhappy."
She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her
face on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears. Every body's
attention was called, and almost every body was concerned.--Colonel
Brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did.--Mrs.
Jennings, with a very intelligent "Ah! poor dear," immediately gave her
her salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the author
of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one
close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of
the whole shocking affair.
In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end
to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained
the impression of what had passed, the whole evening.
"Poor Marianne!" said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a low voice,
as soon as he could secure his attention,-- "She has not such good
health as her sister,--she is very nervous,--she has not Elinor's
constitution;--and one must allow that there is something very trying
to a young woman who HAS BEEN a beauty in the loss of her personal
attractions. You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne WAS
remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor.--
Now you see it is all gone."
Elinor's curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied.-- She had found
in her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between
the families undesirable.-- She had seen enough of her pride, her
meanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend
all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and
retarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise
free;--and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her OWN sake,
that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other
of Mrs. Ferrars's creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her
caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least, if she
did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward's being fettered to
Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she OUGHT to
have rejoiced.
She wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by the
civility of Mrs. Ferrars;--that her interest and her vanity should so
very much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her
because she was NOT ELINOR, appear a compliment to herself--or to allow
her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her, because
her real situation was unknown. But that it was so, had not only been
declared by Lucy's eyes at the time, but was declared over again the
next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady Middleton
set her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing Elinor alone,
to tell her how happy she was.
The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon
after she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.
"My dear friend," cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, "I
come to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering
as Mrs. Ferrars's way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable
as she was!--You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her;--but
the very moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her
behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to
me. Now was not it so?-- You saw it all; and was not you quite struck
with it?"
"She was certainly very civil to you."
"Civil!--Did you see nothing but only civility?-- I saw a vast deal
more. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!--No pride,
no hauteur, and your sister just the same--all sweetness and
affability!"
Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to
own that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go
on.--
"Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement," said she, "nothing
could be more flattering than their treatment of you;--but as that was
not the case"--
"I guessed you would say so,"--replied Lucy quickly--"but there was no
reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did
not, and her liking me is every thing. You shan't talk me out of my
satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no
difficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a
charming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful women,
indeed!--I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs.
Dashwood was!"
To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.
"Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?--you seem low--you don't speak;--sure you
an't well."
"I never was in better health."
"I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it. I
should be sorry to have YOU ill; you, that have been the greatest
comfort to me in the world!--Heaven knows what I should have done
without your friendship."--
Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success.
But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied,
"Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to
Edward's love, it is the greatest comfort I have.--Poor Edward!--But
now there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty
often, for Lady Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall
be a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his
time with his sister--besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will
visit now;--and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say
more than once, they should always be glad to see me.-- They are such
charming women!--I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I think of
her, you cannot speak too high."
But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she SHOULD
tell her sister. Lucy continued.
"I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took
a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for
instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of
me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way--you know what I mean--if
I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave
it all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where she DOES
dislike, I know it is most violent."
Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by
the door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars, and
Edward's immediately walking in.
It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each shewed that
it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to
have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to
advance farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest
form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen
on them.--They were not only all three together, but were together
without the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered
themselves first. It was not Lucy's business to put herself forward,
and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could
therefore only LOOK her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him,
said no more.
But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her
own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's
recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost
easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still
improved them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the
consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from
saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much
regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street.
She would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as
a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of
Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her.
Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough
to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in
a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might
make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy's, nor
could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's.
Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no
contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word;
and almost every thing that WAS said, proceeded from Elinor, who was
obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother's health,
their coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about,
but never did.
Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself
so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching
Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and
THAT in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on
the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went
to her sister. When that was once done, however, it was time for the
raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne's joy hurried her into the
drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him was like every
other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met
him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the
affection of a sister.
"Dear Edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness!--This
would almost make amends for every thing!"
Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such
witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all
sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was
looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and
sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other
should be checked by Lucy's unwelcome presence. Edward was the first
to speak, and it was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and express
his fear of her not finding London agree with her.
"Oh, don't think of me!" she replied with spirited earnestness, though
her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don't think of MY
health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both."
This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor
to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no
very benignant expression.
"Do you like London?" said Edward, willing to say any thing that might
introduce another subject.
"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none.
The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and
thank Heaven! you are what you always were!"
She paused--no one spoke.
"I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must employ Edward to take
care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we
shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to
accept the charge."
Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even
himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace
it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and
soon talked of something else.
"We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so
wretchedly dull!--But I have much to say to you on that head, which
cannot be said now."
And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her
finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her
being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in
private.
"But why were you not there, Edward?--Why did you not come?"
"I was engaged elsewhere."
"Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?"
"Perhaps, Miss Marianne," cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on
her, "you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no
mind to keep them, little as well as great."
Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the
sting; for she calmly replied,
"Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that
conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe
he HAS the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous
in performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make
against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving
pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish,
of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say it. What!
are you never to hear yourself praised!--Then you must be no friend of
mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to
my open commendation."
The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened
to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her
auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon
got up to go away.
"Going so soon!" said Marianne; "my dear Edward, this must not be."
And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy
could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he
would go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted
two hours, soon afterwards went away.
"What can bring her here so often?" said Marianne, on her leaving them.
"Could not she see that we wanted her gone!--how teazing to Edward!"
"Why so?--we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known
to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as
well as ourselves."
Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, "You know, Elinor, that this
is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have
your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you
ought to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it. I
cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really
wanted."
She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more,
for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give
no information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the
consequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was
obliged to submit to it. All that she could hope, was that Edward
would not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing
Marianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of
the pain that had attended their recent meeting--and this she had every
reason to expect.
Within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the
world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a
son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least
to all those intimate connections who knew it before.
This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings's happiness, produced a
temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a
like degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to
be as much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning as
soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the evening;
and the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request of the Middletons,
spent the whole of every day in Conduit Street. For their own comfort
they would much rather have remained, at least all the morning, in Mrs.
Jennings's house; but it was not a thing to be urged against the wishes
of everybody. Their hours were therefore made over to Lady Middleton and
the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in fact was as little
valued, as it was professedly sought.
They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and
by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on
THEIR ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolize.
Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton's behaviour to
Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all. Because they
neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them
good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them
satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical;
but THAT did not signify. It was censure in common use, and easily
given.
Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked the
idleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was
ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was
proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would
despise her for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the
three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her to
it entirely. Would either of them only have given her a full and
minute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr. Willoughby,
she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the
best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned.
But this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out
expressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than once dropt
a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before Marianne, no effect was
produced, but a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust in
the latter. An effort even yet lighter might have made her their
friend. Would they only have laughed at her about the Doctor! But so
little were they, anymore than the others, inclined to oblige her, that
if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole day without
hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind
enough to bestow on herself.
All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally
unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing
for the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young
friends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old
woman so long. She joined them sometimes at Sir John's, sometimes at
her own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent
spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte's well
doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail
of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire.
One thing DID disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint.
Mr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex,
of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at
different times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and
every one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his
father of it; no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like
every other baby of the same age; nor could he even be brought to
acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the
world.
I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time
befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters
with Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another
of her acquaintance had dropt in--a circumstance in itself not
apparently likely to produce evil to her. But while the imaginations
of other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our
conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness
must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present
instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun
truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss
Dashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she
immediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this
misconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of
invitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a small
musical party at her house. The consequence of which was, that Mrs.
John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great
inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods, but, what
was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing
to treat them with attention: and who could tell that they might not
expect to go out with her a second time? The power of disappointing
them, it was true, must always be hers. But that was not enough; for
when people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be
wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from
them.
Marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of
going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to
her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically
for every evening's engagement, though without expecting the smallest
amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last
moment, where it was to take her.
To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as
not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her
toilet, which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of
their being together, when it was finished. Nothing escaped HER minute
observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and asked every
thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every part of
Marianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns altogether
with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not without hopes
of finding out before they parted, how much her washing cost per week,
and how much she had every year to spend upon herself. The
impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally
concluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was
considered by Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after
undergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the
colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost
sure of being told that upon "her word she looked vastly smart, and she
dared to say she would make a great many conquests."
With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present
occasion, to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter
five minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very
agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of
her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part
that might inconvenience either herself or her coachman.
The events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party, like
other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real
taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all;
and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation,
and that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in
England.
As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no
scruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it
suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and
violoncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the
room. In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of
young men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases
at Gray's. She perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and
speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to find out
his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr.
Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.
He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow
which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was
exactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy
had it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his
own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations! For then his
brother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the
ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun. But while she
wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that
the emptiness of conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with
the modesty and worth of the other. Why they WERE different, Robert
exclaimed to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's
conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme
GAUCHERIE which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper
society, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any
natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education;
while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material
superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school,
was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.
"Upon my soul," he added, "I believe it is nothing more; and so I often
tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. 'My dear Madam,' I
always say to her, 'you must make yourself easy. The evil is now
irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would you
be persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to
place Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his
life? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself,
instead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been
prevented.' This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and
my mother is perfectly convinced of her error."
Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her
general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not
think of Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's family, with any satisfaction.
"You reside in Devonshire, I think,"--was his next observation, "in a
cottage near Dawlish."
Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather
surprising to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living
near Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation however on their
species of house.
"For my own part," said he, "I am excessively fond of a cottage; there
is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I protest,
if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one
myself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself
down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I
advise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage. My friend
Lord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice,
and laid before me three different plans of Bonomi's. I was to decide
on the best of them. 'My dear Courtland,' said I, immediately throwing
them all into the fire, 'do not adopt either of them, but by all means
build a cottage.' And that I fancy, will be the end of it.
"Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a
cottage; but this is all a mistake. I was last month at my friend
Elliott's, near Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to give a dance. 'But
how can it be done?' said she; 'my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is
to be managed. There is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten
couple, and where can the supper be?' I immediately saw that there
could be no difficulty in it, so I said, 'My dear Lady Elliott, do not
be uneasy. The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease;
card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open
for tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the
saloon.' Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought. We measured the
dining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the
affair was arranged precisely after my plan. So that, in fact, you
see, if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as
well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling."
Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the
compliment of rational opposition.
As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister,
his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought
struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for
her approbation, when they got home. The consideration of Mrs.
Dennison's mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had
suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such,
while Mrs. Jennings's engagements kept her from home. The expense would
be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an
attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be
requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his
father. Fanny was startled at the proposal.
"I do not see how it can be done," said she, "without affronting Lady
Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be
exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any
attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shews. But
they are Lady Middleton's visitors. How can I ask them away from her?"
Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her
objection. "They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit
Street, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the
same number of days to such near relations."
Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said,
"My love I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power.
But I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a
few days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and
I think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well
by Edward. We can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but the
Miss Steeles may not be in town any more. I am sure you will like
them; indeed, you DO like them, you know, very much already, and so
does my mother; and they are such favourites with Harry!"
Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss
Steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution
of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly
suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by
bringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as
THEIR visitor.
Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had
procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and
her sister's, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady
Middleton could spare them. This was enough to make Lucy really and
reasonably happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her,
herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such
an opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all
things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the
most gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage that could not be
too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the
visit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits,
was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days'
time.
When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after
its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the
expectations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed
on so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will
towards her arose from something more than merely malice against
herself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing
that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady
Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John
Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of
greater.
The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor
of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event.
Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts
of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs.
Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her
life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made
by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not know
whether she should ever be able to part with them.
[At this point in the first and second editions, Volume II ended.]
| 10,251 | Chapters 33-36 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210123003206/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/sensibility/section8/ | Elinor and Marianne go on an errand to Gray's, the jeweler in town. They are annoyed by the presence of an impertinent coxcomb who stands before them in line and orders an elaborate toothpick case. As Elinor at last conducts her business, her brother enters the shop. John Dashwood confesses that he has been in town for two days but has not had time to visit his sisters. The next day, John pays a visit to his sisters at Mrs. Jennings's home. He takes a long walk with Elinor, during which he informs her that he would be very glad if she married Colonel Brandon. Elinor assures him that she has no intentions of doing so, but John insists on the desirability of the match. He also comments that Mrs. Ferrars expects her son, Edward, to marry the wealthy daughter of Miss Morton. Finally, Edward notes that Marianne's appearance has declined considerably in her time of misery, and thus she will no longer be able to find quite so wealthy a husband. Fanny Dashwood is initially reluctant to visit the Dashwoods because she is unsure if Mrs. Jennings is sophisticated enough for her, but she consents upon hearing her husband's favorable report. Fanny enjoys the company of Mrs. Jennings, and especially enjoys the company of Lady Middleton. She decides to host a dinner party at her home on Harley Street. She invites the Dashwood sisters, Mrs. Jennings, the Middletons, Colonel Brandon, and Mrs. Ferrars. Elinor is very worried about meeting Edward at the dinner party, and is relieved to learn that he is unable to attend. She strongly dislikes Mrs. Ferrars, a sour and sallow woman who seems to care only about seeing her son Edward marry rich. After dinner, the ladies withdraw into the drawing room. Much to Elinor's dismay, the subject of conversation is Harry Dashwood and Lady Middleton's second son, William, and whether one is taller than the other. When the gentlemen guests enter the room, John Dashwood shows off to Colonel Brandon a pair of screens that Elinor painted as a gift for her brother's family. Mrs. Ferrars insults Elinor's artwork and Marianne, furious at Mrs. Ferrars's rudeness, rushes to her sister's public defense. Colonel Brandon admires the "affectionate heart" of this girl, who cannot bear to witness her sister slighted. Mrs. Jennings is called away urgently by her daughter Mrs. Charlotte Palmer, who is expecting the birth of a child. Meanwhile, Lucy Steele visits the Dashwoods to tell Elinor how pleasantly surprised she was by Mrs. Ferrars's favorable behavior toward her at the party. In the middle of their conversation, the servant suddenly announces the arrival of Mr. Ferrars, and Edward walks into the room. He looks immediately uncomfortable upon realizing that both Lucy and Elinor are in attendance. Marianne, who does not know anything about Lucy's claims of an attachment to Edward, expresses her tremendous joy at his arrival. Marianne is surprised when Edward leaves so soon after, and remarks to Elinor that she cannot understand why Lucy calls so frequently . Elinor, bound by her pledge of secrecy to Lucy, cannot offer a single word of explanation. Mrs. Palmer gives birth to a son and heir, to the great pride and joy of Mrs. Jennings. Mr. Palmer, however, seems unaffected by the birth of his son and insists that the baby looks like all the other babies he has ever seen. Fanny's friend, Mrs. Dennison, invites her and John to a musical party and extends the invitation to the Dashwood girls, under the mistaken assumption that the girls are living with their half-brother's family. There, Elinor is introduced to Mr. Robert Ferrars and discovers that he is the very same coxcomb who stood before her in line at the jewelers. At the party, it occurs to John to invite his sisters to stay at his house in London, but Fanny objects on the grounds that she had just been planning to invite Anne and Lucy Steele to visit. Elinor worries that perhaps this invitation is a sign that Fanny has decided to support Lucy's engagement to her brother, Edward. | Commentary Austen's biting wit is quite evident here: as the omniscient narrator, she makes direct comments about her characters, and, within the story, she has some of her characters commment on other, less favorable figures. The first, more direct display of her wit is exemplified by her comments about the dinner party, hosted by Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood: John Dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in this, for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications for being agreeable: want of sense, either natural or improved; want of elegance, want of spirits, or want of temper. She passes judgment on her characters by pretending to cast their most negative attributes in a positive light: John Dashwood has nothing to say for himself, but there is "no particular disgrace" in this because his company is just as insipid as he. Usually, these acerbic observations are presented through Elinor's eyes, but here Austen, at her cruelest, satirizes her characters directly. The more indirect display of Austen's wit is exemplified by the personality and behavior of Mr. Palmer. Just after the lengthy and elaborate debate between doting mothers about the relative heights of their children, Austen informs her readers that Mr. Palmer, the father of a newborn son, did not find his child to be different from any other newborn infant, "nor could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the world." Rather than informing her readers directly that Fanny Dashwood and Lady Middleton are irrational in their motherly affections, she accomplishes this through the character of Mr. Palmer, whose objectivity and indifference enable her to indirectly mock the mothers' excessive sentimentality. From Fanny's dinner party to Mrs. Dennison's musical party, these chapters underscore the extent to which a seemingly endless series of invitations governs the lives of the women in Austen's novel. The Dashwood women travel to Barton at the invitation of Sir John; Elinor and Marianne travel to London at the invitation of Mrs. Jennings; Marianne visits Willoughby's estate at Allenham at his invitation. Indeed, formal invitations to others' homes structure the social lives of all of Austen's heroines, and thus, although they travel frequently and widely, the wills of others circumscribe their mobility. In contrast, the men of the novel have agency in addition to mobility. They can come and go as they wish regardless of the invitations and expectations of others: Willoughby proclaims unexpectedly that he must go to Devonshire on business; Colonel Brandon suddenly interrupts the outing to Whitwell because he has urgent business in London; Edward comes and goes in no particular pattern. While the plot of the entire novel is structured around the physical movement of characters, only the male characters fully control their travels. | 688 | 492 | [
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161 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/49.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_48_part_0.txt | Sense and Sensibility.chapter 49 | chapter 49 | null | {"name": "Chapter 49", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-49", "summary": "Apparently, Edward had come to Barton to ask Elinor to marry him. He left the house so abruptly to get some fresh air, gained confidence, then returned immediately to accomplish his mission. Three hours later, everything is settled, and everyone is immensely happy. Yay! Edward is happier than they've ever seen him , and he's genuinely cheerful and open to everyone, especially Elinor. He explains what happened with his engagement to Lucy - they'd fallen in love as teenagers, but as grownups, they'd grown apart. Part of the problem was that he hadn't had a clear path to employment once he left school, and no companions or friends - really, the only person he was close to as a youth was Lucy, so he had no basis for comparison. That night, everyone is so excited that nobody can sleep. It's a good kind of excitement, though - that of pure joy and relief. Marianne can only express her joy through crying, and has no words for her feelings. Elinor was so excited that even she lost her composure for a moment, before she pulled it together and was able to tell him how much she loves him - still, she's far from the normal calm Elinor we're used to. Edward stays at the cottage for a week, and he and Elinor spend the whole time enjoying each other's company and planning for the future. Lucy's marriage to Robert is a topic of much discussion as well - how did it happen? Everyone is mystified. Edward and Elinor discuss the possibility of plotting on Lucy's part; they decide that she probably began with the best intentions of gaining Robert's good favor for her marriage to Edward, but things changed somewhere along the line. Edward tells Elinor all about his breakup with Lucy. She'd written him a rather awkward letter, after she and Robert were already married, and requested that he destroy all her letters. He was horrified by the badness of her writing, but pleased by the content - everyone agrees that all's well that ends well. Mrs. Ferrars has even got her comeuppance, since the very daughter-in-law she hoped to eliminate by disowning Edward has cropped up again with Robert. Edward hasn't been in contact with his family since this all happened, and he's not sure what is going to happen. Elinor realizes that Lucy had meant to deceive the Dashwoods and hurt Elinor in particular by leading Thomas to believe that she had married Edward, not Robert. It's clear that Lucy is not actually a nice girl, but clearly something of an evil one. He wishes he'd known about it before his mother found out about everything - he would have broken up with Lucy had he known her real nature. He can't imagine why Lucy stuck with him for so long - why would she have stayed with him, even when he was disowned? Elinor figures that Lucy probably thought that she could gain from the association anyway, and that she'd assumed that in the end his family would give in. Elinor teases him for spending so much time at Norland with her when he was otherwise engaged with Lucy, but she doesn't mean it. He earnestly defends himself, saying that he thought he was safe from falling in love with Elinor if he was engaged already. Needless to say, he was wrong. Edward is glad that Colonel Brandon is coming to visit. He's excited to get to know his benefactor better; he used to resent Colonel Brandon because he though the Colonel was engaged to Elinor and he'd assumed that that's why he was offered the job at Delaford. Now that everything's cleared up, though, he's excited to make a new friend. As for money, Elinor has a thousand pounds of her own, and Edward has two thousand - combined with the Delaford living, that doesn't give them quite enough to live on. Edward hopes that his mother might change her mind toward him, but Elinor's not so sure. It seems to her that Robert's offensive marriage will just mean that Fanny will get more of the Ferrars fortune. A few days after Edward arrives, Colonel Brandon shows up. Mrs. Dashwood is overjoyed that everyone's together, but it means that they're out of room at the cottage, and Colonel Brandon has to stay at Barton Park. However, he comes to visit every day. He's been much revived by his three weeks at home, and is even more revived by Marianne's improvement in health. Mrs. Dashwood tells him all the surprising news about Lucy and Robert, and the Colonel is especially happy that he's helped Edward and Elinor out. Edward and Colonel Brandon become great friends quickly, not only because they're quite similar in personality, but also because they're in love with two sisters. Mrs. Jennings sends a letter from town relating the whole story of Lucy and Robert, which Elinor is now able to read with humor, not anxiety. John also writes, lamenting how unfortunate Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny are. Both Robert and Lucy are in her bad book, and even if she un-disowns Robert, she'll never forgive Lucy. Mrs. Ferrars hasn't said anything about Edward yet, but John thinks that Edward should write a conciliatory note to his mother - perhaps she will forgive him . Edward isn't sure what to do and doesn't want to write, as John suggests, a letter of \"submission,\" so Elinor counsels him to write a letter asking for forgiveness, perhaps with a little humility thrown in there for good measure. Colonel Brandon and Edward leave together to visit Delaford, after which Edward will go to London.", "analysis": ""} |
Unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might
appear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and to
what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined
by all;--for after experiencing the blessings of ONE imprudent
engagement, contracted without his mother's consent, as he had already
done for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in
the failure of THAT, than the immediate contraction of another.
His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask
Elinor to marry him;--and considering that he was not altogether
inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should
feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in
need of encouragement and fresh air.
How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how
soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he
expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly
told. This only need be said;--that when they all sat down to table at
four o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his
lady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous
profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one
of the happiest of men. His situation indeed was more than commonly
joyful. He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to
swell his heart, and raise his spirits. He was released without any
reproach to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his
misery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love;--and elevated at
once to that security with another, which he must have thought of
almost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with
desire. He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to
happiness;--and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine,
flowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in
him before.
His heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors
confessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all the
philosophic dignity of twenty-four.
"It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side," said he, "the
consequence of ignorance of the world--and want of employment. Had my
mother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen
from the care of Mr. Pratt, I think--nay, I am sure, it would never
have happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at the
time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I then had
any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a distance
from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown the fancied
attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case I
must have done. But instead of having any thing to do, instead of
having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to chuse any
myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the first
twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment, which
belonging to the university would have given me; for I was not entered
at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in the world to
do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home
in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my
brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to
be very often at Longstaple, where I always felt myself at home, and
was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly I spent the greatest part
of my time there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared everything
that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty too--at least I thought
so THEN; and I had seen so little of other women, that I could make no
comparisons, and see no defects. Considering everything, therefore, I
hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every
way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable
piece of folly."
The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness
of the Dashwoods, was such--so great--as promised them all, the
satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be
comfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough, how
to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy,
nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation
together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both.
Marianne could speak HER happiness only by tears. Comparisons would
occur--regrets would arise;--and her joy, though sincere as her love
for her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.
But Elinor--how are HER feelings to be described?--From the moment of
learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to the
moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she
was every thing by turns but tranquil. But when the second moment had
passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared
her situation with what so lately it had been,--saw him honourably
released from his former engagement, saw him instantly profiting by the
release, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as
constant as she had ever supposed it to be,--she was oppressed, she was
overcome by her own felicity;--and happily disposed as is the human
mind to be easily familiarized with any change for the better, it
required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree
of tranquillity to her heart.
Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;--for whatever
other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a
week should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor's company, or
suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and
the future;--for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of
incessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in
common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is
different. Between THEM no subject is finished, no communication is
even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.
Lucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all,
formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;--and
Elinor's particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in
every view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable
circumstances she had ever heard. How they could be thrown together,
and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of
whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration,--a
girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that
brother had been thrown off by his family--it was beyond her
comprehension to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful
affair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her
reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle.
Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps,
at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked
on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest.
Elinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his
opinion of what his own mediation in his brother's affairs might have
done, if applied to in time. She repeated it to Edward.
"THAT was exactly like Robert,"--was his immediate observation.--"And
THAT," he presently added, "might perhaps be in HIS head when the
acquaintance between them first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might
think only of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs
might afterward arise."
How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally
at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had
remained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means
of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last
were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. Not the
smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for
what followed;--and when at last it burst on him in a letter from Lucy
herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between
the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He put the
letter into Elinor's hands.
"DEAR SIR,
"Being very sure I have long lost your affections,
I have thought myself at liberty to bestow my own
on another, and have no doubt of being as happy with
him as I once used to think I might be with you;
but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was
another's. Sincerely wish you happy in your choice,
and it shall not be my fault if we are not always
good friends, as our near relationship now makes
proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will,
and am sure you will be too generous to do us any
ill offices. Your brother has gained my affections
entirely, and as we could not live without one
another, we are just returned from the altar, and
are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which
place your dear brother has great curiosity to see,
but thought I would first trouble you with these
few lines, and shall always remain,
"Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,
"LUCY FERRARS.
"I have burnt all your letters, and will return
your picture the first opportunity. Please to destroy
my scrawls--but the ring with my hair you are very
welcome to keep."
Elinor read and returned it without any comment.
"I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said
Edward.--"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by YOU
in former days.--In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife!--how I
have blushed over the pages of her writing!--and I believe I may say
that since the first half year of our foolish--business--this is the
only letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me
any amends for the defect of the style."
"However it may have come about," said Elinor, after a pause,--"they
are certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most
appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert,
through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own
choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand
a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for
intending to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert's
marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her."
"She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite.--She
will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him
much sooner."
In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew
not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted
by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after
Lucy's letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest
road to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with
which that road did not hold the most intimate connection. He could do
nothing till he were assured of his fate with Miss Dashwood; and by his
rapidity in seeking THAT fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the
jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of
the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness
with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect
a very cruel reception. It was his business, however, to say that he
DID, and he said it very prettily. What he might say on the subject a
twelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and
wives.
That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of
malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to
Elinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her
character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost
meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened,
even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a
want of liberality in some of her opinions--they had been equally
imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter
reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed,
good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but
such a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an
engagement, which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to his
mother's anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to
him.
"I thought it my duty," said he, "independent of my feelings, to give
her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was
renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in
the world to assist me. In such a situation as that, where there
seemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living
creature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly
insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but
the most disinterested affection was her inducement? And even now, I
cannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage
it could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the
smallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world.
She could not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living."
"No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour;
that your own family might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost
nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it
fettered neither her inclination nor her actions. The connection was
certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration
among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would
be better for her to marry YOU than be single."
Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have
been more natural than Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the
motive of it.
Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which
compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them at
Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.
"Your behaviour was certainly very wrong," said she; "because--to say
nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to
fancy and expect WHAT, as you were THEN situated, could never be."
He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken
confidence in the force of his engagement.
"I was simple enough to think, that because my FAITH was plighted to
another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the
consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred
as my honour. I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only
friendship; and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and
Lucy, I did not know how far I was got. After that, I suppose, I WAS
wrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which I
reconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than
these:--The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to anybody but
myself."
Elinor smiled, and shook her head.
Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon's being expected at the
Cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him,
but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented
his giving him the living of Delaford--"Which, at present," said he,
"after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion,
he must think I have never forgiven him for offering."
NOW he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the place.
But so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed all his
knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the parish,
condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor herself, who
had heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard it with so much
attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject.
One question after this only remained undecided, between them, one
difficulty only was to be overcome. They were brought together by
mutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends;
their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness
certain--and they only wanted something to live upon. Edward had two
thousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford living, was all
that they could call their own; for it was impossible that Mrs.
Dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite
enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year
would supply them with the comforts of life.
Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his
mother towards him; and on THAT he rested for the residue of their
income. But Elinor had no such dependence; for since Edward would
still be unable to marry Miss Morton, and his chusing herself had been
spoken of in Mrs. Ferrars's flattering language as only a lesser evil
than his chusing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert's offence would
serve no other purpose than to enrich Fanny.
About four days after Edward's arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to
complete Mrs. Dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of
having, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company
with her than her house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the
privilege of first comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every
night to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned
in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers' first tete-a-tete
before breakfast.
A three weeks' residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours at
least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between
thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind
which needed all the improvement in Marianne's looks, all the kindness
of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother's language, to
make it cheerful. Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he
did revive. No rumour of Lucy's marriage had yet reached him:--he knew
nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were
consequently spent in hearing and in wondering. Every thing was
explained to him by Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice
in what he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it promoted the
interest of Elinor.
It would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good
opinion of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance,
for it could not be otherwise. Their resemblance in good principles
and good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably
have been sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other
attraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters
fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate,
which might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment.
The letters from town, which a few days before would have made every
nerve in Elinor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read
with less emotion than mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the
wonderful tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting
girl, and pour forth her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she
was sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all
accounts, almost broken-hearted, at Oxford.-- "I do think," she
continued, "nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two days
before Lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me. Not a soul
suspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul! came
crying to me the day after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs. Ferrars,
as well as not knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy it seems
borrowed all her money before she went off to be married, on purpose we
suppose to make a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven shillings in
the world;--so I was very glad to give her five guineas to take her
down to Exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four weeks with
Mrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the Doctor
again. And I must say that Lucy's crossness not to take them along
with them in the chaise is worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward! I cannot
get him out of my head, but you must send for him to Barton, and Miss
Marianne must try to comfort him."
Mr. Dashwood's strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferrars was the most
unfortunate of women--poor Fanny had suffered agonies of
sensibility--and he considered the existence of each, under such a
blow, with grateful wonder. Robert's offence was unpardonable, but
Lucy's was infinitely worse. Neither of them were ever again to be
mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be induced
to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her
daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. The secrecy with
which everything had been carried on between them, was rationally
treated as enormously heightening the crime, because, had any suspicion
of it occurred to the others, proper measures would have been taken to
prevent the marriage; and he called on Elinor to join with him in
regretting that Lucy's engagement with Edward had not rather been
fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of spreading misery
farther in the family.-- He thus continued:
"Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward's name, which does not
surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been
received from him on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent
by his fear of offending, and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a
line to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of proper
submission from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her shewn to
her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness of
Mrs. Ferrars's heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to be
on good terms with her children."
This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of
Edward. It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not
exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister.
"A letter of proper submission!" repeated he; "would they have me beg
my mother's pardon for Robert's ingratitude to HER, and breach of
honour to ME?--I can make no submission--I am grown neither humble nor
penitent by what has passed.--I am grown very happy; but that would not
interest.--I know of no submission that IS proper for me to make."
"You may certainly ask to be forgiven," said Elinor, "because you have
offended;--and I should think you might NOW venture so far as to
profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew
on you your mother's anger."
He agreed that he might.
"And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be
convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent
in HER eyes as the first."
He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a
letter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him,
as he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by
word of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing
to Fanny, he should go to London, and personally intreat her good
offices in his favour.-- "And if they really DO interest themselves,"
said Marianne, in her new character of candour, "in bringing about a
reconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny are not entirely
without merit."
After a visit on Colonel Brandon's side of only three or four days, the
two gentlemen quitted Barton together.-- They were to go immediately to
Delaford, that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his future
home, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what improvements
were needed to it; and from thence, after staying there a couple of
nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town.
| 4,026 | Chapter 49 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-49 | Apparently, Edward had come to Barton to ask Elinor to marry him. He left the house so abruptly to get some fresh air, gained confidence, then returned immediately to accomplish his mission. Three hours later, everything is settled, and everyone is immensely happy. Yay! Edward is happier than they've ever seen him , and he's genuinely cheerful and open to everyone, especially Elinor. He explains what happened with his engagement to Lucy - they'd fallen in love as teenagers, but as grownups, they'd grown apart. Part of the problem was that he hadn't had a clear path to employment once he left school, and no companions or friends - really, the only person he was close to as a youth was Lucy, so he had no basis for comparison. That night, everyone is so excited that nobody can sleep. It's a good kind of excitement, though - that of pure joy and relief. Marianne can only express her joy through crying, and has no words for her feelings. Elinor was so excited that even she lost her composure for a moment, before she pulled it together and was able to tell him how much she loves him - still, she's far from the normal calm Elinor we're used to. Edward stays at the cottage for a week, and he and Elinor spend the whole time enjoying each other's company and planning for the future. Lucy's marriage to Robert is a topic of much discussion as well - how did it happen? Everyone is mystified. Edward and Elinor discuss the possibility of plotting on Lucy's part; they decide that she probably began with the best intentions of gaining Robert's good favor for her marriage to Edward, but things changed somewhere along the line. Edward tells Elinor all about his breakup with Lucy. She'd written him a rather awkward letter, after she and Robert were already married, and requested that he destroy all her letters. He was horrified by the badness of her writing, but pleased by the content - everyone agrees that all's well that ends well. Mrs. Ferrars has even got her comeuppance, since the very daughter-in-law she hoped to eliminate by disowning Edward has cropped up again with Robert. Edward hasn't been in contact with his family since this all happened, and he's not sure what is going to happen. Elinor realizes that Lucy had meant to deceive the Dashwoods and hurt Elinor in particular by leading Thomas to believe that she had married Edward, not Robert. It's clear that Lucy is not actually a nice girl, but clearly something of an evil one. He wishes he'd known about it before his mother found out about everything - he would have broken up with Lucy had he known her real nature. He can't imagine why Lucy stuck with him for so long - why would she have stayed with him, even when he was disowned? Elinor figures that Lucy probably thought that she could gain from the association anyway, and that she'd assumed that in the end his family would give in. Elinor teases him for spending so much time at Norland with her when he was otherwise engaged with Lucy, but she doesn't mean it. He earnestly defends himself, saying that he thought he was safe from falling in love with Elinor if he was engaged already. Needless to say, he was wrong. Edward is glad that Colonel Brandon is coming to visit. He's excited to get to know his benefactor better; he used to resent Colonel Brandon because he though the Colonel was engaged to Elinor and he'd assumed that that's why he was offered the job at Delaford. Now that everything's cleared up, though, he's excited to make a new friend. As for money, Elinor has a thousand pounds of her own, and Edward has two thousand - combined with the Delaford living, that doesn't give them quite enough to live on. Edward hopes that his mother might change her mind toward him, but Elinor's not so sure. It seems to her that Robert's offensive marriage will just mean that Fanny will get more of the Ferrars fortune. A few days after Edward arrives, Colonel Brandon shows up. Mrs. Dashwood is overjoyed that everyone's together, but it means that they're out of room at the cottage, and Colonel Brandon has to stay at Barton Park. However, he comes to visit every day. He's been much revived by his three weeks at home, and is even more revived by Marianne's improvement in health. Mrs. Dashwood tells him all the surprising news about Lucy and Robert, and the Colonel is especially happy that he's helped Edward and Elinor out. Edward and Colonel Brandon become great friends quickly, not only because they're quite similar in personality, but also because they're in love with two sisters. Mrs. Jennings sends a letter from town relating the whole story of Lucy and Robert, which Elinor is now able to read with humor, not anxiety. John also writes, lamenting how unfortunate Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny are. Both Robert and Lucy are in her bad book, and even if she un-disowns Robert, she'll never forgive Lucy. Mrs. Ferrars hasn't said anything about Edward yet, but John thinks that Edward should write a conciliatory note to his mother - perhaps she will forgive him . Edward isn't sure what to do and doesn't want to write, as John suggests, a letter of "submission," so Elinor counsels him to write a letter asking for forgiveness, perhaps with a little humility thrown in there for good measure. Colonel Brandon and Edward leave together to visit Delaford, after which Edward will go to London. | null | 946 | 1 | [
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5,658 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/31.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_30_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapter 31 | chapter 31 | null | {"name": "Chapter 31", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-31", "summary": "The situation gets more and more dicey until finally, one night Jewel wakes Jim up and tells him he's about to be assassinated. How does she know? Get ready for a gasp: Cornelius is in on the whole thing. Jewel leads Jim to the men who are lying in wait for him. The suspense is killing us. She shoots one of the men, and then she and Jim lead the men to the riverbank.", "analysis": ""} |
'You may imagine with what interest I listened. All these details were
perceived to have some significance twenty-four hours later. In the
morning Cornelius made no allusion to the events of the night. "I
suppose you will come back to my poor house," he muttered, surlily,
slinking up just as Jim was entering the canoe to go over to Doramin's
campong. Jim only nodded, without looking at him. "You find it good fun,
no doubt," muttered the other in a sour tone. Jim spent the day with the
old nakhoda, preaching the necessity of vigorous action to the principal
men of the Bugis community, who had been summoned for a big talk. He
remembered with pleasure how very eloquent and persuasive he had been.
"I managed to put some backbone into them that time, and no mistake," he
said. Sherif Ali's last raid had swept the outskirts of the settlement,
and some women belonging to the town had been carried off to the
stockade. Sherif Ali's emissaries had been seen in the market-place the
day before, strutting about haughtily in white cloaks, and boasting of
the Rajah's friendship for their master. One of them stood forward
in the shade of a tree, and, leaning on the long barrel of a rifle,
exhorted the people to prayer and repentance, advising them to kill all
the strangers in their midst, some of whom, he said, were infidels and
others even worse--children of Satan in the guise of Moslems. It was
reported that several of the Rajah's people amongst the listeners had
loudly expressed their approbation. The terror amongst the common people
was intense. Jim, immensely pleased with his day's work, crossed the
river again before sunset.
'As he had got the Bugis irretrievably committed to action and had made
himself responsible for success on his own head, he was so elated that
in the lightness of his heart he absolutely tried to be civil with
Cornelius. But Cornelius became wildly jovial in response, and it was
almost more than he could stand, he says, to hear his little squeaks of
false laughter, to see him wriggle and blink, and suddenly catch hold of
his chin and crouch low over the table with a distracted stare. The
girl did not show herself, and Jim retired early. When he rose to say
good-night, Cornelius jumped up, knocking his chair over, and ducked out
of sight as if to pick up something he had dropped. His good-night came
huskily from under the table. Jim was amazed to see him emerge with a
dropping jaw, and staring, stupidly frightened eyes. He clutched the
edge of the table. "What's the matter? Are you unwell?" asked Jim. "Yes,
yes, yes. A great colic in my stomach," says the other; and it is
Jim's opinion that it was perfectly true. If so, it was, in view of his
contemplated action, an abject sign of a still imperfect callousness for
which he must be given all due credit.
'Be it as it may, Jim's slumbers were disturbed by a dream of heavens
like brass resounding with a great voice, which called upon him to
Awake! Awake! so loud that, notwithstanding his desperate determination
to sleep on, he did wake up in reality. The glare of a red spluttering
conflagration going on in mid-air fell on his eyes. Coils of black thick
smoke curved round the head of some apparition, some unearthly being,
all in white, with a severe, drawn, anxious face. After a second or so
he recognised the girl. She was holding a dammar torch at arm's-length
aloft, and in a persistent, urgent monotone she was repeating, "Get up!
Get up! Get up!"
'Suddenly he leaped to his feet; at once she put into his hand a
revolver, his own revolver, which had been hanging on a nail, but loaded
this time. He gripped it in silence, bewildered, blinking in the light.
He wondered what he could do for her.
'She asked rapidly and very low, "Can you face four men with this?"
He laughed while narrating this part at the recollection of his polite
alacrity. It seems he made a great display of it. "Certainly--of
course--certainly--command me." He was not properly awake, and had a
notion of being very civil in these extraordinary circumstances, of
showing his unquestioning, devoted readiness. She left the room, and
he followed her; in the passage they disturbed an old hag who did the
casual cooking of the household, though she was so decrepit as to be
hardly able to understand human speech. She got up and hobbled behind
them, mumbling toothlessly. On the verandah a hammock of sail-cloth,
belonging to Cornelius, swayed lightly to the touch of Jim's elbow. It
was empty.
'The Patusan establishment, like all the posts of Stein's Trading
Company, had originally consisted of four buildings. Two of them were
represented by two heaps of sticks, broken bamboos, rotten thatch,
over which the four corner-posts of hardwood leaned sadly at different
angles: the principal storeroom, however, stood yet, facing the agent's
house. It was an oblong hut, built of mud and clay; it had at one end a
wide door of stout planking, which so far had not come off the hinges,
and in one of the side walls there was a square aperture, a sort of
window, with three wooden bars. Before descending the few steps the girl
turned her face over her shoulder and said quickly, "You were to be set
upon while you slept." Jim tells me he experienced a sense of deception.
It was the old story. He was weary of these attempts upon his life. He
had had his fill of these alarms. He was sick of them. He assured me he
was angry with the girl for deceiving him. He had followed her under the
impression that it was she who wanted his help, and now he had half
a mind to turn on his heel and go back in disgust. "Do you know," he
commented profoundly, "I rather think I was not quite myself for whole
weeks on end about that time." "Oh yes. You were though," I couldn't
help contradicting.
'But she moved on swiftly, and he followed her into the courtyard. All
its fences had fallen in a long time ago; the neighbours' buffaloes
would pace in the morning across the open space, snorting profoundly,
without haste; the very jungle was invading it already. Jim and the girl
stopped in the rank grass. The light in which they stood made a dense
blackness all round, and only above their heads there was an opulent
glitter of stars. He told me it was a beautiful night--quite cool, with
a little stir of breeze from the river. It seems he noticed its friendly
beauty. Remember this is a love story I am telling you now. A lovely
night seemed to breathe on them a soft caress. The flame of the torch
streamed now and then with a fluttering noise like a flag, and for
a time this was the only sound. "They are in the storeroom waiting,"
whispered the girl; "they are waiting for the signal." "Who's to give
it?" he asked. She shook the torch, which blazed up after a shower of
sparks. "Only you have been sleeping so restlessly," she continued in
a murmur; "I watched your sleep, too." "You!" he exclaimed, craning his
neck to look about him. "You think I watched on this night only!" she
said, with a sort of despairing indignation.
'He says it was as if he had received a blow on the chest. He gasped.
He thought he had been an awful brute somehow, and he felt remorseful,
touched, happy, elated. This, let me remind you again, is a love story;
you can see it by the imbecility, not a repulsive imbecility, the
exalted imbecility of these proceedings, this station in torchlight, as
if they had come there on purpose to have it out for the edification of
concealed murderers. If Sherif Ali's emissaries had been possessed--as
Jim remarked--of a pennyworth of spunk, this was the time to make a
rush. His heart was thumping--not with fear--but he seemed to hear the
grass rustle, and he stepped smartly out of the light. Something dark,
imperfectly seen, flitted rapidly out of sight. He called out in a
strong voice, "Cornelius! O Cornelius!" A profound silence succeeded:
his voice did not seem to have carried twenty feet. Again the girl was
by his side. "Fly!" she said. The old woman was coming up; her broken
figure hovered in crippled little jumps on the edge of the light; they
heard her mumbling, and a light, moaning sigh. "Fly!" repeated the girl
excitedly. "They are frightened now--this light--the voices. They know
you are awake now--they know you are big, strong, fearless . . ." "If
I am all that," he began; but she interrupted him: "Yes--to-night! But
what of to-morrow night? Of the next night? Of the night after--of all
the many, many nights? Can I be always watching?" A sobbing catch of her
breath affected him beyond the power of words.
'He told me that he had never felt so small, so powerless--and as to
courage, what was the good of it? he thought. He was so helpless that
even flight seemed of no use; and though she kept on whispering, "Go to
Doramin, go to Doramin," with feverish insistence, he realised that for
him there was no refuge from that loneliness which centupled all his
dangers except--in her. "I thought," he said to me, "that if I went
away from her it would be the end of everything somehow." Only as they
couldn't stop there for ever in the middle of that courtyard, he made
up his mind to go and look into the storehouse. He let her follow
him without thinking of any protest, as if they had been indissolubly
united. "I am fearless--am I?" he muttered through his teeth. She
restrained his arm. "Wait till you hear my voice," she said, and,
torch in hand, ran lightly round the corner. He remained alone in the
darkness, his face to the door: not a sound, not a breath came from
the other side. The old hag let out a dreary groan somewhere behind his
back. He heard a high-pitched almost screaming call from the girl. "Now!
Push!" He pushed violently; the door swung with a creak and a clatter,
disclosing to his intense astonishment the low dungeon-like interior
illuminated by a lurid, wavering glare. A turmoil of smoke eddied down
upon an empty wooden crate in the middle of the floor, a litter of rags
and straw tried to soar, but only stirred feebly in the draught. She had
thrust the light through the bars of the window. He saw her bare round
arm extended and rigid, holding up the torch with the steadiness of
an iron bracket. A conical ragged heap of old mats cumbered a distant
corner almost to the ceiling, and that was all.
'He explained to me that he was bitterly disappointed at this. His
fortitude had been tried by so many warnings, he had been for weeks
surrounded by so many hints of danger, that he wanted the relief of
some reality, of something tangible that he could meet. "It would have
cleared the air for a couple of hours at least, if you know what I
mean," he said to me. "Jove! I had been living for days with a stone on
my chest." Now at last he had thought he would get hold of something,
and--nothing! Not a trace, not a sign of anybody. He had raised his
weapon as the door flew open, but now his arm fell. "Fire! Defend
yourself," the girl outside cried in an agonising voice. She, being in
the dark and with her arm thrust in to the shoulder through the small
hole, couldn't see what was going on, and she dared not withdraw
the torch now to run round. "There's nobody here!" yelled Jim
contemptuously, but his impulse to burst into a resentful exasperated
laugh died without a sound: he had perceived in the very act of turning
away that he was exchanging glances with a pair of eyes in the heap of
mats. He saw a shifting gleam of whites. "Come out!" he cried in a fury,
a little doubtful, and a dark-faced head, a head without a body, shaped
itself in the rubbish, a strangely detached head, that looked at him
with a steady scowl. Next moment the whole mound stirred, and with a
low grunt a man emerged swiftly, and bounded towards Jim. Behind him the
mats as it were jumped and flew, his right arm was raised with a crooked
elbow, and the dull blade of a kriss protruded from his fist held off,
a little above his head. A cloth wound tight round his loins seemed
dazzlingly white on his bronze skin; his naked body glistened as if wet.
'Jim noted all this. He told me he was experiencing a feeling of
unutterable relief, of vengeful elation. He held his shot, he says,
deliberately. He held it for the tenth part of a second, for three
strides of the man--an unconscionable time. He held it for the pleasure
of saying to himself, That's a dead man! He was absolutely positive
and certain. He let him come on because it did not matter. A dead man,
anyhow. He noticed the dilated nostrils, the wide eyes, the intent,
eager stillness of the face, and then he fired.
'The explosion in that confined space was stunning. He stepped back a
pace. He saw the man jerk his head up, fling his arms forward, and drop
the kriss. He ascertained afterwards that he had shot him through the
mouth, a little upwards, the bullet coming out high at the back of the
skull. With the impetus of his rush the man drove straight on, his face
suddenly gaping disfigured, with his hands open before him gropingly, as
though blinded, and landed with terrific violence on his forehead, just
short of Jim's bare toes. Jim says he didn't lose the smallest detail
of all this. He found himself calm, appeased, without rancour, without
uneasiness, as if the death of that man had atoned for everything. The
place was getting very full of sooty smoke from the torch, in which
the unswaying flame burned blood-red without a flicker. He walked in
resolutely, striding over the dead body, and covered with his revolver
another naked figure outlined vaguely at the other end. As he was about
to pull the trigger, the man threw away with force a short heavy spear,
and squatted submissively on his hams, his back to the wall and his
clasped hands between his legs. "You want your life?" Jim said. The
other made no sound. "How many more of you?" asked Jim again. "Two more,
Tuan," said the man very softly, looking with big fascinated eyes into
the muzzle of the revolver. Accordingly two more crawled from under the
mats, holding out ostentatiously their empty hands.' | 2,322 | Chapter 31 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-31 | The situation gets more and more dicey until finally, one night Jewel wakes Jim up and tells him he's about to be assassinated. How does she know? Get ready for a gasp: Cornelius is in on the whole thing. Jewel leads Jim to the men who are lying in wait for him. The suspense is killing us. She shoots one of the men, and then she and Jim lead the men to the riverbank. | null | 74 | 1 | [
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174 | true | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/chapters_17_to_18.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_11_part_0.txt | The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapters 17-18 | chapters 17-18 | null | {"name": "Chapters 17 & 18", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421171214/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/study-guide/summary-chapters-17-and-18", "summary": "The chapter begins with Dorian and Lord Henry chatting with Gladys, the Duchess of Monmouth, during a party at a conservatory. Many guests are gathered there for an extended visit as guests of Dorian's. The guests discuss names, love, and of course the virtues of beauty. Gladys shows herself to be quite witty, holding her own in a tete-a-tete with Lord Henry. After Henry playfully mentions Dorian's old nickname, Prince Charming, she asks whether Dorian has ever truly been in love. Disturbed by the reminder of his recent confrontation, Dorian excuses himself, saying that he must pick orchids for the duchess. Dorian takes a long time to return, and as Henry wonders about his whereabouts, a disturbed cry is heard from the other room. Lord Henry rushes to the scene, and finds that Dorian has fainted. Henry insists that he stay in bed and recover, but Dorian doesn't want to be alone. All of the guests assume that he has merely collapsed from exhaustion. Dorian, however, doesn't tell them the real reason for his distress: he fainted upon seeing the face of James Vane, spying on him through the conservatory window. Dorian spends the next three days inside, \"sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself.\" He eventually convinces himself that the face was a hallucination brought on by his conscience as a result of suppressing his guilt for so long. When Dorian finally goes outdoors, he and Lord Henry accompany Sir Geoffrey Clouston, the duchess's brother, on a short hunting excursion. Geoffrey aims at a hare, and Dorian instinctively cries out, urging him not to shoot it. Two screams are heard after the shot is fired: \"the cry of a hare in pain, which is dreadful,\" and \"the cry of a man in agony, which is worse.\" Geoffrey assumes that the man he has shot is a \"beater,\" one of the men employed by the conservatory to drive the game into the open for the hunters. All hunting is called off for the day, so that the guests don't appear too callous, and Lord Henry informs Geoffrey that the man who has been shot is dead. Later, Henry and Dorian again chat with Gladys. We learn that Geoffrey is upset, but Henry blames the beater for everything and sees no reason for any remorse. He wishes, however, \"that he had done the thing on purpose,\" and proclaims that \"I should like to know someone who had committed a real murder.\" Dorian must excuse himself to lie down. He lies on a sofa upstairs, terrified, feeling as if the unexpected stranger's death is a sure sign that his own is imminent. He is nearly paralyzed with fear and decides to leave for a doctor, but before he can his valet sends the gamekeeper in. Knowing it must be about the dead beater, Dorian questions whether the victim had had a wife or any dependents, and offers \"any sum of money you may think necessary\" to provide for their needs. However, the gamekeeper has arrived to inform Dorian that the dead man was not an employee, and that no one has been able to identify him. Dorian frantically rides to the farm house where the body is being kept, and discovers that the dead man is James Vane. He is overjoyed, his eyes \"full of tears, for he knew he was safe.\"", "analysis": "The discussion of names and Henry's comment that \"I never quarrel with actions with words\" prompt us to consider the significance of names in the novel, and the theme of the power of words. Upon first meeting Lord Henry in chapter 2, and first hearing the man's intoxicatingly sensuous view of the world, Dorian thinks to himself: \"Words! Mere words! How terrible they were!...One could not escape from them.\" It is Henry's conversational acumen that enables him to influence Dorian so profoundly, and it is a book that Dorian considers to be primarily responsible for his own corruption. By placing such emphasis on the power of words, written or spoken, Wilde is indirectly commenting on the power of the literary art. Fittingly, Henry follows his earlier comment with the remark, \"That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature.\" This comment is not merely an expression of yet another of Henry's distinctive beliefs, but an invitation for the reader to consider the value of the fantastic elements included in The Picture of Dorian Gray. The Duchess of Monmouth is one of the few characters in the book who seems capable of holding her own in conversation against Lord Henry's sharp, unorthodox witticisms. When she says to Henry that \"You value beauty far too much,\" she unknowingly hits on the reason for Dorian's guilt. When Dorian leaves to pick flowers, we are reminded of the first chapter, when Henry picked a flower from Basil's garden and slowly pulled it apart, petal by petal. As Henry's earlier action symbolized his role as both an admirer and a destroyer of delicate beauty, Dorian's action reveals that he has now symbolically replaced his mentor in this way as well. The insensitivity of the party-goers upon hearing that a man has been shot is so extreme that it reads as a parody. Sir Geoffrey's first response upon learning that he has shot a man is annoyance; he says that the event \"spoiled my shooting for the day.\" Lord Henry handles the news with typically superficial concern, saying that hunting must cease for the day because \"It would not look well to go on.\" For all of the seeming profundity of the sayings that Henry spouts in conversation, he proves himself to be, in times of crisis, incapable of viewing the world in terms of anything but appearances. His comments in this chapter remind us of the superficial nature of his comfort to Dorian immediately after Sibyl's death , when he recommended that Dorian not sulk or involve himself with the investigation so as to preserve his reputation. Dorian himself displays some distress upon hearing of the man's death, but not for humanitarian reasons. He urges Sir Geoffrey not to shoot, but only because the intended target, a rabbit, strikes him as beautiful. Perhaps, since Dorian has felt like a hunted creature ever since his encounter with James Vane outside of the opium den, he sympathizes with the creature. The emotional pain Dorian feels after learning that a man is dead is the consequence of his own self-pity: he considers the event a \"bad omen,\" not a tragedy in its own right. Dorian displays his true insensitivity when his immediate reaction to the news is to reach for his checkbook. He is not compelled to comfort the family of what he assumes to be a dead employee, or even to express his condolences, but rather instinctively attempts to make the problem go away by throwing money at it. Discovering that the dead man is James Vane causes Dorian to rejoice for several reasons. First and foremost, he no longer has to fear for his life. However, it also means that he was not hallucinating when he saw James's face through the window. Dorian may be cripplingly paranoid, but he is not insane. Finally, since James's appearance was intended to make Dorian pay for his hand in Sibyl's death, now that James is dead, Dorian may once again convince himself that he has escaped unscathed from the sins of his past."} |
A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby
Royal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband,
a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time,
and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the
table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at
which the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily
among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that
Dorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a
silk-draped wicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan
sat Lady Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke's description of
the last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three
young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of
the women. The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were
more expected to arrive on the next day.
"What are you two talking about?" said Lord Henry, strolling over to
the table and putting his cup down. "I hope Dorian has told you about
my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea."
"But I don't want to be rechristened, Harry," rejoined the duchess,
looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. "I am quite satisfied with
my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his."
"My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are
both perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an
orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as
effective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked
one of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine
specimen of _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a
sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to
things. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one
quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in
literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled
to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for."
"Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked.
"His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian.
"I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess.
"I won't hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From
a label there is no escape! I refuse the title."
"Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips.
"You wish me to defend my throne, then?"
"Yes."
"I give the truths of to-morrow."
"I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered.
"You disarm me, Gladys," he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.
"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear."
"I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand.
"That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much."
"How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be
beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready
than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly."
"Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess.
"What becomes of your simile about the orchid?"
"Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good
Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly
virtues have made our England what she is."
"You don't like your country, then?" she asked.
"I live in it."
"That you may censure it the better."
"Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired.
"What do they say of us?"
"That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop."
"Is that yours, Harry?"
"I give it to you."
"I could not use it. It is too true."
"You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description."
"They are practical."
"They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger,
they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy."
"Still, we have done great things."
"Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys."
"We have carried their burden."
"Only as far as the Stock Exchange."
She shook her head. "I believe in the race," she cried.
"It represents the survival of the pushing."
"It has development."
"Decay fascinates me more."
"What of art?" she asked.
"It is a malady."
"Love?"
"An illusion."
"Religion?"
"The fashionable substitute for belief."
"You are a sceptic."
"Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith."
"What are you?"
"To define is to limit."
"Give me a clue."
"Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth."
"You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else."
"Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince
Charming."
"Ah! don't remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray.
"Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess,
colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely
scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern
butterfly."
"Well, I hope he won't stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian.
"Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me."
"And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?"
"For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because
I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by
half-past eight."
"How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning."
"I daren't, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the
one I wore at Lady Hilstone's garden-party? You don't, but it is nice
of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All
good hats are made out of nothing."
"Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry. "Every
effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be
a mediocrity."
"Not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule
the world. I assure you we can't bear mediocrities. We women, as some
one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if
you ever love at all."
"It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian.
"Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess with
mock sadness.
"My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance
lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art.
Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved.
Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely
intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best,
and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as
possible."
"Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess after
a pause.
"Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry.
The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression
in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired.
Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and
laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess."
"Even when he is wrong?"
"Harry is never wrong, Duchess."
"And does his philosophy make you happy?"
"I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have
searched for pleasure."
"And found it, Mr. Gray?"
"Often. Too often."
The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I
don't go and dress, I shall have none this evening."
"Let me get you some orchids, Duchess," cried Dorian, starting to his
feet and walking down the conservatory.
"You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his
cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating."
"If he were not, there would be no battle."
"Greek meets Greek, then?"
"I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman."
"They were defeated."
"There are worse things than capture," she answered.
"You gallop with a loose rein."
"Pace gives life," was the _riposte_.
"I shall write it in my diary to-night."
"What?"
"That a burnt child loves the fire."
"I am not even singed. My wings are untouched."
"You use them for everything, except flight."
"Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us."
"You have a rival."
"Who?"
He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores
him."
"You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us
who are romanticists."
"Romanticists! You have all the methods of science."
"Men have educated us."
"But not explained you."
"Describe us as a sex," was her challenge.
"Sphinxes without secrets."
She looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr. Gray is!" she said. "Let us
go and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock."
"Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys."
"That would be a premature surrender."
"Romantic art begins with its climax."
"I must keep an opportunity for retreat."
"In the Parthian manner?"
"They found safety in the desert. I could not do that."
"Women are not always allowed a choice," he answered, but hardly had he
finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came
a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody
started up. The duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear in
his eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find Dorian
Gray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a deathlike swoon.
He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid upon one of
the sofas. After a short time, he came to himself and looked round
with a dazed expression.
"What has happened?" he asked. "Oh! I remember. Am I safe here,
Harry?" He began to tremble.
"My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, "you merely fainted. That was
all. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down
to dinner. I will take your place."
"No, I will come down," he said, struggling to his feet. "I would
rather come down. I must not be alone."
He went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of
gaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of
terror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the
window of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the
face of James Vane watching him.
The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the
time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet
indifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared,
tracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but
tremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against
the leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild
regrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor's face
peering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to
lay its hand upon his heart.
But perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out of
the night and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. Actual
life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the
imagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet
of sin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen
brood. In the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor
the good rewarded. Success was given to the strong, failure thrust
upon the weak. That was all. Besides, had any stranger been prowling
round the house, he would have been seen by the servants or the
keepers. Had any foot-marks been found on the flower-beds, the
gardeners would have reported it. Yes, it had been merely fancy.
Sibyl Vane's brother had not come back to kill him. He had sailed away
in his ship to founder in some winter sea. From him, at any rate, he
was safe. Why, the man did not know who he was, could not know who he
was. The mask of youth had saved him.
And yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to think
that conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give them
visible form, and make them move before one! What sort of life would
his be if, day and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him from
silent corners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his ear
as he sat at the feast, to wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep!
As the thought crept through his brain, he grew pale with terror, and
the air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder. Oh! in what a
wild hour of madness he had killed his friend! How ghastly the mere
memory of the scene! He saw it all again. Each hideous detail came
back to him with added horror. Out of the black cave of time, terrible
and swathed in scarlet, rose the image of his sin. When Lord Henry
came in at six o'clock, he found him crying as one whose heart will
break.
It was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. There was
something in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning that
seemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for life. But
it was not merely the physical conditions of environment that had
caused the change. His own nature had revolted against the excess of
anguish that had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm.
With subtle and finely wrought temperaments it is always so. Their
strong passions must either bruise or bend. They either slay the man,
or themselves die. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The
loves and sorrows that are great are destroyed by their own plenitude.
Besides, he had convinced himself that he had been the victim of a
terror-stricken imagination, and looked back now on his fears with
something of pity and not a little of contempt.
After breakfast, he walked with the duchess for an hour in the garden
and then drove across the park to join the shooting-party. The crisp
frost lay like salt upon the grass. The sky was an inverted cup of
blue metal. A thin film of ice bordered the flat, reed-grown lake.
At the corner of the pine-wood he caught sight of Sir Geoffrey
Clouston, the duchess's brother, jerking two spent cartridges out of
his gun. He jumped from the cart, and having told the groom to take
the mare home, made his way towards his guest through the withered
bracken and rough undergrowth.
"Have you had good sport, Geoffrey?" he asked.
"Not very good, Dorian. I think most of the birds have gone to the
open. I dare say it will be better after lunch, when we get to new
ground."
Dorian strolled along by his side. The keen aromatic air, the brown
and red lights that glimmered in the wood, the hoarse cries of the
beaters ringing out from time to time, and the sharp snaps of the guns
that followed, fascinated him and filled him with a sense of delightful
freedom. He was dominated by the carelessness of happiness, by the
high indifference of joy.
Suddenly from a lumpy tussock of old grass some twenty yards in front
of them, with black-tipped ears erect and long hinder limbs throwing it
forward, started a hare. It bolted for a thicket of alders. Sir
Geoffrey put his gun to his shoulder, but there was something in the
animal's grace of movement that strangely charmed Dorian Gray, and he
cried out at once, "Don't shoot it, Geoffrey. Let it live."
"What nonsense, Dorian!" laughed his companion, and as the hare bounded
into the thicket, he fired. There were two cries heard, the cry of a
hare in pain, which is dreadful, the cry of a man in agony, which is
worse.
"Good heavens! I have hit a beater!" exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. "What an
ass the man was to get in front of the guns! Stop shooting there!" he
called out at the top of his voice. "A man is hurt."
The head-keeper came running up with a stick in his hand.
"Where, sir? Where is he?" he shouted. At the same time, the firing
ceased along the line.
"Here," answered Sir Geoffrey angrily, hurrying towards the thicket.
"Why on earth don't you keep your men back? Spoiled my shooting for
the day."
Dorian watched them as they plunged into the alder-clump, brushing the
lithe swinging branches aside. In a few moments they emerged, dragging
a body after them into the sunlight. He turned away in horror. It
seemed to him that misfortune followed wherever he went. He heard Sir
Geoffrey ask if the man was really dead, and the affirmative answer of
the keeper. The wood seemed to him to have become suddenly alive with
faces. There was the trampling of myriad feet and the low buzz of
voices. A great copper-breasted pheasant came beating through the
boughs overhead.
After a few moments--that were to him, in his perturbed state, like
endless hours of pain--he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He started
and looked round.
"Dorian," said Lord Henry, "I had better tell them that the shooting is
stopped for to-day. It would not look well to go on."
"I wish it were stopped for ever, Harry," he answered bitterly. "The
whole thing is hideous and cruel. Is the man ...?"
He could not finish the sentence.
"I am afraid so," rejoined Lord Henry. "He got the whole charge of
shot in his chest. He must have died almost instantaneously. Come;
let us go home."
They walked side by side in the direction of the avenue for nearly
fifty yards without speaking. Then Dorian looked at Lord Henry and
said, with a heavy sigh, "It is a bad omen, Harry, a very bad omen."
"What is?" asked Lord Henry. "Oh! this accident, I suppose. My dear
fellow, it can't be helped. It was the man's own fault. Why did he
get in front of the guns? Besides, it is nothing to us. It is rather
awkward for Geoffrey, of course. It does not do to pepper beaters. It
makes people think that one is a wild shot. And Geoffrey is not; he
shoots very straight. But there is no use talking about the matter."
Dorian shook his head. "It is a bad omen, Harry. I feel as if
something horrible were going to happen to some of us. To myself,
perhaps," he added, passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of
pain.
The elder man laughed. "The only horrible thing in the world is _ennui_,
Dorian. That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness. But we
are not likely to suffer from it unless these fellows keep chattering
about this thing at dinner. I must tell them that the subject is to be
tabooed. As for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. Destiny
does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that.
Besides, what on earth could happen to you, Dorian? You have
everything in the world that a man can want. There is no one who would
not be delighted to change places with you."
"There is no one with whom I would not change places, Harry. Don't
laugh like that. I am telling you the truth. The wretched peasant who
has just died is better off than I am. I have no terror of death. It
is the coming of death that terrifies me. Its monstrous wings seem to
wheel in the leaden air around me. Good heavens! don't you see a man
moving behind the trees there, watching me, waiting for me?"
Lord Henry looked in the direction in which the trembling gloved hand
was pointing. "Yes," he said, smiling, "I see the gardener waiting for
you. I suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish to have on
the table to-night. How absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow! You
must come and see my doctor, when we get back to town."
Dorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. The
man touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry in a hesitating
manner, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master.
"Her Grace told me to wait for an answer," he murmured.
Dorian put the letter into his pocket. "Tell her Grace that I am
coming in," he said, coldly. The man turned round and went rapidly in
the direction of the house.
"How fond women are of doing dangerous things!" laughed Lord Henry.
"It is one of the qualities in them that I admire most. A woman will
flirt with anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on."
"How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the present
instance, you are quite astray. I like the duchess very much, but I
don't love her."
"And the duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so you
are excellently matched."
"You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis for
scandal."
"The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty," said Lord Henry,
lighting a cigarette.
"You would sacrifice anybody, Harry, for the sake of an epigram."
"The world goes to the altar of its own accord," was the answer.
"I wish I could love," cried Dorian Gray with a deep note of pathos in
his voice. "But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the
desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has
become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It
was silly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a wire
to Harvey to have the yacht got ready. On a yacht one is safe."
"Safe from what, Dorian? You are in some trouble. Why not tell me
what it is? You know I would help you."
"I can't tell you, Harry," he answered sadly. "And I dare say it is
only a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have
a horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me."
"What nonsense!"
"I hope it is, but I can't help feeling it. Ah! here is the duchess,
looking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back,
Duchess."
"I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray," she answered. "Poor Geoffrey is
terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare.
How curious!"
"Yes, it was very curious. I don't know what made me say it. Some
whim, I suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I
am sorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject."
"It is an annoying subject," broke in Lord Henry. "It has no
psychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on
purpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some one
who had committed a real murder."
"How horrid of you, Harry!" cried the duchess. "Isn't it, Mr. Gray?
Harry, Mr. Gray is ill again. He is going to faint."
Dorian drew himself up with an effort and smiled. "It is nothing,
Duchess," he murmured; "my nerves are dreadfully out of order. That is
all. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn't hear what
Harry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. I
think I must go and lie down. You will excuse me, won't you?"
They had reached the great flight of steps that led from the
conservatory on to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind
Dorian, Lord Henry turned and looked at the duchess with his slumberous
eyes. "Are you very much in love with him?" he asked.
She did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape.
"I wish I knew," she said at last.
He shook his head. "Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty
that charms one. A mist makes things wonderful."
"One may lose one's way."
"All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys."
"What is that?"
"Disillusion."
"It was my _debut_ in life," she sighed.
"It came to you crowned."
"I am tired of strawberry leaves."
"They become you."
"Only in public."
"You would miss them," said Lord Henry.
"I will not part with a petal."
"Monmouth has ears."
"Old age is dull of hearing."
"Has he never been jealous?"
"I wish he had been."
He glanced about as if in search of something. "What are you looking
for?" she inquired.
"The button from your foil," he answered. "You have dropped it."
She laughed. "I have still the mask."
"It makes your eyes lovelier," was his reply.
She laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet
fruit.
Upstairs, in his own room, Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa, with terror
in every tingling fibre of his body. Life had suddenly become too
hideous a burden for him to bear. The dreadful death of the unlucky
beater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him to
pre-figure death for himself also. He had nearly swooned at what Lord
Henry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting.
At five o'clock he rang his bell for his servant and gave him orders to
pack his things for the night-express to town, and to have the brougham
at the door by eight-thirty. He was determined not to sleep another
night at Selby Royal. It was an ill-omened place. Death walked there
in the sunlight. The grass of the forest had been spotted with blood.
Then he wrote a note to Lord Henry, telling him that he was going up to
town to consult his doctor and asking him to entertain his guests in
his absence. As he was putting it into the envelope, a knock came to
the door, and his valet informed him that the head-keeper wished to see
him. He frowned and bit his lip. "Send him in," he muttered, after
some moments' hesitation.
As soon as the man entered, Dorian pulled his chequebook out of a
drawer and spread it out before him.
"I suppose you have come about the unfortunate accident of this
morning, Thornton?" he said, taking up a pen.
"Yes, sir," answered the gamekeeper.
"Was the poor fellow married? Had he any people dependent on him?"
asked Dorian, looking bored. "If so, I should not like them to be left
in want, and will send them any sum of money you may think necessary."
"We don't know who he is, sir. That is what I took the liberty of
coming to you about."
"Don't know who he is?" said Dorian, listlessly. "What do you mean?
Wasn't he one of your men?"
"No, sir. Never saw him before. Seems like a sailor, sir."
The pen dropped from Dorian Gray's hand, and he felt as if his heart
had suddenly stopped beating. "A sailor?" he cried out. "Did you say
a sailor?"
"Yes, sir. He looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed on
both arms, and that kind of thing."
"Was there anything found on him?" said Dorian, leaning forward and
looking at the man with startled eyes. "Anything that would tell his
name?"
"Some money, sir--not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any
kind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor we
think."
Dorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He
clutched at it madly. "Where is the body?" he exclaimed. "Quick! I
must see it at once."
"It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don't like
to have that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings
bad luck."
"The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms
to bring my horse round. No. Never mind. I'll go to the stables
myself. It will save time."
In less than a quarter of an hour, Dorian Gray was galloping down the
long avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him
in spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his
path. Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him.
He lashed her across the neck with his crop. She cleft the dusky air
like an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs.
At last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the yard.
He leaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In the
farthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to tell him
that the body was there, and he hurried to the door and put his hand
upon the latch.
There he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a
discovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust the
door open and entered.
On a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man
dressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spotted
handkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck in
a bottle, sputtered beside it.
Dorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to take
the handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to
come to him.
"Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it," he said, clutching
at the door-post for support.
When the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A cry of joy
broke from his lips. The man who had been shot in the thicket was
James Vane.
He stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. As he rode
home, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe.
| 4,898 | Chapters 17 & 18 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210421171214/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/study-guide/summary-chapters-17-and-18 | The chapter begins with Dorian and Lord Henry chatting with Gladys, the Duchess of Monmouth, during a party at a conservatory. Many guests are gathered there for an extended visit as guests of Dorian's. The guests discuss names, love, and of course the virtues of beauty. Gladys shows herself to be quite witty, holding her own in a tete-a-tete with Lord Henry. After Henry playfully mentions Dorian's old nickname, Prince Charming, she asks whether Dorian has ever truly been in love. Disturbed by the reminder of his recent confrontation, Dorian excuses himself, saying that he must pick orchids for the duchess. Dorian takes a long time to return, and as Henry wonders about his whereabouts, a disturbed cry is heard from the other room. Lord Henry rushes to the scene, and finds that Dorian has fainted. Henry insists that he stay in bed and recover, but Dorian doesn't want to be alone. All of the guests assume that he has merely collapsed from exhaustion. Dorian, however, doesn't tell them the real reason for his distress: he fainted upon seeing the face of James Vane, spying on him through the conservatory window. Dorian spends the next three days inside, "sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself." He eventually convinces himself that the face was a hallucination brought on by his conscience as a result of suppressing his guilt for so long. When Dorian finally goes outdoors, he and Lord Henry accompany Sir Geoffrey Clouston, the duchess's brother, on a short hunting excursion. Geoffrey aims at a hare, and Dorian instinctively cries out, urging him not to shoot it. Two screams are heard after the shot is fired: "the cry of a hare in pain, which is dreadful," and "the cry of a man in agony, which is worse." Geoffrey assumes that the man he has shot is a "beater," one of the men employed by the conservatory to drive the game into the open for the hunters. All hunting is called off for the day, so that the guests don't appear too callous, and Lord Henry informs Geoffrey that the man who has been shot is dead. Later, Henry and Dorian again chat with Gladys. We learn that Geoffrey is upset, but Henry blames the beater for everything and sees no reason for any remorse. He wishes, however, "that he had done the thing on purpose," and proclaims that "I should like to know someone who had committed a real murder." Dorian must excuse himself to lie down. He lies on a sofa upstairs, terrified, feeling as if the unexpected stranger's death is a sure sign that his own is imminent. He is nearly paralyzed with fear and decides to leave for a doctor, but before he can his valet sends the gamekeeper in. Knowing it must be about the dead beater, Dorian questions whether the victim had had a wife or any dependents, and offers "any sum of money you may think necessary" to provide for their needs. However, the gamekeeper has arrived to inform Dorian that the dead man was not an employee, and that no one has been able to identify him. Dorian frantically rides to the farm house where the body is being kept, and discovers that the dead man is James Vane. He is overjoyed, his eyes "full of tears, for he knew he was safe." | The discussion of names and Henry's comment that "I never quarrel with actions with words" prompt us to consider the significance of names in the novel, and the theme of the power of words. Upon first meeting Lord Henry in chapter 2, and first hearing the man's intoxicatingly sensuous view of the world, Dorian thinks to himself: "Words! Mere words! How terrible they were!...One could not escape from them." It is Henry's conversational acumen that enables him to influence Dorian so profoundly, and it is a book that Dorian considers to be primarily responsible for his own corruption. By placing such emphasis on the power of words, written or spoken, Wilde is indirectly commenting on the power of the literary art. Fittingly, Henry follows his earlier comment with the remark, "That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature." This comment is not merely an expression of yet another of Henry's distinctive beliefs, but an invitation for the reader to consider the value of the fantastic elements included in The Picture of Dorian Gray. The Duchess of Monmouth is one of the few characters in the book who seems capable of holding her own in conversation against Lord Henry's sharp, unorthodox witticisms. When she says to Henry that "You value beauty far too much," she unknowingly hits on the reason for Dorian's guilt. When Dorian leaves to pick flowers, we are reminded of the first chapter, when Henry picked a flower from Basil's garden and slowly pulled it apart, petal by petal. As Henry's earlier action symbolized his role as both an admirer and a destroyer of delicate beauty, Dorian's action reveals that he has now symbolically replaced his mentor in this way as well. The insensitivity of the party-goers upon hearing that a man has been shot is so extreme that it reads as a parody. Sir Geoffrey's first response upon learning that he has shot a man is annoyance; he says that the event "spoiled my shooting for the day." Lord Henry handles the news with typically superficial concern, saying that hunting must cease for the day because "It would not look well to go on." For all of the seeming profundity of the sayings that Henry spouts in conversation, he proves himself to be, in times of crisis, incapable of viewing the world in terms of anything but appearances. His comments in this chapter remind us of the superficial nature of his comfort to Dorian immediately after Sibyl's death , when he recommended that Dorian not sulk or involve himself with the investigation so as to preserve his reputation. Dorian himself displays some distress upon hearing of the man's death, but not for humanitarian reasons. He urges Sir Geoffrey not to shoot, but only because the intended target, a rabbit, strikes him as beautiful. Perhaps, since Dorian has felt like a hunted creature ever since his encounter with James Vane outside of the opium den, he sympathizes with the creature. The emotional pain Dorian feels after learning that a man is dead is the consequence of his own self-pity: he considers the event a "bad omen," not a tragedy in its own right. Dorian displays his true insensitivity when his immediate reaction to the news is to reach for his checkbook. He is not compelled to comfort the family of what he assumes to be a dead employee, or even to express his condolences, but rather instinctively attempts to make the problem go away by throwing money at it. Discovering that the dead man is James Vane causes Dorian to rejoice for several reasons. First and foremost, he no longer has to fear for his life. However, it also means that he was not hallucinating when he saw James's face through the window. Dorian may be cripplingly paranoid, but he is not insane. Finally, since James's appearance was intended to make Dorian pay for his hand in Sibyl's death, now that James is dead, Dorian may once again convince himself that he has escaped unscathed from the sins of his past. | 566 | 696 | [
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28,054 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/15.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_14_part_0.txt | The Brothers Karamazov.book 3.chapter 2 | book 3, chapter 2 | null | {"name": "Book 3, Chapter 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-3-chapter-2", "summary": "Stinking Lizaveta was just 20 years old when she gave birth to her son. Her father was an unemployed drunkard who beat her whenever she came home, but generally Stinking Lizaveta wandered around town dressed only in a simple shift, despite the best efforts of the townspeople to clothe her. Simple-minded and mute, Stinking Lizaveta would often sleep outside in random gardens. One night, or so the rumors went, Fyodor and some other drunken gentlemen were headed home from the club and found Stinking Lizaveta. One of them asked whether she could ever be considered a woman, and they all laughed, except for Fyodor. The gentlemen encouraged Fyodor to have sex with her, but he refused. A few months after this incident, everyone noticed to their shock that Lizaveta was pregnant. While Fyodor denied it, everyone assumed he was the father, a rumor that only seemed confirmed with Lizaveta gave birth in his kitchen garden. Grigory and Marfa raised the child as their own, and Fyodor even took a liking to him, naming him Smerdyakov, after his mother's last name. Smerdyakov grew to be a cook in Fyodor's household.", "analysis": ""} | 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.
| 1,521 | Book 3, Chapter 2 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-3-chapter-2 | Stinking Lizaveta was just 20 years old when she gave birth to her son. Her father was an unemployed drunkard who beat her whenever she came home, but generally Stinking Lizaveta wandered around town dressed only in a simple shift, despite the best efforts of the townspeople to clothe her. Simple-minded and mute, Stinking Lizaveta would often sleep outside in random gardens. One night, or so the rumors went, Fyodor and some other drunken gentlemen were headed home from the club and found Stinking Lizaveta. One of them asked whether she could ever be considered a woman, and they all laughed, except for Fyodor. The gentlemen encouraged Fyodor to have sex with her, but he refused. A few months after this incident, everyone noticed to their shock that Lizaveta was pregnant. While Fyodor denied it, everyone assumed he was the father, a rumor that only seemed confirmed with Lizaveta gave birth in his kitchen garden. Grigory and Marfa raised the child as their own, and Fyodor even took a liking to him, naming him Smerdyakov, after his mother's last name. Smerdyakov grew to be a cook in Fyodor's household. | null | 189 | 1 | [
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110 | false | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/48.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_5_part_3.txt | Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 47 | chapter 47 | null | {"name": "Chapter 47", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-6-chapters-45-52", "summary": "A man comes to see Tess, and her three companions watch. They do not recognize the man as Alec, however, for Alec does not appear as a ranting parson, as they have heard him described, but rather as a dandy. Alec has returned to his normal appearance, wearing fancy clothing once more and shaving off his beard. Alec claims that he has given up his preaching entirely. Alec tells Tess that he does not want her working at Flinctcomb-Ash. He derides Tess's husband, whose name he does not know, as a \"mythological personage. Alec tells her that she should leave her husband forever, and Tess responds by slapping him with her leather glove, drawing blood. When he springs up at her, she tells him that he can whip her or crush her, and she will not cry out because she is always his victim. Alec tells her that he was her master once and will be her master again.", "analysis": "The full rejection of religion by Alec d'Urberville that Hardy has foreshadowed arrives in this chapter, revealing the superficiality of his religious conversion. Alec rejects Christianity as easily as he would reject a style of clothing; he signals this change of belief not by any overt behavior, but rather by adopting a more stylish appearance and rejecting the austere dress of a fundamentalist preacher. In contrast, while Alec shows a weakness and adaptability in his beliefs, Tess demonstrates her core of strength and fortitude. She takes physical action against Alec and refuses to flinch at the possibility that he may hurt her in return. Her claim that she will not cry out if Alec hurts her because she will always be her victim is ironic, for by confronting Alec in such a way she makes it very clear that she is far too strong to be the victim of Alec again"} |
It is the threshing of the last wheat-rick at Flintcomb-Ash farm. The
dawn of the March morning is singularly inexpressive, and there is
nothing to show where the eastern horizon lies. Against the twilight
rises the trapezoidal top of the stack, which has stood forlornly
here through the washing and bleaching of the wintry weather.
When Izz Huett and Tess arrived at the scene of operations only a
rustling denoted that others had preceded them; to which, as the
light increased, there were presently added the silhouettes of two
men on the summit. They were busily "unhaling" the rick, that
is, stripping off the thatch before beginning to throw down the
sheaves; and while this was in progress Izz and Tess, with the
other women-workers, in their whitey-brown pinners, stood waiting
and shivering, Farmer Groby having insisted upon their being on
the spot thus early to get the job over if possible by the end of
the day. Close under the eaves of the stack, and as yet barely
visible, was the red tyrant that the women had come to serve--a
timber-framed construction, with straps and wheels appertaining--
the threshing-machine which, whilst it was going, kept up a
despotic demand upon the endurance of their muscles and nerves.
A little way off there was another indistinct figure; this one black,
with a sustained hiss that spoke of strength very much in reserve.
The long chimney running up beside an ash-tree, and the warmth which
radiated from the spot, explained without the necessity of much
daylight that here was the engine which was to act as the _primum
mobile_ of this little world. By the engine stood a dark, motionless
being, a sooty and grimy embodiment of tallness, in a sort of trance,
with a heap of coals by his side: it was the engine-man. The
isolation of his manner and colour lent him the appearance of a
creature from Tophet, who had strayed into the pellucid smokelessness
of this region of yellow grain and pale soil, with which he had
nothing in common, to amaze and to discompose its aborigines.
What he looked he felt. He was in the agricultural world, but not of
it. He served fire and smoke; these denizens of the fields served
vegetation, weather, frost, and sun. He travelled with his engine
from farm to farm, from county to county, for as yet the steam
threshing-machine was itinerant in this part of Wessex. He spoke in
a strange northern accent; his thoughts being turned inwards upon
himself, his eye on his iron charge, hardly perceiving the scenes
around him, and caring for them not at all: holding only strictly
necessary intercourse with the natives, as if some ancient doom
compelled him to wander here against his will in the service of his
Plutonic master. The long strap which ran from the driving-wheel of
his engine to the red thresher under the rick was the sole tie-line
between agriculture and him.
While they uncovered the sheaves he stood apathetic beside his
portable repository of force, round whose hot blackness the morning
air quivered. He had nothing to do with preparatory labour. His
fire was waiting incandescent, his steam was at high pressure, in
a few seconds he could make the long strap move at an invisible
velocity. Beyond its extent the environment might be corn, straw,
or chaos; it was all the same to him. If any of the autochthonous
idlers asked him what he called himself, he replied shortly, "an
engineer."
The rick was unhaled by full daylight; the men then took their
places, the women mounted, and the work began. Farmer Groby--or, as
they called him, "he"--had arrived ere this, and by his orders Tess
was placed on the platform of the machine, close to the man who fed
it, her business being to untie every sheaf of corn handed on to her
by Izz Huett, who stood next, but on the rick; so that the feeder
could seize it and spread it over the revolving drum, which whisked
out every grain in one moment.
They were soon in full progress, after a preparatory hitch or two,
which rejoiced the hearts of those who hated machinery. The work
sped on till breakfast time, when the thresher was stopped for half
an hour; and on starting again after the meal the whole supplementary
strength of the farm was thrown into the labour of constructing the
straw-rick, which began to grow beside the stack of corn. A hasty
lunch was eaten as they stood, without leaving their positions, and
then another couple of hours brought them near to dinner-time; the
inexorable wheel continuing to spin, and the penetrating hum of the
thresher to thrill to the very marrow all who were near the revolving
wire-cage.
The old men on the rising straw-rick talked of the past days
when they had been accustomed to thresh with flails on the oaken
barn-floor; when everything, even to winnowing, was effected by
hand-labour, which, to their thinking, though slow, produced better
results. Those, too, on the corn-rick talked a little; but the
perspiring ones at the machine, including Tess, could not lighten
their duties by the exchange of many words. It was the ceaselessness
of the work which tried her so severely, and began to make her
wish that she had never some to Flintcomb-Ash. The women on the
corn-rick--Marian, who was one of them, in particular--could stop to
drink ale or cold tea from the flagon now and then, or to exchange
a few gossiping remarks while they wiped their faces or cleared the
fragments of straw and husk from their clothing; but for Tess there
was no respite; for, as the drum never stopped, the man who fed
it could not stop, and she, who had to supply the man with untied
sheaves, could not stop either, unless Marian changed places with
her, which she sometimes did for half an hour in spite of Groby's
objections that she was too slow-handed for a feeder.
For some probably economical reason it was usually a woman who was
chosen for this particular duty, and Groby gave as his motive in
selecting Tess that she was one of those who best combined strength
with quickness in untying, and both with staying power, and this may
have been true. The hum of the thresher, which prevented speech,
increased to a raving whenever the supply of corn fell short of the
regular quantity. As Tess and the man who fed could never turn their
heads she did not know that just before the dinner-hour a person had
come silently into the field by the gate, and had been standing under
a second rick watching the scene and Tess in particular. He was
dressed in a tweed suit of fashionable pattern, and he twirled a gay
walking-cane.
"Who is that?" said Izz Huett to Marian. She had at first addressed
the inquiry to Tess, but the latter could not hear it.
"Somebody's fancy-man, I s'pose," said Marian laconically.
"I'll lay a guinea he's after Tess."
"O no. 'Tis a ranter pa'son who's been sniffing after her lately;
not a dandy like this."
"Well--this is the same man."
"The same man as the preacher? But he's quite different!"
"He hev left off his black coat and white neckercher, and hev cut off
his whiskers; but he's the same man for all that."
"D'ye really think so? Then I'll tell her," said Marian.
"Don't. She'll see him soon enough, good-now."
"Well, I don't think it at all right for him to join his preaching to
courting a married woman, even though her husband mid be abroad, and
she, in a sense, a widow."
"Oh--he can do her no harm," said Izz drily. "Her mind can no more
be heaved from that one place where it do bide than a stooded waggon
from the hole he's in. Lord love 'ee, neither court-paying, nor
preaching, nor the seven thunders themselves, can wean a woman when
'twould be better for her that she should be weaned."
Dinner-time came, and the whirling ceased; whereupon Tess left her
post, her knees trembling so wretchedly with the shaking of the
machine that she could scarcely walk.
"You ought to het a quart o' drink into 'ee, as I've done," said
Marian. "You wouldn't look so white then. Why, souls above us,
your face is as if you'd been hagrode!"
It occurred to the good-natured Marian that, as Tess was so tired,
her discovery of her visitor's presence might have the bad effect of
taking away her appetite; and Marian was thinking of inducing Tess
to descend by a ladder on the further side of the stack when the
gentleman came forward and looked up.
Tess uttered a short little "Oh!" And a moment after she said,
quickly, "I shall eat my dinner here--right on the rick."
Sometimes, when they were so far from their cottages, they all did
this; but as there was rather a keen wind going to-day, Marian and
the rest descended, and sat under the straw-stack.
The newcomer was, indeed, Alec d'Urberville, the late Evangelist,
despite his changed attire and aspect. It was obvious at a glance
that the original _Weltlust_ had come back; that he had restored
himself, as nearly as a man could do who had grown three or four
years older, to the old jaunty, slapdash guise under which Tess
had first known her admirer, and cousin so-called. Having decided
to remain where she was, Tess sat down among the bundles, out of
sight of the ground, and began her meal; till, by-and-by, she heard
footsteps on the ladder, and immediately after Alec appeared upon the
stack--now an oblong and level platform of sheaves. He strode across
them, and sat down opposite of her without a word.
Tess continued to eat her modest dinner, a slice of thick pancake
which she had brought with her. The other workfolk were by this
time all gathered under the rick, where the loose straw formed a
comfortable retreat.
"I am here again, as you see," said d'Urberville.
"Why do you trouble me so!" she cried, reproach flashing from her
very finger-ends.
"I trouble YOU? I think I may ask, why do you trouble me?"
"Sure, I don't trouble you any-when!"
"You say you don't? But you do! You haunt me. Those very eyes that
you turned upon me with such a bitter flash a moment ago, they come
to me just as you showed them then, in the night and in the day!
Tess, ever since you told me of that child of ours, it is just as if
my feelings, which have been flowing in a strong puritanical stream,
had suddenly found a way open in the direction of you, and had all at
once gushed through. The religious channel is left dry forthwith;
and it is you who have done it!"
She gazed in silence.
"What--you have given up your preaching entirely?" she asked. She
had gathered from Angel sufficient of the incredulity of modern
thought to despise flash enthusiasm; but, as a woman, she was
somewhat appalled.
In affected severity d'Urberville continued--
"Entirely. I have broken every engagement since that afternoon I was
to address the drunkards at Casterbridge Fair. The deuce only knows
what I am thought of by the brethren. Ah-ha! The brethren! No
doubt they pray for me--weep for me; for they are kind people in
their way. But what do I care? How could I go on with the thing
when I had lost my faith in it?--it would have been hypocrisy of
the basest kind! Among them I should have stood like Hymenaeus and
Alexander, who were delivered over to Satan that they might learn
not to blaspheme. What a grand revenge you have taken! I saw you
innocent, and I deceived you. Four years after, you find me a
Christian enthusiast; you then work upon me, perhaps to my complete
perdition! But Tess, my coz, as I used to call you, this is only
my way of talking, and you must not look so horribly concerned.
Of course you have done nothing except retain your pretty face and
shapely figure. I saw it on the rick before you saw me--that tight
pinafore-thing sets it off, and that wing-bonnet--you field-girls
should never wear those bonnets if you wish to keep out of danger."
He regarded her silently for a few moments, and with a short cynical
laugh resumed: "I believe that if the bachelor-apostle, whose deputy
I thought I was, had been tempted by such a pretty face, he would
have let go the plough for her sake as I do!"
Tess attempted to expostulate, but at this juncture all her fluency
failed her, and without heeding he added:
"Well, this paradise that you supply is perhaps as good as any other,
after all. But to speak seriously, Tess." D'Urberville rose and
came nearer, reclining sideways amid the sheaves, and resting upon
his elbow. "Since I last saw you, I have been thinking of what
you said that HE said. I have come to the conclusion that there
does seem rather a want of common-sense in these threadbare old
propositions; how I could have been so fired by poor Parson Clare's
enthusiasm, and have gone so madly to work, transcending even him, I
cannot make out! As for what you said last time, on the strength of
your wonderful husband's intelligence--whose name you have never told
me--about having what they call an ethical system without any dogma,
I don't see my way to that at all."
"Why, you can have the religion of loving-kindness and purity at
least, if you can't have--what do you call it--dogma."
"O no! I'm a different sort of fellow from that! If there's nobody
to say, 'Do this, and it will be a good thing for you after you are
dead; do that, and if will be a bad thing for you,' I can't warm up.
Hang it, I am not going to feel responsible for my deeds and passions
if there's nobody to be responsible to; and if I were you, my dear,
I wouldn't either!"
She tried to argue, and tell him that he had mixed in his dull
brain two matters, theology and morals, which in the primitive days
of mankind had been quite distinct. But owing to Angel Clare's
reticence, to her absolute want of training, and to her being a
vessel of emotions rather than reasons, she could not get on.
"Well, never mind," he resumed. "Here I am, my love, as in the old
times!"
"Not as then--never as then--'tis different!" she entreated. "And
there was never warmth with me! O why didn't you keep your faith,
if the loss of it has brought you to speak to me like this!"
"Because you've knocked it out of me; so the evil be upon your sweet
head! Your husband little thought how his teaching would recoil upon
him! Ha-ha--I'm awfully glad you have made an apostate of me all the
same! Tess, I am more taken with you than ever, and I pity you too.
For all your closeness, I see you are in a bad way--neglected by one
who ought to cherish you."
She could not get her morsels of food down her throat; her lips
were dry, and she was ready to choke. The voices and laughs of the
workfolk eating and drinking under the rick came to her as if they
were a quarter of a mile off.
"It is cruelty to me!" she said. "How--how can you treat me to this
talk, if you care ever so little for me?"
"True, true," he said, wincing a little. "I did not come to reproach
you for my deeds. I came Tess, to say that I don't like you to be
working like this, and I have come on purpose for you. You say you
have a husband who is not I. Well, perhaps you have; but I've never
seen him, and you've not told me his name; and altogether he seems
rather a mythological personage. However, even if you have one, I
think I am nearer to you than he is. I, at any rate, try to help you
out of trouble, but he does not, bless his invisible face! The words
of the stern prophet Hosea that I used to read come back to me.
Don't you know them, Tess?--'And she shall follow after her lover,
but she shall not overtake him; and she shall seek him, but shall
not find him; then shall she say, I will go and return to my first
husband; for then was it better with me than now!' ... Tess, my trap
is waiting just under the hill, and--darling mine, not his!--you know
the rest."
Her face had been rising to a dull crimson fire while he spoke; but
she did not answer.
"You have been the cause of my backsliding," he continued, stretching
his arm towards her waist; "you should be willing to share it, and
leave that mule you call husband for ever."
One of her leather gloves, which she had taken off to eat her
skimmer-cake, lay in her lap, and without the slightest warning she
passionately swung the glove by the gauntlet directly in his face.
It was heavy and thick as a warrior's, and it struck him flat on the
mouth. Fancy might have regarded the act as the recrudescence of
a trick in which her armed progenitors were not unpractised. Alec
fiercely started up from his reclining position. A scarlet oozing
appeared where her blow had alighted, and in a moment the blood began
dropping from his mouth upon the straw. But he soon controlled
himself, calmly drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and mopped
his bleeding lips.
She too had sprung up, but she sank down again. "Now, punish me!" she
said, turning up her eyes to him with the hopeless defiance of the
sparrow's gaze before its captor twists its neck. "Whip me, crush
me; you need not mind those people under the rick! I shall not cry
out. Once victim, always victim--that's the law!"
"O no, no, Tess," he said blandly. "I can make full allowance for
this. Yet you most unjustly forget one thing, that I would have
married you if you had not put it out of my power to do so. Did I
not ask you flatly to be my wife--hey? Answer me."
"You did."
"And you cannot be. But remember one thing!" His voice hardened
as his temper got the better of him with the recollection of his
sincerity in asking her and her present ingratitude, and he stepped
across to her side and held her by the shoulders, so that she shook
under his grasp. "Remember, my lady, I was your master once! I will
be your master again. If you are any man's wife you are mine!"
The threshers now began to stir below.
"So much for our quarrel," he said, letting her go. "Now I shall
leave you, and shall come again for your answer during the afternoon.
You don't know me yet! But I know you."
She had not spoken again, remaining as if stunned. D'Urberville
retreated over the sheaves, and descended the ladder, while the
workers below rose and stretched their arms, and shook down the beer
they had drunk. Then the threshing-machine started afresh; and amid
the renewed rustle of the straw Tess resumed her position by the
buzzing drum as one in a dream, untying sheaf after sheaf in endless
succession.
| 3,085 | Chapter 47 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-6-chapters-45-52 | A man comes to see Tess, and her three companions watch. They do not recognize the man as Alec, however, for Alec does not appear as a ranting parson, as they have heard him described, but rather as a dandy. Alec has returned to his normal appearance, wearing fancy clothing once more and shaving off his beard. Alec claims that he has given up his preaching entirely. Alec tells Tess that he does not want her working at Flinctcomb-Ash. He derides Tess's husband, whose name he does not know, as a "mythological personage. Alec tells her that she should leave her husband forever, and Tess responds by slapping him with her leather glove, drawing blood. When he springs up at her, she tells him that he can whip her or crush her, and she will not cry out because she is always his victim. Alec tells her that he was her master once and will be her master again. | The full rejection of religion by Alec d'Urberville that Hardy has foreshadowed arrives in this chapter, revealing the superficiality of his religious conversion. Alec rejects Christianity as easily as he would reject a style of clothing; he signals this change of belief not by any overt behavior, but rather by adopting a more stylish appearance and rejecting the austere dress of a fundamentalist preacher. In contrast, while Alec shows a weakness and adaptability in his beliefs, Tess demonstrates her core of strength and fortitude. She takes physical action against Alec and refuses to flinch at the possibility that he may hurt her in return. Her claim that she will not cry out if Alec hurts her because she will always be her victim is ironic, for by confronting Alec in such a way she makes it very clear that she is far too strong to be the victim of Alec again | 159 | 151 | [
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161 | false | novelguide | all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/06.txt | finished_summaries/novelguide/Sense and Sensibility/section_1_part_6.txt | Sense and Sensibility.chapter vi | chapter vi | null | {"name": "Chapter VI", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter1-11", "summary": "The Dashwood women arrive at Barton Cottage, and find it pleasant but small. Mrs. Dashwood has plans for extending it, though does not consider how she will afford to do so, considering that she has never saved money in her life. Sir John Middleton arrives to greet them. He warmly invites them to dine at his house, Barton Park, until they have settled in. He also sends over a basket of fruit, vegetables, and meat. The next day, Lady Middleton, Sir John's wife, visits the Dashwood women with her six-year-old son. She is elegant but lacks her husband's warmth. Lady Middleton is only interested in her children, who are her sole topic of conversation", "analysis": ""} |
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.
| 1,261 | Chapter VI | https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter1-11 | The Dashwood women arrive at Barton Cottage, and find it pleasant but small. Mrs. Dashwood has plans for extending it, though does not consider how she will afford to do so, considering that she has never saved money in her life. Sir John Middleton arrives to greet them. He warmly invites them to dine at his house, Barton Park, until they have settled in. He also sends over a basket of fruit, vegetables, and meat. The next day, Lady Middleton, Sir John's wife, visits the Dashwood women with her six-year-old son. She is elegant but lacks her husband's warmth. Lady Middleton is only interested in her children, who are her sole topic of conversation | null | 114 | 1 | [
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1,756 | true | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/1756-chapters/act_4.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Uncle Vanya/section_3_part_0.txt | Uncle Vanya.act 4 | act 4 | null | {"name": "Act 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200714032621/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/uncle-vanya/summary/act-4", "summary": "In Vanya's room, Telegin and Marina sit and wind wool to make stockings. They talk about how Serebryakov and Yelena are getting ready to leave. Telegin says that he hid Vanya's gun in the cellar to keep him from killing himself. Astrov and Vanya come in arguing. Astrov claims that Vanya has stolen some morphine from him and can't leave until he gets it back. Sonya enters, and Astrov tattles to her about the morphine. She begs her uncle to give it back, and he finally does. Sonya takes her uncle away to make up with her dad, and Yelena shows up to say goodbye to Astrov. Sonya hints that she does kind of like him, even if it's something that would never work out. Serebryakov, Vanya, Mariya, Telegin, and Sonya all come back, and Serebryakov apologizes to Vanya. Vanya promises to continue to send Serebryakov money from the estate's earnings. Everyone leaves except for Astrov and Vanya, and Vanya doesn't know what to do with himself. He wants to get to work. Sonya and Mariya come back after seeing off Serebryakov and Yelena, and everyone settles in to start writing bills and knitting. Astrov leaves everyone going about their business. Vanya is sad, and Sonya tells him that they must continue living until it's time for them to die, and then they shall rest. Bummer.", "analysis": ""} | ACT IV
VOITSKI'S bedroom, which is also his office. A table stands near
the window; on it are ledgers, letter scales, and papers of every
description. Near by stands a smaller table belonging to ASTROFF, with
his paints and drawing materials. On the wall hangs a cage containing a
starling. There is also a map of Africa on the wall, obviously of no use
to anybody. There is a large sofa covered with buckram. A door to the
left leads into an inner room; one to the right leads into the front
hall, and before this door lies a mat for the peasants with their muddy
boots to stand on. It is an autumn evening. The silence is profound.
TELEGIN and MARINA are sitting facing one another, winding wool.
TELEGIN. Be quick, Marina, or we shall be called away to say good-bye
before you have finished. The carriage has already been ordered.
MARINA. [Trying to wind more quickly] I am a little tired.
TELEGIN. They are going to Kharkoff to live.
MARINA. They do well to go.
TELEGIN. They have been frightened. The professor's wife won't stay here
an hour longer. "If we are going at all, let's be off," says she, "we
shall go to Kharkoff and look about us, and then we can send for our
things." They are travelling light. It seems, Marina, that fate has
decreed for them not to live here.
MARINA. And quite rightly. What a storm they have just raised! It was
shameful!
TELEGIN. It was indeed. The scene was worthy of the brush of Aibazofski.
MARINA. I wish I'd never laid eyes on them. [A pause] Now we shall have
things as they were again: tea at eight, dinner at one, and supper in
the evening; everything in order as decent folks, as Christians like to
have it. [Sighs] It is a long time since I have eaten noodles.
TELEGIN. Yes, we haven't had noodles for ages. [A pause] Not for ages.
As I was going through the village this morning, Marina, one of the
shop-keepers called after me, "Hi! you hanger-on!" I felt it bitterly.
MARINA. Don't pay the least attention to them, master; we are all
dependents on God. You and Sonia and all of us. Every one must work, no
one can sit idle. Where is Sonia?
TELEGIN. In the garden with the doctor, looking for Ivan. They fear he
may lay violent hands on himself.
MARINA. Where is his pistol?
TELEGIN. [Whispers] I hid it in the cellar.
VOITSKI and ASTROFF come in.
VOITSKI. Leave me alone! [To MARINA and TELEGIN] Go away! Go away and
leave me to myself, if but for an hour. I won't have you watching me
like this!
TELEGIN. Yes, yes, Vanya. [He goes out on tiptoe.]
MARINA. The gander cackles; ho! ho! ho!
[She gathers up her wool and goes out.]
VOITSKI. Leave me by myself!
ASTROFF. I would, with the greatest pleasure. I ought to have gone long
ago, but I shan't leave you until you have returned what you took from
me.
VOITSKI. I took nothing from you.
ASTROFF. I am not jesting, don't detain me, I really must go.
VOITSKI. I took nothing of yours.
ASTROFF. You didn't? Very well, I shall have to wait a little longer,
and then you will have to forgive me if I resort to force. We shall have
to bind you and search you. I mean what I say.
VOITSKI. Do as you please. [A pause] Oh, to make such a fool of myself!
To shoot twice and miss him both times! I shall never forgive myself.
ASTROFF. When the impulse came to shoot, it would have been as well had
you put a bullet through your own head.
VOITSKI. [Shrugging his shoulders] Strange! I attempted murder, and am
not going to be arrested or brought to trial. That means they think
me mad. [With a bitter laugh] Me! I am mad, and those who hide their
worthlessness, their dullness, their crying heartlessness behind a
professor's mask, are sane! Those who marry old men and then deceive
them under the noses of all, are sane! I saw you kiss her; I saw you in
each other's arms!
ASTROFF. Yes, sir, I did kiss her; so there. [He puts his thumb to his
nose.]
VOITSKI. [His eyes on the door] No, it is the earth that is mad, because
she still bears us on her breast.
ASTROFF. That is nonsense.
VOITSKI. Well? Am I not a madman, and therefore irresponsible? Haven't I
the right to talk nonsense?
ASTROFF. This is a farce! You are not mad; you are simply a ridiculous
fool. I used to think every fool was out of his senses, but now I
see that lack of sense is a man's normal state, and you are perfectly
normal.
VOITSKI. [Covers his face with his hands] Oh! If you knew how ashamed
I am! These piercing pangs of shame are like nothing on earth. [In an
agonised voice] I can't endure them! [He leans against the table] What
can I do? What can I do?
ASTROFF. Nothing.
VOITSKI. You must tell me something! Oh, my God! I am forty-seven years
old. I may live to sixty; I still have thirteen years before me; an
eternity! How shall I be able to endure life for thirteen years?
What shall I do? How can I fill them? Oh, don't you see? [He presses
ASTROFF'S hand convulsively] Don't you see, if only I could live the
rest of my life in some new way! If I could only wake some still, bright
morning and feel that life had begun again; that the past was forgotten
and had vanished like smoke. [He weeps] Oh, to begin life anew! Tell me,
tell me how to begin.
ASTROFF. [Crossly] What nonsense! What sort of a new life can you and I
look forward to? We can have no hope.
VOITSKI. None?
ASTROFF. None. Of that I am convinced.
VOITSKI. Tell me what to do. [He puts his hand to his heart] I feel such
a burning pain here.
ASTROFF. [Shouts angrily] Stop! [Then, more gently] It may be that
posterity, which will despise us for our blind and stupid lives, will
find some road to happiness; but we--you and I--have but one hope, the
hope that we may be visited by visions, perhaps by pleasant ones, as we
lie resting in our graves. [Sighing] Yes, brother, there were only two
respectable, intelligent men in this county, you and I. Ten years or so
of this life of ours, this miserable life, have sucked us under, and we
have become as contemptible and petty as the rest. But don't try to talk
me out of my purpose! Give me what you took from me, will you?
VOITSKI. I took nothing from you.
ASTROFF. You took a little bottle of morphine out of my medicine-case.
[A pause] Listen! If you are positively determined to make an end
to yourself, go into the woods and shoot yourself there. Give up the
morphine, or there will be a lot of talk and guesswork; people will
think I gave it to you. I don't fancy having to perform a post-mortem on
you. Do you think I should find it interesting?
SONIA comes in.
VOITSKI. Leave me alone.
ASTROFF. [To SONIA] Sonia, your uncle has stolen a bottle of morphine
out of my medicine-case and won't give it up. Tell him that his
behaviour is--well, unwise. I haven't time, I must be going.
SONIA. Uncle Vanya, did you take the morphine?
ASTROFF. Yes, he took it. [A pause] I am absolutely sure.
SONIA. Give it up! Why do you want to frighten us? [Tenderly] Give it
up, Uncle Vanya! My misfortune is perhaps even greater than yours, but I
am not plunged in despair. I endure my sorrow, and shall endure it until
my life comes to a natural end. You must endure yours, too. [A pause]
Give it up! Dear, darling Uncle Vanya. Give it up! [She weeps] You are
so good, I am sure you will have pity on us and give it up. You must
endure your sorrow, Uncle Vanya; you must endure it.
VOITSKI takes a bottle from the drawer of the table and hands it to
ASTROFF.
VOITSKI. There it is! [To SONIA] And now, we must get to work at once;
we must do something, or else I shall not be able to endure it.
SONIA. Yes, yes, to work! As soon as we have seen them off we shall
go to work. [She nervously straightens out the papers on the table]
Everything is in a muddle!
ASTROFF. [Putting the bottle in his case, which he straps together] Now
I can be off.
HELENA comes in.
HELENA. Are you here, Ivan? We are starting in a moment. Go to
Alexander, he wants to speak to you.
SONIA. Go, Uncle Vanya. [She takes VOITSKI 'S arm] Come, you and papa
must make peace; that is absolutely necessary.
SONIA and VOITSKI go out.
HELENA. I am going away. [She gives ASTROFF her hand] Good-bye.
ASTROFF. So soon?
HELENA. The carriage is waiting.
ASTROFF. Good-bye.
HELENA. You promised me you would go away yourself to-day.
ASTROFF. I have not forgotten. I am going at once. [A pause] Were you
frightened? Was it so terrible?
HELENA. Yes.
ASTROFF. Couldn't you stay? Couldn't you? To-morrow--in the forest--
HELENA. No. It is all settled, and that is why I can look you so bravely
in the face. Our departure is fixed. One thing I must ask of you: don't
think too badly of me; I should like you to respect me.
ASTROFF. Ah! [With an impatient gesture] Stay, I implore you! Confess
that there is nothing for you to do in this world. You have no object
in life; there is nothing to occupy your attention, and sooner or later
your feelings must master you. It is inevitable. It would be better if
it happened not in Kharkoff or in Kursk, but here, in nature's lap.
It would then at least be poetical, even beautiful. Here you have the
forests, the houses half in ruins that Turgenieff writes of.
HELENA. How comical you are! I am angry with you and yet I shall always
remember you with pleasure. You are interesting and original. You and
I will never meet again, and so I shall tell you--why should I conceal
it?--that I am just a little in love with you. Come, one more last
pressure of our hands, and then let us part good friends. Let us not
bear each other any ill will.
ASTROFF. [Pressing her hand] Yes, go. [Thoughtfully] You seem to be
sincere and good, and yet there is something strangely disquieting about
all your personality. No sooner did you arrive here with your husband
than every one whom you found busy and actively creating something was
forced to drop his work and give himself up for the whole summer to
your husband's gout and yourself. You and he have infected us with your
idleness. I have been swept off my feet; I have not put my hand to
a thing for weeks, during which sickness has been running its course
unchecked among the people, and the peasants have been pasturing their
cattle in my woods and young plantations. Go where you will, you and
your husband will always carry destruction in your train. I am joking of
course, and yet I am strangely sure that had you stayed here we should
have been overtaken by the most immense desolation. I would have gone
to my ruin, and you--you would not have prospered. So go! E finita la
comedia!
HELENA. [Snatching a pencil off ASTROFF'S table, and hiding it with a
quick movement] I shall take this pencil for memory!
ASTROFF. How strange it is. We meet, and then suddenly it seems that
we must part forever. That is the way in this world. As long as we are
alone, before Uncle Vanya comes in with a bouquet--allow me--to kiss you
good-bye--may I? [He kisses her on the cheek] So! Splendid!
HELENA. I wish you every happiness. [She glances about her] For once
in my life, I shall! and scorn the consequences! [She kisses him
impetuously, and they quickly part] I must go.
ASTROFF. Yes, go. If the carriage is there, then start at once. [They
stand listening.]
ASTROFF. E finita!
VOITSKI, SEREBRAKOFF, MME. VOITSKAYA with her book, TELEGIN, and SONIA
come in.
SEREBRAKOFF. [To VOITSKI] Shame on him who bears malice for the past. I
have gone through so much in the last few hours that I feel capable of
writing a whole treatise on the conduct of life for the instruction
of posterity. I gladly accept your apology, and myself ask your
forgiveness. [He kisses VOITSKI three times.]
HELENA embraces SONIA.
SEREBRAKOFF. [Kissing MME. VOITSKAYA'S hand] Mother!
MME. VOITSKAYA. [Kissing him] Have your picture taken, Alexander, and
send me one. You know how dear you are to me.
TELEGIN. Good-bye, your Excellency. Don't forget us.
SEREBRAKOFF. [Kissing his daughter] Good-bye, good-bye all. [Shaking
hands with ASTROFF] Many thanks for your pleasant company. I have a deep
regard for your opinions and your enthusiasm, but let me, as an old man,
give one word of advice at parting: do something, my friend! Work! Do
something! [They all bow] Good luck to you all. [He goes out followed by
MME. VOITSKAYA and SONIA.]
VOITSKI [Kissing HELENA'S hand fervently] Good-bye--forgive me. I shall
never see you again!
HELENA. [Touched] Good-bye, dear boy.
She lightly kisses his head as he bends over her hand, and goes out.
ASTROFF. Tell them to bring my carriage around too, Waffles.
TELEGIN. All right, old man.
ASTROFF and VOITSKI are left behind alone. ASTROFF collects his paints
and drawing materials on the table and packs them away in a box.
ASTROFF. Why don't you go to see them off?
VOITSKI. Let them go! I--I can't go out there. I feel too sad. I must go
to work on something at once. To work! To work!
He rummages through his papers on the table. A pause. The tinkling of
bells is heard as the horses trot away.
ASTROFF. They have gone! The professor, I suppose, is glad to go. He
couldn't be tempted back now by a fortune.
MARINA comes in.
MARINA. They have gone. [She sits down in an arm-chair and knits her
stocking.]
SONIA comes in wiping her eyes.
SONIA. They have gone. God be with them. [To her uncle] And now, Uncle
Vanya, let us do something!
VOITSKI. To work! To work!
SONIA. It is long, long, since you and I have sat together at this
table. [She lights a lamp on the table] No ink! [She takes the inkstand
to the cupboard and fills it from an ink-bottle] How sad it is to see
them go!
MME. VOITSKAYA comes slowly in.
MME. VOITSKAYA. They have gone.
She sits down and at once becomes absorbed in her book. SONIA sits down
at the table and looks through an account book.
SONIA. First, Uncle Vanya, let us write up the accounts. They are in a
dreadful state. Come, begin. You take one and I will take the other.
VOITSKI. In account with [They sit silently writing.]
MARINA. [Yawning] The sand-man has come.
ASTROFF. How still it is. Their pens scratch, the cricket sings; it is
so warm and comfortable. I hate to go. [The tinkling of bells is heard.]
ASTROFF. My carriage has come. There now remains but to say good-bye to
you, my friends, and to my table here, and then--away! [He puts the map
into the portfolio.]
MARINA. Don't hurry away; sit a little longer with us.
ASTROFF. Impossible.
VOITSKI. [Writing] And carry forward from the old debt two
seventy-five--
WORKMAN comes in.
WORKMAN. Your carriage is waiting, sir.
ASTROFF. All right. [He hands the WORKMAN his medicine-case, portfolio,
and box] Look out, don't crush the portfolio!
WORKMAN. Very well, sir.
SONIA. When shall we see you again?
ASTROFF. Hardly before next summer. Probably not this winter, though, of
course, if anything should happen you will let me know. [He shakes
hands with them] Thank you for your kindness, for your hospitality, for
everything! [He goes up to MARINA and kisses her head] Good-bye, old
nurse!
MARINA. Are you going without your tea?
ASTROFF. I don't want any, nurse.
MARINA. Won't you have a drop of vodka?
ASTROFF. [Hesitatingly] Yes, I might.
MARINA goes out.
ASTROFF. [After a pause] My off-wheeler has gone lame for some reason. I
noticed it yesterday when Peter was taking him to water.
VOITSKI. You should have him re-shod.
ASTROFF. I shall have to go around by the blacksmith's on my way home.
It can't be avoided. [He stands looking up at the map of Africa hanging
on the wall] I suppose it is roasting hot in Africa now.
VOITSKI. Yes, I suppose it is.
MARINA comes back carrying a tray on which are a glass of vodka and a
piece of bread.
MARINA. Help yourself.
ASTROFF drinks
MARINA. To your good health! [She bows deeply] Eat your bread with it.
ASTROFF. No, I like it so. And now, good-bye. [To MARINA] You needn't
come out to see me off, nurse.
He goes out. SONIA follows him with a candle to light him to the
carriage. MARINA sits down in her armchair.
VOITSKI. [Writing] On the 2d of February, twenty pounds of butter; on
the 16th, twenty pounds of butter again. Buckwheat flour--[A pause.
Bells are heard tinkling.]
MARINA. He has gone. [A pause.]
SONIA comes in and sets the candle stick on the table.
SONIA. He has gone.
VOITSKI. [Adding and writing] Total, fifteen--twenty-five--
SONIA sits down and begins to write.
[Yawning] Oh, ho! The Lord have mercy.
TELEGIN comes in on tiptoe, sits down near the door, and begins to tune
his guitar.
VOITSKI. [To SONIA, stroking her hair] Oh, my child, I am miserable; if
you only knew how miserable I am!
SONIA. What can we do? We must live our lives. [A pause] Yes, we shall
live, Uncle Vanya. We shall live through the long procession of days
before us, and through the long evenings; we shall patiently bear the
trials that fate imposes on us; we shall work for others without rest,
both now and when we are old; and when our last hour comes we shall
meet it humbly, and there, beyond the grave, we shall say that we have
suffered and wept, that our life was bitter, and God will have pity on
us. Ah, then dear, dear Uncle, we shall see that bright and beautiful
life; we shall rejoice and look back upon our sorrow here; a tender
smile--and--we shall rest. I have faith, Uncle, fervent, passionate
faith. [SONIA kneels down before her uncle and lays her head on his
hands. She speaks in a weary voice] We shall rest. [TELEGIN plays softly
on the guitar] We shall rest. We shall hear the angels. We shall see
heaven shining like a jewel. We shall see all evil and all our pain sink
away in the great compassion that shall enfold the world. Our life will
be as peaceful and tender and sweet as a caress. I have faith; I have
faith. [She wipes away her tears] My poor, poor Uncle Vanya, you are
crying! [Weeping] You have never known what happiness was, but wait,
Uncle Vanya, wait! We shall rest. [She embraces him] We shall rest. [The
WATCHMAN'S rattle is heard in the garden; TELEGIN plays softly; MME.
VOITSKAYA writes something on the margin of her pamphlet; MARINA knits
her stocking] We shall rest.
The curtain slowly falls.
| 2,974 | Act 4 | https://web.archive.org/web/20200714032621/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/uncle-vanya/summary/act-4 | In Vanya's room, Telegin and Marina sit and wind wool to make stockings. They talk about how Serebryakov and Yelena are getting ready to leave. Telegin says that he hid Vanya's gun in the cellar to keep him from killing himself. Astrov and Vanya come in arguing. Astrov claims that Vanya has stolen some morphine from him and can't leave until he gets it back. Sonya enters, and Astrov tattles to her about the morphine. She begs her uncle to give it back, and he finally does. Sonya takes her uncle away to make up with her dad, and Yelena shows up to say goodbye to Astrov. Sonya hints that she does kind of like him, even if it's something that would never work out. Serebryakov, Vanya, Mariya, Telegin, and Sonya all come back, and Serebryakov apologizes to Vanya. Vanya promises to continue to send Serebryakov money from the estate's earnings. Everyone leaves except for Astrov and Vanya, and Vanya doesn't know what to do with himself. He wants to get to work. Sonya and Mariya come back after seeing off Serebryakov and Yelena, and everyone settles in to start writing bills and knitting. Astrov leaves everyone going about their business. Vanya is sad, and Sonya tells him that they must continue living until it's time for them to die, and then they shall rest. Bummer. | null | 226 | 1 | [
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44,747 | true | cliffnotes | all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/part_1_chapters_9_to_15.txt | finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Red and the Black/section_3_part_0.txt | The Red and the Black.part 1.chapters 9-15 | chapters 9-15 | null | {"name": "Chapters 9-15", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201128052739/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/the-red-and-the-black/summary-and-analysis/part-1-chapters-915", "summary": "Julien plans his campaign and, after much anguish, takes Mme. de Renal's hand the next evening. Although she at first withdraws, he insists, and ultimately, she offers it freely. Renal offends Julien by accusing him of neglecting the children, but Julien's sullen mood is suddenly changed by the imminence of a catastrophe: Renal might find his hidden picture of Napoleon as the mayor and the servants change the mattress stuffing. Mme. de Renal rescues it for Julien, unaware of whose picture the box contains. Renal, on the other hand, misinterprets Julien's pride for the cunning of the peasant demanding more wages. When he grants Julien a raise, the latter is abashed and scorns the mayor even more for measuring everything in monetary terms. Julien gives expanse to the joy of victory in the solitude of the mountains as he goes to visit Chelan. The next night, Julien dares to show his scorn of Renal by taking Mme. de Renal's hand in his very presence, albeit under the cover of dark, and he covers it with passionate kisses. Julien contemplates his campaign against this contemptible bourgeois; Mme. de Renal is torn between her jealousy and anguish at the first pangs of guilt, imagining herself to be a fallen woman. Her agitation is so great that she almost betrays her passion by asking Elisa abruptly if it is she, Elisa, whom Julien loves. Mme. de Renal resolves to treat Julien coldly. Julien takes offense and does not confide to her his plans to leave for a three-day trip. He stops off again in the mountains to enjoy his freedom in solitude. During their visit, Fouque offers Julien a partnership that would assure the latter of financial success. After deliberation, Julien rejects the offer since the success he envisages must be gained through hardship and accomplished by means of the Church. His friendship itself is instrumental in his rejection of the offer. He would not choose to betray Fouque later, once his education had been financed. Fouque confides to Julien the tales of his amorous conquests. Upon his return, Julien discovers that Mme. de Renal is in love with him, and he decides that his duty requires that he make her his mistress. He announces that he must leave since he loves her desperately. This avowal sends her into ecstasy, but she innocently assures herself that their relationship will be a platonic one. Julien awkwardly begins his seduction. His absence, caused by another trip to Verrieres, where he witnesses the disgrace into which Chelan has fallen, causes his awkward attempts of the previous day to be forgotten. He announces quite abruptly to Mme. de Renal that he will visit her room at two o'clock in the morning. The declaration is met with an indignant reprimand. He forces himself to carry out this, the most daring of his exploits, and it succeeds only because he forgets his plan and throws himself at Mme. de Renal's feet. He is unable to enjoy the experience, however, since he is so occupied seeing himself in the role of lover. Returning to his room, Julien's only thought is whether he played his role well.", "analysis": "In spite of the obvious earnestness of the characters, the reader cannot help but be amused at the \"comedy of errors and cross purposes\" that is played out in these chapters, having its climax in Chapter 15 with the seduction of Mme. de Renal. This triumph is not due to Julien's art but rather to his charm, which erupts in unguarded moments; to Mme. de Renal's love for him, which by this time has become passion; and to the unknowing collaboration of the mayor. Stendhal manipulates the episodes in such a way that each of the three characters acts independently of the others, yet almost by chance they contribute by their convergence to the fortuitous victory of Julien. This unwitting conspiracy is apparent upon analysis. Julien's ambition to seduce Mme. de Renal does not result from love for her but from his sense of duty toward himself. He owes it to himself to take her hand, but he has forgotten the incident the next morning. To motivate this \"de-motivated\" campaign, Stendhal then utilizes the mayor, whose reproach to Julien for his idleness provokes the latter to avenge his wounded pride by demanding an apology. To the amazement of Julien, the mayor grants him a raise. Julien realizes, however, that this second victory has not been earned, but the elation of the victories must be expressed in the solitude of the mountains. Julien's next step is again motivated by his scorn for the mayor. What an expression of ridicule to take Mme. de Renal's hand in the presence of her husband! That evening, Julien relaxes enough to actually enjoy the unknown pleasure that her beauty causes him. Planning his strategy according to Napoleon, he will further crush the mayor by requesting a three-day leave. Already, in spite of himself, however, a feeling for Mme. de Renal is autonomously manifesting itself. Stendhal comments that Julien longed to see her again, in spite of his expectations. The mutual coldness of their interview summarizes their dilemma: It moves them apart in order, ultimately, to unite them. The numerous absences of Julien ripen Mme. de Renal for the ultimate conquest, although Julien does not absent himself for that specific purpose. The tranquility enjoyed by Julien during his second retreat to the mountains is disturbed by Fouque's offer. Even this obstacle advances Julien's cause, unbeknownst to him: It frees his mind to think of her. Fouque's amorous affairs teach Julien something about women. Upon his return, therefore, he comes \"naturally\" to the realization that Mme. de Renal loves him. This proves to be the greatest step in his progression since when she herself initiates the hand-clasp ritual, Julien \"ups the ante\" in his self-imposition of obstacle pattern, deciding that it is his duty to seduce her, to make her his mistress. This decision, then, is made in all lucidity. With no love yet prompting him, only his ambition and pride, Julien announces hypocritically that he loves her passionately. As he executes his plan, he falls from blunder into blunder, and his attempts at paying court are climaxed by his brutal announcement of the early morning visit he will pay. Had Mme. de Renal not been moved by Julien's tears of confusion and had her love not progressed to its paroxysm, she would never have given herself. Julien's conquest of Mme. de Renal and his love for her at this point take the form of a military assault on society. Mme. de Renal, on the other hand, already painfully knows the bliss of love. She allies herself unknowingly more and more closely with Julien against her husband. The sweet complicity into which she enters with Julien has a twofold importance: It is a sign of a greater degree of involvement with Julien and a means to the realization of a further step in the crystallization of her love because it contains the seeds of jealousy which will torment her. At first her conflict is between the fear of not being loved and the shame of becoming an adulteress. Then when she permits herself to enjoy the thought of happiness with Julien, she is tormented by jealousy, by the fear that he loves another. Soon fear of Julien's departure overcomes any thought she has of resisting him. His hypocritical confession of love for her sends her into a blissful state, although she continues to delude herself as to the future of their relationship, which she can only see as platonic. The final blunder that precipitates the seduction again reproduces in miniature their entire experience. He clumsily tries to make contact with her foot; she reproaches him, ordering him to be careful; he is offended by the tone and leaves for a day, an absence that prepares her to accept him. In the two studies of love that the novel presents, with Mme. de Renal, and in Part II, with Mathilde, Stendhal is not only contrasting two types of love -- passionate and intellectual -- but is focusing different stages of the love experience, and the two are presented in a complementary way. Julien and Mme. de Renal are united through blunder and by accident, and separation brings about the union. Julien and Mathilde will both calculate, and Julien will succeed in keeping her love alive only through imposing separation and distance."} | CHAPTER IX
AN EVENING IN THE COUNTRY
M. Guerin's Dido, a charming sketch!--_Strombeck_.
His expression was singular when he saw Madame de Renal the next
day; he watched her like an enemy with whom he would have to fight a
duel. These looks, which were so different from those of the previous
evening, made Madame de Renal lose her head; she had been kind to him
and he appeared angry. She could not take her eyes off his.
Madame Derville's presence allowed Julien to devote less time to
conversation, and more time to thinking about what he had in his mind.
His one object all this day was to fortify himself by reading the
inspired book that gave strength to his soul.
He considerably curtailed the children's lessons, and when Madame de
Renal's presence had effectually brought him back to the pursuit of his
ambition, he decided that she absolutely must allow her hand to rest in
his that evening.
The setting of the sun which brought the crucial moment nearer and
nearer made Julien's heart beat in a strange way. Night came. He
noticed with a joy, which took an immense weight off his heart, that
it was going to be very dark. The sky, which was laden with big clouds
that had been brought along by a sultry wind, seemed to herald a storm.
The two friends went for their walk very late. All they did that night
struck Julien as strange. They were enjoying that hour which seems to
give certain refined souls an increased pleasure in loving.
At last they sat down, Madame de Renal beside Julien, and Madame
Derville near her friend. Engrossed as he was by the attempt which
he was going to make, Julien could think of nothing to say. The
conversation languished.
"Shall I be as nervous and miserable over my first duel?" said Julien
to himself; for he was too suspicious both of himself and of others,
not to realise his own mental state.
In his mortal anguish, he would have preferred any danger whatsoever.
How many times did he not wish some matter to crop up which would
necessitate Madame de Renal going into the house and leaving the
garden! The violent strain on Julien's nerves was too great for his
voice not to be considerably changed; soon Madame de Renal's voice
became nervous as well, but Julien did not notice it. The awful battle
raging between duty and timidity was too painful, for him to be in a
position to observe anything outside himself. A quarter to ten had
just struck on the chateau clock without his having ventured anything.
Julien was indignant at his own cowardice, and said to himself, "at
the exact moment when ten o'clock strikes, I will perform what I have
resolved to do all through the day, or I will go up to my room and blow
out my brains."
After a final moment of expectation and anxiety, during which Julien
was rendered almost beside himself by his excessive emotion, ten
o'clock struck from the clock over his head. Each stroke of the fatal
clock reverberated in his bosom, and caused an almost physical pang.
Finally, when the last stroke of ten was still reverberating, he
stretched out his hand and took Madame de Renal's, who immediately
withdrew it. Julien, scarcely knowing what he was doing, seized it
again. In spite of his own excitement, he could not help being struck
by the icy coldness of the hand which he was taking; he pressed it
convulsively; a last effort was made to take it away, but in the end
the hand remained in his.
His soul was inundated with happiness, not that he loved Madame de
Renal, but an awful torture had just ended. He thought it necessary
to say something, to avoid Madame Derville noticing anything. His
voice was now strong and ringing. Madame de Renal's, on the contrary,
betrayed so much emotion that her friend thought she was ill, and
suggested her going in. Julien scented danger, "if Madame de Renal goes
back to the salon, I shall relapse into the awful state in which I have
been all day. I have held the hand far too short a time for it really
to count as the scoring of an actual advantage."
At the moment when Madame Derville was repeating her suggestion to
go back to the salon, Julien squeezed vigorously the hand that was
abandoned to him.
Madame de Renal, who had started to get up, sat down again and said in
a faint voice,
"I feel a little ill, as a matter of fact, but the open air is doing me
good."
These words confirmed Julien's happiness, which at the present moment
was extreme; he spoke, he forgot to pose, and appeared the most
charming man in the world to the two friends who were listening to him.
Nevertheless, there was a slight lack of courage in all this eloquence
which had suddenly come upon him. He was mortally afraid that Madame
Derville would get tired of the wind before the storm, which was
beginning to rise, and want to go back alone into the salon. He would
then have remained _tete-a-tete_ with Madame de Renal. He had had,
almost by accident that blind courage which is sufficient for action;
but he felt that it was out of his power to speak the simplest word to
Madame de Renal. He was certain that, however slight her reproaches
might be, he would nevertheless be worsted, and that the advantage he
had just won would be destroyed.
Luckily for him on this evening, his moving and emphatic speeches found
favour with Madame Derville, who very often found him as clumsy as a
child and not at all amusing. As for Madame de Renal, with her hand in
Julien's, she did not have a thought; she simply allowed herself to go
on living.
The hours spent under this great pine tree, planted by by Charles the
Bold according to the local tradition, were a real period of happiness.
She listened with delight to the soughing of the wind in the thick
foliage of the pine tree and to the noise of some stray drops which
were beginning to fall upon the leaves which were lowest down. Julien
failed to notice one circumstance which, if he had, would have quickly
reassured him; Madame de Renal, who had been obliged to take away her
hand, because she had got up to help her cousin to pick up a flower-pot
which the wind had knocked over at her feet, had scarcely sat down
again before she gave him her hand with scarcely any difficulty and as
though it had already been a pre-arranged thing between them.
Midnight had struck a long time ago; it was at last necessary to leave
the garden; they separated. Madame de Renal swept away as she was, by
the happiness of loving, was so completely ignorant of the world that
she scarcely reproached herself at all. Her happiness deprived her of
her sleep. A leaden sleep overwhelmed Julien who was mortally fatigued
by the battle which timidity and pride had waged in his heart all
through the day.
He was called at five o'clock on the following day and scarcely gave
Madame de Renal a single thought.
He had accomplished his duty, and a heroic duty too. The consciousness
of this filled him with happiness; he locked himself in his room, and
abandoned himself with quite a new pleasure to reading exploits of his
hero.
When the breakfast bell sounded, the reading of the Bulletins of the
Great Army had made him forget all his advantages of the previous day.
He said to himself flippantly, as he went down to the salon, "I must
tell that woman that I am in love with her." Instead of those looks
brimful of pleasure which he was expecting to meet, he found the stern
visage of M. de Renal, who had arrived from Verrieres two hours ago,
and did not conceal his dissatisfaction at Julien's having passed the
whole morning without attending to the children. Nothing could have
been more sordid than this self-important man when he was in a bad
temper and thought that he could safely show it.
Each harsh word of her husband pierced Madame de Renal's heart.
As for Julien, he was so plunged in his ecstasy, and still so engrossed
by the great events which had been passing before his eyes for several
hours, that he had some difficulty at first in bringing his attention
sufficiently down to listen to the harsh remarks which M. de Renal was
addressing to him. He said to him at last, rather abruptly,
"I was ill."
The tone of this answer would have stung a much less sensitive man than
the mayor of Verrieres. He half thought of answering Julien by turning
him out of the house straight away. He was only restrained by the
maxim which he had prescribed for himself, of never hurrying unduly in
business matters.
"The young fool," he said to himself shortly afterwards, "has won a
kind of reputation in my house. That man Valenod may take him into his
family, or he may quite well marry Elisa, and in either case, he will
be able to have the laugh of me in his heart."
In spite of the wisdom of these reflections, M. de Renal's
dissatisfaction did not fail to vent itself any the less by a string
of coarse insults which gradually irritated Julien. Madame de Renal
was on the point of bursting into tears. Breakfast was scarcely over,
when she asked Julien to give her his arm for a walk. She leaned on him
affectionately. Julien could only answer all that Madame de Renal said
to him by whispering.
"_That's what rich people are like!_"
M. de Renal was walking quite close to them; his presence increased
Julien's anger. He suddenly noticed that Madame de Renal was leaning on
his arm in a manner which was somewhat marked. This horrified him, and
he pushed her violently away and disengaged his arm.
Luckily, M. de Renal did not see this new piece of impertinence; it was
only noticed by Madame Derville. Her friend burst into tears. M. de
Renal now started to chase away by a shower of stones a little peasant
girl who had taken a private path crossing a corner of the orchard.
"Monsieur Julien, restrain yourself, I pray you. Remember that we all
have our moments of temper," said madame Derville rapidly.
Julien looked at her coldly with eyes in which the most supreme
contempt was depicted.
This look astonished Madame Derville, and it would have surprised
her even more if she had appreciated its real expression; she would
have read in it something like a vague hope of the most atrocious
vengeance. It is, no doubt, such moments of humiliation which have made
Robespierres.
"Your Julien is very violent; he frightens me," said Madame Derville to
her friend, in a low voice.
"He is right to be angry," she answered. "What does it matter if
he does pass a morning without speaking to the children, after the
astonishing progress which he has made them make. One must admit that
men are very hard."
For the first time in her life Madame de Renal experienced a kind
of desire for vengeance against her husband. The extreme hatred of
the rich by which Julien was animated was on the point of exploding.
Luckily, M. de Renal called his gardener, and remained occupied
with him in barring by faggots of thorns the private road through
the orchard. Julien did not vouchsafe any answer to the kindly
consideration of which he was the object during all the rest of the
walk. M. de Renal had scarcely gone away before the two friends made
the excuse of being fatigued, and each asked him for an arm.
Walking as he did between these two women whose extreme nervousness
filled their cheeks with a blushing embarrassment, the haughty pallor
and sombre, resolute air of Julien formed a strange contrast. He
despised these women and all tender sentiments.
"What!" he said to himself, "not even an income of five hundred francs
to finish my studies! Ah! how I should like to send them packing."
And absorbed as he was by these stern ideas, such few courteous words
of his two friends as he deigned to take the trouble to understand,
displeased him as devoid of sense, silly, feeble, in a word--feminine.
As the result of speaking for the sake of speaking and of endeavouring
to keep the conversation alive, it came about that Madame de Renal
mentioned that her husband had come from Verrieres because he had made
a bargain for the May straw with one of his farmers. (In this district
it is the May straw with which the bed mattresses are filled).
"My husband will not rejoin us," added Madame de Renal; "he will occupy
himself with finishing the re-stuffing of the house mattresses with
the help of the gardener and his valet. He has put the May straw this
morning in all the beds on the first storey; he is now at the second."
Julien changed colour. He looked at Madame de Renal in a singular way,
and soon managed somehow to take her on one side, doubling his pace.
Madame Derville allowed them to get ahead.
"Save my life," said Julien to Madame de Renal; "only you can do it,
for you know that the valet hates me desperately. I must confess to
you, madame, that I have a portrait. I have hidden it in the mattress
of my bed."
At these words Madame de Renal in her turn became pale.
"Only you, Madame, are able at this moment to go into my room, feel
about without their noticing in the corner of the mattress; it
is nearest the window. You will find a small, round box of black
cardboard, very glossy."
"Does it contain a portrait?" said Madame de Renal, scarcely able to
hold herself upright.
Julien noticed her air of discouragement, and at once proceeded to
exploit it.
"I have a second favour to ask you, madame. I entreat you not to look
at that portrait; it is my secret."
"It is a secret," repeated Madame de Renal in a faint voice.
But though she had been brought up among people who are proud of their
fortune and appreciative of nothing except money, love had already
instilled generosity into her soul. Truly wounded as she was, it was
with an air of the most simple devotion that Madame de Renal asked
Julien the questions necessary to enable her to fulfil her commission.
"So" she said to him as she went away, "it is a little round box of
black cardboard, very glossy."
"Yes, Madame," answered Julien, with that hardness which danger gives
to men.
She ascended the second storey of the chateau as pale as though she had
been going to her death. Her misery was completed by the sensation that
she was on the verge of falling ill, but the necessity of doing Julien
a service restored her strength.
"I must have that box," she said to herself, as she doubled her pace.
She heard her husband speaking to the valet in Julien's very room.
Happily, they passed into the children's room. She lifted up the
mattress, and plunged her hand into the stuffing so violently that she
bruised her fingers. But, though she was very sensitive to slight pain
of this kind, she was not conscious of it now, for she felt almost
simultaneously the smooth surface of the cardboard box. She seized it
and disappeared.
She had scarcely recovered from the fear of being surprised by her
husband than the horror with which this box inspired her came within an
ace of positively making her feel ill.
"So Julien is in love, and I hold here the portrait of the woman whom
he loves!"
Seated on the chair in the ante-chamber of his apartment, Madame
de Renal fell a prey to all the horrors of jealousy. Her extreme
ignorance, moreover, was useful to her at this juncture; her
astonishment mitigated her grief. Julien seized the box without
thanking her or saying a single word, and ran into his room, where
he lit a fire and immediately burnt it. He was pale and in a state
of collapse. He exaggerated the extent of the danger which he had
undergone.
"Finding Napoleon's portrait," he said to himself, "in the possession
of a man who professes so great a hate for the usurper! Found, too,
by M. de Renal, who is so great an _ultra_, and is now in a state of
irritation, and, to complete my imprudence, lines written in my own
handwriting on the white cardboard behind the portrait, lines, too,
which can leave no doubt on the score of my excessive admiration. And
each of these transports of love is dated. There was one the day before
yesterday."
"All my reputation collapsed and shattered in a moment," said Julien
to himself as he watched the box burn, "and my reputation is my only
asset. It is all I have to live by--and what a life to, by heaven!"
An hour afterwards, this fatigue, together with the pity which he felt
for himself made him inclined to be more tender. He met Madame de Renal
and took her hand, which he kissed with more sincerity than he had
ever done before. She blushed with happiness and almost simultaneously
rebuffed Julien with all the anger of jealousy. Julien's pride which
had been so recently wounded made him act foolishly at this juncture.
He saw in Madame de Renal nothing but a rich woman, he disdainfully let
her hand fall and went away. He went and walked about meditatively in
the garden. Soon a bitter smile appeared on his lips.
"Here I am walking about as serenely as a man who is master of his own
time. I am not bothering about the children! I am exposing myself to M.
de Renal's humiliating remarks, and he will be quite right." He ran to
the children's room. The caresses of the youngest child, whom he loved
very much, somewhat calmed his agony.
"He does not despise me yet," thought Julien. But he soon reproached
himself for this alleviation of his agony as though it were a new
weakness. The children caress me just in the same way in which they
would caress the young hunting-hound which was bought yesterday.
CHAPTER X
A GREAT HEART AND A SMALL FORTUNE
But passion most disembles, yet betrays,
Even by its darkness, as the blackest sky
Foretells the heaviest tempest.
_Don Juan_, c. 4, st. 75.
M. De Renal was going through all the rooms in the chateau, and he came
back into the children's room with the servants who were bringing back
the stuffings of the mattresses. The sudden entry of this man had the
effect on Julien of the drop of water which makes the pot overflow.
Looking paler and more sinister than usual, he rushed towards him. M.
de Renal stopped and looked at his servants.
"Monsieur," said Julien to him, "Do you think your children would have
made the progress they have made with me with any other tutor? If you
answer 'No,'" continued Julien so quickly that M. de Renal did not have
time to speak, "how dare you reproach me with neglecting them?"
M. de Renal, who had scarcely recovered from his fright, concluded from
the strange tone he saw this little peasant assume, that he had some
advantageous offer in his pocket, and that he was going to leave him.
The more he spoke the more Julien's anger increased, "I can live
without you, Monsieur," he added.
"I am really sorry to see you so upset," answered M. de Renal
shuddering a little. The servants were ten yards off engaged in making
the beds.
"That is not what I mean, Monsieur," replied Julien quite beside
himself. "Think of the infamous words that you have addressed to me,
and before women too."
M. de Renal understood only too well what Julien was asking, and a
painful conflict tore his soul. It happened that Julien, who was really
mad with rage, cried out,
"I know where to go, Monsieur, when I leave your house."
At these words M. de Renal saw Julien installed with M. Valenod. "Well,
sir," he said at last with a sigh, just as though he had called in
a surgeon to perform the most painful operation, "I accede to your
request. I will give you fifty francs a month. Starting from the day
after to-morrow which is the first of the month."
Julien wanted to laugh, and stood there dumbfounded. All his anger had
vanished.
"I do not despise the brute enough," he said to himself. "I have no
doubt that that is the greatest apology that so base a soul can make."
The children who had listened to this scene with gaping mouths, ran
into the garden to tell their mother that M. Julien was very angry, but
that he was going to have fifty francs a month.
Julien followed them as a matter of habit without even looking at M. de
Renal whom he left in a considerable state of irritation.
"That makes one hundred and sixty-eight francs," said the mayor to
himself, "that M. Valenod has cost me. I must absolutely speak a few
strong words to him about his contract to provide for the foundlings."
A minute afterwards Julien found himself opposite M. de Renal.
"I want to speak to M. Chelan on a matter of conscience. I have the
honour to inform you that I shall be absent some hours."
"Why, my dear Julien," said M. de Renal smiling with the falsest
expression possible, "take the whole day, and to-morrow too if you
like, my good friend. Take the gardener's horse to go to Verrieres."
"He is on the very point," said M. de Renal to himself, "of giving an
answer to Valenod. He has promised me nothing, but I must let this
hot-headed young man have time to cool down."
Julien quickly went away, and went up into the great forest, through
which one can manage to get from Vergy to Verrieres. He did not wish
to arrive at M. Chelan's at once. Far from wishing to cramp himself in
a new pose of hypocrisy he needed to see clear in his own soul, and to
give audience to the crowd of sentiments which were agitating him.
"I have won a battle," he said to himself, as soon as he saw that he
was well in the forest, and far from all human gaze. "So I have won a
battle."
This expression shed a rosy light on his situation, and restored him to
some serenity.
"Here I am with a salary of fifty francs a month, M. de Renal must be
precious afraid, but what of?"
This meditation about what could have put fear into the heart of that
happy, powerful man against whom he had been boiling with rage only
an hour back, completed the restoration to serenity of Julien's soul.
He was almost able to enjoy for a moment the delightful beauty of the
woods amidst which he was walking. Enormous blocks of bare rocks had
fallen down long ago in the middle of the forest by the mountain side.
Great cedars towered almost as high as these rocks whose shade caused a
delicious freshness within three yards of places where the heat of the
sun's rays would have made it impossible to rest.
Julien took breath for a moment in the shade of these great rocks,
and then he began again to climb. Traversing a narrow path that was
scarcely marked, and was only used by the goat herds, he soon found
himself standing upon an immense rock with the complete certainty of
being far away from all mankind. This physical position made him smile.
It symbolised to him the position he was burning to attain in the moral
sphere. The pure air of these lovely mountains filled his soul with
serenity and even with joy. The mayor of Verrieres still continued to
typify in his eyes all the wealth and all the arrogance of the earth;
but Julien felt that the hatred that had just thrilled him had nothing
personal about it in spite of all the violence which he had manifested.
If he had left off seeing M. de Renal he would in eight days have
forgotten him, his castle, his dogs, his children and all his family.
"I forced him, I don't know how, to make the greatest sacrifice. What?
more than fifty crowns a year, and only a minute before I managed to
extricate myself from the greatest danger; so there are two victories
in one day. The second one is devoid of merit, I must find out the why
and the wherefore. But these laborious researches are for to-morrow."
Standing up on his great rock, Julien looked at the sky which was all
afire with an August sun. The grasshoppers sang in the field about the
rock; when they held their peace there was universal silence around
him. He saw twenty leagues of country at his feet. He noticed from
time to time some hawk, which launching off from the great rocks over
his head was describing in silence its immense circles. Julien's eye
followed the bird of prey mechanically. Its tranquil powerful movements
struck him. He envied that strength, that isolation.
"Would Napoleon's destiny be one day his?"
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.
CHAPTER XII
A JOURNEY
Elegant people are to be found in Paris. People of
character may exist in the provinces.--Sieyes
At five o'clock the following day, before Madame de Renal was visible,
Julien obtained a three days' holiday from her husband. Contrary to his
expectation Julien found himself desirous of seeing her again. He kept
thinking of that pretty hand of hers. He went down into the garden, but
Madame de Renal kept him waiting for a long time. But if Julien had
loved her, he would have seen her forehead glued to the pane behind the
half-closed blinds on the first floor. She was looking at him. Finally,
in spite of her resolutions, she decided to go into the garden. Her
habitual pallor had been succeeded by more lively hues. This woman,
simple as she was, was manifestly agitated; a sentiment of constraint,
and even of anger, altered that expression of profound serenity which
seemed, as it were, to be above all the vulgar interests of life and
gave so much charm to that divine face.
Julien approached her with eagerness, admiring those beautiful arms
which were just visible through a hastily donned shawl. The freshness
of the morning air seemed to accentuate still more the brilliance of
her complexion which the agitation of the past night rendered all the
more susceptible to all impressions. This demure and pathetic beauty,
which was, at the same time, full of thoughts which are never found in
the inferior classes, seemed to reveal to Julien a faculty in his own
soul which he had never before realised. Engrossed in his admiration of
the charms on which his his greedy gaze was riveted, Julien took for
granted the friendly welcome which he was expecting to receive. He was
all the more astonished at the icy coldness which she endeavoured to
manifest to him, and through which he thought he could even distinguish
the intention of putting him in his place.
The smile of pleasure died away from his lips as he remembered his
rank in society, especially from the point of view of a rich and noble
heiress. In a single moment his face exhibited nothing but haughtiness
and anger against himself. He felt violently disgusted that he could
have put off his departure for more than an hour, simply to receive so
humiliating a welcome.
"It is only a fool," he said to himself, "who is angry with others; a
stone falls because it is heavy. Am I going to be a child all my life?
How on earth is it that I manage to contract the charming habit of
showing my real self to those people simply in return for their money?
If I want to win their respect and that of my own self, I must shew
them that it is simply a business transaction between my poverty and
their wealth, but that my heart is a thousand leagues away from their
insolence, and is situated in too high a sphere to be affected by their
petty marks of favour or disdain."
While these feelings were crowding the soul of the young tutor, his
mobile features assumed an expression of ferocity and injured pride.
Madame de Renal was extremely troubled. The virtuous coldness that she
had meant to put into her welcome was succeeded by an expression of
interest--an interest animated by all the surprise brought about by
the sudden change which she had just seen. The empty morning platitudes
about their health and the fineness of the day suddenly dried up.
Julien's judgment was disturbed by no passion, and he soon found a
means of manifesting to Madame de Renal how light was the friendly
relationship that he considered existed between them. He said nothing
to her about the little journey that he was going to make; saluted her,
and went away.
As she watched him go, she was overwhelmed by the sombre haughtiness
which she read in that look which had been so gracious the previous
evening. Her eldest son ran up from the bottom of the garden, and said
as he kissed her,
"We have a holiday, M. Julien is going on a journey."
At these words, Madame de Renal felt seized by a deadly coldness. She
was unhappy by reason of her virtue, and even more unhappy by reason of
her weakness.
This new event engrossed her imagination, and she was transported far
beyond the good resolutions which she owed to the awful night she had
just passed. It was not now a question of resisting that charming
lover, but of losing him for ever.
It was necessary to appear at breakfast. To complete her anguish, M. de
Renal and Madame Derville talked of nothing but Julien's departure. The
mayor of Verrieres had noticed something unusual in the firm tone in
which he had asked for a holiday.
"That little peasant has no doubt got somebody else's offer up his
sleeve, but that somebody else, even though it's M. Valenod, is bound
to be a little discouraged by the sum of six hundred francs, which the
annual salary now tots up to. He must have asked yesterday at Verrieres
for a period of three days to think it over, and our little gentleman
runs off to the mountains this morning so as not to be obliged to give
me an answer. Think of having to reckon with a wretched workman who
puts on airs, but that's what we've come to."
"If my husband, who does not know how deeply he has wounded Julien,
thinks that he will leave us, what can I think myself?" said Madame de
Renal to herself. "Yes, that is all decided." In order to be able at
any rate to be free to cry, and to avoid answering Madame Derville's
questions, she pleaded an awful headache, and went to bed.
"That's what women are," repeated M. de Renal, "there is always
something out of order in those complicated machines," and he went off
jeering.
While Madame de Renal was a prey to all the poignancy of the terrible
passion in which chance had involved her, Julien went merrily on his
way, surrounded by the most beautiful views that mountain scenery
can offer. He had to cross the great chain north of Vergy. The path
which he followed rose gradually among the big beech woods, and ran
into infinite spirals on the slope of the high mountain which forms
the northern boundary of the Doubs valley. Soon the traveller's view,
as he passed over the lower slopes bounding the course of the Doubs
towards the south, extends as far as the fertile plains of Burgundy and
Beaujolais. However insensible was the soul of this ambitious youth to
this kind of beauty, he could not help stopping from time to time to
look at a spectacle at once so vast and so impressive.
Finally, he reached the summit of the great mountain, near which
he had to pass in order to arrive by this cross-country route at
the solitary valley where lived his friend Fouque, the young wood
merchant. Julien was in no hurry to see him; either him, or any other
human being. Hidden like a bird of prey amid the bare rocks which
crowned the great mountain, he could see a long way off anyone coming
near him. He discovered a little grotto in the middle of the almost
vertical slope of one of the rocks. He found a way to it, and was soon
ensconced in this retreat. "Here," he said, "with eyes brilliant with
joy, men cannot hurt me." It occurred to him to indulge in the pleasure
of writing down those thoughts of his which were so dangerous to him
everywhere else. A square stone served him for a desk; his pen flew. He
saw nothing of what was around him. He noticed at last that the sun was
setting behind the distant mountains of Beaujolais.
"Why shouldn't I pass the night here?" he said to himself. "I have
bread, and I am free." He felt a spiritual exultation at the sound of
that great word. The necessity of playing the hypocrite resulted in his
not being free, even at Fouque's. Leaning his head on his two hands,
Julien stayed in the grotto, more happy than he had ever been in his
life, thrilled by his dreams, and by the bliss of his freedom. Without
realising it, he saw all the rays of the twilight become successively
extinguished. Surrounded by this immense obscurity, his soul wandered
into the contemplation of what he imagined that he would one day meet
in Paris. First it was a woman, much more beautiful and possessed of a
much more refined temperament than anything he could have found in the
provinces. He loved with passion, and was loved. If he separated from
her for some instants, it was only to cover himself with glory, and to
deserve to be loved still more.
A young man brought up in the environment of the sad truths of Paris
society, would, on reaching this point in his romance, even if we
assume him possessed of Julien's imagination, have been brought back
to himself by the cold irony of the situation. Great deeds would have
disappeared from out his ken together with hope of achieving them and
have been succeeded by the platitude. "If one leave one's mistress
one runs alas! the risk of being deceived two or three times a day."
But the young peasant saw nothing but the lack of opportunity between
himself and the most heroic feats.
But a deep night had succeeded the day, and there were still two
leagues to walk before he could descend to the cabin in which Fouque
lived. Before leaving the little cave, Julien made a light and
carefully burnt all that he had written. He quite astonished his friend
when he knocked at his door at one o'clock in the morning. He found
Fouque engaged in making up his accounts. He was a young man of high
stature, rather badly made, with big, hard features, a never-ending
nose, and a large fund of good nature concealed beneath this repulsive
appearance.
"Have you quarelled with M. de Renal then that you turn up unexpectedly
like this?" Julien told him, but in a suitable way, the events of the
previous day.
"Stay with me," said Fouque to him. "I see that you know M. de Renal,
M. Valenod, the sub-prefect Maugron, the cure Chelan. You have
understood the subtleties of the character of those people. So there
you are then, quite qualified to attend auctions. You know arithmetic
better than I do; you will keep my accounts; I make a lot in my
business. The impossibility of doing everything myself, and the fear
of taking a rascal for my partner prevents me daily from undertaking
excellent business. It's scarcely a month since I put Michaud de
Saint-Amand, whom I haven't seen for six years, and whom I ran across
at the sale at Pontarlier in the way of making six thousand francs. Why
shouldn't it have been you who made those six thousand francs, or at
any rate three thousand. For if I had had you with me that day, I would
have raised the bidding for that lot of timber and everybody else would
soon have run away. Be my partner."
This offer upset Julien. It spoilt the train of his mad dreams. Fouque
showed his accounts to Julien during the whole of the supper--which the
two friends prepared themselves like the Homeric heroes (for Fouque
lived alone) and proved to him all the advantages offered by his timber
business. Fouque had the highest opinion of the gifts and character of
Julien.
When, finally, the latter was alone in his little room of pinewood, he
said to himself: "It is true I can make some thousands of francs here
and then take up with advantage the profession of a soldier, or of a
priest, according to the fashion then prevalent in France. The little
hoard that I shall have amassed will remove all petty difficulties. In
the solitude of this mountain I shall have dissipated to some extent my
awful ignorance of so many of the things which make up the life of all
those men of fashion. But Fouque has given up all thoughts of marriage,
and at the same time keeps telling me that solitude makes him unhappy.
It is clear that if he takes a partner who has no capital to put into
his business, he does so in the hopes of getting a companion who will
never leave him."
"Shall I deceive my friend," exclaimed Julien petulantly. This being
who found hypocrisy and complete callousness his ordinary means of
self-preservation could not, on this occasion, endure the idea of the
slightest lack of delicate feeling towards a man whom he loved.
But suddenly Julien was happy. He had a reason for a refusal. What!
Shall I be coward enough to waste seven or eight years. I shall get to
twenty-eight in that way! But at that age Bonaparte had achieved his
greatest feats. When I shall have made in obscurity a little money by
frequenting timber sales, and earning the good graces of some rascally
under-strappers who will guarantee that I shall still have the sacred
fire with which one makes a name for oneself?
The following morning, Julien with considerable sangfroid, said in
answer to the good Fouque, who regarded the matter of the partnership
as settled, that his vocation for the holy ministry of the altars would
not permit him to accept it. Fouque did not return to the subject.
"But just think," he repeated to him, "I'll make you my partner, or if
you prefer it, I'll give you four thousand francs a year, and you want
to return to that M. de Renal of yours, who despises you like the mud
on his shoes. When you have got two hundred louis in front of you, what
is to prevent you from entering the seminary? I'll go further: I will
undertake to procure for you the best living in the district, for,"
added Fouque, lowering his voice, I supply firewood to M. le ----, M.
le ----, M. ----. I provide them with first quality oak, but they only
pay me for plain wood, but never was money better invested.
Nothing could conquer Julien's vocation. Fouque finished by thinking
him a little mad. The third day, in the early morning, Julien left his
friend, and passed the day amongst the rocks of the great mountain. He
found his little cave again, but he had no longer peace of mind. His
friend's offers had robbed him of it. He found himself, not between
vice and virtue, like Hercules, but between mediocrity coupled with
an assured prosperity, and all the heroic dreams of his youth. "So I
have not got real determination after all," he said to himself, and it
was his doubt on this score which pained him the most. "I am not of
the stuff of which great men are made, because I fear that eight years
spent in earning a livelihood will deprive me of that sublime energy
which inspires the accomplishment of extraordinary feats."
CHAPTER XIII
THE OPEN WORK STOCKINGS
A novel: a mirror which one takes out on one's walk
along the high road.--_Saint-Real_.
When Julien perceived the picturesque ruins of the old church at Vergy,
he noticed that he had not given a single thought to Madame de Renal
since the day before yesterday. The other day, when I took my leave,
that woman made me realise the infinite distance which separated us;
she treated me like a labourer's son. No doubt she wished to signify
her repentance for having allowed me to hold her hand the evening
before.
... It is, however very pretty, is that hand. What a charm, what a
nobility is there in that woman's expression!
The possibility of making a fortune with Fouque gave a certain facility
to Julien's logic. It was not spoilt quite so frequently by the
irritation and the keen consciousness of his poverty and low estate in
the eyes of the world. Placed as it were on a high promontory, he was
able to exercise his judgment, and had a commanding view, so to speak,
of both extreme poverty and that competence which he still called
wealth. He was far from judging his position really philosophically,
but he had enough penetration to feel different after this little
journey into the mountain.
He was struck with the extreme uneasiness with which Madame de Renal
listened to the brief account which she had asked for of his journey.
Fouque had had plans of marriage, and unhappy love affairs, and long
confidences on this subject had formed the staple of the two friends'
conversation. Having found happiness too soon, Fouque had realised
that he was not the only one who was loved. All these accounts had
astonished Julien. He had learnt many new things. His solitary life of
imagination and suspicion had kept him remote from anything which could
enlighten him.
During his absence, life had been nothing for Madame de Renal but a
series of tortures, which, though different, were all unbearable. She
was really ill.
"Now mind," said Madame Derville to her when she saw Julien arrive,
"you don't go into the garden this evening in your weak state; the damp
air will make your complaint twice as bad."
Madame Derville was surprised to see that her friend, who was always
scolded by M. de Renal by reason of the excessive simplicity of her
dress, had just got some open-work stockings and some charming little
shoes which had come from Paris. For three days Madame de Renal's only
distraction had been to cut out a summer dress of a pretty little
material which was very fashionable, and get it made with express speed
by Elisa. This dress could scarcely have been finished a few moments
before Julien's arrival, but Madame de Renal put it on immediately. Her
friend had no longer any doubt. "She loves," unhappy woman, said Madame
Derville to herself. She understood all the strange symptoms of the
malady.
She saw her speak to Julien. The most violent blush was succeeded by
pallor. Anxiety was depicted in her eyes, which were riveted on those
of the young tutor. Madame de Renal expected every minute that he would
give an explanation of his conduct, and announce that he was either
going to leave the house or stay there. Julien carefully avoided that
subject, and did not even think of it. After terrible struggles, Madame
de Renal eventually dared to say to him in a trembling voice that
mirrored all her passion:
"Are you going to leave your pupils to take another place?"
Julien was struck by Madame de Renal's hesitating voice and look.
"That woman loves me," he said to himself! "But after this temporary
moment of weakness, for which her pride is no doubt reproaching her,
and as soon as she has ceased fearing that I shall leave, she will be
as haughty as ever." This view of their mutual position passed through
Julien's mind as rapidly as a flash of lightning. He answered with some
hesitation,
"I shall be extremely distressed to leave children who are so nice
and so well-born, but perhaps it will be necessary. One has duties to
oneself as well."
As he pronounced the expression, "well-born" (it was one of those
aristocratic phrases which Julien had recently learnt), he became
animated by a profound feeling of antipathy.
"I am not well-born," he said to himself, "in that woman's eyes."
As Madame de Renal listened to him, she admired his genius and his
beauty, and the hinted possibility of his departure pierced her
heart. All her friends at Verrieres who had come to dine at Vergy
during Julien's absence had complimented her almost jealously on the
astonishing man whom her husband had had the good fortune to unearth.
It was not that they understood anything about the progress of
children. The feat of knowing his Bible by heart, and what is more, of
knowing it in Latin, had struck the inhabitants of Verrieres with an
admiration which will last perhaps a century.
Julien, who never spoke to anyone, was ignorant of all this. If Madame
de Renal had possessed the slightest presence of mind, she would have
complimented him on the reputation which he had won, and Julien's
pride, once satisfied, he would have been sweet and amiable towards
her, especially as he thought her new dress charming. Madame de Renal
was also pleased with her pretty dress, and with what Julien had
said to her about it, and wanted to walk round the garden. But she
soon confessed that she was incapable of walking. She had taken the
traveller's arm, and the contact of that arm, far from increasing her
strength, deprived her of it completely.
It was night. They had scarcely sat down before Julien, availing
himself of his old privilege, dared to bring his lips near his pretty
neighbour's arm, and to take her hand. He kept thinking of the boldness
which Fouque had exhibited with his mistresses and not of Madame de
Renal; the word "well-born" was still heavy on his heart. He felt his
hand pressed, but experienced no pleasure. So far from his being proud,
or even grateful for the sentiment that Madame de Renal was betraying
that evening by only too evident signs, he was almost insensible to
her beauty, her elegance, and her freshness. Purity of soul, and the
absence of all hateful emotion, doubtless prolong the duration of
youth. It is the face which ages first with the majority of women.
Julien sulked all the evening. Up to the present he had only been angry
with the social order, but from that time that Fouque had offered him
an ignoble means of obtaining a competency, he was irritated with
himself. Julien was so engrossed in his thoughts, that, although from
time to time he said a few words to the ladies, he eventually let go
Madame de Renal's hand without noticing it. This action overwhelmed the
soul of the poor woman. She saw in it her whole fate.
If she had been certain of Julien's affection, her virtue would
possibly have found strength to resist him. But trembling lest she
should lose him for ever, she was distracted by her passion to
the point of taking again Julien's hand, which he had left in his
absent-mindedness leaning on the back of the chair. This action woke up
this ambitious youth; he would have liked to have had for witnesses all
those proud nobles who had regarded him at meals, when he was at the
bottom of the table with the children, with so condescending a smile.
"That woman cannot despise me; in that case," he said to himself. "I
ought to shew my appreciation of her beauty. I owe it to myself to be
her lover." That idea would not have occurred to him before the naive
confidences which his friend had made.
The sudden resolution which he had just made formed an agreeable
distraction. He kept saying to himself, "I must have one of those two
women;" he realised that he would have very much preferred to have
paid court to Madame Derville. It was not that she was more agreeable,
but that she had always seen him as the tutor distinguished by his
knowledge, and not as the journeyman carpenter with his cloth jacket
folded under his arm as he had first appeared to Madame de Renal.
It was precisely as a young workman, blushing up to the whites of his
eyes, standing by the door of the house and not daring to ring, that he
made the most alluring appeal to Madame de Renal's imagination.
As he went on reviewing his position, Julien saw that the conquest of
Madame Derville, who had probably noticed the taste which Madame de
Renal was manifesting for him, was out of the question. He was thus
brought back to the latter lady. "What do I know of the character of
that woman?" said Julien to himself. "Only this: before my journey, I
used to take her hand, and she used to take it away. To-day, I take my
hand away, and she seizes and presses it. A fine opportunity to pay her
back all the contempt she had had for me. God knows how many lovers she
has had, probably she is only deciding in my favour by reason of the
easiness of assignations."
Such, alas, is the misfortune of an excessive civilisation. The soul
of a young man of twenty, possessed of any education, is a thousand
leagues away from that _abandon_ without which love is frequently but
the most tedious of duties.
"I owe it all the more to myself," went on the petty vanity of Julien,
"to succeed with that woman, by reason of the fact that if I ever make
a fortune, and I am reproached by anyone with my menial position as a
tutor, I shall then be able to give out that it was love which got me
the post."
Julien again took his hand away from Madame de Renal, and then took her
hand again and pressed it. As they went back to the drawing-room about
midnight, Madame de Renal said to him in a whisper.
"You are leaving us, you are going?"
Julien answered with a sigh.
"I absolutely must leave, for I love you passionately. It is wrong
... how wrong indeed for a young priest?" Madame de Renal leant upon
his arm, and with so much abandon that her cheek felt the warmth of
Julien's.
The nights of these two persons were quite different. Madame de
Renal was exalted by the ecstacies of the highest moral pleasure. A
coquettish young girl, who loves early in life, gets habituated to
the trouble of love, and when she reaches the age of real passion,
finds the charm of novelty lacking. As Madame de Renal had never read
any novels, all the refinements of her happiness were new to her. No
mournful truth came to chill her, not even the spectre of the future.
She imagined herself as happy in ten years' time as she was at the
present moment. Even the idea of virtue and of her sworn fidelity to M.
de Renal, which had agitated her some days past, now presented itself
in vain, and was sent about its business like an importunate visitor.
"I will never grant anything to Julien," said Madame de Renal; "we will
live in the future like we have been living for the last month. He
shall be a friend."
CHAPTER XIV
THE ENGLISH SCISSORS
A young girl of sixteen had a pink complexion, and yet
used red rouge.--_Polidori_.
Fouque's offer had, as a matter of fact, taken away all Julien's
happiness; he could not make up his mind to any definite course. "Alas!
perhaps I am lacking in character. I should have been a bad soldier of
Napoleon. At least," he added, "my little intrigue with the mistress of
the house will distract me a little."
Happily for him, even in this little subordinate incident, his inner
emotions quite failed to correspond with his flippant words. He was
frightened of Madame de Renal because of her pretty dress. In his
eyes, that dress was a vanguard of Paris. His pride refused to leave
anything to chance and the inspiration of the moment. He made himself
a very minute plan of campaign, moulded on the confidences of Fouque,
and a little that he had read about love in the Bible. As he was very
nervous, though he did not admit it to himself, he wrote down this plan.
Madame de Renal was alone with him for a moment in the drawing-room on
the following morning.
"Have you no other name except Julien," she said.
Our hero was at a loss to answer so nattering a question. This
circumstance had not been anticipated in his plan. If he had not been
stupid enough to have made a plan, Julien's quick wit would have served
him well, and the surprise would only have intensified the quickness of
his perception.
He was clumsy, and exaggerated his clumsiness, Madame de Renal quickly
forgave him. She attributed it to a charming frankness. And an air of
frankness was the very thing which in her view was just lacking in this
man who was acknowledged to have so much genius.
"That little tutor of yours inspires me with a great deal of
suspicion," said Madame Derville to her sometimes. "I think he looks as
if he were always thinking, and he never acts without calculation. He
is a sly fox."
Julien remained profoundly humiliated by the misfortune of not having
known what answer to make to Madame de Renal.
"A man like I am ought to make up for this check!" and seizing the
moment when they were passing from one room to another, he thought it
was his duty to give Madame de Renal a kiss.
Nothing could have been less tactful, nothing less agreeable, and
nothing more imprudent both for him and for her. They were within
an inch of being noticed. Madame de Renal thought him mad. She was
frightened, and above all, shocked. This stupidity reminded her of M.
Valenod.
"What would happen to me," she said to herself, "if I were alone with
him?" All her virtue returned, because her love was waning.
She so arranged it that one of her children always remained with her.
Julien found the day very tedious, and passed it entirely in clumsily
putting into operation his plan of seduction. He did not look at Madame
de Renal on a single occasion without that look having a reason, but
nevertheless he was not sufficiently stupid to fail to see that he was
not succeeding at all in being amiable, and was succeeding even less in
being fascinating.
Madame de Renal did not recover from her astonishment at finding him
so awkward and at the same time so bold. "It is the timidity of love
in men of intellect," she said to herself with an inexpressible joy.
"Could it be possible that he had never been loved by my rival?"
After breakfast Madame de Renal went back to the drawing-room to
receive the visit of M. Charcot de Maugiron, the sub-prefect of Bray.
She was working at a little frame of fancy-work some distance from the
ground. Madame Derville was at her side; that was how she was placed
when our hero thought it suitable to advance his boot in the full
light and press the pretty foot of Madame de Renal, whose open-work
stockings, and pretty Paris shoe were evidently attracting the looks of
the gallant sub-prefect.
Madame de Renal was very much afraid, and let fall her scissors, her
ball of wool and her needles, so that Julien's movement could be passed
for a clumsy effort, intended to prevent the fall of the scissors,
which presumably he had seen slide. Fortunately, these little scissors
of English steel were broken, and Madame de Renal did not spare her
regrets that Julien had not succeeded in getting nearer to her. "You
noticed them falling before I did--you could have prevented it,
instead, all your zealousness only succeeding in giving me a very big
kick." All this took in the sub-perfect, but not Madame Derville. "That
pretty boy has very silly manners," she thought. The social code of a
provincial capital never forgives this kind of lapse.
Madame de Renal found an opportunity of saying to Julien, "Be prudent,
I order you."
Julien appreciated his own clumsiness. He was upset. He deliberated
with himself for a long time, in order to ascertain whether or not he
ought to be angry at the expression "I order you." He was silly enough
to think she might have said "I order you," if it were some question
concerning the children's education, but in answering my love she puts
me on an equality. It is impossible to love without equality ... and
all his mind ran riot in making common-places on equality. He angrily
repeated to himself that verse of Corneille which Madame Derville had
taught him some days before.
"L'amour
les egalites, et ne les cherche pas."
Julien who had never had a mistress in his whole life, but yet insisted
on playing the role of a Don Juan, made a shocking fool of himself all
day. He had only one sensible idea. Bored with himself and Madame de
Renal, he viewed with apprehension the advance of the evening when he
would have to sit by her side in the darkness of the garden. He told M.
de Renal that he was going to Verrieres to see the cure. He left after
dinner, and only came back in the night.
At Verrieres Julien found M. Chelan occupied in moving. He had just
been deprived of his living; the curate Maslon was replacing him.
Julien helped the good cure, and it occurred to him to write to Fouque
that the irresistible mission which he felt for the holy ministry had
previously prevented him from accepting his kind offer, but that he had
just seen an instance of injustice, and that perhaps it would be safer
not to enter into Holy Orders.
Julien congratulated himself on his subtlety in exploiting the
dismissal of the cure of Verrieres so as to leave himself a loop-hole
for returning to commerce in the event of a gloomy prudence routing the
spirit of heroism from his mind.
CHAPTER XV
THE COCK'S SONG
Amour en latin faict amour;
Or done provient d'amour la mart,
Et, par avant, souley qui moreq,
Deuil, plours, pieges, forfailz, remord.
BLASON D'AMOUR.
If Julien had possessed a little of that adroitness on which he so
gratuitously plumed himself, he could have congratulated himself the
following day on the effect produced by his journey to Verrieres. His
absence had caused his clumsiness to be forgotten. But on that day
also he was rather sulky. He had a ludicrous idea in the evening, and
with singular courage he communicated it to Madame de Renal. They had
scarcely sat down in the garden before Julien brought his mouth near
Madame de Renal's ear without waiting till it was sufficiently dark and
at the risk of compromising her terribly, said to her,
"Madame, to-night, at two o'clock, I shall go into your room, I must
tell you something."
Julien trembled lest his request should be granted. His rakish pose
weighed him down so terribly that if he could have followed his own
inclination he would have returned to his room for several days and
refrained from seeing the ladies any more. He realised that he had
spoiled by his clever conduct of last evening all the bright prospects
of the day that had just passed, and was at his wits' end what to do.
Madame de Renal answered the impertinent declaration which Julien had
dared to make to her with indignation which was real and in no way
exaggerated. He thought he could see contempt in her curt reply. The
expression "for shame," had certainly occurred in that whispered answer.
Julien went to the children's room under the pretext of having
something to say to them, and on his return he placed himself beside
Madame Derville and very far from Madame de Renal. He thus deprived
himself of all possibility of taking her hand. The conversation was
serious, and Julien acquitted himself very well, apart from a few
moments of silence during which he was cudgelling his brains.
"Why can't I invent some pretty manoeuvre," he said to himself which
will force Madame de Renal to vouchsafe to me those unambiguous signs
of tenderness which a few days ago made me think that she was mine.
Julien was extremely disconcerted by the almost desperate plight
to which he had brought his affairs. Nothing, however, would have
embarrassed him more than success.
When they separated at midnight, his pessimism made him think that
he enjoyed Madame Derville's contempt, and that probably he stood no
better with Madame de Renal.
Feeling in a very bad temper and very humiliated, Julien did not sleep.
He was leagues away from the idea of giving up all intriguing and
planning, and of living from day to day with Madame de Renal, and of
being contented like a child with the happiness brought by every day.
He racked his brains inventing clever manoeuvres, which an instant
afterwards he found absurd, and, to put it shortly, was very unhappy
when two o'clock rang from the castle clock.
The noise woke him up like the cock's crow woke up St. Peter. The most
painful episode was now timed to begin--he had not given a thought to
his impertinent proposition, since the moment when he had made it and
it had been so badly received.
"I have told her that I will go to her at two o'clock," he said to
himself as he got up, "I may be inexperienced and coarse, as the son
of a peasant naturally would be. Madame Derville has given me to
understand as much, but at any rate, I will not be weak."
Julien had reason to congratulate himself on his courage, for he had
never put his self-control to so painful a test. As he opened his door,
he was trembling to such an extent that his knees gave way under him,
and he was forced to lean against the wall.
He was without shoes; he went and listened at M. de Renal's door, and
could hear his snoring. He was disconsolate, he had no longer any
excuse for not going to her room. But, Great Heaven! What was he to do
there? He had no plan, and even if he had had one, he felt himself so
nervous that he would have been incapable of carrying it out.
Eventually, suffering a thousand times more than if he had been walking
to his death, he entered the little corridor that led to Madame de
Renal's room. He opened the door with a trembling hand and made a
frightful noise.
There was light; a night light was burning on the mantelpiece. He
had not expected this new misfortune. As she saw him enter, Madame
de Renal got quickly out of bed. "Wretch," she cried. There was a
little confusion. Julien forgot his useless plans, and turned to his
natural role. To fail to please so charming a woman appeared to him the
greatest of misfortunes. His only answer to her reproaches was to throw
himself at her feet while he kissed her knees. As she was speaking to
him with extreme harshness, he burst into tears.
When Julien came out of Madame de Renal's room some hours afterwards,
one could have said, adopting the conventional language of the novel,
that there was nothing left to be desired. In fact, he owed to the love
he had inspired, and to the unexpected impression which her alluring
charms had produced upon him, a victory to which his own clumsy tactics
would never have led him.
But victim that he was of a distorted pride, he pretended even in
the sweetest moments to play the role of a man accustomed to the
subjugation of women: he made incredible but deliberate efforts to
spoil his natural charm. Instead of watching the transports which he
was bringing into existence, and those pangs of remorse which only set
their keenness into fuller relief, the idea of duty was continually
before his eyes. He feared a frightful remorse, and eternal ridicule,
if he departed from the ideal model he proposed to follow. In a word,
the very quality which made Julien into a superior being was precisely
that which prevented him from savouring the happiness which was placed
within his grasp. It's like the case of a young girl of sixteen with a
charming complexion who is mad enough to put on rouge before going to a
ball.
Mortally terrified by the apparition of Julien, Madame de Renal was
soon a prey to the most cruel alarm. The prayers and despair of Julien
troubled her keenly.
Even when there was nothing left for her to refuse him she pushed
Julien away from her with a genuine indignation, and straightway threw
herself into his arms. There was no plan apparent in all this conduct.
She thought herself eternally damned, and tried to hide from herself
the sight of hell by loading Julien with the wildest caresses. In a
word, nothing would have been lacking in our hero's happiness, not even
an ardent sensibility in the woman whom he had just captured, if he had
only known how to enjoy it. Julien's departure did not in any way bring
to an end those ecstacies which thrilled her in spite of herself, and
those troubles of remorse which lacerated her.
"My God! being happy--being loved, is that all it comes to?" This was
Julien's first thought as he entered his room. He was a prey to the
astonishment and nervous anxiety of the man who has just obtained
what he has long desired. He has been accustomed to desire, and has
no longer anything to desire, and nevertheless has no memories. Like
a soldier coming back from parade. Julien was absorbed in rehearsing
the details of his conduct. "Have I failed in nothing which I owe to
myself? Have I played my part well?"
And what a part! the part of a man accustomed to be brilliant with
women.
| 12,227 | Chapters 9-15 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201128052739/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/the-red-and-the-black/summary-and-analysis/part-1-chapters-915 | Julien plans his campaign and, after much anguish, takes Mme. de Renal's hand the next evening. Although she at first withdraws, he insists, and ultimately, she offers it freely. Renal offends Julien by accusing him of neglecting the children, but Julien's sullen mood is suddenly changed by the imminence of a catastrophe: Renal might find his hidden picture of Napoleon as the mayor and the servants change the mattress stuffing. Mme. de Renal rescues it for Julien, unaware of whose picture the box contains. Renal, on the other hand, misinterprets Julien's pride for the cunning of the peasant demanding more wages. When he grants Julien a raise, the latter is abashed and scorns the mayor even more for measuring everything in monetary terms. Julien gives expanse to the joy of victory in the solitude of the mountains as he goes to visit Chelan. The next night, Julien dares to show his scorn of Renal by taking Mme. de Renal's hand in his very presence, albeit under the cover of dark, and he covers it with passionate kisses. Julien contemplates his campaign against this contemptible bourgeois; Mme. de Renal is torn between her jealousy and anguish at the first pangs of guilt, imagining herself to be a fallen woman. Her agitation is so great that she almost betrays her passion by asking Elisa abruptly if it is she, Elisa, whom Julien loves. Mme. de Renal resolves to treat Julien coldly. Julien takes offense and does not confide to her his plans to leave for a three-day trip. He stops off again in the mountains to enjoy his freedom in solitude. During their visit, Fouque offers Julien a partnership that would assure the latter of financial success. After deliberation, Julien rejects the offer since the success he envisages must be gained through hardship and accomplished by means of the Church. His friendship itself is instrumental in his rejection of the offer. He would not choose to betray Fouque later, once his education had been financed. Fouque confides to Julien the tales of his amorous conquests. Upon his return, Julien discovers that Mme. de Renal is in love with him, and he decides that his duty requires that he make her his mistress. He announces that he must leave since he loves her desperately. This avowal sends her into ecstasy, but she innocently assures herself that their relationship will be a platonic one. Julien awkwardly begins his seduction. His absence, caused by another trip to Verrieres, where he witnesses the disgrace into which Chelan has fallen, causes his awkward attempts of the previous day to be forgotten. He announces quite abruptly to Mme. de Renal that he will visit her room at two o'clock in the morning. The declaration is met with an indignant reprimand. He forces himself to carry out this, the most daring of his exploits, and it succeeds only because he forgets his plan and throws himself at Mme. de Renal's feet. He is unable to enjoy the experience, however, since he is so occupied seeing himself in the role of lover. Returning to his room, Julien's only thought is whether he played his role well. | In spite of the obvious earnestness of the characters, the reader cannot help but be amused at the "comedy of errors and cross purposes" that is played out in these chapters, having its climax in Chapter 15 with the seduction of Mme. de Renal. This triumph is not due to Julien's art but rather to his charm, which erupts in unguarded moments; to Mme. de Renal's love for him, which by this time has become passion; and to the unknowing collaboration of the mayor. Stendhal manipulates the episodes in such a way that each of the three characters acts independently of the others, yet almost by chance they contribute by their convergence to the fortuitous victory of Julien. This unwitting conspiracy is apparent upon analysis. Julien's ambition to seduce Mme. de Renal does not result from love for her but from his sense of duty toward himself. He owes it to himself to take her hand, but he has forgotten the incident the next morning. To motivate this "de-motivated" campaign, Stendhal then utilizes the mayor, whose reproach to Julien for his idleness provokes the latter to avenge his wounded pride by demanding an apology. To the amazement of Julien, the mayor grants him a raise. Julien realizes, however, that this second victory has not been earned, but the elation of the victories must be expressed in the solitude of the mountains. Julien's next step is again motivated by his scorn for the mayor. What an expression of ridicule to take Mme. de Renal's hand in the presence of her husband! That evening, Julien relaxes enough to actually enjoy the unknown pleasure that her beauty causes him. Planning his strategy according to Napoleon, he will further crush the mayor by requesting a three-day leave. Already, in spite of himself, however, a feeling for Mme. de Renal is autonomously manifesting itself. Stendhal comments that Julien longed to see her again, in spite of his expectations. The mutual coldness of their interview summarizes their dilemma: It moves them apart in order, ultimately, to unite them. The numerous absences of Julien ripen Mme. de Renal for the ultimate conquest, although Julien does not absent himself for that specific purpose. The tranquility enjoyed by Julien during his second retreat to the mountains is disturbed by Fouque's offer. Even this obstacle advances Julien's cause, unbeknownst to him: It frees his mind to think of her. Fouque's amorous affairs teach Julien something about women. Upon his return, therefore, he comes "naturally" to the realization that Mme. de Renal loves him. This proves to be the greatest step in his progression since when she herself initiates the hand-clasp ritual, Julien "ups the ante" in his self-imposition of obstacle pattern, deciding that it is his duty to seduce her, to make her his mistress. This decision, then, is made in all lucidity. With no love yet prompting him, only his ambition and pride, Julien announces hypocritically that he loves her passionately. As he executes his plan, he falls from blunder into blunder, and his attempts at paying court are climaxed by his brutal announcement of the early morning visit he will pay. Had Mme. de Renal not been moved by Julien's tears of confusion and had her love not progressed to its paroxysm, she would never have given herself. Julien's conquest of Mme. de Renal and his love for her at this point take the form of a military assault on society. Mme. de Renal, on the other hand, already painfully knows the bliss of love. She allies herself unknowingly more and more closely with Julien against her husband. The sweet complicity into which she enters with Julien has a twofold importance: It is a sign of a greater degree of involvement with Julien and a means to the realization of a further step in the crystallization of her love because it contains the seeds of jealousy which will torment her. At first her conflict is between the fear of not being loved and the shame of becoming an adulteress. Then when she permits herself to enjoy the thought of happiness with Julien, she is tormented by jealousy, by the fear that he loves another. Soon fear of Julien's departure overcomes any thought she has of resisting him. His hypocritical confession of love for her sends her into a blissful state, although she continues to delude herself as to the future of their relationship, which she can only see as platonic. The final blunder that precipitates the seduction again reproduces in miniature their entire experience. He clumsily tries to make contact with her foot; she reproaches him, ordering him to be careful; he is offended by the tone and leaves for a day, an absence that prepares her to accept him. In the two studies of love that the novel presents, with Mme. de Renal, and in Part II, with Mathilde, Stendhal is not only contrasting two types of love -- passionate and intellectual -- but is focusing different stages of the love experience, and the two are presented in a complementary way. Julien and Mme. de Renal are united through blunder and by accident, and separation brings about the union. Julien and Mathilde will both calculate, and Julien will succeed in keeping her love alive only through imposing separation and distance. | 526 | 883 | [
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107 | true | sparknotes | all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/chapters_9_to_15.txt | finished_summaries/sparknotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_2_part_0.txt | Far from the Madding Crowd.chapters 9-15 | chapters 9-15 | null | {"name": "", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000853/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/maddingcrowd/section3/", "summary": "The next few chapters establish the rhythm of life on Bathsheba Everdene's farm and introduce a new plot line into the novel, Bathsheba's relationship with Mr. Boldwood. The day after Gabriel's arrival, the dignified bachelor Mr. Boldwood knocks on Bathsheba's door as she and her servant Liddy Smallbury are cleaning. Boldwood comes to ask if there is any news of Fanny Robin, whom he had helped when she was younger. From Liddy's gossip we learn that Boldwood is a confirmed bachelor whom many of the local women have tried unsuccessfully to woo. Bathsheba calls a meeting of the farm workers to announce that she has dismissed the Pennyways for thieving and that she will take on the bailiff's responsibilities herself. She also asks for news of Fanny Robin, who is still missing. Chapter 10 describes the meeting and consists primarily of a roll call, in which the various farm laborers identify themselves and their trades to both Bathsheba and the reader. Chapter 11 reveals what has happened to Fanny Robin; here we see her arrive at the barracks of Sergeant Troy, many miles north of Weatherbury. The narrator describes the scene from a distance; we see Fanny as \"a spot\" almost lost in the snow. She throws snowballs at a window to get the sergeant's attention, and they have a brief conversation in which she reminds him that he has promised to marry her. He responds callously but agrees to uphold his promise. When he shuts his window, the other soldiers are laughing. In the next chapter, it is market-day, and Bathsheba tries out her new role of farmer. The only woman in the group, she nonetheless comports herself well. The only man oblivious to her beauty is Mr. Boldwood, who does not look at her once, as Liddy remarks on the way home. When Bathsheba and Liddy are at home on Sunday, Bathsheba is about to send a valentine to a young boy when Liddy suggests that she send it to Boldwood instead. On a whim, Bathsheba agrees, setting in motion one of the novel's tragedies. The valentine contains a meaningless ditty, \"Roses are red, Violets are blue...\" but Bathsheba impulsively stamps it with a seal that reads, \"Marry Me.\" The narrator reflects that Bathsheba knows nothing of love. Unfortunately, the letter has a profound effect on Boldwood. It is the one ornate object in a puritanically plain home, and he places it on the mantlepiece, disturbed and excited. Then he receives a second letter; in his excitement he opens it hurriedly, only then noticing that it is addressed to Gabriel. He delivers it to Gabriel the next morning and Gabriel shares its contents with Boldwood: It is a letter from Fanny identifying herself as the girl Gabriel met in the forest and returning the shilling he had given her. The letter also announces her engagement to Sergeant Troy. As he leaves, Boldwood asks Gabriel to identify the handwriting on the valentine, and he tells Boldwood that it is Bathsheba's.", "analysis": "Commentary The most important event in this section is the sending of the valentine and the unintentional effect it has on Boldwood. This one act will haunt both Bathsheba and Boldwood until the end of the novel. Hardy uses this set of circumstances to analyze one of his favorite concerns: how a person's life is determined by minor, seemingly insignificant events. Sometimes these events are questions of luck or forces beyond human control. Here, however, Hardy examines human agency: Bathsheba sends the valentine in jest, without thinking, but her act results in extraordinary consequences. Another theme throughout this section is the imbalances of affection in human relations; this imbalance characterizes the relationship between Gabriel and Bathsheba, as well as that between Sergeant Troy and Fanny Price, and Liddy tells us that Boldwood has been unaware of several local women's efforts to win his affections. While this asymmetry is a natural part of relationships, its consequences can be dire."} |
THE HOMESTEAD--A VISITOR--HALF-CONFIDENCES
By daylight, the bower of Oak's new-found mistress, Bathsheba
Everdene, presented itself as a hoary building, of the early stage of
Classic Renaissance as regards its architecture, and of a proportion
which told at a glance that, as is so frequently the case, it had
once been the memorial hall upon a small estate around it, now
altogether effaced as a distinct property, and merged in the vast
tract of a non-resident landlord, which comprised several such modest
demesnes.
Fluted pilasters, worked from the solid stone, decorated its front,
and above the roof the chimneys were panelled or columnar, some coped
gables with finials and like features still retaining traces of their
Gothic extraction. Soft brown mosses, like faded velveteen, formed
cushions upon the stone tiling, and tufts of the houseleek or
sengreen sprouted from the eaves of the low surrounding buildings. A
gravel walk leading from the door to the road in front was encrusted
at the sides with more moss--here it was a silver-green variety, the
nut-brown of the gravel being visible to the width of only a foot
or two in the centre. This circumstance, and the generally sleepy
air of the whole prospect here, together with the animated and
contrasting state of the reverse facade, suggested to the imagination
that on the adaptation of the building for farming purposes the
vital principle of the house had turned round inside its body to
face the other way. Reversals of this kind, strange deformities,
tremendous paralyses, are often seen to be inflicted by trade upon
edifices--either individual or in the aggregate as streets and
towns--which were originally planned for pleasure alone.
Lively voices were heard this morning in the upper rooms, the
main staircase to which was of hard oak, the balusters, heavy as
bed-posts, being turned and moulded in the quaint fashion of their
century, the handrail as stout as a parapet-top, and the stairs
themselves continually twisting round like a person trying to look
over his shoulder. Going up, the floors above were found to have a
very irregular surface, rising to ridges, sinking into valleys; and
being just then uncarpeted, the face of the boards was seen to be
eaten into innumerable vermiculations. Every window replied by a
clang to the opening and shutting of every door, a tremble followed
every bustling movement, and a creak accompanied a walker about the
house, like a spirit, wherever he went.
In the room from which the conversation proceeded Bathsheba and her
servant-companion, Liddy Smallbury, were to be discovered sitting
upon the floor, and sorting a complication of papers, books, bottles,
and rubbish spread out thereon--remnants from the household stores
of the late occupier. Liddy, the maltster's great-granddaughter,
was about Bathsheba's equal in age, and her face was a prominent
advertisement of the light-hearted English country girl. The beauty
her features might have lacked in form was amply made up for by
perfection of hue, which at this winter-time was the softened
ruddiness on a surface of high rotundity that we meet with in a
Terburg or a Gerard Douw; and, like the presentations of those great
colourists, it was a face which kept well back from the boundary
between comeliness and the ideal. Though elastic in nature she was
less daring than Bathsheba, and occasionally showed some earnestness,
which consisted half of genuine feeling, and half of mannerliness
superadded by way of duty.
Through a partly-opened door the noise of a scrubbing-brush led up to
the charwoman, Maryann Money, a person who for a face had a circular
disc, furrowed less by age than by long gazes of perplexity at
distant objects. To think of her was to get good-humoured; to speak
of her was to raise the image of a dried Normandy pippin.
"Stop your scrubbing a moment," said Bathsheba through the door to
her. "I hear something."
Maryann suspended the brush.
The tramp of a horse was apparent, approaching the front of the
building. The paces slackened, turned in at the wicket, and, what
was most unusual, came up the mossy path close to the door. The door
was tapped with the end of a crop or stick.
"What impertinence!" said Liddy, in a low voice. "To ride up the
footpath like that! Why didn't he stop at the gate? Lord! 'Tis a
gentleman! I see the top of his hat."
"Be quiet!" said Bathsheba.
The further expression of Liddy's concern was continued by aspect
instead of narrative.
"Why doesn't Mrs. Coggan go to the door?" Bathsheba continued.
Rat-tat-tat-tat resounded more decisively from Bathsheba's oak.
"Maryann, you go!" said she, fluttering under the onset of a crowd of
romantic possibilities.
"Oh ma'am--see, here's a mess!"
The argument was unanswerable after a glance at Maryann.
"Liddy--you must," said Bathsheba.
Liddy held up her hands and arms, coated with dust from the rubbish
they were sorting, and looked imploringly at her mistress.
"There--Mrs. Coggan is going!" said Bathsheba, exhaling her relief
in the form of a long breath which had lain in her bosom a minute or
more.
The door opened, and a deep voice said--
"Is Miss Everdene at home?"
"I'll see, sir," said Mrs. Coggan, and in a minute appeared in the
room.
"Dear, what a thirtover place this world is!" continued Mrs. Coggan
(a wholesome-looking lady who had a voice for each class of remark
according to the emotion involved; who could toss a pancake or twirl
a mop with the accuracy of pure mathematics, and who at this moment
showed hands shaggy with fragments of dough and arms encrusted with
flour). "I am never up to my elbows, Miss, in making a pudding but
one of two things do happen--either my nose must needs begin
tickling, and I can't live without scratching it, or somebody knocks
at the door. Here's Mr. Boldwood wanting to see you, Miss Everdene."
A woman's dress being a part of her countenance, and any disorder in
the one being of the same nature with a malformation or wound in the
other, Bathsheba said at once--
"I can't see him in this state. Whatever shall I do?"
Not-at-homes were hardly naturalized in Weatherbury farmhouses, so
Liddy suggested--"Say you're a fright with dust, and can't come
down."
"Yes--that sounds very well," said Mrs. Coggan, critically.
"Say I can't see him--that will do."
Mrs. Coggan went downstairs, and returned the answer as requested,
adding, however, on her own responsibility, "Miss is dusting bottles,
sir, and is quite a object--that's why 'tis."
"Oh, very well," said the deep voice indifferently. "All I wanted to
ask was, if anything had been heard of Fanny Robin?"
"Nothing, sir--but we may know to-night. William Smallbury is gone
to Casterbridge, where her young man lives, as is supposed, and the
other men be inquiring about everywhere."
The horse's tramp then recommenced and retreated, and the door
closed.
"Who is Mr. Boldwood?" said Bathsheba.
"A gentleman-farmer at Little Weatherbury."
"Married?"
"No, miss."
"How old is he?"
"Forty, I should say--very handsome--rather stern-looking--and rich."
"What a bother this dusting is! I am always in some unfortunate
plight or other," Bathsheba said, complainingly. "Why should he
inquire about Fanny?"
"Oh, because, as she had no friends in her childhood, he took her and
put her to school, and got her her place here under your uncle. He's
a very kind man that way, but Lord--there!"
"What?"
"Never was such a hopeless man for a woman! He's been courted by
sixes and sevens--all the girls, gentle and simple, for miles round,
have tried him. Jane Perkins worked at him for two months like a
slave, and the two Miss Taylors spent a year upon him, and he cost
Farmer Ives's daughter nights of tears and twenty pounds' worth of
new clothes; but Lord--the money might as well have been thrown out
of the window."
A little boy came up at this moment and looked in upon them. This
child was one of the Coggans, who, with the Smallburys, were as
common among the families of this district as the Avons and Derwents
among our rivers. He always had a loosened tooth or a cut finger to
show to particular friends, which he did with an air of being thereby
elevated above the common herd of afflictionless humanity--to which
exhibition people were expected to say "Poor child!" with a dash of
congratulation as well as pity.
"I've got a pen-nee!" said Master Coggan in a scanning measure.
"Well--who gave it you, Teddy?" said Liddy.
"Mis-terr Bold-wood! He gave it to me for opening the gate."
"What did he say?"
"He said, 'Where are you going, my little man?' and I said, 'To Miss
Everdene's please,' and he said, 'She is a staid woman, isn't she, my
little man?' and I said, 'Yes.'"
"You naughty child! What did you say that for?"
"'Cause he gave me the penny!"
"What a pucker everything is in!" said Bathsheba, discontentedly
when the child had gone. "Get away, Maryann, or go on with your
scrubbing, or do something! You ought to be married by this time,
and not here troubling me!"
"Ay, mistress--so I did. But what between the poor men I won't have,
and the rich men who won't have me, I stand as a pelican in the
wilderness!"
"Did anybody ever want to marry you miss?" Liddy ventured to ask when
they were again alone. "Lots of 'em, I daresay?"
Bathsheba paused, as if about to refuse a reply, but the temptation
to say yes, since it was really in her power was irresistible by
aspiring virginity, in spite of her spleen at having been published
as old.
"A man wanted to once," she said, in a highly experienced tone, and
the image of Gabriel Oak, as the farmer, rose before her.
"How nice it must seem!" said Liddy, with the fixed features of
mental realization. "And you wouldn't have him?"
"He wasn't quite good enough for me."
"How sweet to be able to disdain, when most of us are glad to say,
'Thank you!' I seem I hear it. 'No, sir--I'm your better.' or 'Kiss
my foot, sir; my face is for mouths of consequence.' And did you
love him, miss?"
"Oh, no. But I rather liked him."
"Do you now?"
"Of course not--what footsteps are those I hear?"
Liddy looked from a back window into the courtyard behind, which was
now getting low-toned and dim with the earliest films of night. A
crooked file of men was approaching the back door. The whole string
of trailing individuals advanced in the completest balance of
intention, like the remarkable creatures known as Chain Salpae, which,
distinctly organized in other respects, have one will common to a
whole family. Some were, as usual, in snow-white smock-frocks of
Russia duck, and some in whitey-brown ones of drabbet--marked on the
wrists, breasts, backs, and sleeves with honeycomb-work. Two or
three women in pattens brought up the rear.
"The Philistines be upon us," said Liddy, making her nose white
against the glass.
"Oh, very well. Maryann, go down and keep them in the kitchen till I
am dressed, and then show them in to me in the hall."
MISTRESS AND MEN
Half-an-hour later Bathsheba, in finished dress, and followed by
Liddy, entered the upper end of the old hall to find that her men had
all deposited themselves on a long form and a settle at the lower
extremity. She sat down at a table and opened the time-book, pen in
her hand, with a canvas money-bag beside her. From this she poured
a small heap of coin. Liddy chose a position at her elbow and began
to sew, sometimes pausing and looking round, or, with the air of
a privileged person, taking up one of the half-sovereigns lying
before her and surveying it merely as a work of art, while strictly
preventing her countenance from expressing any wish to possess it as
money.
"Now before I begin, men," said Bathsheba, "I have two matters to
speak of. The first is that the bailiff is dismissed for thieving,
and that I have formed a resolution to have no bailiff at all, but to
manage everything with my own head and hands."
The men breathed an audible breath of amazement.
"The next matter is, have you heard anything of Fanny?"
"Nothing, ma'am."
"Have you done anything?"
"I met Farmer Boldwood," said Jacob Smallbury, "and I went with him
and two of his men, and dragged Newmill Pond, but we found nothing."
"And the new shepherd have been to Buck's Head, by Yalbury, thinking
she had gone there, but nobody had seed her," said Laban Tall.
"Hasn't William Smallbury been to Casterbridge?"
"Yes, ma'am, but he's not yet come home. He promised to be back by
six."
"It wants a quarter to six at present," said Bathsheba, looking at
her watch. "I daresay he'll be in directly. Well, now then"--she
looked into the book--"Joseph Poorgrass, are you there?"
"Yes, sir--ma'am I mane," said the person addressed. "I be the
personal name of Poorgrass."
"And what are you?"
"Nothing in my own eye. In the eye of other people--well, I don't
say it; though public thought will out."
"What do you do on the farm?"
"I do do carting things all the year, and in seed time I shoots the
rooks and sparrows, and helps at pig-killing, sir."
"How much to you?"
"Please nine and ninepence and a good halfpenny where 'twas a bad
one, sir--ma'am I mane."
"Quite correct. Now here are ten shillings in addition as a small
present, as I am a new comer."
Bathsheba blushed slightly at the sense of being generous in public,
and Henery Fray, who had drawn up towards her chair, lifted his
eyebrows and fingers to express amazement on a small scale.
"How much do I owe you--that man in the corner--what's your name?"
continued Bathsheba.
"Matthew Moon, ma'am," said a singular framework of clothes with
nothing of any consequence inside them, which advanced with the toes
in no definite direction forwards, but turned in or out as they
chanced to swing.
"Matthew Mark, did you say?--speak out--I shall not hurt you,"
inquired the young farmer, kindly.
"Matthew Moon, mem," said Henery Fray, correctingly, from behind her
chair, to which point he had edged himself.
"Matthew Moon," murmured Bathsheba, turning her bright eyes to the
book. "Ten and twopence halfpenny is the sum put down to you, I
see?"
"Yes, mis'ess," said Matthew, as the rustle of wind among dead
leaves.
"Here it is, and ten shillings. Now the next--Andrew Randle, you are
a new man, I hear. How come you to leave your last farm?"
"P-p-p-p-p-pl-pl-pl-pl-l-l-l-l-ease, ma'am, p-p-p-p-pl-pl-pl-pl-please,
ma'am-please'm-please'm--"
"'A's a stammering man, mem," said Henery Fray in an undertone, "and
they turned him away because the only time he ever did speak plain
he said his soul was his own, and other iniquities, to the squire.
'A can cuss, mem, as well as you or I, but 'a can't speak a common
speech to save his life."
"Andrew Randle, here's yours--finish thanking me in a day or two.
Temperance Miller--oh, here's another, Soberness--both women I
suppose?"
"Yes'm. Here we be, 'a b'lieve," was echoed in shrill unison.
"What have you been doing?"
"Tending thrashing-machine and wimbling haybonds, and saying 'Hoosh!'
to the cocks and hens when they go upon your seeds, and planting
Early Flourballs and Thompson's Wonderfuls with a dibble."
"Yes--I see. Are they satisfactory women?" she inquired softly of
Henery Fray.
"Oh mem--don't ask me! Yielding women--as scarlet a pair as ever
was!" groaned Henery under his breath.
"Sit down."
"Who, mem?"
"Sit down."
Joseph Poorgrass, in the background twitched, and his lips became
dry with fear of some terrible consequences, as he saw Bathsheba
summarily speaking, and Henery slinking off to a corner.
"Now the next. Laban Tall, you'll stay on working for me?"
"For you or anybody that pays me well, ma'am," replied the young
married man.
"True--the man must live!" said a woman in the back quarter, who had
just entered with clicking pattens.
"What woman is that?" Bathsheba asked.
"I be his lawful wife!" continued the voice with greater prominence
of manner and tone. This lady called herself five-and-twenty, looked
thirty, passed as thirty-five, and was forty. She was a woman who
never, like some newly married, showed conjugal tenderness in public,
perhaps because she had none to show.
"Oh, you are," said Bathsheba. "Well, Laban, will you stay on?"
"Yes, he'll stay, ma'am!" said again the shrill tongue of Laban's
lawful wife.
"Well, he can speak for himself, I suppose."
"Oh Lord, not he, ma'am! A simple tool. Well enough, but a poor
gawkhammer mortal," the wife replied.
"Heh-heh-heh!" laughed the married man with a hideous effort of
appreciation, for he was as irrepressibly good-humoured under ghastly
snubs as a parliamentary candidate on the hustings.
The names remaining were called in the same manner.
"Now I think I have done with you," said Bathsheba, closing the book
and shaking back a stray twine of hair. "Has William Smallbury
returned?"
"No, ma'am."
"The new shepherd will want a man under him," suggested Henery Fray,
trying to make himself official again by a sideway approach towards
her chair.
"Oh--he will. Who can he have?"
"Young Cain Ball is a very good lad," Henery said, "and Shepherd Oak
don't mind his youth?" he added, turning with an apologetic smile to
the shepherd, who had just appeared on the scene, and was now leaning
against the doorpost with his arms folded.
"No, I don't mind that," said Gabriel.
"How did Cain come by such a name?" asked Bathsheba.
"Oh you see, mem, his pore mother, not being a Scripture-read woman,
made a mistake at his christening, thinking 'twas Abel killed Cain,
and called en Cain, meaning Abel all the time. The parson put it
right, but 'twas too late, for the name could never be got rid of in
the parish. 'Tis very unfortunate for the boy."
"It is rather unfortunate."
"Yes. However, we soften it down as much as we can, and call him
Cainy. Ah, pore widow-woman! she cried her heart out about it
almost. She was brought up by a very heathen father and mother, who
never sent her to church or school, and it shows how the sins of the
parents are visited upon the children, mem."
Mr. Fray here drew up his features to the mild degree of melancholy
required when the persons involved in the given misfortune do not
belong to your own family.
"Very well then, Cainey Ball to be under-shepherd. And you quite
understand your duties?--you I mean, Gabriel Oak?"
"Quite well, I thank you, Miss Everdene," said Shepherd Oak from the
doorpost. "If I don't, I'll inquire." Gabriel was rather staggered
by the remarkable coolness of her manner. Certainly nobody without
previous information would have dreamt that Oak and the handsome
woman before whom he stood had ever been other than strangers. But
perhaps her air was the inevitable result of the social rise which
had advanced her from a cottage to a large house and fields. The
case is not unexampled in high places. When, in the writings of the
later poets, Jove and his family are found to have moved from their
cramped quarters on the peak of Olympus into the wide sky above it,
their words show a proportionate increase of arrogance and reserve.
Footsteps were heard in the passage, combining in their character
the qualities both of weight and measure, rather at the expense of
velocity.
(All.) "Here's Billy Smallbury come from Casterbridge."
"And what's the news?" said Bathsheba, as William, after marching to
the middle of the hall, took a handkerchief from his hat and wiped
his forehead from its centre to its remoter boundaries.
"I should have been sooner, miss," he said, "if it hadn't been for
the weather." He then stamped with each foot severely, and on
looking down his boots were perceived to be clogged with snow.
"Come at last, is it?" said Henery.
"Well, what about Fanny?" said Bathsheba.
"Well, ma'am, in round numbers, she's run away with the soldiers,"
said William.
"No; not a steady girl like Fanny!"
"I'll tell ye all particulars. When I got to Casterbridge Barracks,
they said, 'The Eleventh Dragoon-Guards be gone away, and new troops
have come.' The Eleventh left last week for Melchester and onwards.
The Route came from Government like a thief in the night, as is his
nature to, and afore the Eleventh knew it almost, they were on the
march. They passed near here."
Gabriel had listened with interest. "I saw them go," he said.
"Yes," continued William, "they pranced down the street playing 'The
Girl I Left Behind Me,' so 'tis said, in glorious notes of triumph.
Every looker-on's inside shook with the blows of the great drum to
his deepest vitals, and there was not a dry eye throughout the town
among the public-house people and the nameless women!"
"But they're not gone to any war?"
"No, ma'am; but they be gone to take the places of them who may,
which is very close connected. And so I said to myself, Fanny's
young man was one of the regiment, and she's gone after him. There,
ma'am, that's it in black and white."
"Did you find out his name?"
"No; nobody knew it. I believe he was higher in rank than a
private."
Gabriel remained musing and said nothing, for he was in doubt.
"Well, we are not likely to know more to-night, at any rate,"
said Bathsheba. "But one of you had better run across to Farmer
Boldwood's and tell him that much."
She then rose; but before retiring, addressed a few words to them
with a pretty dignity, to which her mourning dress added a soberness
that was hardly to be found in the words themselves.
"Now mind, you have a mistress instead of a master. I don't yet know
my powers or my talents in farming; but I shall do my best, and if
you serve me well, so shall I serve you. Don't any unfair ones among
you (if there are any such, but I hope not) suppose that because I'm
a woman I don't understand the difference between bad goings-on and
good."
(All.) "No'm!"
(Liddy.) "Excellent well said."
"I shall be up before you are awake; I shall be afield before you are
up; and I shall have breakfasted before you are afield. In short, I
shall astonish you all."
(All.) "Yes'm!"
"And so good-night."
(All.) "Good-night, ma'am."
Then this small thesmothete stepped from the table, and surged out of
the hall, her black silk dress licking up a few straws and dragging
them along with a scratching noise upon the floor. Liddy, elevating
her feelings to the occasion from a sense of grandeur, floated
off behind Bathsheba with a milder dignity not entirely free from
travesty, and the door was closed.
OUTSIDE THE BARRACKS--SNOW--A MEETING
For dreariness nothing could surpass a prospect in the outskirts of a
certain town and military station, many miles north of Weatherbury,
at a later hour on this same snowy evening--if that may be called a
prospect of which the chief constituent was darkness.
It was a night when sorrow may come to the brightest without causing
any great sense of incongruity: when, with impressible persons, love
becomes solicitousness, hope sinks to misgiving, and faith to hope:
when the exercise of memory does not stir feelings of regret at
opportunities for ambition that have been passed by, and anticipation
does not prompt to enterprise.
The scene was a public path, bordered on the left hand by a river,
behind which rose a high wall. On the right was a tract of land,
partly meadow and partly moor, reaching, at its remote verge, to a
wide undulating upland.
The changes of the seasons are less obtrusive on spots of this
kind than amid woodland scenery. Still, to a close observer, they
are just as perceptible; the difference is that their media of
manifestation are less trite and familiar than such well-known ones
as the bursting of the buds or the fall of the leaf. Many are not
so stealthy and gradual as we may be apt to imagine in considering
the general torpidity of a moor or waste. Winter, in coming to the
country hereabout, advanced in well-marked stages, wherein might
have been successively observed the retreat of the snakes, the
transformation of the ferns, the filling of the pools, a rising of
fogs, the embrowning by frost, the collapse of the fungi, and an
obliteration by snow.
This climax of the series had been reached to-night on the aforesaid
moor, and for the first time in the season its irregularities were
forms without features; suggestive of anything, proclaiming nothing,
and without more character than that of being the limit of something
else--the lowest layer of a firmament of snow. From this chaotic
skyful of crowding flakes the mead and moor momentarily received
additional clothing, only to appear momentarily more naked thereby.
The vast arch of cloud above was strangely low, and formed as it were
the roof of a large dark cavern, gradually sinking in upon its floor;
for the instinctive thought was that the snow lining the heavens and
that encrusting the earth would soon unite into one mass without any
intervening stratum of air at all.
We turn our attention to the left-hand characteristics; which were
flatness in respect of the river, verticality in respect of the wall
behind it, and darkness as to both. These features made up the mass.
If anything could be darker than the sky, it was the wall, and if any
thing could be gloomier than the wall it was the river beneath. The
indistinct summit of the facade was notched and pronged by chimneys
here and there, and upon its face were faintly signified the oblong
shapes of windows, though only in the upper part. Below, down to the
water's edge, the flat was unbroken by hole or projection.
An indescribable succession of dull blows, perplexing in their
regularity, sent their sound with difficulty through the fluffy
atmosphere. It was a neighbouring clock striking ten. The bell was
in the open air, and being overlaid with several inches of muffling
snow, had lost its voice for the time.
About this hour the snow abated: ten flakes fell where twenty had
fallen, then one had the room of ten. Not long after a form moved
by the brink of the river.
By its outline upon the colourless background, a close observer
might have seen that it was small. This was all that was positively
discoverable, though it seemed human.
The shape went slowly along, but without much exertion, for the snow,
though sudden, was not as yet more than two inches deep. At this
time some words were spoken aloud:--
"One. Two. Three. Four. Five."
Between each utterance the little shape advanced about half a dozen
yards. It was evident now that the windows high in the wall were
being counted. The word "Five" represented the fifth window from the
end of the wall.
Here the spot stopped, and dwindled smaller. The figure was
stooping. Then a morsel of snow flew across the river towards the
fifth window. It smacked against the wall at a point several yards
from its mark. The throw was the idea of a man conjoined with the
execution of a woman. No man who had ever seen bird, rabbit, or
squirrel in his childhood, could possibly have thrown with such utter
imbecility as was shown here.
Another attempt, and another; till by degrees the wall must have
become pimpled with the adhering lumps of snow. At last one fragment
struck the fifth window.
The river would have been seen by day to be of that deep smooth sort
which races middle and sides with the same gliding precision, any
irregularities of speed being immediately corrected by a small
whirlpool. Nothing was heard in reply to the signal but the gurgle
and cluck of one of these invisible wheels--together with a few small
sounds which a sad man would have called moans, and a happy man
laughter--caused by the flapping of the waters against trifling
objects in other parts of the stream.
The window was struck again in the same manner.
Then a noise was heard, apparently produced by the opening of the
window. This was followed by a voice from the same quarter.
"Who's there?"
The tones were masculine, and not those of surprise. The high
wall being that of a barrack, and marriage being looked upon with
disfavour in the army, assignations and communications had probably
been made across the river before to-night.
"Is it Sergeant Troy?" said the blurred spot in the snow,
tremulously.
This person was so much like a mere shade upon the earth, and the
other speaker so much a part of the building, that one would have
said the wall was holding a conversation with the snow.
"Yes," came suspiciously from the shadow. "What girl are you?"
"Oh, Frank--don't you know me?" said the spot. "Your wife, Fanny
Robin."
"Fanny!" said the wall, in utter astonishment.
"Yes," said the girl, with a half-suppressed gasp of emotion.
There was something in the woman's tone which is not that of the
wife, and there was a manner in the man which is rarely a husband's.
The dialogue went on:
"How did you come here?"
"I asked which was your window. Forgive me!"
"I did not expect you to-night. Indeed, I did not think you would
come at all. It was a wonder you found me here. I am orderly
to-morrow."
"You said I was to come."
"Well--I said that you might."
"Yes, I mean that I might. You are glad to see me, Frank?"
"Oh yes--of course."
"Can you--come to me!"
"My dear Fan, no! The bugle has sounded, the barrack gates are
closed, and I have no leave. We are all of us as good as in the
county gaol till to-morrow morning."
"Then I shan't see you till then!" The words were in a faltering
tone of disappointment.
"How did you get here from Weatherbury?"
"I walked--some part of the way--the rest by the carriers."
"I am surprised."
"Yes--so am I. And Frank, when will it be?"
"What?"
"That you promised."
"I don't quite recollect."
"O you do! Don't speak like that. It weighs me to the earth. It
makes me say what ought to be said first by you."
"Never mind--say it."
"O, must I?--it is, when shall we be married, Frank?"
"Oh, I see. Well--you have to get proper clothes."
"I have money. Will it be by banns or license?"
"Banns, I should think."
"And we live in two parishes."
"Do we? What then?"
"My lodgings are in St. Mary's, and this is not. So they will have
to be published in both."
"Is that the law?"
"Yes. O Frank--you think me forward, I am afraid! Don't, dear
Frank--will you--for I love you so. And you said lots of times you
would marry me, and--and--I--I--I--"
"Don't cry, now! It is foolish. If I said so, of course I will."
"And shall I put up the banns in my parish, and will you in yours?"
"Yes"
"To-morrow?"
"Not to-morrow. We'll settle in a few days."
"You have the permission of the officers?"
"No, not yet."
"O--how is it? You said you almost had before you left
Casterbridge."
"The fact is, I forgot to ask. Your coming like this is so sudden
and unexpected."
"Yes--yes--it is. It was wrong of me to worry you. I'll go away
now. Will you come and see me to-morrow, at Mrs. Twills's, in North
Street? I don't like to come to the Barracks. There are bad women
about, and they think me one."
"Quite, so. I'll come to you, my dear. Good-night."
"Good-night, Frank--good-night!"
And the noise was again heard of a window closing. The little spot
moved away. When she passed the corner a subdued exclamation was
heard inside the wall.
"Ho--ho--Sergeant--ho--ho!" An expostulation followed, but it was
indistinct; and it became lost amid a low peal of laughter, which was
hardly distinguishable from the gurgle of the tiny whirlpools
outside.
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."
SORTES SANCTORUM--THE VALENTINE
It was Sunday afternoon in the farmhouse, on the thirteenth of
February. Dinner being over, Bathsheba, for want of a better
companion, had asked Liddy to come and sit with her. The mouldy pile
was dreary in winter-time before the candles were lighted and the
shutters closed; the atmosphere of the place seemed as old as the
walls; every nook behind the furniture had a temperature of its own,
for the fire was not kindled in this part of the house early in the
day; and Bathsheba's new piano, which was an old one in other annals,
looked particularly sloping and out of level on the warped floor
before night threw a shade over its less prominent angles and hid
the unpleasantness. Liddy, like a little brook, though shallow, was
always rippling; her presence had not so much weight as to task
thought, and yet enough to exercise it.
On the table lay an old quarto Bible, bound in leather. Liddy
looking at it said,--
"Did you ever find out, miss, who you are going to marry by means of
the Bible and key?"
"Don't be so foolish, Liddy. As if such things could be."
"Well, there's a good deal in it, all the same."
"Nonsense, child."
"And it makes your heart beat fearful. Some believe in it; some
don't; I do."
"Very well, let's try it," said Bathsheba, bounding from her seat
with that total disregard of consistency which can be indulged in
towards a dependent, and entering into the spirit of divination at
once. "Go and get the front door key."
Liddy fetched it. "I wish it wasn't Sunday," she said, on returning.
"Perhaps 'tis wrong."
"What's right week days is right Sundays," replied her mistress in a
tone which was a proof in itself.
The book was opened--the leaves, drab with age, being quite worn away
at much-read verses by the forefingers of unpractised readers in
former days, where they were moved along under the line as an aid to
the vision. The special verse in the Book of Ruth was sought out by
Bathsheba, and the sublime words met her eye. They slightly thrilled
and abashed her. It was Wisdom in the abstract facing Folly in the
concrete. Folly in the concrete blushed, persisted in her intention,
and placed the key on the book. A rusty patch immediately upon the
verse, caused by previous pressure of an iron substance thereon, told
that this was not the first time the old volume had been used for the
purpose.
"Now keep steady, and be silent," said Bathsheba.
The verse was repeated; the book turned round; Bathsheba blushed
guiltily.
"Who did you try?" said Liddy curiously.
"I shall not tell you."
"Did you notice Mr. Boldwood's doings in church this morning, miss?"
Liddy continued, adumbrating by the remark the track her thoughts had
taken.
"No, indeed," said Bathsheba, with serene indifference.
"His pew is exactly opposite yours, miss."
"I know it."
"And you did not see his goings on!"
"Certainly I did not, I tell you."
Liddy assumed a smaller physiognomy, and shut her lips decisively.
This move was unexpected, and proportionately disconcerting. "What
did he do?" Bathsheba said perforce.
"Didn't turn his head to look at you once all the service."
"Why should he?" again demanded her mistress, wearing a nettled look.
"I didn't ask him to."
"Oh no. But everybody else was noticing you; and it was odd he
didn't. There, 'tis like him. Rich and gentlemanly, what does he
care?"
Bathsheba dropped into a silence intended to express that she had
opinions on the matter too abstruse for Liddy's comprehension, rather
than that she had nothing to say.
"Dear me--I had nearly forgotten the valentine I bought yesterday,"
she exclaimed at length.
"Valentine! who for, miss?" said Liddy. "Farmer Boldwood?"
It was the single name among all possible wrong ones that just at
this moment seemed to Bathsheba more pertinent than the right.
"Well, no. It is only for little Teddy Coggan. I have promised him
something, and this will be a pretty surprise for him. Liddy, you
may as well bring me my desk and I'll direct it at once."
Bathsheba took from her desk a gorgeously illuminated and embossed
design in post-octavo, which had been bought on the previous
market-day at the chief stationer's in Casterbridge. In the centre
was a small oval enclosure; this was left blank, that the sender
might insert tender words more appropriate to the special occasion
than any generalities by a printer could possibly be.
"Here's a place for writing," said Bathsheba. "What shall I put?"
"Something of this sort, I should think," returned Liddy promptly:--
"The rose is red,
The violet blue,
Carnation's sweet,
And so are you."
"Yes, that shall be it. It just suits itself to a chubby-faced child
like him," said Bathsheba. She inserted the words in a small though
legible handwriting; enclosed the sheet in an envelope, and dipped
her pen for the direction.
"What fun it would be to send it to the stupid old Boldwood, and how
he would wonder!" said the irrepressible Liddy, lifting her eyebrows,
and indulging in an awful mirth on the verge of fear as she thought
of the moral and social magnitude of the man contemplated.
Bathsheba paused to regard the idea at full length. Boldwood's had
begun to be a troublesome image--a species of Daniel in her kingdom
who persisted in kneeling eastward when reason and common sense said
that he might just as well follow suit with the rest, and afford her
the official glance of admiration which cost nothing at all. She was
far from being seriously concerned about his nonconformity. Still,
it was faintly depressing that the most dignified and valuable man
in the parish should withhold his eyes, and that a girl like Liddy
should talk about it. So Liddy's idea was at first rather harassing
than piquant.
"No, I won't do that. He wouldn't see any humour in it."
"He'd worry to death," said the persistent Liddy.
"Really, I don't care particularly to send it to Teddy," remarked her
mistress. "He's rather a naughty child sometimes."
"Yes--that he is."
"Let's toss as men do," said Bathsheba, idly. "Now then, head,
Boldwood; tail, Teddy. No, we won't toss money on a Sunday, that
would be tempting the devil indeed."
"Toss this hymn-book; there can't be no sinfulness in that, miss."
"Very well. Open, Boldwood--shut, Teddy. No; it's more likely to
fall open. Open, Teddy--shut, Boldwood."
The book went fluttering in the air and came down shut.
Bathsheba, a small yawn upon her mouth, took the pen, and with
off-hand serenity directed the missive to Boldwood.
"Now light a candle, Liddy. Which seal shall we use? Here's a
unicorn's head--there's nothing in that. What's this?--two
doves--no. It ought to be something extraordinary, ought it not,
Liddy? Here's one with a motto--I remember it is some funny one, but
I can't read it. We'll try this, and if it doesn't do we'll have
another."
A large red seal was duly affixed. Bathsheba looked closely at the
hot wax to discover the words.
"Capital!" she exclaimed, throwing down the letter frolicsomely.
"'Twould upset the solemnity of a parson and clerke too."
Liddy looked at the words of the seal, and read--
"MARRY ME."
The same evening the letter was sent, and was duly sorted in
Casterbridge post-office that night, to be returned to Weatherbury
again in the morning.
So very idly and unreflectingly was this deed done. Of love as a
spectacle Bathsheba had a fair knowledge; but of love subjectively
she knew nothing.
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.
A MORNING MEETING--THE LETTER AGAIN
The scarlet and orange light outside the malthouse did not penetrate
to its interior, which was, as usual, lighted by a rival glow of
similar hue, radiating from the hearth.
The maltster, after having lain down in his clothes for a few
hours, was now sitting beside a three-legged table, breakfasting of
bread and bacon. This was eaten on the plateless system, which is
performed by placing a slice of bread upon the table, the meat flat
upon the bread, a mustard plaster upon the meat, and a pinch of salt
upon the whole, then cutting them vertically downwards with a large
pocket-knife till wood is reached, when the severed lump is impaled
on the knife, elevated, and sent the proper way of food.
The maltster's lack of teeth appeared not to sensibly diminish
his powers as a mill. He had been without them for so many years
that toothlessness was felt less to be a defect than hard gums an
acquisition. Indeed, he seemed to approach the grave as a hyperbolic
curve approaches a straight line--less directly as he got nearer,
till it was doubtful if he would ever reach it at all.
In the ashpit was a heap of potatoes roasting, and a boiling pipkin
of charred bread, called "coffee", for the benefit of whomsoever
should call, for Warren's was a sort of clubhouse, used as an
alternative to the inn.
"I say, says I, we get a fine day, and then down comes a snapper at
night," was a remark now suddenly heard spreading into the malthouse
from the door, which had been opened the previous moment. The form
of Henery Fray advanced to the fire, stamping the snow from his boots
when about half-way there. The speech and entry had not seemed to be
at all an abrupt beginning to the maltster, introductory matter being
often omitted in this neighbourhood, both from word and deed, and
the maltster having the same latitude allowed him, did not hurry to
reply. He picked up a fragment of cheese, by pecking upon it with
his knife, as a butcher picks up skewers.
Henery appeared in a drab kerseymere great-coat, buttoned over his
smock-frock, the white skirts of the latter being visible to the
distance of about a foot below the coat-tails, which, when you
got used to the style of dress, looked natural enough, and even
ornamental--it certainly was comfortable.
Matthew Moon, Joseph Poorgrass, and other carters and waggoners
followed at his heels, with great lanterns dangling from their hands,
which showed that they had just come from the cart-horse stables,
where they had been busily engaged since four o'clock that morning.
"And how is she getting on without a baily?" the maltster inquired.
Henery shook his head, and smiled one of the bitter smiles, dragging
all the flesh of his forehead into a corrugated heap in the centre.
"She'll rue it--surely, surely!" he said. "Benjy Pennyways were not
a true man or an honest baily--as big a betrayer as Judas Iscariot
himself. But to think she can carr' on alone!" He allowed his head
to swing laterally three or four times in silence. "Never in all my
creeping up--never!"
This was recognized by all as the conclusion of some gloomy speech
which had been expressed in thought alone during the shake of the
head; Henery meanwhile retained several marks of despair upon his
face, to imply that they would be required for use again directly
he should go on speaking.
"All will be ruined, and ourselves too, or there's no meat in
gentlemen's houses!" said Mark Clark.
"A headstrong maid, that's what she is--and won't listen to no advice
at all. Pride and vanity have ruined many a cobbler's dog. Dear,
dear, when I think o' it, I sorrows like a man in travel!"
"True, Henery, you do, I've heard ye," said Joseph Poorgrass in a
voice of thorough attestation, and with a wire-drawn smile of misery.
"'Twould do a martel man no harm to have what's under her bonnet,"
said Billy Smallbury, who had just entered, bearing his one tooth
before him. "She can spaik real language, and must have some sense
somewhere. Do ye foller me?"
"I do, I do; but no baily--I deserved that place," wailed Henery,
signifying wasted genius by gazing blankly at visions of a high
destiny apparently visible to him on Billy Smallbury's smock-frock.
"There, 'twas to be, I suppose. Your lot is your lot, and Scripture
is nothing; for if you do good you don't get rewarded according to
your works, but be cheated in some mean way out of your recompense."
"No, no; I don't agree with'ee there," said Mark Clark. "God's a
perfect gentleman in that respect."
"Good works good pay, so to speak it," attested Joseph Poorgrass.
A short pause ensued, and as a sort of _entr'acte_ Henery turned and
blew out the lanterns, which the increase of daylight rendered no
longer necessary even in the malthouse, with its one pane of glass.
"I wonder what a farmer-woman can want with a harpsichord, dulcimer,
pianner, or whatever 'tis they d'call it?" said the maltster. "Liddy
saith she've a new one."
"Got a pianner?"
"Ay. Seems her old uncle's things were not good enough for her.
She've bought all but everything new. There's heavy chairs for the
stout, weak and wiry ones for the slender; great watches, getting on
to the size of clocks, to stand upon the chimbley-piece."
"Pictures, for the most part wonderful frames."
"And long horse-hair settles for the drunk, with horse-hair pillows
at each end," said Mr. Clark. "Likewise looking-glasses for the
pretty, and lying books for the wicked."
A firm loud tread was now heard stamping outside; the door was opened
about six inches, and somebody on the other side exclaimed--
"Neighbours, have ye got room for a few new-born lambs?"
"Ay, sure, shepherd," said the conclave.
The door was flung back till it kicked the wall and trembled from
top to bottom with the blow. Mr. Oak appeared in the entry with a
steaming face, hay-bands wound about his ankles to keep out the snow,
a leather strap round his waist outside the smock-frock, and looking
altogether an epitome of the world's health and vigour. Four lambs
hung in various embarrassing attitudes over his shoulders, and the
dog George, whom Gabriel had contrived to fetch from Norcombe,
stalked solemnly behind.
"Well, Shepherd Oak, and how's lambing this year, if I mid say it?"
inquired Joseph Poorgrass.
"Terrible trying," said Oak. "I've been wet through twice a-day,
either in snow or rain, this last fortnight. Cainy and I haven't
tined our eyes to-night."
"A good few twins, too, I hear?"
"Too many by half. Yes; 'tis a very queer lambing this year. We
shan't have done by Lady Day."
"And last year 'twer all over by Sexajessamine Sunday," Joseph
remarked.
"Bring on the rest Cain," said Gabriel, "and then run back to the
ewes. I'll follow you soon."
Cainy Ball--a cheery-faced young lad, with a small circular orifice
by way of mouth, advanced and deposited two others, and retired as he
was bidden. Oak lowered the lambs from their unnatural elevation,
wrapped them in hay, and placed them round the fire.
"We've no lambing-hut here, as I used to have at Norcombe," said
Gabriel, "and 'tis such a plague to bring the weakly ones to a house.
If 'twasn't for your place here, malter, I don't know what I should
do i' this keen weather. And how is it with you to-day, malter?"
"Oh, neither sick nor sorry, shepherd; but no younger."
"Ay--I understand."
"Sit down, Shepherd Oak," continued the ancient man of malt. "And
how was the old place at Norcombe, when ye went for your dog? I
should like to see the old familiar spot; but faith, I shouldn't know
a soul there now."
"I suppose you wouldn't. 'Tis altered very much."
"Is it true that Dicky Hill's wooden cider-house is pulled down?"
"Oh yes--years ago, and Dicky's cottage just above it."
"Well, to be sure!"
"Yes; and Tompkins's old apple-tree is rooted that used to bear two
hogsheads of cider; and no help from other trees."
"Rooted?--you don't say it! Ah! stirring times we live in--stirring
times."
"And you can mind the old well that used to be in the middle of the
place? That's turned into a solid iron pump with a large stone
trough, and all complete."
"Dear, dear--how the face of nations alter, and what we live to see
nowadays! Yes--and 'tis the same here. They've been talking but now
of the mis'ess's strange doings."
"What have you been saying about her?" inquired Oak, sharply turning
to the rest, and getting very warm.
"These middle-aged men have been pulling her over the coals for pride
and vanity," said Mark Clark; "but I say, let her have rope enough.
Bless her pretty face--shouldn't I like to do so--upon her cherry
lips!" The gallant Mark Clark here made a peculiar and well known
sound with his own.
"Mark," said Gabriel, sternly, "now you mind this! none of that
dalliance-talk--that smack-and-coddle style of yours--about Miss
Everdene. I don't allow it. Do you hear?"
"With all my heart, as I've got no chance," replied Mr. Clark,
cordially.
"I suppose you've been speaking against her?" said Oak, turning to
Joseph Poorgrass with a very grim look.
"No, no--not a word I--'tis a real joyful thing that she's no worse,
that's what I say," said Joseph, trembling and blushing with terror.
"Matthew just said--"
"Matthew Moon, what have you been saying?" asked Oak.
"I? Why ye know I wouldn't harm a worm--no, not one underground
worm?" said Matthew Moon, looking very uneasy.
"Well, somebody has--and look here, neighbours," Gabriel, though one
of the quietest and most gentle men on earth, rose to the occasion,
with martial promptness and vigour. "That's my fist." Here he
placed his fist, rather smaller in size than a common loaf, in the
mathematical centre of the maltster's little table, and with it gave
a bump or two thereon, as if to ensure that their eyes all thoroughly
took in the idea of fistiness before he went further. "Now--the
first man in the parish that I hear prophesying bad of our mistress,
why" (here the fist was raised and let fall as Thor might have done
with his hammer in assaying it)--"he'll smell and taste that--or I'm
a Dutchman."
All earnestly expressed by their features that their minds did not
wander to Holland for a moment on account of this statement, but were
deploring the difference which gave rise to the figure; and Mark
Clark cried "Hear, hear; just what I should ha' said." The dog George
looked up at the same time after the shepherd's menace, and though he
understood English but imperfectly, began to growl.
"Now, don't ye take on so, shepherd, and sit down!" said Henery,
with a deprecating peacefulness equal to anything of the kind in
Christianity.
"We hear that ye be a extraordinary good and clever man, shepherd,"
said Joseph Poorgrass with considerable anxiety from behind the
maltster's bedstead, whither he had retired for safety. "'Tis a
great thing to be clever, I'm sure," he added, making movements
associated with states of mind rather than body; "we wish we were,
don't we, neighbours?"
"Ay, that we do, sure," said Matthew Moon, with a small anxious laugh
towards Oak, to show how very friendly disposed he was likewise.
"Who's been telling you I'm clever?" said Oak.
"'Tis blowed about from pillar to post quite common," said Matthew.
"We hear that ye can tell the time as well by the stars as we can by
the sun and moon, shepherd."
"Yes, I can do a little that way," said Gabriel, as a man of medium
sentiments on the subject.
"And that ye can make sun-dials, and prent folks' names upon their
waggons almost like copper-plate, with beautiful flourishes, and
great long tails. A excellent fine thing for ye to be such a clever
man, shepherd. Joseph Poorgrass used to prent to Farmer James
Everdene's waggons before you came, and 'a could never mind which way
to turn the J's and E's--could ye, Joseph?" Joseph shook his head
to express how absolute was the fact that he couldn't. "And so you
used to do 'em the wrong way, like this, didn't ye, Joseph?" Matthew
marked on the dusty floor with his whip-handle
[the word J A M E S appears here with the "J" and the "E"
printed backwards]
"And how Farmer James would cuss, and call thee a fool, wouldn't he,
Joseph, when 'a seed his name looking so inside-out-like?" continued
Matthew Moon with feeling.
"Ay--'a would," said Joseph, meekly. "But, you see, I wasn't so much
to blame, for them J's and E's be such trying sons o' witches for the
memory to mind whether they face backward or forward; and I always
had such a forgetful memory, too."
"'Tis a very bad affliction for ye, being such a man of calamities in
other ways."
"Well, 'tis; but a happy Providence ordered that it should be no
worse, and I feel my thanks. As to shepherd, there, I'm sure mis'ess
ought to have made ye her baily--such a fitting man for't as you be."
"I don't mind owning that I expected it," said Oak, frankly.
"Indeed, I hoped for the place. At the same time, Miss Everdene has
a right to be her own baily if she choose--and to keep me down to be
a common shepherd only." Oak drew a slow breath, looked sadly into
the bright ashpit, and seemed lost in thoughts not of the most
hopeful hue.
The genial warmth of the fire now began to stimulate the nearly
lifeless lambs to bleat and move their limbs briskly upon the hay,
and to recognize for the first time the fact that they were born.
Their noise increased to a chorus of baas, upon which Oak pulled the
milk-can from before the fire, and taking a small tea-pot from the
pocket of his smock-frock, filled it with milk, and taught those of
the helpless creatures which were not to be restored to their dams
how to drink from the spout--a trick they acquired with astonishing
aptitude.
"And she don't even let ye have the skins of the dead lambs, I hear?"
resumed Joseph Poorgrass, his eyes lingering on the operations of Oak
with the necessary melancholy.
"I don't have them," said Gabriel.
"Ye be very badly used, shepherd," hazarded Joseph again, in the hope
of getting Oak as an ally in lamentation after all. "I think she's
took against ye--that I do."
"Oh no--not at all," replied Gabriel, hastily, and a sigh escaped
him, which the deprivation of lamb skins could hardly have caused.
Before any further remark had been added a shade darkened the door,
and Boldwood entered the malthouse, bestowing upon each a nod of a
quality between friendliness and condescension.
"Ah! Oak, I thought you were here," he said. "I met the mail-cart
ten minutes ago, and a letter was put into my hand, which I opened
without reading the address. I believe it is yours. You must excuse
the accident please."
"Oh yes--not a bit of difference, Mr. Boldwood--not a bit," said
Gabriel, readily. He had not a correspondent on earth, nor was there
a possible letter coming to him whose contents the whole parish would
not have been welcome to peruse.
Oak stepped aside, and read the following in an unknown hand:--
DEAR FRIEND,--I do not know your name, but I think these
few lines will reach you, which I wrote to thank you for
your kindness to me the night I left Weatherbury in a
reckless way. I also return the money I owe you, which you
will excuse my not keeping as a gift. All has ended well,
and I am happy to say I am going to be married to the young
man who has courted me for some time--Sergeant Troy, of
the 11th Dragoon Guards, now quartered in this town. He
would, I know, object to my having received anything except
as a loan, being a man of great respectability and high
honour--indeed, a nobleman by blood.
I should be much obliged to you if you would keep the
contents of this letter a secret for the present, dear
friend. We mean to surprise Weatherbury by coming there
soon as husband and wife, though I blush to state it to one
nearly a stranger. The sergeant grew up in Weatherbury.
Thanking you again for your kindness,
I am, your sincere well-wisher,
FANNY ROBIN.
"Have you read it, Mr. Boldwood?" said Gabriel; "if not, you had
better do so. I know you are interested in Fanny Robin."
Boldwood read the letter and looked grieved.
"Fanny--poor Fanny! the end she is so confident of has not yet
come, she should remember--and may never come. I see she gives no
address."
"What sort of a man is this Sergeant Troy?" said Gabriel.
"H'm--I'm afraid not one to build much hope upon in such a case as
this," the farmer murmured, "though he's a clever fellow, and up to
everything. A slight romance attaches to him, too. His mother was
a French governess, and it seems that a secret attachment existed
between her and the late Lord Severn. She was married to a poor
medical man, and soon after an infant was born; and while money was
forthcoming all went on well. Unfortunately for her boy, his best
friends died; and he got then a situation as second clerk at a
lawyer's in Casterbridge. He stayed there for some time, and might
have worked himself into a dignified position of some sort had he not
indulged in the wild freak of enlisting. I have much doubt if ever
little Fanny will surprise us in the way she mentions--very much
doubt. A silly girl!--silly girl!"
The door was hurriedly burst open again, and in came running Cainy
Ball out of breath, his mouth red and open, like the bell of a penny
trumpet, from which he coughed with noisy vigour and great distension
of face.
"Now, Cain Ball," said Oak, sternly, "why will you run so fast and
lose your breath so? I'm always telling you of it."
"Oh--I--a puff of mee breath--went--the--wrong way, please, Mister
Oak, and made me cough--hok--hok!"
"Well--what have you come for?"
"I've run to tell ye," said the junior shepherd, supporting his
exhausted youthful frame against the doorpost, "that you must come
directly. Two more ewes have twinned--that's what's the matter,
Shepherd Oak."
"Oh, that's it," said Oak, jumping up, and dimissing for the present
his thoughts on poor Fanny. "You are a good boy to run and tell me,
Cain, and you shall smell a large plum pudding some day as a treat.
But, before we go, Cainy, bring the tarpot, and we'll mark this lot
and have done with 'em."
Oak took from his illimitable pockets a marking iron, dipped it
into the pot, and imprinted on the buttocks of the infant sheep the
initials of her he delighted to muse on--"B. E.," which signified to
all the region round that henceforth the lambs belonged to Farmer
Bathsheba Everdene, and to no one else.
"Now, Cainy, shoulder your two, and off. Good morning, Mr. Boldwood."
The shepherd lifted the sixteen large legs and four small bodies he
had himself brought, and vanished with them in the direction of the
lambing field hard by--their frames being now in a sleek and hopeful
state, pleasantly contrasting with their death's-door plight of half
an hour before.
Boldwood followed him a little way up the field, hesitated, and
turned back. He followed him again with a last resolve, annihilating
return. On approaching the nook in which the fold was constructed,
the farmer drew out his pocket-book, unfastened it, and allowed it to
lie open on his hand. A letter was revealed--Bathsheba's.
"I was going to ask you, Oak," he said, with unreal carelessness, "if
you know whose writing this is?"
Oak glanced into the book, and replied instantly, with a flushed
face, "Miss Everdene's."
Oak had coloured simply at the consciousness of sounding her name.
He now felt a strangely distressing qualm from a new thought. The
letter could of course be no other than anonymous, or the inquiry
would not have been necessary.
Boldwood mistook his confusion: sensitive persons are always ready
with their "Is it I?" in preference to objective reasoning.
"The question was perfectly fair," he returned--and there was
something incongruous in the serious earnestness with which he
applied himself to an argument on a valentine. "You know it is
always expected that privy inquiries will be made: that's where
the--fun lies." If the word "fun" had been "torture," it could not
have been uttered with a more constrained and restless countenance
than was Boldwood's then.
Soon parting from Gabriel, the lonely and reserved man returned to
his house to breakfast--feeling twinges of shame and regret at having
so far exposed his mood by those fevered questions to a stranger. He
again placed the letter on the mantelpiece, and sat down to think of
the circumstances attending it by the light of Gabriel's information.
| 12,342 | null | https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000853/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/maddingcrowd/section3/ | The next few chapters establish the rhythm of life on Bathsheba Everdene's farm and introduce a new plot line into the novel, Bathsheba's relationship with Mr. Boldwood. The day after Gabriel's arrival, the dignified bachelor Mr. Boldwood knocks on Bathsheba's door as she and her servant Liddy Smallbury are cleaning. Boldwood comes to ask if there is any news of Fanny Robin, whom he had helped when she was younger. From Liddy's gossip we learn that Boldwood is a confirmed bachelor whom many of the local women have tried unsuccessfully to woo. Bathsheba calls a meeting of the farm workers to announce that she has dismissed the Pennyways for thieving and that she will take on the bailiff's responsibilities herself. She also asks for news of Fanny Robin, who is still missing. Chapter 10 describes the meeting and consists primarily of a roll call, in which the various farm laborers identify themselves and their trades to both Bathsheba and the reader. Chapter 11 reveals what has happened to Fanny Robin; here we see her arrive at the barracks of Sergeant Troy, many miles north of Weatherbury. The narrator describes the scene from a distance; we see Fanny as "a spot" almost lost in the snow. She throws snowballs at a window to get the sergeant's attention, and they have a brief conversation in which she reminds him that he has promised to marry her. He responds callously but agrees to uphold his promise. When he shuts his window, the other soldiers are laughing. In the next chapter, it is market-day, and Bathsheba tries out her new role of farmer. The only woman in the group, she nonetheless comports herself well. The only man oblivious to her beauty is Mr. Boldwood, who does not look at her once, as Liddy remarks on the way home. When Bathsheba and Liddy are at home on Sunday, Bathsheba is about to send a valentine to a young boy when Liddy suggests that she send it to Boldwood instead. On a whim, Bathsheba agrees, setting in motion one of the novel's tragedies. The valentine contains a meaningless ditty, "Roses are red, Violets are blue..." but Bathsheba impulsively stamps it with a seal that reads, "Marry Me." The narrator reflects that Bathsheba knows nothing of love. Unfortunately, the letter has a profound effect on Boldwood. It is the one ornate object in a puritanically plain home, and he places it on the mantlepiece, disturbed and excited. Then he receives a second letter; in his excitement he opens it hurriedly, only then noticing that it is addressed to Gabriel. He delivers it to Gabriel the next morning and Gabriel shares its contents with Boldwood: It is a letter from Fanny identifying herself as the girl Gabriel met in the forest and returning the shilling he had given her. The letter also announces her engagement to Sergeant Troy. As he leaves, Boldwood asks Gabriel to identify the handwriting on the valentine, and he tells Boldwood that it is Bathsheba's. | Commentary The most important event in this section is the sending of the valentine and the unintentional effect it has on Boldwood. This one act will haunt both Bathsheba and Boldwood until the end of the novel. Hardy uses this set of circumstances to analyze one of his favorite concerns: how a person's life is determined by minor, seemingly insignificant events. Sometimes these events are questions of luck or forces beyond human control. Here, however, Hardy examines human agency: Bathsheba sends the valentine in jest, without thinking, but her act results in extraordinary consequences. Another theme throughout this section is the imbalances of affection in human relations; this imbalance characterizes the relationship between Gabriel and Bathsheba, as well as that between Sergeant Troy and Fanny Price, and Liddy tells us that Boldwood has been unaware of several local women's efforts to win his affections. While this asymmetry is a natural part of relationships, its consequences can be dire. | 501 | 158 | [
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110 | false | novelguide | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/03.txt | finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_1_part_3.txt | Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter iii | chapter iii | null | {"name": "Chapter III", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase1-chapter1-11", "summary": "At home, Tess learns of her newly discovered noble lineage from her mother, Joan Durbeyfield. Mr. Durbeyfield is drinking at Rolliver's, a nearby home where locals drink illegally in an upstairs bedroom. Tess is outraged because her father must leave at midnight to transport beehives to the Casterbridge market. Under the pretext of retrieving her husband, Joan takes a break from her never-ending housework and Tess puts the younger children to bed. But, \"since her mother's leaving simply meant one more to fetch,\" Tess sends her younger brother Abraham to fetch their parents. However, he too also becomes ensnared in the pub and Tess must leave the house to bring them all home", "analysis": ""} |
As for Tess Durbeyfield, she did not so easily dislodge the incident
from her consideration. She had no spirit to dance again for a long
time, though she might have had plenty of partners; but ah! they did
not speak so nicely as the strange young man had done. It was not
till the rays of the sun had absorbed the young stranger's retreating
figure on the hill that she shook off her temporary sadness and
answered her would-be partner in the affirmative.
She remained with her comrades till dusk, and participated with a
certain zest in the dancing; though, being heart-whole as yet, she
enjoyed treading a measure purely for its own sake; little divining
when she saw "the soft torments, the bitter sweets, the pleasing
pains, and the agreeable distresses" of those girls who had been
wooed and won, what she herself was capable of in that kind. The
struggles and wrangles of the lads for her hand in a jig were an
amusement to her--no more; and when they became fierce she rebuked
them.
She might have stayed even later, but the incident of her father's
odd appearance and manner returned upon the girl's mind to make her
anxious, and wondering what had become of him she dropped away from
the dancers and bent her steps towards the end of the village at
which the parental cottage lay.
While yet many score yards off, other rhythmic sounds than those she
had quitted became audible to her; sounds that she knew well--so
well. They were a regular series of thumpings from the interior of
the house, occasioned by the violent rocking of a cradle upon a stone
floor, to which movement a feminine voice kept time by singing, in a
vigorous gallopade, the favourite ditty of "The Spotted Cow"--
I saw her lie do'-own in yon'-der green gro'-ove;
Come, love!' and I'll tell' you where!'
The cradle-rocking and the song would cease simultaneously for a
moment, and an exclamation at highest vocal pitch would take the
place of the melody.
"God bless thy diment eyes! And thy waxen cheeks! And thy cherry
mouth! And thy Cubit's thighs! And every bit o' thy blessed body!"
After this invocation the rocking and the singing would recommence,
and the "Spotted Cow" proceed as before. So matters stood when Tess
opened the door and paused upon the mat within it, surveying the
scene.
The interior, in spite of the melody, struck upon the girl's senses
with an unspeakable dreariness. From the holiday gaieties of the
field--the white gowns, the nosegays, the willow-wands, the whirling
movements on the green, the flash of gentle sentiment towards the
stranger--to the yellow melancholy of this one-candled spectacle,
what a step! Besides the jar of contrast there came to her a chill
self-reproach that she had not returned sooner, to help her mother
in these domesticities, instead of indulging herself out-of-doors.
There stood her mother amid the group of children, as Tess had left
her, hanging over the Monday washing-tub, which had now, as always,
lingered on to the end of the week. Out of that tub had come the day
before--Tess felt it with a dreadful sting of remorse--the very white
frock upon her back which she had so carelessly greened about the
skirt on the damping grass--which had been wrung up and ironed by her
mother's own hands.
As usual, Mrs Durbeyfield was balanced on one foot beside the tub,
the other being engaged in the aforesaid business of rocking her
youngest child. The cradle-rockers had done hard duty for so many
years, under the weight of so many children, on that flagstone floor,
that they were worn nearly flat, in consequence of which a huge jerk
accompanied each swing of the cot, flinging the baby from side to
side like a weaver's shuttle, as Mrs Durbeyfield, excited by her
song, trod the rocker with all the spring that was left in her after
a long day's seething in the suds.
Nick-knock, nick-knock, went the cradle; the candle-flame stretched
itself tall, and began jigging up and down; the water dribbled from
the matron's elbows, and the song galloped on to the end of the
verse, Mrs Durbeyfield regarding her daughter the while. Even now,
when burdened with a young family, Joan Durbeyfield was a passionate
lover of tune. No ditty floated into Blackmoor Vale from the outer
world but Tess's mother caught up its notation in a week.
There still faintly beamed from the woman's features something of
the freshness, and even the prettiness, of her youth; rendering it
probable that the personal charms which Tess could boast of were in
main part her mother's gift, and therefore unknightly, unhistorical.
"I'll rock the cradle for 'ee, mother," said the daughter gently.
"Or I'll take off my best frock and help you wring up? I thought you
had finished long ago."
Her mother bore Tess no ill-will for leaving the housework to her
single-handed efforts for so long; indeed, Joan seldom upbraided
her thereon at any time, feeling but slightly the lack of Tess's
assistance whilst her instinctive plan for relieving herself of her
labours lay in postponing them. To-night, however, she was even in a
blither mood than usual. There was a dreaminess, a pre-occupation,
an exaltation, in the maternal look which the girl could not
understand.
"Well, I'm glad you've come," her mother said, as soon as the last
note had passed out of her. "I want to go and fetch your father;
but what's more'n that, I want to tell 'ee what have happened. Y'll
be fess enough, my poppet, when th'st know!" (Mrs Durbeyfield
habitually spoke the dialect; her daughter, who had passed the Sixth
Standard in the National School under a London-trained mistress,
spoke two languages: the dialect at home, more or less; ordinary
English abroad and to persons of quality.)
"Since I've been away?" Tess asked.
"Ay!"
"Had it anything to do with father's making such a mommet of himself
in thik carriage this afternoon? Why did 'er? I felt inclined to
sink into the ground with shame!"
"That wer all a part of the larry! We've been found to be the
greatest gentlefolk in the whole county--reaching all back long
before Oliver Grumble's time--to the days of the Pagan Turks--with
monuments, and vaults, and crests, and 'scutcheons, and the Lord
knows what all. In Saint Charles's days we was made Knights o' the
Royal Oak, our real name being d'Urberville! ... Don't that make
your bosom plim? 'Twas on this account that your father rode home
in the vlee; not because he'd been drinking, as people supposed."
"I'm glad of that. Will it do us any good, mother?"
"O yes! 'Tis thoughted that great things may come o't. No doubt a
mampus of volk of our own rank will be down here in their carriages
as soon as 'tis known. Your father learnt it on his way hwome
from Shaston, and he has been telling me the whole pedigree of the
matter."
"Where is father now?" asked Tess suddenly.
Her mother gave irrelevant information by way of answer: "He called
to see the doctor to-day in Shaston. It is not consumption at all,
it seems. It is fat round his heart, 'a says. There, it is like
this." Joan Durbeyfield, as she spoke, curved a sodden thumb
and forefinger to the shape of the letter C, and used the other
forefinger as a pointer. "'At the present moment,' he says to your
father, 'your heart is enclosed all round there, and all round
there; this space is still open,' 'a says. 'As soon as it do
meet, so,'"--Mrs Durbeyfield closed her fingers into a circle
complete--"'off you will go like a shadder, Mr Durbeyfield,' 'a says.
'You mid last ten years; you mid go off in ten months, or ten days.'"
Tess looked alarmed. Her father possibly to go behind the eternal
cloud so soon, notwithstanding this sudden greatness!
"But where IS father?" she asked again.
Her mother put on a deprecating look. "Now don't you be bursting out
angry! The poor man--he felt so rafted after his uplifting by the
pa'son's news--that he went up to Rolliver's half an hour ago. He do
want to get up his strength for his journey to-morrow with that load
of beehives, which must be delivered, family or no. He'll have to
start shortly after twelve to-night, as the distance is so long."
"Get up his strength!" said Tess impetuously, the tears welling to
her eyes. "O my God! Go to a public-house to get up his strength!
And you as well agreed as he, mother!"
Her rebuke and her mood seemed to fill the whole room, and to impart
a cowed look to the furniture, and candle, and children playing
about, and to her mother's face.
"No," said the latter touchily, "I be not agreed. I have been
waiting for 'ee to bide and keep house while I go fetch him."
"I'll go."
"O no, Tess. You see, it would be no use."
Tess did not expostulate. She knew what her mother's objection
meant. Mrs Durbeyfield's jacket and bonnet were already hanging
slily upon a chair by her side, in readiness for this contemplated
jaunt, the reason for which the matron deplored more than its
necessity.
"And take the _Compleat Fortune-Teller_ to the outhouse," Joan
continued, rapidly wiping her hands, and donning the garments.
The _Compleat Fortune-Teller_ was an old thick volume, which lay on a
table at her elbow, so worn by pocketing that the margins had reached
the edge of the type. Tess took it up, and her mother started.
This going to hunt up her shiftless husband at the inn was one of
Mrs Durbeyfield's still extant enjoyments in the muck and muddle of
rearing children. To discover him at Rolliver's, to sit there for
an hour or two by his side and dismiss all thought and care of the
children during the interval, made her happy. A sort of halo, an
occidental glow, came over life then. Troubles and other realities
took on themselves a metaphysical impalpability, sinking to mere
mental phenomena for serene contemplation, and no longer stood as
pressing concretions which chafed body and soul. The youngsters,
not immediately within sight, seemed rather bright and desirable
appurtenances than otherwise; the incidents of daily life were not
without humorousness and jollity in their aspect there. She felt a
little as she had used to feel when she sat by her now wedded husband
in the same spot during his wooing, shutting her eyes to his defects
of character, and regarding him only in his ideal presentation as
lover.
Tess, being left alone with the younger children, went first to the
outhouse with the fortune-telling book, and stuffed it into the
thatch. A curious fetishistic fear of this grimy volume on the part
of her mother prevented her ever allowing it to stay in the house all
night, and hither it was brought back whenever it had been consulted.
Between the mother, with her fast-perishing lumber of superstitions,
folk-lore, dialect, and orally transmitted ballads, and the daughter,
with her trained National teachings and Standard knowledge under an
infinitely Revised Code, there was a gap of two hundred years as
ordinarily understood. When they were together the Jacobean and the
Victorian ages were juxtaposed.
Returning along the garden path Tess mused on what the mother could
have wished to ascertain from the book on this particular day. She
guessed the recent ancestral discovery to bear upon it, but did not
divine that it solely concerned herself. Dismissing this, however,
she busied herself with sprinkling the linen dried during the
day-time, in company with her nine-year-old brother Abraham, and her
sister Eliza-Louisa of twelve and a half, called "'Liza-Lu," the
youngest ones being put to bed. There was an interval of four years
and more between Tess and the next of the family, the two who had
filled the gap having died in their infancy, and this lent her a
deputy-maternal attitude when she was alone with her juniors. Next
in juvenility to Abraham came two more girls, Hope and Modesty; then
a boy of three, and then the baby, who had just completed his first
year.
All these young souls were passengers in the Durbeyfield
ship--entirely dependent on the judgement of the two Durbeyfield
adults for their pleasures, their necessities, their health, even
their existence. If the heads of the Durbeyfield household chose
to sail into difficulty, disaster, starvation, disease, degradation,
death, thither were these half-dozen little captives under hatches
compelled to sail with them--six helpless creatures, who had never
been asked if they wished for life on any terms, much less if they
wished for it on such hard conditions as were involved in being of
the shiftless house of Durbeyfield. Some people would like to know
whence the poet whose philosophy is in these days deemed as profound
and trustworthy as his song is breezy and pure, gets his authority
for speaking of "Nature's holy plan."
It grew later, and neither father nor mother reappeared. Tess looked
out of the door, and took a mental journey through Marlott. The
village was shutting its eyes. Candles and lamps were being put
out everywhere: she could inwardly behold the extinguisher and the
extended hand.
Her mother's fetching simply meant one more to fetch. Tess began to
perceive that a man in indifferent health, who proposed to start on a
journey before one in the morning, ought not to be at an inn at this
late hour celebrating his ancient blood.
"Abraham," she said to her little brother, "do you put on your
hat--you bain't afraid?--and go up to Rolliver's, and see what has
gone wi' father and mother."
The boy jumped promptly from his seat, and opened the door, and the
night swallowed him up. Half an hour passed yet again; neither man,
woman, nor child returned. Abraham, like his parents, seemed to have
been limed and caught by the ensnaring inn.
"I must go myself," she said.
'Liza-Lu then went to bed, and Tess, locking them all in, started on
her way up the dark and crooked lane or street not made for hasty
progress; a street laid out before inches of land had value, and when
one-handed clocks sufficiently subdivided the day.
| 2,249 | Chapter III | https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase1-chapter1-11 | At home, Tess learns of her newly discovered noble lineage from her mother, Joan Durbeyfield. Mr. Durbeyfield is drinking at Rolliver's, a nearby home where locals drink illegally in an upstairs bedroom. Tess is outraged because her father must leave at midnight to transport beehives to the Casterbridge market. Under the pretext of retrieving her husband, Joan takes a break from her never-ending housework and Tess puts the younger children to bed. But, "since her mother's leaving simply meant one more to fetch," Tess sends her younger brother Abraham to fetch their parents. However, he too also becomes ensnared in the pub and Tess must leave the house to bring them all home | null | 113 | 1 | [
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110 | false | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/52.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_5_part_7.txt | Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 51 | chapter 51 | null | {"name": "Chapter 51", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-6-chapters-45-52", "summary": "Over the preceding generation, the class of skilled laborers in Marlott had largely left, leaving only tenant farmers. Those who were not employed as farmers were largely forced to seek refuge. Upon John Durbeyfield's death, the Durbeyfield's lease of their home is not renewed and the family is forced to find accommodations elsewhere. Tess believes that their lease is not renewed because of her reappearance in Marlott, a reminder of the family's questionable morals. Alec tells Tess the full legend of the d'Urberville coach. According to family legend, a d'Urberville abducted a beautiful woman who tried to escape from his coach and, in a struggle, he killed her. Tess admits that she is the reason that her family must leave their home, for she is not a proper woman. She tells Alec that they will go to Kingsbere, where they have lodgings. Alec offers his house at Trantridge and tells Tess that her husband will never return to her. Tess says that, if her circumstances with Alec would change, her mother would be homeless again. He offers a guarantee in writing against that occurring. Tess says that she can have money from her father-in-law if she were to ask, but Alec retorts that he knows that she will never ask. Tess writes to Angel again, asking why he has treated her so monstrously and vowing to forget him because of the injustice she has received at his hands. Tess and her family remain in their home for the last night, and Joan sees a man at the window. Tess says that it is not her husband, and once they reach Kingsbere she will tell her mother everything. Tess worries that Alec is her husband in a very physical sense.", "analysis": "Tess once again shoulders the burden of her family's troubles in this chapter, as the disreputable status of her family for which she is partially to blame causes Joan Durbeyfield to lose the lease to the family house after John Durbeyfield's death. This returns to the theme of Tess's inability to escape her past, yet darkens this theme by showing that Tess's actions have determined the fate of her family. This turn of events seems particularly tragic, for the dutiful Tess has always taken responsibility when her family has faced hardship, yet always blames herself. Here Tess actually is the reason for her family's hardship. The recurrence of past sins is also evident in this chapter in Tess's worry that Alec is her husband in a more physical sense than Angel, a worry that also illustrates the differences between the carnal, physical Alec and the spiritual, intellectual Angel. The explanation of the d'Urberville coach foreshadows a tragic end to Tess Durbeyfield and neatly parallels the events of Tess's seduction by Alec. The legend posits that a beautiful woman falls victim to a villainous d'Urberville while traveling, recalling Alec's repeated attempts to seduce Tess while traveling by coach. However, at this point the conflict between Alec and Tess has not yet reached the point of serious violence. The offer that Alec d'Urberville makes guaranteeing that he help the Durbeyfield family is perhaps the one act of charity that Tess finds difficult to reject, for in this situation she condemns her family to the same suffering she has felt. However, this does not necessarily indicate that Alec's offer is pure; rather, it remains tainted by its actual intent, for like the others it is merely a means for him to secure Tess as his own once more"} |
At length it was the eve of Old Lady-Day, and the agricultural world
was in a fever of mobility such as only occurs at that particular
date of the year. It is a day of fulfilment; agreements for outdoor
service during the ensuing year, entered into at Candlemas, are to
be now carried out. The labourers--or "work-folk", as they used to
call themselves immemorially till the other word was introduced from
without--who wish to remain no longer in old places are removing to
the new farms.
These annual migrations from farm to farm were on the increase here.
When Tess's mother was a child the majority of the field-folk about
Marlott had remained all their lives on one farm, which had been the
home also of their fathers and grandfathers; but latterly the desire
for yearly removal had risen to a high pitch. With the younger
families it was a pleasant excitement which might possibly be an
advantage. The Egypt of one family was the Land of Promise to the
family who saw it from a distance, till by residence there it became
it turn their Egypt also; and so they changed and changed.
However, all the mutations so increasingly discernible in village
life did not originate entirely in the agricultural unrest. A
depopulation was also going on. The village had formerly contained,
side by side with the argicultural labourers, an interesting and
better-informed class, ranking distinctly above the former--the class
to which Tess's father and mother had belonged--and including the
carpenter, the smith, the shoemaker, the huckster, together with
nondescript workers other than farm-labourers; a set of people
who owed a certain stability of aim and conduct to the fact of
their being lifeholders like Tess's father, or copyholders, or
occasionally, small freeholders. But as the long holdings fell
in, they were seldom again let to similar tenants, and were mostly
pulled down, if not absolutely required by the farmer for his hands.
Cottagers who were not directly employed on the land were looked
upon with disfavour, and the banishment of some starved the trade of
others, who were thus obliged to follow. These families, who had
formed the backbone of the village life in the past, who were the
depositaries of the village traditions, had to seek refuge in the
large centres; the process, humorously designated by statisticians as
"the tendency of the rural population towards the large towns", being
really the tendency of water to flow uphill when forced by machinery.
The cottage accommodation at Marlott having been in this manner
considerably curtailed by demolitions, every house which remained
standing was required by the agriculturist for his work-people. Ever
since the occurrence of the event which had cast such a shadow over
Tess's life, the Durbeyfield family (whose descent was not credited)
had been tacitly looked on as one which would have to go when their
lease ended, if only in the interests of morality. It was, indeed,
quite true that the household had not been shining examples either of
temperance, soberness, or chastity. The father, and even the mother,
had got drunk at times, the younger children seldom had gone to
church, and the eldest daughter had made queer unions. By some means
the village had to be kept pure. So on this, the first Lady-Day
on which the Durbeyfields were expellable, the house, being roomy,
was required for a carter with a large family; and Widow Joan,
her daughters Tess and 'Liza-Lu, the boy Abraham, and the younger
children had to go elsewhere.
On the evening preceding their removal it was getting dark betimes by
reason of a drizzling rain which blurred the sky. As it was the last
night they would spend in the village which had been their home and
birthplace, Mrs Durbeyfield, 'Liza-Lu, and Abraham had gone out to
bid some friends goodbye, and Tess was keeping house till they should
return.
She was kneeling in the window-bench, her face close to the casement,
where an outer pane of rain-water was sliding down the inner pane of
glass. Her eyes rested on the web of a spider, probably starved long
ago, which had been mistakenly placed in a corner where no flies
ever came, and shivered in the slight draught through the casement.
Tess was reflecting on the position of the household, in which she
perceived her own evil influence. Had she not come home, her mother
and the children might probably have been allowed to stay on as
weekly tenants. But she had been observed almost immediately on her
return by some people of scrupulous character and great influence:
they had seen her idling in the churchyard, restoring as well as she
could with a little trowel a baby's obliterated grave. By this means
they had found that she was living here again; her mother was scolded
for "harbouring" her; sharp retorts had ensued from Joan, who had
independently offered to leave at once; she had been taken at her
word; and here was the result.
"I ought never to have come home," said Tess to herself, bitterly.
She was so intent upon these thoughts that she hardly at first took
note of a man in a white mackintosh whom she saw riding down the
street. Possibly it was owing to her face being near to the pane
that he saw her so quickly, and directed his horse so close to the
cottage-front that his hoofs were almost upon the narrow border for
plants growing under the wall. It was not till he touched the window
with his riding-crop that she observed him. The rain had nearly
ceased, and she opened the casement in obedience to his gesture.
"Didn't you see me?" asked d'Urberville.
"I was not attending," she said. "I heard you, I believe, though I
fancied it was a carriage and horses. I was in a sort of dream."
"Ah! you heard the d'Urberville Coach, perhaps. You know the legend,
I suppose?"
"No. My--somebody was going to tell it me once, but didn't."
"If you are a genuine d'Urberville I ought not to tell you either,
I suppose. As for me, I'm a sham one, so it doesn't matter. It is
rather dismal. It is that this sound of a non-existent coach can
only be heard by one of d'Urberville blood, and it is held to be
of ill-omen to the one who hears it. It has to do with a murder,
committed by one of the family, centuries ago."
"Now you have begun it, finish it."
"Very well. One of the family is said to have abducted some
beautiful woman, who tried to escape from the coach in which he was
carrying her off, and in the struggle he killed her--or she killed
him--I forget which. Such is one version of the tale... I see that
your tubs and buckets are packed. Going away, aren't you?"
"Yes, to-morrow--Old Lady Day."
"I heard you were, but could hardly believe it; it seems so sudden.
Why is it?"
"Father's was the last life on the property, and when that dropped we
had no further right to stay. Though we might, perhaps, have stayed
as weekly tenants--if it had not been for me."
"What about you?"
"I am not a--proper woman."
D'Urberville's face flushed.
"What a blasted shame! Miserable snobs! May their dirty souls
be burnt to cinders!" he exclaimed in tones of ironic resentment.
"That's why you are going, is it? Turned out?"
"We are not turned out exactly; but as they said we should have to go
soon, it was best to go now everybody was moving, because there are
better chances."
"Where are you going to?"
"Kingsbere. We have taken rooms there. Mother is so foolish about
father's people that she will go there."
"But your mother's family are not fit for lodgings, and in a little
hole of a town like that. Now why not come to my garden-house at
Trantridge? There are hardly any poultry now, since my mother's
death; but there's the house, as you know it, and the garden. It
can be whitewashed in a day, and your mother can live there quite
comfortably; and I will put the children to a good school. Really
I ought to do something for you!"
"But we have already taken the rooms at Kingsbere!" she declared.
"And we can wait there--"
"Wait--what for? For that nice husband, no doubt. Now look here,
Tess, I know what men are, and, bearing in mind the _grounds_ of
your separation, I am quite positive he will never make it up with
you. Now, though I have been your enemy, I am your friend, even
if you won't believe it. Come to this cottage of mine. We'll get
up a regular colony of fowls, and your mother can attend to them
excellently; and the children can go to school."
Tess breathed more and more quickly, and at length she said--
"How do I know that you would do all this? Your views may
change--and then--we should be--my mother would be--homeless
again."
"O no--no. I would guarantee you against such as that in writing, if
necessary. Think it over."
Tess shook her head. But d'Urberville persisted; she had seldom seen
him so determined; he would not take a negative.
"Please just tell your mother," he said, in emphatic tones. "It is
her business to judge--not yours. I shall get the house swept out
and whitened to-morrow morning, and fires lit; and it will be dry by
the evening, so that you can come straight there. Now mind, I shall
expect you."
Tess again shook her head, her throat swelling with complicated
emotion. She could not look up at d'Urberville.
"I owe you something for the past, you know," he resumed. "And you
cured me, too, of that craze; so I am glad--"
"I would rather you had kept the craze, so that you had kept the
practice which went with it!"
"I am glad of this opportunity of repaying you a little. To-morrow I
shall expect to hear your mother's goods unloading... Give me your
hand on it now--dear, beautiful Tess!"
With the last sentence he had dropped his voice to a murmur, and put
his hand in at the half-open casement. With stormy eyes she pulled
the stay-bar quickly, and, in doing so, caught his arm between the
casement and the stone mullion.
"Damnation--you are very cruel!" he said, snatching out his arm.
"No, no!--I know you didn't do it on purpose. Well I shall expect
you, or your mother and children at least."
"I shall not come--I have plenty of money!" she cried.
"Where?"
"At my father-in-law's, if I ask for it."
"IF you ask for it. But you won't, Tess; I know you; you'll never
ask for it--you'll starve first!"
With these words he rode off. Just at the corner of the street he
met the man with the paint-pot, who asked him if he had deserted the
brethren.
"You go to the devil!" said d'Urberville.
Tess remained where she was a long while, till a sudden rebellious
sense of injustice caused the region of her eyes to swell with the
rush of hot tears thither. Her husband, Angel Clare himself, had,
like others, dealt out hard measure to her; surely he had! She had
never before admitted such a thought; but he had surely! Never
in her life--she could swear it from the bottom of her soul--had
she ever intended to do wrong; yet these hard judgements had
come. Whatever her sins, they were not sins of intention, but of
inadvertence, and why should she have been punished so persistently?
She passionately seized the first piece of paper that came to hand,
and scribbled the following lines:
O why have you treated me so monstrously, Angel! I do
not deserve it. I have thought it all over carefully,
and I can never, never forgive you! You know that I
did not intend to wrong you--why have you so wronged
me? You are cruel, cruel indeed! I will try to forget
you. It is all injustice I have received at your
hands!
T.
She watched till the postman passed by, ran out to him with
her epistle, and then again took her listless place inside the
window-panes.
It was just as well to write like that as to write tenderly. How
could he give way to entreaty? The facts had not changed: there was
no new event to alter his opinion.
It grew darker, the fire-light shining over the room. The two
biggest of the younger children had gone out with their mother; the
four smallest, their ages ranging from three-and-a-half years to
eleven, all in black frocks, were gathered round the hearth babbling
their own little subjects. Tess at length joined them, without
lighting a candle.
"This is the last night that we shall sleep here, dears, in the house
where we were born," she said quickly. "We ought to think of it,
oughtn't we?"
They all became silent; with the impressibility of their age they
were ready to burst into tears at the picture of finality she had
conjured up, though all the day hitherto they had been rejoicing in
the idea of a new place. Tess changed the subject.
"Sing to me, dears," she said.
"What shall we sing?"
"Anything you know; I don't mind."
There was a momentary pause; it was broken, first, in one little
tentative note; then a second voice strengthened it, and a third
and a fourth chimed in unison, with words they had learnt at the
Sunday-school--
Here we suffer grief and pain,
Here we meet to part again;
In Heaven we part no more.
The four sang on with the phlegmatic passivity of persons who had
long ago settled the question, and there being no mistake about it,
felt that further thought was not required. With features strained
hard to enunciate the syllables they continued to regard the centre
of the flickering fire, the notes of the youngest straying over into
the pauses of the rest.
Tess turned from them, and went to the window again. Darkness had
now fallen without, but she put her face to the pane as though to
peer into the gloom. It was really to hide her tears. If she could
only believe what the children were singing; if she were only sure,
how different all would now be; how confidently she would leave them
to Providence and their future kingdom! But, in default of that, it
behoved her to do something; to be their Providence; for to Tess,
as to not a few millions of others, there was ghastly satire in the
poet's lines--
Not in utter nakedness
But trailing clouds of glory do we come.
To her and her like, birth itself was an ordeal of degrading personal
compulsion, whose gratuitousness nothing in the result seemed to
justify, and at best could only palliate.
In the shades of the wet road she soon discerned her mother with tall
'Liza-Lu and Abraham. Mrs Durbeyfield's pattens clicked up to the
door, and Tess opened it.
"I see the tracks of a horse outside the window," said Joan. "Hev
somebody called?"
"No," said Tess.
The children by the fire looked gravely at her, and one murmured--
"Why, Tess, the gentleman a-horseback!"
"He didn't call," said Tess. "He spoke to me in passing."
"Who was the gentleman?" asked the mother. "Your husband?"
"No. He'll never, never come," answered Tess in stony hopelessness.
"Then who was it?"
"Oh, you needn't ask. You've seen him before, and so have I."
"Ah! What did he say?" said Joan curiously.
"I will tell you when we are settled in our lodging at Kingsbere
to-morrow--every word."
It was not her husband, she had said. Yet a consciousness that in a
physical sense this man alone was her husband seemed to weigh on her
more and more.
| 2,581 | Chapter 51 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-6-chapters-45-52 | Over the preceding generation, the class of skilled laborers in Marlott had largely left, leaving only tenant farmers. Those who were not employed as farmers were largely forced to seek refuge. Upon John Durbeyfield's death, the Durbeyfield's lease of their home is not renewed and the family is forced to find accommodations elsewhere. Tess believes that their lease is not renewed because of her reappearance in Marlott, a reminder of the family's questionable morals. Alec tells Tess the full legend of the d'Urberville coach. According to family legend, a d'Urberville abducted a beautiful woman who tried to escape from his coach and, in a struggle, he killed her. Tess admits that she is the reason that her family must leave their home, for she is not a proper woman. She tells Alec that they will go to Kingsbere, where they have lodgings. Alec offers his house at Trantridge and tells Tess that her husband will never return to her. Tess says that, if her circumstances with Alec would change, her mother would be homeless again. He offers a guarantee in writing against that occurring. Tess says that she can have money from her father-in-law if she were to ask, but Alec retorts that he knows that she will never ask. Tess writes to Angel again, asking why he has treated her so monstrously and vowing to forget him because of the injustice she has received at his hands. Tess and her family remain in their home for the last night, and Joan sees a man at the window. Tess says that it is not her husband, and once they reach Kingsbere she will tell her mother everything. Tess worries that Alec is her husband in a very physical sense. | Tess once again shoulders the burden of her family's troubles in this chapter, as the disreputable status of her family for which she is partially to blame causes Joan Durbeyfield to lose the lease to the family house after John Durbeyfield's death. This returns to the theme of Tess's inability to escape her past, yet darkens this theme by showing that Tess's actions have determined the fate of her family. This turn of events seems particularly tragic, for the dutiful Tess has always taken responsibility when her family has faced hardship, yet always blames herself. Here Tess actually is the reason for her family's hardship. The recurrence of past sins is also evident in this chapter in Tess's worry that Alec is her husband in a more physical sense than Angel, a worry that also illustrates the differences between the carnal, physical Alec and the spiritual, intellectual Angel. The explanation of the d'Urberville coach foreshadows a tragic end to Tess Durbeyfield and neatly parallels the events of Tess's seduction by Alec. The legend posits that a beautiful woman falls victim to a villainous d'Urberville while traveling, recalling Alec's repeated attempts to seduce Tess while traveling by coach. However, at this point the conflict between Alec and Tess has not yet reached the point of serious violence. The offer that Alec d'Urberville makes guaranteeing that he help the Durbeyfield family is perhaps the one act of charity that Tess finds difficult to reject, for in this situation she condemns her family to the same suffering she has felt. However, this does not necessarily indicate that Alec's offer is pure; rather, it remains tainted by its actual intent, for like the others it is merely a means for him to secure Tess as his own once more | 289 | 295 | [
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5,658 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/06.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_5_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapter 6 | chapter 6 | null | {"name": "Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-6", "summary": "Back at the trial, we meet a Captain Brierly through the eyes of Marlow. Brierly was one of the three men sitting in judgment at the trial, and apparently he was quite the successful, well-regarded guy. Too bad, then, that he committed suicide right after the trial concluded. His suicide is a big mystery, but Marlow, for one, has his theories. He thinks Captain B killed himself because of Jim; Jim's case hit a little too close to home for the Captain, and he realized that he, too, could behave as badly as Jim. Or that's Marlow's theory, anyway. Marlow later meets up with Jones, who served with Brierly. He gives Marlow the lowdown on Brierly's suicide - what he knows about it, at least. He can't figure out why Brierly did it because Captain B was \"Young, healthy, well off, no cares... I sit here sometimes thinking, thinking, till my head fairly begins to buzz. There was some reason.\" Anyways, let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we? The crew of the Patna has shown up on land sans ship, which is a big old problem, and now Jim is on trial for whatever he did wrong. At the trial, Brierly and Marlow have a conversation about Jim. Horrified by the publicity the trial is getting, Captain B wishes Jim would just skip town so the naval community could stop being so embarrassed. At this, Marlow wanders outside, where a dude comments on a \"wretched cur,\" referring to a stray dog. Poor Jim overhears and thinks the \"cur\" jab was aimed at him. Uh oh. He gets mad and attacks Marlow, who calms him down and explains the misunderstanding. This Jim fellow is one awkward guy. In a moment of kindness, or perhaps just curiosity, Marlow invites Jim to dine with him at his hotel, and Jim agrees. This should be interesting...", "analysis": ""} | 'The authorities were evidently of the same opinion. The inquiry was not
adjourned. It was held on the appointed day to satisfy the law, and it
was well attended because of its human interest, no doubt. There was no
incertitude as to facts--as to the one material fact, I mean. How the
Patna came by her hurt it was impossible to find out; the court did not
expect to find out; and in the whole audience there was not a man who
cared. Yet, as I've told you, all the sailors in the port attended, and
the waterside business was fully represented. Whether they knew it or
not, the interest that drew them here was purely psychological--the
expectation of some essential disclosure as to the strength, the power,
the horror, of human emotions. Naturally nothing of the kind could be
disclosed. The examination of the only man able and willing to face
it was beating futilely round the well-known fact, and the play of
questions upon it was as instructive as the tapping with a hammer on
an iron box, were the object to find out what's inside. However, an
official inquiry could not be any other thing. Its object was not the
fundamental why, but the superficial how, of this affair.
'The young chap could have told them, and, though that very thing
was the thing that interested the audience, the questions put to him
necessarily led him away from what to me, for instance, would have
been the only truth worth knowing. You can't expect the constituted
authorities to inquire into the state of a man's soul--or is it only of
his liver? Their business was to come down upon the consequences, and
frankly, a casual police magistrate and two nautical assessors are not
much good for anything else. I don't mean to imply these fellows were
stupid. The magistrate was very patient. One of the assessors was a
sailing-ship skipper with a reddish beard, and of a pious disposition.
Brierly was the other. Big Brierly. Some of you must have heard of Big
Brierly--the captain of the crack ship of the Blue Star line. That's the
man.
'He seemed consumedly bored by the honour thrust upon him. He had never
in his life made a mistake, never had an accident, never a mishap,
never a check in his steady rise, and he seemed to be one of those lucky
fellows who know nothing of indecision, much less of self-mistrust.
At thirty-two he had one of the best commands going in the Eastern
trade--and, what's more, he thought a lot of what he had. There was
nothing like it in the world, and I suppose if you had asked him
point-blank he would have confessed that in his opinion there was not
such another commander. The choice had fallen upon the right man. The
rest of mankind that did not command the sixteen-knot steel steamer Ossa
were rather poor creatures. He had saved lives at sea, had rescued
ships in distress, had a gold chronometer presented to him by the
underwriters, and a pair of binoculars with a suitable inscription from
some foreign Government, in commemoration of these services. He was
acutely aware of his merits and of his rewards. I liked him well enough,
though some I know--meek, friendly men at that--couldn't stand him at
any price. I haven't the slightest doubt he considered himself vastly my
superior--indeed, had you been Emperor of East and West, you could not
have ignored your inferiority in his presence--but I couldn't get up any
real sentiment of offence. He did not despise me for anything I could
help, for anything I was--don't you know? I was a negligible quantity
simply because I was not _the_ fortunate man of the earth, not Montague
Brierly in command of the Ossa, not the owner of an inscribed gold
chronometer and of silver-mounted binoculars testifying to the
excellence of my seamanship and to my indomitable pluck; not possessed
of an acute sense of my merits and of my rewards, besides the love and
worship of a black retriever, the most wonderful of its kind--for never
was such a man loved thus by such a dog. No doubt, to have all this
forced upon you was exasperating enough; but when I reflected that I was
associated in these fatal disadvantages with twelve hundred millions of
other more or less human beings, I found I could bear my share of his
good-natured and contemptuous pity for the sake of something indefinite
and attractive in the man. I have never defined to myself this
attraction, but there were moments when I envied him. The sting of life
could do no more to his complacent soul than the scratch of a pin to the
smooth face of a rock. This was enviable. As I looked at him, flanking
on one side the unassuming pale-faced magistrate who presided at the
inquiry, his self-satisfaction presented to me and to the world a
surface as hard as granite. He committed suicide very soon after.
'No wonder Jim's case bored him, and while I thought with something
akin to fear of the immensity of his contempt for the young man under
examination, he was probably holding silent inquiry into his own case.
The verdict must have been of unmitigated guilt, and he took the secret
of the evidence with him in that leap into the sea. If I understand
anything of men, the matter was no doubt of the gravest import, one of
those trifles that awaken ideas--start into life some thought with which
a man unused to such a companionship finds it impossible to live. I am
in a position to know that it wasn't money, and it wasn't drink, and it
wasn't woman. He jumped overboard at sea barely a week after the end of
the inquiry, and less than three days after leaving port on his outward
passage; as though on that exact spot in the midst of waters he had
suddenly perceived the gates of the other world flung open wide for his
reception.
'Yet it was not a sudden impulse. His grey-headed mate, a first-rate
sailor and a nice old chap with strangers, but in his relations with
his commander the surliest chief officer I've ever seen, would tell the
story with tears in his eyes. It appears that when he came on deck in
the morning Brierly had been writing in the chart-room. "It was ten
minutes to four," he said, "and the middle watch was not relieved yet of
course. He heard my voice on the bridge speaking to the second mate, and
called me in. I was loth to go, and that's the truth, Captain Marlow--I
couldn't stand poor Captain Brierly, I tell you with shame; we never
know what a man is made of. He had been promoted over too many heads,
not counting my own, and he had a damnable trick of making you feel
small, nothing but by the way he said 'Good morning.' I never addressed
him, sir, but on matters of duty, and then it was as much as I could do
to keep a civil tongue in my head." (He flattered himself there. I often
wondered how Brierly could put up with his manners for more than half
a voyage.) "I've a wife and children," he went on, "and I had been ten
years in the Company, always expecting the next command--more fool I.
Says he, just like this: 'Come in here, Mr. Jones,' in that swagger
voice of his--'Come in here, Mr. Jones.' In I went. 'We'll lay down her
position,' says he, stooping over the chart, a pair of dividers in hand.
By the standing orders, the officer going off duty would have done that
at the end of his watch. However, I said nothing, and looked on while he
marked off the ship's position with a tiny cross and wrote the date and
the time. I can see him this moment writing his neat figures: seventeen,
eight, four A.M. The year would be written in red ink at the top of
the chart. He never used his charts more than a year, Captain Brierly
didn't. I've the chart now. When he had done he stands looking down
at the mark he had made and smiling to himself, then looks up at me.
'Thirty-two miles more as she goes,' says he, 'and then we shall be
clear, and you may alter the course twenty degrees to the southward.'
'"We were passing to the north of the Hector Bank that voyage. I said,
'All right, sir,' wondering what he was fussing about, since I had to
call him before altering the course anyhow. Just then eight bells were
struck: we came out on the bridge, and the second mate before going off
mentions in the usual way--'Seventy-one on the log.' Captain Brierly
looks at the compass and then all round. It was dark and clear, and
all the stars were out as plain as on a frosty night in high latitudes.
Suddenly he says with a sort of a little sigh: 'I am going aft, and
shall set the log at zero for you myself, so that there can be no
mistake. Thirty-two miles more on this course and then you are safe.
Let's see--the correction on the log is six per cent. additive; say,
then, thirty by the dial to run, and you may come twenty degrees to
starboard at once. No use losing any distance--is there?' I had never
heard him talk so much at a stretch, and to no purpose as it seemed
to me. I said nothing. He went down the ladder, and the dog, that was
always at his heels whenever he moved, night or day, followed,
sliding nose first, after him. I heard his boot-heels tap, tap on the
after-deck, then he stopped and spoke to the dog--'Go back, Rover. On
the bridge, boy! Go on--get.' Then he calls out to me from the dark,
'Shut that dog up in the chart-room, Mr. Jones--will you?'
'"This was the last time I heard his voice, Captain Marlow. These are
the last words he spoke in the hearing of any living human being, sir."
At this point the old chap's voice got quite unsteady. "He was afraid
the poor brute would jump after him, don't you see?" he pursued with
a quaver. "Yes, Captain Marlow. He set the log for me; he--would you
believe it?--he put a drop of oil in it too. There was the oil-feeder
where he left it near by. The boat-swain's mate got the hose along aft
to wash down at half-past five; by-and-by he knocks off and runs up on
the bridge--'Will you please come aft, Mr. Jones,' he says. 'There's a
funny thing. I don't like to touch it.' It was Captain Brierly's gold
chronometer watch carefully hung under the rail by its chain.
'"As soon as my eyes fell on it something struck me, and I knew, sir. My
legs got soft under me. It was as if I had seen him go over; and I could
tell how far behind he was left too. The taffrail-log marked eighteen
miles and three-quarters, and four iron belaying-pins were missing round
the mainmast. Put them in his pockets to help him down, I suppose; but,
Lord! what's four iron pins to a powerful man like Captain Brierly.
Maybe his confidence in himself was just shook a bit at the last. That's
the only sign of fluster he gave in his whole life, I should think; but
I am ready to answer for him, that once over he did not try to swim a
stroke, the same as he would have had pluck enough to keep up all day
long on the bare chance had he fallen overboard accidentally. Yes, sir.
He was second to none--if he said so himself, as I heard him once. He
had written two letters in the middle watch, one to the Company and the
other to me. He gave me a lot of instructions as to the passage--I had
been in the trade before he was out of his time--and no end of hints
as to my conduct with our people in Shanghai, so that I should keep the
command of the Ossa. He wrote like a father would to a favourite son,
Captain Marlow, and I was five-and-twenty years his senior and had
tasted salt water before he was fairly breeched. In his letter to the
owners--it was left open for me to see--he said that he had always done
his duty by them--up to that moment--and even now he was not betraying
their confidence, since he was leaving the ship to as competent a seaman
as could be found--meaning me, sir, meaning me! He told them that if
the last act of his life didn't take away all his credit with them, they
would give weight to my faithful service and to his warm recommendation,
when about to fill the vacancy made by his death. And much more like
this, sir. I couldn't believe my eyes. It made me feel queer all over,"
went on the old chap, in great perturbation, and squashing something
in the corner of his eye with the end of a thumb as broad as a spatula.
"You would think, sir, he had jumped overboard only to give an unlucky
man a last show to get on. What with the shock of him going in this
awful rash way, and thinking myself a made man by that chance, I was
nearly off my chump for a week. But no fear. The captain of the Pelion
was shifted into the Ossa--came aboard in Shanghai--a little popinjay,
sir, in a grey check suit, with his hair parted in the middle. 'Aw--I
am--aw--your new captain, Mister--Mister--aw--Jones.' He was drowned in
scent--fairly stunk with it, Captain Marlow. I dare say it was the look
I gave him that made him stammer. He mumbled something about my natural
disappointment--I had better know at once that his chief officer got
the promotion to the Pelion--he had nothing to do with it, of
course--supposed the office knew best--sorry. . . . Says I, 'Don't
you mind old Jones, sir; dam' his soul, he's used to it.' I could see
directly I had shocked his delicate ear, and while we sat at our first
tiffin together he began to find fault in a nasty manner with this and
that in the ship. I never heard such a voice out of a Punch and Judy
show. I set my teeth hard, and glued my eyes to my plate, and held my
peace as long as I could; but at last I had to say something. Up
he jumps tiptoeing, ruffling all his pretty plumes, like a little
fighting-cock. 'You'll find you have a different person to deal with
than the late Captain Brierly.' 'I've found it,' says I, very glum, but
pretending to be mighty busy with my steak. 'You are an old ruffian,
Mister--aw--Jones; and what's more, you are known for an old ruffian
in the employ,' he squeaks at me. The damned bottle-washers stood about
listening with their mouths stretched from ear to ear. 'I may be a hard
case,' answers I, 'but I ain't so far gone as to put up with the sight
of you sitting in Captain Brierly's chair.' With that I lay down my
knife and fork. 'You would like to sit in it yourself--that's where the
shoe pinches,' he sneers. I left the saloon, got my rags together, and
was on the quay with all my dunnage about my feet before the
stevedores had turned to again. Yes. Adrift--on shore--after ten years'
service--and with a poor woman and four children six thousand miles
off depending on my half-pay for every mouthful they ate. Yes, sir!
I chucked it rather than hear Captain Brierly abused. He left me his
night-glasses--here they are; and he wished me to take care of the
dog--here he is. Hallo, Rover, poor boy. Where's the captain, Rover?"
The dog looked up at us with mournful yellow eyes, gave one desolate
bark, and crept under the table.
'All this was taking place, more than two years afterwards, on board
that nautical ruin the Fire-Queen this Jones had got charge of--quite
by a funny accident, too--from Matherson--mad Matherson they generally
called him--the same who used to hang out in Hai-phong, you know, before
the occupation days. The old chap snuffled on--
'"Ay, sir, Captain Brierly will be remembered here, if there's no other
place on earth. I wrote fully to his father and did not get a word in
reply--neither Thank you, nor Go to the devil!--nothing! Perhaps they
did not want to know."
'The sight of that watery-eyed old Jones mopping his bald head with a
red cotton handkerchief, the sorrowing yelp of the dog, the squalor of
that fly-blown cuddy which was the only shrine of his memory, threw a
veil of inexpressibly mean pathos over Brierly's remembered figure, the
posthumous revenge of fate for that belief in his own splendour which
had almost cheated his life of its legitimate terrors. Almost! Perhaps
wholly. Who can tell what flattering view he had induced himself to take
of his own suicide?
'"Why did he commit the rash act, Captain Marlow--can you think?" asked
Jones, pressing his palms together. "Why? It beats me! Why?" He slapped
his low and wrinkled forehead. "If he had been poor and old and in
debt--and never a show--or else mad. But he wasn't of the kind that
goes mad, not he. You trust me. What a mate don't know about his skipper
isn't worth knowing. Young, healthy, well off, no cares. . . . I sit
here sometimes thinking, thinking, till my head fairly begins to buzz.
There was some reason."
'"You may depend on it, Captain Jones," said I, "it wasn't anything that
would have disturbed much either of us two," I said; and then, as if
a light had been flashed into the muddle of his brain, poor old Jones
found a last word of amazing profundity. He blew his nose, nodding at me
dolefully: "Ay, ay! neither you nor I, sir, had ever thought so much of
ourselves."
'Of course the recollection of my last conversation with Brierly is
tinged with the knowledge of his end that followed so close upon it. I
spoke with him for the last time during the progress of the inquiry. It
was after the first adjournment, and he came up with me in the street.
He was in a state of irritation, which I noticed with surprise, his
usual behaviour when he condescended to converse being perfectly
cool, with a trace of amused tolerance, as if the existence of his
interlocutor had been a rather good joke. "They caught me for that
inquiry, you see," he began, and for a while enlarged complainingly upon
the inconveniences of daily attendance in court. "And goodness knows how
long it will last. Three days, I suppose." I heard him out in silence;
in my then opinion it was a way as good as another of putting on side.
"What's the use of it? It is the stupidest set-out you can imagine," he
pursued hotly. I remarked that there was no option. He interrupted me
with a sort of pent-up violence. "I feel like a fool all the time." I
looked up at him. This was going very far--for Brierly--when talking of
Brierly. He stopped short, and seizing the lapel of my coat, gave it
a slight tug. "Why are we tormenting that young chap?" he asked. This
question chimed in so well to the tolling of a certain thought of mine
that, with the image of the absconding renegade in my eye, I answered
at once, "Hanged if I know, unless it be that he lets you." I was
astonished to see him fall into line, so to speak, with that utterance,
which ought to have been tolerably cryptic. He said angrily, "Why, yes.
Can't he see that wretched skipper of his has cleared out? What does he
expect to happen? Nothing can save him. He's done for." We walked on
in silence a few steps. "Why eat all that dirt?" he exclaimed, with an
oriental energy of expression--about the only sort of energy you can
find a trace of east of the fiftieth meridian. I wondered greatly at the
direction of his thoughts, but now I strongly suspect it was strictly in
character: at bottom poor Brierly must have been thinking of himself.
I pointed out to him that the skipper of the Patna was known to have
feathered his nest pretty well, and could procure almost anywhere the
means of getting away. With Jim it was otherwise: the Government was
keeping him in the Sailors' Home for the time being, and probably he
hadn't a penny in his pocket to bless himself with. It costs some money
to run away. "Does it? Not always," he said, with a bitter laugh, and
to some further remark of mine--"Well, then, let him creep twenty feet
underground and stay there! By heavens! _I_ would." I don't know why his
tone provoked me, and I said, "There is a kind of courage in facing
it out as he does, knowing very well that if he went away nobody would
trouble to run after him." "Courage be hanged!" growled Brierly. "That
sort of courage is of no use to keep a man straight, and I don't care
a snap for such courage. If you were to say it was a kind of cowardice
now--of softness. I tell you what, I will put up two hundred rupees if
you put up another hundred and undertake to make the beggar clear out
early to-morrow morning. The fellow's a gentleman if he ain't fit to
be touched--he will understand. He must! This infernal publicity is too
shocking: there he sits while all these confounded natives, serangs,
lascars, quartermasters, are giving evidence that's enough to burn a man
to ashes with shame. This is abominable. Why, Marlow, don't you think,
don't you feel, that this is abominable; don't you now--come--as a
seaman? If he went away all this would stop at once." Brierly said these
words with a most unusual animation, and made as if to reach after his
pocket-book. I restrained him, and declared coldly that the cowardice
of these four men did not seem to me a matter of such great importance.
"And you call yourself a seaman, I suppose," he pronounced angrily. I
said that's what I called myself, and I hoped I was too. He heard me
out, and made a gesture with his big arm that seemed to deprive me of
my individuality, to push me away into the crowd. "The worst of it," he
said, "is that all you fellows have no sense of dignity; you don't think
enough of what you are supposed to be."
'We had been walking slowly meantime, and now stopped opposite the
harbour office, in sight of the very spot from which the immense captain
of the Patna had vanished as utterly as a tiny feather blown away in a
hurricane. I smiled. Brierly went on: "This is a disgrace. We've got all
kinds amongst us--some anointed scoundrels in the lot; but, hang it, we
must preserve professional decency or we become no better than so many
tinkers going about loose. We are trusted. Do you understand?--trusted!
Frankly, I don't care a snap for all the pilgrims that ever came out of
Asia, but a decent man would not have behaved like this to a full cargo
of old rags in bales. We aren't an organised body of men, and the only
thing that holds us together is just the name for that kind of decency.
Such an affair destroys one's confidence. A man may go pretty near
through his whole sea-life without any call to show a stiff upper lip.
But when the call comes . . . Aha! . . . If I . . ."
'He broke off, and in a changed tone, "I'll give you two hundred rupees
now, Marlow, and you just talk to that chap. Confound him! I wish he had
never come out here. Fact is, I rather think some of my people know his.
The old man's a parson, and I remember now I met him once when staying
with my cousin in Essex last year. If I am not mistaken, the old
chap seemed rather to fancy his sailor son. Horrible. I can't do it
myself--but you . . ."
'Thus, apropos of Jim, I had a glimpse of the real Brierly a few days
before he committed his reality and his sham together to the keeping of
the sea. Of course I declined to meddle. The tone of this last "but
you" (poor Brierly couldn't help it), that seemed to imply I was no
more noticeable than an insect, caused me to look at the proposal with
indignation, and on account of that provocation, or for some other
reason, I became positive in my mind that the inquiry was a severe
punishment to that Jim, and that his facing it--practically of his own
free will--was a redeeming feature in his abominable case. I hadn't been
so sure of it before. Brierly went off in a huff. At the time his state
of mind was more of a mystery to me than it is now.
'Next day, coming into court late, I sat by myself. Of course I could
not forget the conversation I had with Brierly, and now I had them both
under my eyes. The demeanour of one suggested gloomy impudence and of
the other a contemptuous boredom; yet one attitude might not have been
truer than the other, and I was aware that one was not true. Brierly was
not bored--he was exasperated; and if so, then Jim might not have been
impudent. According to my theory he was not. I imagined he was hopeless.
Then it was that our glances met. They met, and the look he gave me was
discouraging of any intention I might have had to speak to him. Upon
either hypothesis--insolence or despair--I felt I could be of no use to
him. This was the second day of the proceedings. Very soon after that
exchange of glances the inquiry was adjourned again to the next day. The
white men began to troop out at once. Jim had been told to stand down
some time before, and was able to leave amongst the first. I saw his
broad shoulders and his head outlined in the light of the door, and
while I made my way slowly out talking with some one--some stranger who
had addressed me casually--I could see him from within the court-room
resting both elbows on the balustrade of the verandah and turning his
back on the small stream of people trickling down the few steps. There
was a murmur of voices and a shuffle of boots.
'The next case was that of assault and battery committed upon a
money-lender, I believe; and the defendant--a venerable villager with a
straight white beard--sat on a mat just outside the door with his sons,
daughters, sons-in-law, their wives, and, I should think, half the
population of his village besides, squatting or standing around him. A
slim dark woman, with part of her back and one black shoulder bared,
and with a thin gold ring in her nose, suddenly began to talk in a
high-pitched, shrewish tone. The man with me instinctively looked up
at her. We were then just through the door, passing behind Jim's burly
back.
'Whether those villagers had brought the yellow dog with them, I don't
know. Anyhow, a dog was there, weaving himself in and out amongst
people's legs in that mute stealthy way native dogs have, and my
companion stumbled over him. The dog leaped away without a sound; the
man, raising his voice a little, said with a slow laugh, "Look at that
wretched cur," and directly afterwards we became separated by a lot of
people pushing in. I stood back for a moment against the wall while the
stranger managed to get down the steps and disappeared. I saw Jim spin
round. He made a step forward and barred my way. We were alone; he
glared at me with an air of stubborn resolution. I became aware I was
being held up, so to speak, as if in a wood. The verandah was empty by
then, the noise and movement in court had ceased: a great silence fell
upon the building, in which, somewhere far within, an oriental voice
began to whine abjectly. The dog, in the very act of trying to sneak in
at the door, sat down hurriedly to hunt for fleas.
'"Did you speak to me?" asked Jim very low, and bending forward, not so
much towards me but at me, if you know what I mean. I said "No" at once.
Something in the sound of that quiet tone of his warned me to be on my
defence. I watched him. It was very much like a meeting in a wood, only
more uncertain in its issue, since he could possibly want neither my
money nor my life--nothing that I could simply give up or defend with
a clear conscience. "You say you didn't," he said, very sombre. "But I
heard." "Some mistake," I protested, utterly at a loss, and never taking
my eyes off him. To watch his face was like watching a darkening sky
before a clap of thunder, shade upon shade imperceptibly coming on, the
doom growing mysteriously intense in the calm of maturing violence.
'"As far as I know, I haven't opened my lips in your hearing," I
affirmed with perfect truth. I was getting a little angry, too, at the
absurdity of this encounter. It strikes me now I have never in my life
been so near a beating--I mean it literally; a beating with fists. I
suppose I had some hazy prescience of that eventuality being in the
air. Not that he was actively threatening me. On the contrary, he was
strangely passive--don't you know? but he was lowering, and, though not
exceptionally big, he looked generally fit to demolish a wall. The
most reassuring symptom I noticed was a kind of slow and ponderous
hesitation, which I took as a tribute to the evident sincerity of my
manner and of my tone. We faced each other. In the court the assault
case was proceeding. I caught the words: "Well--buffalo--stick--in the
greatness of my fear. . . ."
'"What did you mean by staring at me all the morning?" said Jim at last.
He looked up and looked down again. "Did you expect us all to sit with
downcast eyes out of regard for your susceptibilities?" I retorted
sharply. I was not going to submit meekly to any of his nonsense. He
raised his eyes again, and this time continued to look me straight
in the face. "No. That's all right," he pronounced with an air of
deliberating with himself upon the truth of this statement--"that's all
right. I am going through with that. Only"--and there he spoke a little
faster--"I won't let any man call me names outside this court. There was
a fellow with you. You spoke to him--oh yes--I know; 'tis all very fine.
You spoke to him, but you meant me to hear. . . ."
'I assured him he was under some extraordinary delusion. I had no
conception how it came about. "You thought I would be afraid to resent
this," he said, with just a faint tinge of bitterness. I was interested
enough to discern the slightest shades of expression, but I was not in
the least enlightened; yet I don't know what in these words, or perhaps
just the intonation of that phrase, induced me suddenly to make all
possible allowances for him. I ceased to be annoyed at my unexpected
predicament. It was some mistake on his part; he was blundering, and I
had an intuition that the blunder was of an odious, of an unfortunate
nature. I was anxious to end this scene on grounds of decency, just as
one is anxious to cut short some unprovoked and abominable confidence.
The funniest part was, that in the midst of all these considerations
of the higher order I was conscious of a certain trepidation as to
the possibility--nay, likelihood--of this encounter ending in some
disreputable brawl which could not possibly be explained, and would make
me ridiculous. I did not hanker after a three days' celebrity as the man
who got a black eye or something of the sort from the mate of the Patna.
He, in all probability, did not care what he did, or at any rate would
be fully justified in his own eyes. It took no magician to see he was
amazingly angry about something, for all his quiet and even torpid
demeanour. I don't deny I was extremely desirous to pacify him at all
costs, had I only known what to do. But I didn't know, as you may well
imagine. It was a blackness without a single gleam. We confronted each
other in silence. He hung fire for about fifteen seconds, then made a
step nearer, and I made ready to ward off a blow, though I don't think I
moved a muscle. "If you were as big as two men and as strong as six,"
he said very softly, "I would tell you what I think of you. You . . ."
"Stop!" I exclaimed. This checked him for a second. "Before you tell me
what you think of me," I went on quickly, "will you kindly tell me what
it is I've said or done?" During the pause that ensued he surveyed me
with indignation, while I made supernatural efforts of memory, in which
I was hindered by the oriental voice within the court-room expostulating
with impassioned volubility against a charge of falsehood. Then we spoke
almost together. "I will soon show you I am not," he said, in a tone
suggestive of a crisis. "I declare I don't know," I protested earnestly
at the same time. He tried to crush me by the scorn of his glance.
"Now that you see I am not afraid you try to crawl out of it," he said.
"Who's a cur now--hey?" Then, at last, I understood.
'He had been scanning my features as though looking for a place where
he would plant his fist. "I will allow no man," . . . he mumbled
threateningly. It was, indeed, a hideous mistake; he had given himself
away utterly. I can't give you an idea how shocked I was. I suppose he
saw some reflection of my feelings in my face, because his expression
changed just a little. "Good God!" I stammered, "you don't think
I . . ." "But I am sure I've heard," he persisted, raising his voice for
the first time since the beginning of this deplorable scene. Then with a
shade of disdain he added, "It wasn't you, then? Very well; I'll find
the other." "Don't be a fool," I cried in exasperation; "it wasn't that
at all." "I've heard," he said again with an unshaken and sombre
perseverance.
'There may be those who could have laughed at his pertinacity; I didn't.
Oh, I didn't! There had never been a man so mercilessly shown up by
his own natural impulse. A single word had stripped him of his
discretion--of that discretion which is more necessary to the decencies
of our inner being than clothing is to the decorum of our body. "Don't
be a fool," I repeated. "But the other man said it, you don't deny
that?" he pronounced distinctly, and looking in my face without
flinching. "No, I don't deny," said I, returning his gaze. At last his
eyes followed downwards the direction of my pointing finger. He appeared
at first uncomprehending, then confounded, and at last amazed and scared
as though a dog had been a monster and he had never seen a dog before.
"Nobody dreamt of insulting you," I said.
'He contemplated the wretched animal, that moved no more than an effigy:
it sat with ears pricked and its sharp muzzle pointed into the doorway,
and suddenly snapped at a fly like a piece of mechanism.
'I looked at him. The red of his fair sunburnt complexion deepened
suddenly under the down of his cheeks, invaded his forehead, spread to
the roots of his curly hair. His ears became intensely crimson, and even
the clear blue of his eyes was darkened many shades by the rush of blood
to his head. His lips pouted a little, trembling as though he had been
on the point of bursting into tears. I perceived he was incapable
of pronouncing a word from the excess of his humiliation. From
disappointment too--who knows? Perhaps he looked forward to that
hammering he was going to give me for rehabilitation, for appeasement?
Who can tell what relief he expected from this chance of a row? He
was naive enough to expect anything; but he had given himself away for
nothing in this case. He had been frank with himself--let alone
with me--in the wild hope of arriving in that way at some effective
refutation, and the stars had been ironically unpropitious. He made an
inarticulate noise in his throat like a man imperfectly stunned by a
blow on the head. It was pitiful.
'I didn't catch up again with him till well outside the gate. I had even
to trot a bit at the last, but when, out of breath at his elbow, I taxed
him with running away, he said, "Never!" and at once turned at bay. I
explained I never meant to say he was running away from _me_. "From no
man--from not a single man on earth," he affirmed with a stubborn mien.
I forbore to point out the one obvious exception which would hold good
for the bravest of us; I thought he would find out by himself very soon.
He looked at me patiently while I was thinking of something to say, but
I could find nothing on the spur of the moment, and he began to walk on.
I kept up, and anxious not to lose him, I said hurriedly that I couldn't
think of leaving him under a false impression of my--of my--I stammered.
The stupidity of the phrase appalled me while I was trying to finish
it, but the power of sentences has nothing to do with their sense or the
logic of their construction. My idiotic mumble seemed to please him. He
cut it short by saying, with courteous placidity that argued an
immense power of self-control or else a wonderful elasticity of
spirits--"Altogether my mistake." I marvelled greatly at this
expression: he might have been alluding to some trifling occurrence.
Hadn't he understood its deplorable meaning? "You may well forgive me,"
he continued, and went on a little moodily, "All these staring people in
court seemed such fools that--that it might have been as I supposed."
'This opened suddenly a new view of him to my wonder. I looked at him
curiously and met his unabashed and impenetrable eyes. "I can't put up
with this kind of thing," he said, very simply, "and I don't mean to. In
court it's different; I've got to stand that--and I can do it too."
'I don't pretend I understood him. The views he let me have of himself
were like those glimpses through the shifting rents in a thick fog--bits
of vivid and vanishing detail, giving no connected idea of the general
aspect of a country. They fed one's curiosity without satisfying it;
they were no good for purposes of orientation. Upon the whole he was
misleading. That's how I summed him up to myself after he left me late
in the evening. I had been staying at the Malabar House for a few days,
and on my pressing invitation he dined with me there.' | 6,199 | Chapter 6 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-6 | Back at the trial, we meet a Captain Brierly through the eyes of Marlow. Brierly was one of the three men sitting in judgment at the trial, and apparently he was quite the successful, well-regarded guy. Too bad, then, that he committed suicide right after the trial concluded. His suicide is a big mystery, but Marlow, for one, has his theories. He thinks Captain B killed himself because of Jim; Jim's case hit a little too close to home for the Captain, and he realized that he, too, could behave as badly as Jim. Or that's Marlow's theory, anyway. Marlow later meets up with Jones, who served with Brierly. He gives Marlow the lowdown on Brierly's suicide - what he knows about it, at least. He can't figure out why Brierly did it because Captain B was "Young, healthy, well off, no cares... I sit here sometimes thinking, thinking, till my head fairly begins to buzz. There was some reason." Anyways, let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we? The crew of the Patna has shown up on land sans ship, which is a big old problem, and now Jim is on trial for whatever he did wrong. At the trial, Brierly and Marlow have a conversation about Jim. Horrified by the publicity the trial is getting, Captain B wishes Jim would just skip town so the naval community could stop being so embarrassed. At this, Marlow wanders outside, where a dude comments on a "wretched cur," referring to a stray dog. Poor Jim overhears and thinks the "cur" jab was aimed at him. Uh oh. He gets mad and attacks Marlow, who calms him down and explains the misunderstanding. This Jim fellow is one awkward guy. In a moment of kindness, or perhaps just curiosity, Marlow invites Jim to dine with him at his hotel, and Jim agrees. This should be interesting... | null | 315 | 1 | [
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28,054 | false | sparknotes | all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/39.txt | finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_8_part_2.txt | The Brothers Karamazov.book 6.chapter 1 | book 6, chapter 1 | null | {"name": "book 6, Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section9/", "summary": "The Elder Zosima and His Visitors When Alyosha returns to the monastery, he finds Zosima sitting in bed with a group of his students and followers around him. Zosima asks how Dmitri is doing and tells Alyosha that he bowed to Dmitri as he did because he foresees that Dmitri will soon undergo a great trial of pain and suffering. Zosima says that Dmitri's destiny is not Alyosha's, and encourages Alyosha again to leave the monastery and do good in the world", "analysis": ""} | Book VI. The Russian Monk Chapter I. Father Zossima And His Visitors
When with an anxious and aching heart Alyosha went into his elder's cell,
he stood still almost astonished. Instead of a sick man at his last gasp,
perhaps unconscious, as he had feared to find him, he saw him sitting up
in his chair and, though weak and exhausted, his face was bright and
cheerful, he was surrounded by visitors and engaged in a quiet and joyful
conversation. But he had only got up from his bed a quarter of an hour
before Alyosha's arrival; his visitors had gathered together in his cell
earlier, waiting for him to wake, having received a most confident
assurance from Father Paissy that "the teacher would get up, and as he had
himself promised in the morning, converse once more with those dear to his
heart." This promise and indeed every word of the dying elder Father
Paissy put implicit trust in. If he had seen him unconscious, if he had
seen him breathe his last, and yet had his promise that he would rise up
and say good-by to him, he would not have believed perhaps even in death,
but would still have expected the dead man to recover and fulfill his
promise. In the morning as he lay down to sleep, Father Zossima had told
him positively: "I shall not die without the delight of another
conversation with you, beloved of my heart. I shall look once more on your
dear face and pour out my heart to you once again." The monks, who had
gathered for this probably last conversation with Father Zossima, had all
been his devoted friends for many years. There were four of them: Father
Iosif and Father Paissy, Father Mihail, the warden of the hermitage, a man
not very old and far from being learned. He was of humble origin, of
strong will and steadfast faith, of austere appearance, but of deep
tenderness, though he obviously concealed it as though he were almost
ashamed of it. The fourth, Father Anfim, was a very old and humble little
monk of the poorest peasant class. He was almost illiterate, and very
quiet, scarcely speaking to any one. He was the humblest of the humble,
and looked as though he had been frightened by something great and awful
beyond the scope of his intelligence. Father Zossima had a great affection
for this timorous man, and always treated him with marked respect, though
perhaps there was no one he had known to whom he had said less, in spite
of the fact that he had spent years wandering about holy Russia with him.
That was very long ago, forty years before, when Father Zossima first
began his life as a monk in a poor and little monastery at Kostroma, and
when, shortly after, he had accompanied Father Anfim on his pilgrimage to
collect alms for their poor monastery.
The whole party were in the bedroom which, as we mentioned before, was
very small, so that there was scarcely room for the four of them (in
addition to Porfiry, the novice, who stood) to sit round Father Zossima on
chairs brought from the sitting-room. It was already beginning to get
dark, the room was lighted up by the lamps and the candles before the
ikons.
Seeing Alyosha standing embarrassed in the doorway, Father Zossima smiled
at him joyfully and held out his hand.
"Welcome, my quiet one, welcome, my dear, here you are too. I knew you
would come."
Alyosha went up to him, bowed down before him to the ground and wept.
Something surged up from his heart, his soul was quivering, he wanted to
sob.
"Come, don't weep over me yet," Father Zossima smiled, laying his right
hand on his head. "You see I am sitting up talking; maybe I shall live
another twenty years yet, as that dear good woman from Vishegorye, with
her little Lizaveta in her arms, wished me yesterday. God bless the mother
and the little girl Lizaveta," he crossed himself. "Porfiry, did you take
her offering where I told you?"
He meant the sixty copecks brought him the day before by the good-humored
woman to be given "to some one poorer than me." Such offerings, always of
money gained by personal toil, are made by way of penance voluntarily
undertaken. The elder had sent Porfiry the evening before to a widow,
whose house had been burnt down lately, and who after the fire had gone
with her children begging alms. Porfiry hastened to reply that he had
given the money, as he had been instructed, "from an unknown
benefactress."
"Get up, my dear boy," the elder went on to Alyosha. "Let me look at you.
Have you been home and seen your brother?" It seemed strange to Alyosha
that he asked so confidently and precisely, about one of his brothers
only--but which one? Then perhaps he had sent him out both yesterday and
to-day for the sake of that brother.
"I have seen one of my brothers," answered Alyosha.
"I mean the elder one, to whom I bowed down."
"I only saw him yesterday and could not find him to-day," said Alyosha.
"Make haste to find him, go again to-morrow and make haste, leave
everything and make haste. Perhaps you may still have time to prevent
something terrible. I bowed down yesterday to the great suffering in store
for him."
He was suddenly silent and seemed to be pondering. The words were strange.
Father Iosif, who had witnessed the scene yesterday, exchanged glances
with Father Paissy. Alyosha could not resist asking:
"Father and teacher," he began with extreme emotion, "your words are too
obscure.... What is this suffering in store for him?"
"Don't inquire. I seemed to see something terrible yesterday ... as though
his whole future were expressed in his eyes. A look came into his eyes--so
that I was instantly horror-stricken at what that man is preparing for
himself. Once or twice in my life I've seen such a look in a man's face
... reflecting as it were his future fate, and that fate, alas, came to
pass. I sent you to him, Alexey, for I thought your brotherly face would
help him. But everything and all our fates are from the Lord. 'Except a
corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it
die, it bringeth forth much fruit.' Remember that. You, Alexey, I've many
times silently blessed for your face, know that," added the elder with a
gentle smile. "This is what I think of you, you will go forth from these
walls, but will live like a monk in the world. You will have many enemies,
but even your foes will love you. Life will bring you many misfortunes,
but you will find your happiness in them, and will bless life and will
make others bless it--which is what matters most. Well, that is your
character. Fathers and teachers," he addressed his friends with a tender
smile, "I have never till to-day told even him why the face of this youth
is so dear to me. Now I will tell you. His face has been as it were a
remembrance and a prophecy for me. At the dawn of my life when I was a
child I had an elder brother who died before my eyes at seventeen. And
later on in the course of my life I gradually became convinced that that
brother had been for a guidance and a sign from on high for me. For had he
not come into my life, I should never perhaps, so I fancy at least, have
become a monk and entered on this precious path. He appeared first to me
in my childhood, and here, at the end of my pilgrimage, he seems to have
come to me over again. It is marvelous, fathers and teachers, that Alexey,
who has some, though not a great, resemblance in face, seems to me so like
him spiritually, that many times I have taken him for that young man, my
brother, mysteriously come back to me at the end of my pilgrimage, as a
reminder and an inspiration. So that I positively wondered at so strange a
dream in myself. Do you hear this, Porfiry?" he turned to the novice who
waited on him. "Many times I've seen in your face as it were a look of
mortification that I love Alexey more than you. Now you know why that was
so, but I love you too, know that, and many times I grieved at your
mortification. I should like to tell you, dear friends, of that youth, my
brother, for there has been no presence in my life more precious, more
significant and touching. My heart is full of tenderness, and I look at my
whole life at this moment as though living through it again."
-------------------------------------
Here I must observe that this last conversation of Father Zossima with the
friends who visited him on the last day of his life has been partly
preserved in writing. Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov wrote it down from
memory, some time after his elder's death. But whether this was only the
conversation that took place then, or whether he added to it his notes of
parts of former conversations with his teacher, I cannot determine. In his
account, Father Zossima's talk goes on without interruption, as though he
told his life to his friends in the form of a story, though there is no
doubt, from other accounts of it, that the conversation that evening was
general. Though the guests did not interrupt Father Zossima much, yet they
too talked, perhaps even told something themselves. Besides, Father
Zossima could not have carried on an uninterrupted narrative, for he was
sometimes gasping for breath, his voice failed him, and he even lay down
to rest on his bed, though he did not fall asleep and his visitors did not
leave their seats. Once or twice the conversation was interrupted by
Father Paissy's reading the Gospel. It is worthy of note, too, that no one
of them supposed that he would die that night, for on that evening of his
life after his deep sleep in the day he seemed suddenly to have found new
strength, which kept him up through this long conversation. It was like a
last effort of love which gave him marvelous energy; only for a little
time, however, for his life was cut short immediately.... But of that
later. I will only add now that I have preferred to confine myself to the
account given by Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov. It will be shorter and not
so fatiguing, though of course, as I must repeat, Alyosha took a great
deal from previous conversations and added them to it.
-------------------------------------
Notes of the Life of the deceased Priest and Monk, the Elder Zossima,
taken from his own words by Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov.
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES
_(a)_ _Father Zossima's Brother_
Beloved fathers and teachers, I was born in a distant province in the
north, in the town of V. My father was a gentleman by birth, but of no
great consequence or position. He died when I was only two years old, and
I don't remember him at all. He left my mother a small house built of
wood, and a fortune, not large, but sufficient to keep her and her
children in comfort. There were two of us, my elder brother Markel and I.
He was eight years older than I was, of hasty irritable temperament, but
kind-hearted and never ironical. He was remarkably silent, especially at
home with me, his mother, and the servants. He did well at school, but did
not get on with his schoolfellows, though he never quarreled, at least so
my mother has told me. Six months before his death, when he was seventeen,
he made friends with a political exile who had been banished from Moscow
to our town for freethinking, and led a solitary existence there. He was a
good scholar who had gained distinction in philosophy in the university.
Something made him take a fancy to Markel, and he used to ask him to see
him. The young man would spend whole evenings with him during that winter,
till the exile was summoned to Petersburg to take up his post again at his
own request, as he had powerful friends.
It was the beginning of Lent, and Markel would not fast, he was rude and
laughed at it. "That's all silly twaddle, and there is no God," he said,
horrifying my mother, the servants, and me too. For though I was only
nine, I too was aghast at hearing such words. We had four servants, all
serfs. I remember my mother selling one of the four, the cook Afimya, who
was lame and elderly, for sixty paper roubles, and hiring a free servant
to take her place.
In the sixth week in Lent, my brother, who was never strong and had a
tendency to consumption, was taken ill. He was tall but thin and delicate-
looking, and of very pleasing countenance. I suppose he caught cold,
anyway the doctor, who came, soon whispered to my mother that it was
galloping consumption, that he would not live through the spring. My
mother began weeping, and, careful not to alarm my brother, she entreated
him to go to church, to confess and take the sacrament, as he was still
able to move about. This made him angry, and he said something profane
about the church. He grew thoughtful, however; he guessed at once that he
was seriously ill, and that that was why his mother was begging him to
confess and take the sacrament. He had been aware, indeed, for a long time
past, that he was far from well, and had a year before coolly observed at
dinner to our mother and me, "My life won't be long among you, I may not
live another year," which seemed now like a prophecy.
Three days passed and Holy Week had come. And on Tuesday morning my
brother began going to church. "I am doing this simply for your sake,
mother, to please and comfort you," he said. My mother wept with joy and
grief. "His end must be near," she thought, "if there's such a change in
him." But he was not able to go to church long, he took to his bed, so he
had to confess and take the sacrament at home.
It was a late Easter, and the days were bright, fine, and full of
fragrance. I remember he used to cough all night and sleep badly, but in
the morning he dressed and tried to sit up in an arm-chair. That's how I
remember him sitting, sweet and gentle, smiling, his face bright and
joyous, in spite of his illness. A marvelous change passed over him, his
spirit seemed transformed. The old nurse would come in and say, "Let me
light the lamp before the holy image, my dear." And once he would not have
allowed it and would have blown it out.
"Light it, light it, dear, I was a wretch to have prevented you doing it.
You are praying when you light the lamp, and I am praying when I rejoice
seeing you. So we are praying to the same God."
Those words seemed strange to us, and mother would go to her room and
weep, but when she went in to him she wiped her eyes and looked cheerful.
"Mother, don't weep, darling," he would say, "I've long to live yet, long
to rejoice with you, and life is glad and joyful."
"Ah, dear boy, how can you talk of joy when you lie feverish at night,
coughing as though you would tear yourself to pieces."
"Don't cry, mother," he would answer, "life is paradise, and we are all in
paradise, but we won't see it, if we would, we should have heaven on earth
the next day."
Every one wondered at his words, he spoke so strangely and positively; we
were all touched and wept. Friends came to see us. "Dear ones," he would
say to them, "what have I done that you should love me so, how can you
love any one like me, and how was it I did not know, I did not appreciate
it before?"
When the servants came in to him he would say continually, "Dear, kind
people, why are you doing so much for me, do I deserve to be waited on? If
it were God's will for me to live, I would wait on you, for all men should
wait on one another."
Mother shook her head as she listened. "My darling, it's your illness
makes you talk like that."
"Mother, darling," he would say, "there must be servants and masters, but
if so I will be the servant of my servants, the same as they are to me.
And another thing, mother, every one of us has sinned against all men, and
I more than any."
Mother positively smiled at that, smiled through her tears. "Why, how
could you have sinned against all men, more than all? Robbers and
murderers have done that, but what sin have you committed yet, that you
hold yourself more guilty than all?"
"Mother, little heart of mine," he said (he had begun using such strange
caressing words at that time), "little heart of mine, my joy, believe me,
every one is really responsible to all men for all men and for everything.
I don't know how to explain it to you, but I feel it is so, painfully
even. And how is it we went on then living, getting angry and not
knowing?"
So he would get up every day, more and more sweet and joyous and full of
love. When the doctor, an old German called Eisenschmidt, came:
"Well, doctor, have I another day in this world?" he would ask, joking.
"You'll live many days yet," the doctor would answer, "and months and
years too."
"Months and years!" he would exclaim. "Why reckon the days? One day is
enough for a man to know all happiness. My dear ones, why do we quarrel,
try to outshine each other and keep grudges against each other? Let's go
straight into the garden, walk and play there, love, appreciate, and kiss
each other, and glorify life."
"Your son cannot last long," the doctor told my mother, as she accompanied
him to the door. "The disease is affecting his brain."
The windows of his room looked out into the garden, and our garden was a
shady one, with old trees in it which were coming into bud. The first
birds of spring were flitting in the branches, chirruping and singing at
the windows. And looking at them and admiring them, he began suddenly
begging their forgiveness too: "Birds of heaven, happy birds, forgive me,
for I have sinned against you too." None of us could understand that at
the time, but he shed tears of joy. "Yes," he said, "there was such a
glory of God all about me: birds, trees, meadows, sky; only I lived in
shame and dishonored it all and did not notice the beauty and glory."
"You take too many sins on yourself," mother used to say, weeping.
"Mother, darling, it's for joy, not for grief I am crying. Though I can't
explain it to you, I like to humble myself before them, for I don't know
how to love them enough. If I have sinned against every one, yet all
forgive me, too, and that's heaven. Am I not in heaven now?"
And there was a great deal more I don't remember. I remember I went once
into his room when there was no one else there. It was a bright evening,
the sun was setting, and the whole room was lighted up. He beckoned me,
and I went up to him. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my
face tenderly, lovingly; he said nothing for a minute, only looked at me
like that.
"Well," he said, "run and play now, enjoy life for me too."
I went out then and ran to play. And many times in my life afterwards I
remembered even with tears how he told me to enjoy life for him too. There
were many other marvelous and beautiful sayings of his, though we did not
understand them at the time. He died the third week after Easter. He was
fully conscious though he could not talk; up to his last hour he did not
change. He looked happy, his eyes beamed and sought us, he smiled at us,
beckoned us. There was a great deal of talk even in the town about his
death. I was impressed by all this at the time, but not too much so,
though I cried a good deal at his funeral. I was young then, a child, but
a lasting impression, a hidden feeling of it all, remained in my heart,
ready to rise up and respond when the time came. So indeed it happened.
_(b) Of the Holy Scriptures in the Life of Father Zossima_
I was left alone with my mother. Her friends began advising her to send me
to Petersburg as other parents did. "You have only one son now," they
said, "and have a fair income, and you will be depriving him perhaps of a
brilliant career if you keep him here." They suggested I should be sent to
Petersburg to the Cadet Corps, that I might afterwards enter the Imperial
Guard. My mother hesitated for a long time, it was awful to part with her
only child, but she made up her mind to it at last, though not without
many tears, believing she was acting for my happiness. She brought me to
Petersburg and put me into the Cadet Corps, and I never saw her again. For
she too died three years afterwards. She spent those three years mourning
and grieving for both of us.
From the house of my childhood I have brought nothing but precious
memories, for there are no memories more precious than those of early
childhood in one's first home. And that is almost always so if there is
any love and harmony in the family at all. Indeed, precious memories may
remain even of a bad home, if only the heart knows how to find what is
precious. With my memories of home I count, too, my memories of the Bible,
which, child as I was, I was very eager to read at home. I had a book of
Scripture history then with excellent pictures, called _A Hundred and Four
Stories from the Old and New Testament_, and I learned to read from it. I
have it lying on my shelf now, I keep it as a precious relic of the past.
But even before I learned to read, I remember first being moved to
devotional feeling at eight years old. My mother took me alone to mass (I
don't remember where my brother was at the time) on the Monday before
Easter. It was a fine day, and I remember to-day, as though I saw it now,
how the incense rose from the censer and softly floated upwards and,
overhead in the cupola, mingled in rising waves with the sunlight that
streamed in at the little window. I was stirred by the sight, and for the
first time in my life I consciously received the seed of God's word in my
heart. A youth came out into the middle of the church carrying a big book,
so large that at the time I fancied he could scarcely carry it. He laid it
on the reading desk, opened it, and began reading, and suddenly for the
first time I understood something read in the church of God. In the land
of Uz, there lived a man, righteous and God-fearing, and he had great
wealth, so many camels, so many sheep and asses, and his children feasted,
and he loved them very much and prayed for them. "It may be that my sons
have sinned in their feasting." Now the devil came before the Lord
together with the sons of God, and said to the Lord that he had gone up
and down the earth and under the earth. "And hast thou considered my
servant Job?" God asked of him. And God boasted to the devil, pointing to
his great and holy servant. And the devil laughed at God's words. "Give
him over to me and Thou wilt see that Thy servant will murmur against Thee
and curse Thy name." And God gave up the just man He loved so, to the
devil. And the devil smote his children and his cattle and scattered his
wealth, all of a sudden like a thunderbolt from heaven. And Job rent his
mantle and fell down upon the ground and cried aloud, "Naked came I out of
my mother's womb, and naked shall I return into the earth; the Lord gave
and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord for ever and
ever."
Fathers and teachers, forgive my tears now, for all my childhood rises up
again before me, and I breathe now as I breathed then, with the breast of
a little child of eight, and I feel as I did then, awe and wonder and
gladness. The camels at that time caught my imagination, and Satan, who
talked like that with God, and God who gave His servant up to destruction,
and His servant crying out: "Blessed be Thy name although Thou dost punish
me," and then the soft and sweet singing in the church: "Let my prayer
rise up before Thee," and again incense from the priest's censer and the
kneeling and the prayer. Ever since then--only yesterday I took it up--I've
never been able to read that sacred tale without tears. And how much that
is great, mysterious and unfathomable there is in it! Afterwards I heard
the words of mockery and blame, proud words, "How could God give up the
most loved of His saints for the diversion of the devil, take from him his
children, smite him with sore boils so that he cleansed the corruption
from his sores with a pot-sherd--and for no object except to boast to the
devil! 'See what My saint can suffer for My sake.' " But the greatness of
it lies just in the fact that it is a mystery--that the passing earthly
show and the eternal verity are brought together in it. In the face of the
earthly truth, the eternal truth is accomplished. The Creator, just as on
the first days of creation He ended each day with praise: "That is good
that I have created," looks upon Job and again praises His creation. And
Job, praising the Lord, serves not only Him but all His creation for
generations and generations, and for ever and ever, since for that he was
ordained. Good heavens, what a book it is, and what lessons there are in
it! What a book the Bible is, what a miracle, what strength is given with
it to man! It is like a mold cast of the world and man and human nature,
everything is there, and a law for everything for all the ages. And what
mysteries are solved and revealed! God raises Job again, gives him wealth
again. Many years pass by, and he has other children and loves them. But
how could he love those new ones when those first children are no more,
when he has lost them? Remembering them, how could he be fully happy with
those new ones, however dear the new ones might be? But he could, he
could. It's the great mystery of human life that old grief passes
gradually into quiet, tender joy. The mild serenity of age takes the place
of the riotous blood of youth. I bless the rising sun each day, and, as
before, my hearts sings to meet it, but now I love even more its setting,
its long slanting rays and the soft, tender, gentle memories that come
with them, the dear images from the whole of my long, happy life--and over
all the Divine Truth, softening, reconciling, forgiving! My life is
ending, I know that well, but every day that is left me I feel how my
earthly life is in touch with a new infinite, unknown, that approaching
life, the nearness of which sets my soul quivering with rapture, my mind
glowing and my heart weeping with joy.
Friends and teachers, I have heard more than once, and of late one may
hear it more often, that the priests, and above all the village priests,
are complaining on all sides of their miserable income and their
humiliating lot. They plainly state, even in print--I've read it
myself--that they are unable to teach the Scriptures to the people because
of the smallness of their means, and if Lutherans and heretics come and
lead the flock astray, they let them lead them astray because they have so
little to live upon. May the Lord increase the sustenance that is so
precious to them, for their complaint is just, too. But of a truth I say,
if any one is to blame in the matter, half the fault is ours. For he may
be short of time, he may say truly that he is overwhelmed all the while
with work and services, but still it's not all the time, even he has an
hour a week to remember God. And he does not work the whole year round.
Let him gather round him once a week, some hour in the evening, if only
the children at first--the fathers will hear of it and they too will begin
to come. There's no need to build halls for this, let him take them into
his own cottage. They won't spoil his cottage, they would only be there
one hour. Let him open that book and begin reading it without grand words
or superciliousness, without condescension to them, but gently and kindly,
being glad that he is reading to them and that they are listening with
attention, loving the words himself, only stopping from time to time to
explain words that are not understood by the peasants. Don't be anxious,
they will understand everything, the orthodox heart will understand all!
Let him read them about Abraham and Sarah, about Isaac and Rebecca, of how
Jacob went to Laban and wrestled with the Lord in his dream and said,
"This place is holy"--and he will impress the devout mind of the peasant.
Let him read, especially to the children, how the brothers sold Joseph,
the tender boy, the dreamer and prophet, into bondage, and told their
father that a wild beast had devoured him, and showed him his blood-
stained clothes. Let him read them how the brothers afterwards journeyed
into Egypt for corn, and Joseph, already a great ruler, unrecognized by
them, tormented them, accused them, kept his brother Benjamin, and all
through love: "I love you, and loving you I torment you." For he
remembered all his life how they had sold him to the merchants in the
burning desert by the well, and how, wringing his hands, he had wept and
besought his brothers not to sell him as a slave in a strange land. And
how, seeing them again after many years, he loved them beyond measure, but
he harassed and tormented them in love. He left them at last not able to
bear the suffering of his heart, flung himself on his bed and wept. Then,
wiping his tears away, he went out to them joyful and told them,
"Brothers, I am your brother Joseph!" Let him read them further how happy
old Jacob was on learning that his darling boy was still alive, and how he
went to Egypt leaving his own country, and died in a foreign land,
bequeathing his great prophecy that had lain mysteriously hidden in his
meek and timid heart all his life, that from his offspring, from Judah,
will come the great hope of the world, the Messiah and Saviour.
Fathers and teachers, forgive me and don't be angry, that like a little
child I've been babbling of what you know long ago, and can teach me a
hundred times more skillfully. I only speak from rapture, and forgive my
tears, for I love the Bible. Let him too weep, the priest of God, and be
sure that the hearts of his listeners will throb in response. Only a
little tiny seed is needed--drop it into the heart of the peasant and it
won't die, it will live in his soul all his life, it will be hidden in the
midst of his darkness and sin, like a bright spot, like a great reminder.
And there's no need of much teaching or explanation, he will understand it
all simply. Do you suppose that the peasants don't understand? Try reading
them the touching story of the fair Esther and the haughty Vashti; or the
miraculous story of Jonah in the whale. Don't forget either the parables
of Our Lord, choose especially from the Gospel of St. Luke (that is what I
did), and then from the Acts of the Apostles the conversion of St. Paul
(that you mustn't leave out on any account), and from the _Lives of the
Saints_, for instance, the life of Alexey, the man of God and, greatest of
all, the happy martyr and the seer of God, Mary of Egypt--and you will
penetrate their hearts with these simple tales. Give one hour a week to it
in spite of your poverty, only one little hour. And you will see for
yourselves that our people is gracious and grateful, and will repay you a
hundred-fold. Mindful of the kindness of their priest and the moving words
they have heard from him, they will of their own accord help him in his
fields and in his house, and will treat him with more respect than
before--so that it will even increase his worldly well-being too. The thing
is so simple that sometimes one is even afraid to put it into words, for
fear of being laughed at, and yet how true it is! One who does not believe
in God will not believe in God's people. He who believes in God's people
will see His Holiness too, even though he had not believed in it till
then. Only the people and their future spiritual power will convert our
atheists, who have torn themselves away from their native soil.
And what is the use of Christ's words, unless we set an example? The
people is lost without the Word of God, for its soul is athirst for the
Word and for all that is good.
In my youth, long ago, nearly forty years ago, I traveled all over Russia
with Father Anfim, collecting funds for our monastery, and we stayed one
night on the bank of a great navigable river with some fishermen. A good-
looking peasant lad, about eighteen, joined us; he had to hurry back next
morning to pull a merchant's barge along the bank. I noticed him looking
straight before him with clear and tender eyes. It was a bright, warm,
still, July night, a cool mist rose from the broad river, we could hear
the plash of a fish, the birds were still, all was hushed and beautiful,
everything praying to God. Only we two were not sleeping, the lad and I,
and we talked of the beauty of this world of God's and of the great
mystery of it. Every blade of grass, every insect, ant, and golden bee,
all so marvelously know their path, though they have not intelligence,
they bear witness to the mystery of God and continually accomplish it
themselves. I saw the dear lad's heart was moved. He told me that he loved
the forest and the forest birds. He was a bird-catcher, knew the note of
each of them, could call each bird. "I know nothing better than to be in
the forest," said he, "though all things are good."
"Truly," I answered him, "all things are good and fair, because all is
truth. Look," said I, "at the horse, that great beast that is so near to
man; or the lowly, pensive ox, which feeds him and works for him; look at
their faces, what meekness, what devotion to man, who often beats them
mercilessly. What gentleness, what confidence and what beauty! It's
touching to know that there's no sin in them, for all, all except man, is
sinless, and Christ has been with them before us."
"Why," asked the boy, "is Christ with them too?"
"It cannot but be so," said I, "since the Word is for all. All creation
and all creatures, every leaf is striving to the Word, singing glory to
God, weeping to Christ, unconsciously accomplishing this by the mystery of
their sinless life. Yonder," said I, "in the forest wanders the dreadful
bear, fierce and menacing, and yet innocent in it." And I told him how
once a bear came to a great saint who had taken refuge in a tiny cell in
the wood. And the great saint pitied him, went up to him without fear and
gave him a piece of bread. "Go along," said he, "Christ be with you," and
the savage beast walked away meekly and obediently, doing no harm. And the
lad was delighted that the bear had walked away without hurting the saint,
and that Christ was with him too. "Ah," said he, "how good that is, how
good and beautiful is all God's work!" He sat musing softly and sweetly. I
saw he understood. And he slept beside me a light and sinless sleep. May
God bless youth! And I prayed for him as I went to sleep. Lord, send peace
and light to Thy people!
| 5,917 | book 6, Chapter 1 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section9/ | The Elder Zosima and His Visitors When Alyosha returns to the monastery, he finds Zosima sitting in bed with a group of his students and followers around him. Zosima asks how Dmitri is doing and tells Alyosha that he bowed to Dmitri as he did because he foresees that Dmitri will soon undergo a great trial of pain and suffering. Zosima says that Dmitri's destiny is not Alyosha's, and encourages Alyosha again to leave the monastery and do good in the world | null | 82 | 1 | [
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1,756 | true | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/1756-chapters/act_1.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Uncle Vanya/section_0_part_0.txt | Uncle Vanya.act 1 | act 1 | null | {"name": "Act 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200714032621/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/uncle-vanya/summary/act-1", "summary": "Marina and Astrov drink tea in the garden of Serebryakov's country house. They talk about how they've known each other for at least eleven years. Astrov thinks that he has become old and eccentric. Voynitsky, aka Vanya, comes out of the house after his nap. He complains that ever since Professor Serebryakov and his wife have come to the house to live his schedule has been interrupted. Marina also notices that the Professor has screwed up the house's eating schedule, and Vanya worries that they'll stay for a hundred years. Serebryakov, his wife Yelena, his daughter Sonya, and their neighbor Telegin come into the garden from their walk. Only Telegin joins Marina for tea. Vanya gets in some jabs about how old the Professor is and also moons over how beautiful the Professor's wife is. Vanya thinks that Yelena should betray her old husband so that she can be true to herself and enjoy her youth. Telegin thinks that's not such a great idea. Sonya and Yelena come out into the garden, and Mariya, the mother of Vanya and of the Professor's first wife, joins them. Mariya tries to start talking about a philosophical or political debate that she's been reading, but Vanya cuts her off rudely. He's jealous of how much his mother admires the Professor and makes vaguely suicidal references. Astrov, a doctor, is called away to the factory and as he goes Sonya starts bragging about what a great guy he is. It turns out he has earned medals for planting new trees and campaigning against the destruction of old forests. This really gets Astrov going and he starts on a tirade against the people who are cutting down the trees instead of using peat to burn and building their houses of stone instead of wood. Sonya leaves to see Astrov to the door, and while they're gone, Yelena scolds Vanya for the way he acted toward his mother and her husband. Vanya confesses his love to Yelena, and she begs him to stop before someone hears.", "analysis": ""} | ACT I
A country house on a terrace. In front of it a garden. In an avenue of
trees, under an old poplar, stands a table set for tea, with a samovar,
etc. Some benches and chairs stand near the table. On one of them is
lying a guitar. A hammock is swung near the table. It is three o'clock
in the afternoon of a cloudy day.
MARINA, a quiet, grey-haired, little old woman, is sitting at the table
knitting a stocking.
ASTROFF is walking up and down near her.
MARINA. [Pouring some tea into a glass] Take a little tea, my son.
ASTROFF. [Takes the glass from her unwillingly] Somehow, I don't seem to
want any.
MARINA. Then will you have a little vodka instead?
ASTROFF. No, I don't drink vodka every day, and besides, it is too hot
now. [A pause] Tell me, nurse, how long have we known each other?
MARINA. [Thoughtfully] Let me see, how long is it? Lord--help me to
remember. You first came here, into our parts--let me think--when was
it? Sonia's mother was still alive--it was two winters before she died;
that was eleven years ago--[thoughtfully] perhaps more.
ASTROFF. Have I changed much since then?
MARINA. Oh, yes. You were handsome and young then, and now you are an
old man and not handsome any more. You drink, too.
ASTROFF. Yes, ten years have made me another man. And why? Because I am
overworked. Nurse, I am on my feet from dawn till dusk. I know no rest;
at night I tremble under my blankets for fear of being dragged out to
visit some one who is sick; I have toiled without repose or a day's
freedom since I have known you; could I help growing old? And then,
existence is tedious, anyway; it is a senseless, dirty business, this
life, and goes heavily. Every one about here is silly, and after
living with them for two or three years one grows silly oneself. It is
inevitable. [Twisting his moustache] See what a long moustache I have
grown. A foolish, long moustache. Yes, I am as silly as the rest, nurse,
but not as stupid; no, I have not grown stupid. Thank God, my brain is
not addled yet, though my feelings have grown numb. I ask nothing, I
need nothing, I love no one, unless it is yourself alone. [He kisses her
head] I had a nurse just like you when I was a child.
MARINA. Don't you want a bite of something to eat?
ASTROFF. No. During the third week of Lent I went to the epidemic at
Malitskoi. It was eruptive typhoid. The peasants were all lying side by
side in their huts, and the calves and pigs were running about the floor
among the sick. Such dirt there was, and smoke! Unspeakable! I slaved
among those people all day, not a crumb passed my lips, but when I got
home there was still no rest for me; a switchman was carried in from the
railroad; I laid him on the operating table and he went and died in
my arms under chloroform, and then my feelings that should have been
deadened awoke again, my conscience tortured me as if I had killed the
man. I sat down and closed my eyes--like this--and thought: will our
descendants two hundred years from now, for whom we are breaking the
road, remember to give us a kind word? No, nurse, they will forget.
MARINA. Man is forgetful, but God remembers.
ASTROFF. Thank you for that. You have spoken the truth.
Enter VOITSKI from the house. He has been asleep after dinner and
looks rather dishevelled. He sits down on the bench and straightens his
collar.
VOITSKI. H'm. Yes. [A pause] Yes.
ASTROFF. Have you been asleep?
VOITSKI. Yes, very much so. [He yawns] Ever since the Professor and his
wife have come, our daily life seems to have jumped the track. I sleep
at the wrong time, drink wine, and eat all sorts of messes for luncheon
and dinner. It isn't wholesome. Sonia and I used to work together and
never had an idle moment, but now Sonia works alone and I only eat and
drink and sleep. Something is wrong.
MARINA. [Shaking her head] Such a confusion in the house! The Professor
gets up at twelve, the samovar is kept boiling all the morning, and
everything has to wait for him. Before they came we used to have dinner
at one o'clock, like everybody else, but now we have it at seven. The
Professor sits up all night writing and reading, and suddenly, at two
o'clock, there goes the bell! Heavens, what is that? The Professor wants
some tea! Wake the servants, light the samovar! Lord, what disorder!
ASTROFF. Will they be here long?
VOITSKI. A hundred years! The Professor has decided to make his home
here.
MARINA. Look at this now! The samovar has been on the table for two
hours, and they are all out walking!
VOITSKI. All right, don't get excited; here they come.
Voices are heard approaching. SEREBRAKOFF, HELENA, SONIA, and TELEGIN
come in from the depths of the garden, returning from their walk.
SEREBRAKOFF. Superb! Superb! What beautiful views!
TELEGIN. They are wonderful, your Excellency.
SONIA. To-morrow we shall go into the woods, shall we, papa?
VOITSKI. Ladies and gentlemen, tea is ready.
SEREBRAKOFF. Won't you please be good enough to send my tea into the
library? I still have some work to finish.
SONIA. I am sure you will love the woods.
HELENA, SEREBRAKOFF, and SONIA go into the house. TELEGIN sits down at
the table beside MARINA.
VOITSKI. There goes our learned scholar on a hot, sultry day like this,
in his overcoat and goloshes and carrying an umbrella!
ASTROFF. He is trying to take good care of his health.
VOITSKI. How lovely she is! How lovely! I have never in my life seen a
more beautiful woman.
TELEGIN. Do you know, Marina, that as I walk in the fields or in
the shady garden, as I look at this table here, my heart swells with
unbounded happiness. The weather is enchanting, the birds are singing,
we are all living in peace and contentment--what more could the soul
desire? [Takes a glass of tea.]
VOITSKI. [Dreaming] Such eyes--a glorious woman!
ASTROFF. Come, Ivan, tell us something.
VOITSKI. [Indolently] What shall I tell you?
ASTROFF. Haven't you any news for us?
VOITSKI. No, it is all stale. I am just the same as usual, or perhaps
worse, because I have become lazy. I don't do anything now but croak
like an old raven. My mother, the old magpie, is still chattering about
the emancipation of woman, with one eye on her grave and the other on
her learned books, in which she is always looking for the dawn of a new
life.
ASTROFF. And the Professor?
VOITSKI. The Professor sits in his library from morning till night, as
usual--
"Straining the mind, wrinkling the brow,
We write, write, write,
Without respite
Or hope of praise in the future or now."
Poor paper! He ought to write his autobiography; he would make a
really splendid subject for a book! Imagine it, the life of a retired
professor, as stale as a piece of hardtack, tortured by gout, headaches,
and rheumatism, his liver bursting with jealousy and envy, living on the
estate of his first wife, although he hates it, because he can't afford
to live in town. He is everlastingly whining about his hard lot, though,
as a matter of fact, he is extraordinarily lucky. He is the son of
a common deacon and has attained the professor's chair, become the
son-in-law of a senator, is called "your Excellency," and so on. But
I'll tell you something; the man has been writing on art for twenty-five
years, and he doesn't know the very first thing about it. For
twenty-five years he has been chewing on other men's thoughts about
realism, naturalism, and all such foolishness; for twenty-five years he
has been reading and writing things that clever men have long known and
stupid ones are not interested in; for twenty-five years he has been
making his imaginary mountains out of molehills. And just think of the
man's self-conceit and presumption all this time! For twenty-five years
he has been masquerading in false clothes and has now retired absolutely
unknown to any living soul; and yet see him! stalking across the earth
like a demi-god!
ASTROFF. I believe you envy him.
VOITSKI. Yes, I do. Look at the success he has had with women! Don Juan
himself was not more favoured. His first wife, who was my sister, was
a beautiful, gentle being, as pure as the blue heaven there above us,
noble, great-hearted, with more admirers than he has pupils, and she
loved him as only beings of angelic purity can love those who are as
pure and beautiful as themselves. His mother-in-law, my mother, adores
him to this day, and he still inspires a sort of worshipful awe in her.
His second wife is, as you see, a brilliant beauty; she married him in
his old age and has surrendered all the glory of her beauty and freedom
to him. Why? What for?
ASTROFF. Is she faithful to him?
VOITSKI. Yes, unfortunately she is.
ASTROFF. Why unfortunately?
VOITSKI. Because such fidelity is false and unnatural, root and branch.
It sounds well, but there is no logic in it. It is thought immoral for a
woman to deceive an old husband whom she hates, but quite moral for her
to strangle her poor youth in her breast and banish every vital desire
from her heart.
TELEGIN. [In a tearful voice] Vanya, I don't like to hear you talk so.
Listen, Vanya; every one who betrays husband or wife is faithless, and
could also betray his country.
VOITSKI. [Crossly] Turn off the tap, Waffles.
TELEGIN. No, allow me, Vanya. My wife ran away with a lover on the day
after our wedding, because my exterior was unprepossessing. I have never
failed in my duty since then. I love her and am true to her to this day.
I help her all I can and have given my fortune to educate the daughter
of herself and her lover. I have forfeited my happiness, but I have kept
my pride. And she? Her youth has fled, her beauty has faded according to
the laws of nature, and her lover is dead. What has she kept?
HELENA and SONIA come in; after them comes MME. VOITSKAYA carrying a
book. She sits down and begins to read. Some one hands her a glass of
tea which she drinks without looking up.
SONIA. [Hurriedly, to the nurse] There are some peasants waiting out
there. Go and see what they want. I shall pour the tea. [Pours out some
glasses of tea.]
MARINA goes out. HELENA takes a glass and sits drinking in the hammock.
ASTROFF. I have come to see your husband. You wrote me that he had
rheumatism and I know not what else, and that he was very ill, but he
appears to be as lively as a cricket.
HELENA. He had a fit of the blues yesterday evening and complained of
pains in his legs, but he seems all right again to-day.
ASTROFF. And I galloped over here twenty miles at break-neck speed! No
matter, though, it is not the first time. Once here, however, I am going
to stay until to-morrow, and at any rate sleep _quantum satis._
SONIA. Oh, splendid! You so seldom spend the night with us. Have you had
dinner yet?
ASTROFF. No.
SONIA. Good. So you will have it with us. We dine at seven now. [Drinks
her tea] This tea is cold!
TELEGIN. Yes, the samovar has grown cold.
HELENA. Don't mind, Monsieur Ivan, we will drink cold tea, then.
TELEGIN. I beg your pardon, my name is not Ivan, but Ilia, ma'am--Ilia
Telegin, or Waffles, as I am sometimes called on account of my
pock-marked face. I am Sonia's godfather, and his Excellency, your
husband, knows me very well. I now live with you, ma'am, on this estate,
and perhaps you will be so good as to notice that I dine with you every
day.
SONIA. He is our great help, our right-hand man. [Tenderly] Dear
godfather, let me pour you some tea.
MME. VOITSKAYA. Oh! Oh!
SONIA. What is it, grandmother?
MME. VOITSKAYA. I forgot to tell Alexander--I have lost my memory--I
received a letter to-day from Paul Alexevitch in Kharkoff. He has sent
me a new pamphlet.
ASTROFF. Is it interesting?
MME. VOITSKAYA. Yes, but strange. He refutes the very theories which he
defended seven years ago. It is appalling!
VOITSKI. There is nothing appalling about it. Drink your tea, mamma.
MME. VOITSKAYA. It seems you never want to listen to what I have to say.
Pardon me, Jean, but you have changed so in the last year that I
hardly know you. You used to be a man of settled convictions and had an
illuminating personality----
VOITSKI. Oh, yes. I had an illuminating personality, which illuminated
no one. [A pause] I had an illuminating personality! You couldn't say
anything more biting. I am forty-seven years old. Until last year I
endeavoured, as you do now, to blind my eyes by your pedantry to the
truths of life. But now--Oh, if you only knew! If you knew how I lie
awake at night, heartsick and angry, to think how stupidly I have wasted
my time when I might have been winning from life everything which my old
age now forbids.
SONIA. Uncle Vanya, how dreary!
MME. VOITSKAYA. [To her son] You speak as if your former convictions
were somehow to blame, but you yourself, not they, were at fault. You
have forgotten that a conviction, in itself, is nothing but a dead
letter. You should have done something.
VOITSKI. Done something! Not every man is capable of being a writer
_perpetuum mobile_ like your Herr Professor.
MME. VOITSKAYA. What do you mean by that?
SONIA. [Imploringly] Mother! Uncle Vanya! I entreat you!
VOITSKI. I am silent. I apologise and am silent. [A pause.]
HELENA. What a fine day! Not too hot. [A pause.]
VOITSKI. A fine day to hang oneself.
TELEGIN tunes the guitar. MARINA appears near the house, calling the
chickens.
MARINA. Chick, chick, chick!
SONIA. What did the peasants want, nurse?
MARINA. The same old thing, the same old nonsense. Chick, chick, chick!
SONIA. Why are you calling the chickens?
MARINA. The speckled hen has disappeared with her chicks. I am afraid
the crows have got her.
TELEGIN plays a polka. All listen in silence. Enter WORKMAN.
WORKMAN. Is the doctor here? [To ASTROFF] Excuse me, sir, but I have
been sent to fetch you.
ASTROFF. Where are you from?
WORKMAN. The factory.
ASTROFF. [Annoyed] Thank you. There is nothing for it, then, but to go.
[Looking around him for his cap] Damn it, this is annoying!
SONIA. Yes, it is too bad, really. You must come back to dinner from the
factory.
ASTROFF. No, I won't be able to do that. It will be too late. Now where,
where--[To the WORKMAN] Look here, my man, get me a glass of vodka, will
you? [The WORKMAN goes out] Where--where--[Finds his cap] One of the
characters in Ostroff's plays is a man with a long moustache and short
wits, like me. However, let me bid you good-bye, ladies and gentlemen.
[To HELENA] I should be really delighted if you would come to see me
some day with Miss Sonia. My estate is small, but if you are interested
in such things I should like to show you a nursery and seed-bed whose
like you will not find within a thousand miles of here. My place is
surrounded by government forests. The forester is old and always ailing,
so I superintend almost all the work myself.
HELENA. I have always heard that you were very fond of the woods. Of
course one can do a great deal of good by helping to preserve them, but
does not that work interfere with your real calling?
ASTROFF. God alone knows what a man's real calling is.
HELENA. And do you find it interesting?
ASTROFF. Yes, very.
VOITSKI. [Sarcastically] Oh, extremely!
HELENA. You are still young, not over thirty-six or seven, I should say,
and I suspect that the woods do not interest you as much as you say they
do. I should think you would find them monotonous.
SONIA. No, the work is thrilling. Dr. Astroff watches over the old woods
and sets out new plantations every year, and he has already received a
diploma and a bronze medal. If you will listen to what he can tell you,
you will agree with him entirely. He says that forests are the ornaments
of the earth, that they teach mankind to understand beauty and attune
his mind to lofty sentiments. Forests temper a stern climate, and in
countries where the climate is milder, less strength is wasted in the
battle with nature, and the people are kind and gentle. The inhabitants
of such countries are handsome, tractable, sensitive, graceful in speech
and gesture. Their philosophy is joyous, art and science blossom among
them, their treatment of women is full of exquisite nobility----
VOITSKI. [Laughing] Bravo! Bravo! All that is very pretty, but it is
also unconvincing. So, my friend [To ASTROFF] you must let me go on
burning firewood in my stoves and building my sheds of planks.
ASTROFF. You can burn peat in your stoves and build your sheds of stone.
Oh, I don't object, of course, to cutting wood from necessity, but why
destroy the forests? The woods of Russia are trembling under the blows
of the axe. Millions of trees have perished. The homes of the wild
animals and birds have been desolated; the rivers are shrinking, and
many beautiful landscapes are gone forever. And why? Because men are too
lazy and stupid to stoop down and pick up their fuel from the ground.
[To HELENA] Am I not right, Madame? Who but a stupid barbarian could
burn so much beauty in his stove and destroy that which he cannot make?
Man is endowed with reason and the power to create, so that he may
increase that which has been given him, but until now he has not
created, but demolished. The forests are disappearing, the rivers are
running dry, the game is exterminated, the climate is spoiled, and the
earth becomes poorer and uglier every day. [To VOITSKI] I read irony in
your eye; you do not take what I am saying seriously, and--and--after
all, it may very well be nonsense. But when I pass peasant-forests
that I have preserved from the axe, or hear the rustling of the young
plantations set out with my own hands, I feel as if I had had some small
share in improving the climate, and that if mankind is happy a thousand
years from now I will have been a little bit responsible for their
happiness. When I plant a little birch tree and then see it budding
into young green and swaying in the wind, my heart swells with pride and
I--[Sees the WORKMAN, who is bringing him a glass of vodka on a tray]
however--[He drinks] I must be off. Probably it is all nonsense, anyway.
Good-bye.
He goes toward the house. SONIA takes his arm and goes with him.
SONIA. When are you coming to see us again?
ASTROFF. I can't say.
SONIA. In a month?
ASTROFF and SONIA go into the house. HELENA and VOITSKI walk over to the
terrace.
HELENA. You have behaved shockingly again. Ivan, what sense was there
in teasing your mother and talking about _perpetuum mobile?_ And at
breakfast you quarreled with Alexander again. Really, your behaviour is
too petty.
VOITSKI. But if I hate him?
HELENA. You hate Alexander without reason; he is like every one else,
and no worse than you are.
VOITSKI. If you could only see your face, your gestures! Oh, how tedious
your life must be.
HELENA. It is tedious, yes, and dreary! You all abuse my husband and
look on me with compassion; you think, "Poor woman, she is married to
an old man." How well I understand your compassion! As Astroff said just
now, see how you thoughtlessly destroy the forests, so that there will
soon be none left. So you also destroy mankind, and soon fidelity and
purity and self-sacrifice will have vanished with the woods. Why cannot
you look calmly at a woman unless she is yours? Because, the doctor
was right, you are all possessed by a devil of destruction; you have no
mercy on the woods or the birds or on women or on one another.
VOITSKI. I don't like your philosophy.
HELENA. That doctor has a sensitive, weary face--an interesting face.
Sonia evidently likes him, and she is in love with him, and I can
understand it. This is the third time he has been here since I have
come, and I have not had a real talk with him yet or made much of him.
He thinks I am disagreeable. Do you know, Ivan, the reason you and I are
such friends? I think it is because we are both lonely and unfortunate.
Yes, unfortunate. Don't look at me in that way, I don't like it.
VOITSKI. How can I look at you otherwise when I love you? You are my
joy, my life, and my youth. I know that my chances of being loved in
return are infinitely small, do not exist, but I ask nothing of you.
Only let me look at you, listen to your voice--
HELENA. Hush, some one will overhear you.
[They go toward the house.]
VOITSKI. [Following her] Let me speak to you of my love, do not drive me
away, and this alone will be my greatest happiness!
HELENA. Ah! This is agony!
TELEGIN strikes the strings of his guitar and plays a polka. MME.
VOITSKAYA writes something on the leaves of her pamphlet.
The curtain falls.
| 3,372 | Act 1 | https://web.archive.org/web/20200714032621/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/uncle-vanya/summary/act-1 | Marina and Astrov drink tea in the garden of Serebryakov's country house. They talk about how they've known each other for at least eleven years. Astrov thinks that he has become old and eccentric. Voynitsky, aka Vanya, comes out of the house after his nap. He complains that ever since Professor Serebryakov and his wife have come to the house to live his schedule has been interrupted. Marina also notices that the Professor has screwed up the house's eating schedule, and Vanya worries that they'll stay for a hundred years. Serebryakov, his wife Yelena, his daughter Sonya, and their neighbor Telegin come into the garden from their walk. Only Telegin joins Marina for tea. Vanya gets in some jabs about how old the Professor is and also moons over how beautiful the Professor's wife is. Vanya thinks that Yelena should betray her old husband so that she can be true to herself and enjoy her youth. Telegin thinks that's not such a great idea. Sonya and Yelena come out into the garden, and Mariya, the mother of Vanya and of the Professor's first wife, joins them. Mariya tries to start talking about a philosophical or political debate that she's been reading, but Vanya cuts her off rudely. He's jealous of how much his mother admires the Professor and makes vaguely suicidal references. Astrov, a doctor, is called away to the factory and as he goes Sonya starts bragging about what a great guy he is. It turns out he has earned medals for planting new trees and campaigning against the destruction of old forests. This really gets Astrov going and he starts on a tirade against the people who are cutting down the trees instead of using peat to burn and building their houses of stone instead of wood. Sonya leaves to see Astrov to the door, and while they're gone, Yelena scolds Vanya for the way he acted toward his mother and her husband. Vanya confesses his love to Yelena, and she begs him to stop before someone hears. | null | 340 | 1 | [
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161 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/12.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_11_part_0.txt | Sense and Sensibility.chapter 12 | chapter 12 | null | {"name": "Chapter 12", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-12", "summary": "Trouble arrives at the Dashwood household in equine form when Marianne announces that Willoughby has given her an extravagant gift: a horse. Yes, that's right, you read right - flowers and chocolates just won't suffice for this guy. Horse it is. Elinor can't believe that Marianne has accepted such a ridiculous gift - after all, the Dashwoods can't afford all the things required to house a new horse . Marianne dismisses her sister's complaints about both the horse and Willoughby. However, Elinor manages to convince Marianne to turn down the horse, after reminder her of how much trouble it will be to their mother. The next day, Marianne regretfully informs Willoughby that the horse is impossible. He assures her that the horse will be waiting for her, until the Dashwoods are able to take care of it. Elinor overhears this exchange, and becomes convinced from Willoughby's concern and intimacy with Marianne that the two are engaged. Margaret, the youngest sister, is also convinced of the same thing. She tells Elinor excitedly that Willoughby even has a lock of Marianne's hair . Margaret, apparently, is kind of a ditz - she almost reveals the secret identity of Elinor's favorite gentleman to the curious Mrs. Jennings one day. Basically, she's a normal, gossip-loving preteen. Margaret reveals to everyone that Elinor's mystery man's name starts with an \"F.\" Fortunately, everyone is distracted by a combination of things, and Elinor is left mercifully alone . The party plans to go on an adventure to visit a beautiful estate nearby, owned by Colonel Brandon's brother-in-law, despite the bad weather.", "analysis": ""} |
As Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the
latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of
all that she knew before of Marianne's imprudence and want of thought,
surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both. Marianne told her,
with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one
that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was
exactly calculated to carry a woman. Without considering that it was
not in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter
her resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the
servant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable
to receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and
told her sister of it in raptures.
"He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it,"
she added, "and when it arrives we will ride every day. You shall
share its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the
delight of a gallop on some of these downs."
Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to
comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for
some time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant,
the expense would be a trifle; Mama she was sure would never object to
it; and any horse would do for HIM; he might always get one at the
park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor then
ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a
man so little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too much.
"You are mistaken, Elinor," said she warmly, "in supposing I know very
little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much
better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the
world, except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is
to determine intimacy;--it is disposition alone. Seven years would be
insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven
days are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of
greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from
Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together
for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed."
Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her
sister's temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach
her the more to her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for
her mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent
mother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she
consented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly
subdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent
kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw
him next, that it must be declined.
She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the
cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to
him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his
present. The reasons for this alteration were at the same time
related, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side
impossible. His concern however was very apparent; and after
expressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice,--"But,
Marianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now. I
shall keep it only till you can claim it. When you leave Barton to
form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall
receive you."
This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the
sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her
sister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so
decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between
them. From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each
other; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or
any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover
it by accident.
Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this
matter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding
evening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour
with only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for observations,
which, with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest
sister, when they were next by themselves.
"Oh, Elinor!" she cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about
Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon."
"You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first
met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I
believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round
her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great
uncle."
"But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be
married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair."
"Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of
HIS."
"But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am almost sure it is, for I
saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out
of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could
be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took
up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all
tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of
white paper; and put it into his pocket-book."
For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not
withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance
was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.
Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory
to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the
park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular
favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her,
Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not
tell, may I, Elinor?"
This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too.
But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed
on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a
standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.
Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good
to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to
Margaret,
"Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to
repeat them."
"I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you
who told me of it yourself."
This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly
pressed to say something more.
"Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs.
Jennings. "What is the gentleman's name?"
"I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know
where he is too."
"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be
sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say."
"No, THAT he is not. He is of no profession at all."
"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is
an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in
existence."
"Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such
a man once, and his name begins with an F."
Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this
moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the
interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her
ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as
delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was
immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion
mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of
rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked
Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of
different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so
easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.
A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a
very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a
brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not
be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders
on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and
Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed
to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at
least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a
noble piece of water; a sail on which was to a form a great part of the
morning's amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages
only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a
complete party of pleasure.
To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking,
considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the
last fortnight;--and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was
persuaded by Elinor to stay at home.
| 1,559 | Chapter 12 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-12 | Trouble arrives at the Dashwood household in equine form when Marianne announces that Willoughby has given her an extravagant gift: a horse. Yes, that's right, you read right - flowers and chocolates just won't suffice for this guy. Horse it is. Elinor can't believe that Marianne has accepted such a ridiculous gift - after all, the Dashwoods can't afford all the things required to house a new horse . Marianne dismisses her sister's complaints about both the horse and Willoughby. However, Elinor manages to convince Marianne to turn down the horse, after reminder her of how much trouble it will be to their mother. The next day, Marianne regretfully informs Willoughby that the horse is impossible. He assures her that the horse will be waiting for her, until the Dashwoods are able to take care of it. Elinor overhears this exchange, and becomes convinced from Willoughby's concern and intimacy with Marianne that the two are engaged. Margaret, the youngest sister, is also convinced of the same thing. She tells Elinor excitedly that Willoughby even has a lock of Marianne's hair . Margaret, apparently, is kind of a ditz - she almost reveals the secret identity of Elinor's favorite gentleman to the curious Mrs. Jennings one day. Basically, she's a normal, gossip-loving preteen. Margaret reveals to everyone that Elinor's mystery man's name starts with an "F." Fortunately, everyone is distracted by a combination of things, and Elinor is left mercifully alone . The party plans to go on an adventure to visit a beautiful estate nearby, owned by Colonel Brandon's brother-in-law, despite the bad weather. | null | 264 | 1 | [
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1,232 | true | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/chapters_8_to_9.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Prince/section_2_part_0.txt | The Prince.chapters 8-9 | section 3: chapters 8-9 | null | {"name": "Section 3: Chapters VIII-IX", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210417004655/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-prince/study-guide/summary-section-3-chapters-viii-ix", "summary": "\"On Those Who Have Become Princes By Crime,\" is one of the key chapters of The Prince. In it, Machiavelli seems to distinguish between outright cruelty and the kind of clever ruthlessness he describes earlier in the work . He makes use of two examples: the first ancient, and the second modern. Agathocles massacred all the senators and richest citizens of Syracuse, and thereby became prince. Oliverotto da Fermo murdered his uncle and other citizens, and forced Fermo to make him its prince. An interesting side-note: Oliverotto was later killed by Cesare Borgia at Sinigaglia, having fallen victim to another statesman's trickery. How, Machiavelli asks, did these two men \"live long, secure lives in their native cities, defend themselves from foreign enemies, and never be conspired against by their fellow citizens?\" His answer: because their cruelty was put to good use. Cruelty can be considered well-used if carried out in one stab, the wicked deeds executed all at once, and if it can be interpreted as necessary for self-preservation. This distinction leads Machiavelli to the following argument: \"We may add this note that when a prince takes a new state, he should calculate the sum of all the injuries he will have to do, and do them all at once, so as not to have to do new ones every day; simply by not repeating them, he will then be able to reassure people, and win them over to his side with benefits.\" The next chapter, \"On the Civil Principate,\" concerns another kind of prince: one who gains power \"not through crimes or other intolerable violence, but by the choice of his fellow citizens .\" A prince can rise in this fashion in one of two ways: either by the will of the people, or by the will of the nobles. \"In every city,\" Machiavelli goes on to argue, \"there are two different humors, one rising from the people's desire not to be ordered and commanded by the nobles, and the other from the desire of the nobles to command and oppress the people.\" If nobles see they are having trouble with the people, they make one of their own a prince; he becomes their puppet, and therefore they get what they want on a larger scale. If the people feel that the nobles are oppressing them, they will try to make one of their own a prince; he then becomes their shield against the nobles. As nobles are particularly difficult to deal with, a prince of any kind should try to win the favor of the populace and keep it dependent on the state. Machiavelli rejects the notion that \"The man who counts on the people builds his house on mud,\" though he does concede that a prince should not let \"himself think that the people will come to his aid when he is in trouble.\" As with so much else, it is all about balance.", "analysis": "Machiavelli has a reputation, largely based on The Prince, for a cold-hearted worldview, political cynicism, and philosophical ruthlessness. However, this reputation is largely exaggerated. As influential as Machiavelli's ideas may have been on future generations of totalitarians, realpolitik maestros, and Kissinger think-alikes, his own approach is far more complex: it reflects a taste for expediency and an emphasis on ends over means, but is muted by a concern for human needs and a genuine interest in human nature. Consider the following sentence, from Chapter IX: \"In fact the aim of the common people is more honest than that of the nobles, since the nobles want to oppress others, while the people simply want not to be oppressed.\" Machiavelli adopts an altogether bitter tone when describing the nobles - their greed, their power-lust, their selfishness - and seems to argue that a good prince should rise above such petty wants and lowly attributes. If anything, a prince should pay more attention to the people than to the nobles. While such a formulation may seem to be common sense, it reflects an almost democratic view: the will of the many over the will of the few, protection for the powerless against the threats of the powerful. That this chapter follows a chapter exclusively devoted to criminal princes is telling. Machiavelli seems unsure whether to condone what he labels as \"cruelty\" or to condemn it. He seems to take a certain pleasure in recounting the wicked deeds of an Agathocles or an Oliverotto da Fermo; what these men did is indefensible, and yet it worked. Machiavelli, ever the theoretician, proceeds to meditate on why it worked. He nearly traps himself in a philosophical cul-de-sac when, about to explain what he means by well-used cruelty, he writes: \"if it's permissible to say good words about something which is evil in itself.\" Why are the actions of Agathocles and Oliverotto evil, while those of Cesare Borgia are not? We are reminded of Borgia, since it was he who lured Oliverotto to his death. Never would Machiavelli refer to Borgia as a criminal prince, yet he murdered the leaders of rival factions to clear the way for his own ascent, much as did Agathocles and Oliverotto, and he made an example of his lieutenant general after using him to pacify his kingdom, just to save face. To Machiavelli, this is cleverness at its best: actions justified by their very brilliance. It's not hard to see why everyone from Macbeth to the Corleone family to Stalin have been labeled Machiavellian at various junctures. But would Machiavelli approve? It seems that because the deeds of Agathocles and Oliverotto reflected not so much urgent necessity as a kind of deep-seated bloodlust, they are distinguishable from Borgia's moves. Whatever the reasoning, Machiavelli's distinction is notable. Machiavelli has not touched the bottom of this particular well, in later chapters continues to examine the line between justifiable and unjustifiable cruelty. Nonetheless, what emerges at this juncture in The Prince is the simple assertion, fundamental to the book's argument, that some cruelty is good and some is not. This rejection of the categorical in favor of the relative or comparative is an important one: there is a sense in which the contradictions in Machiavelli's theorizing may reflect his own uncertainty as to when cruelty can be excused. It is worth remembering that he was imprisoned and tortured prior to writing The Prince; without lashing out at the Medici family, he does, in his introductory letter, suggest that the cruelty he experienced was unjustified: \"you will recognize how unjustly I suffer the bitter and sustained malignity of fortune.\" The exile rails against the cruelty carried out against him while defending the cruelty of past princes. At the same time, he refers to historical figures such as Agathocles as wicked men; he writes that people should either be \"caressed or destroyed,\" and then later turns around and argues that the common people are honest and more noble in their sentiments than the nobles. None of these various positions constitutes a complete about-face vis-a-vis an earlier position, but the shifting of rhetoric and the slipperiness of Machiavelli's tone does suggest that he himself has not finished grappling with what is perhaps the most fundamental question of all: when do the ends no longer justify the means?"} |
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.
But coming to the other point--where a leading citizen becomes the
prince of his country, not by wickedness or any intolerable violence,
but by the favour of his fellow citizens--this may be called a civil
principality: nor is genius or fortune altogether necessary to attain to
it, but rather a happy shrewdness. I say then that such a principality
is obtained either by the favour of the people or by the favour of the
nobles. Because in all cities these two distinct parties are found,
and from this it arises that the people do not wish to be ruled nor
oppressed by the nobles, and the nobles wish to rule and oppress the
people; and from these two opposite desires there arises in cities one
of three results, either a principality, self-government, or anarchy.
A principality is created either by the people or by the nobles,
accordingly as one or other of them has the opportunity; for the nobles,
seeing they cannot withstand the people, begin to cry up the reputation
of one of themselves, and they make him a prince, so that under his
shadow they can give vent to their ambitions. The people, finding
they cannot resist the nobles, also cry up the reputation of one of
themselves, and make him a prince so as to be defended by his authority.
He who obtains sovereignty by the assistance of the nobles maintains
himself with more difficulty than he who comes to it by the aid of
the people, because the former finds himself with many around him who
consider themselves his equals, and because of this he can neither rule
nor manage them to his liking. But he who reaches sovereignty by popular
favour finds himself alone, and has none around him, or few, who are not
prepared to obey him.
Besides this, one cannot by fair dealing, and without injury to others,
satisfy the nobles, but you can satisfy the people, for their object is
more righteous than that of the nobles, the latter wishing to oppress,
while the former only desire not to be oppressed. It is to be added also
that a prince can never secure himself against a hostile people, because
of there being too many, whilst from the nobles he can secure himself,
as they are few in number. The worst that a prince may expect from a
hostile people is to be abandoned by them; but from hostile nobles he
has not only to fear abandonment, but also that they will rise against
him; for they, being in these affairs more far-seeing and astute, always
come forward in time to save themselves, and to obtain favours from him
whom they expect to prevail. Further, the prince is compelled to live
always with the same people, but he can do well without the same nobles,
being able to make and unmake them daily, and to give or take away
authority when it pleases him.
Therefore, to make this point clearer, I say that the nobles ought to
be looked at mainly in two ways: that is to say, they either shape their
course in such a way as binds them entirely to your fortune, or they do
not. Those who so bind themselves, and are not rapacious, ought to be
honoured and loved; those who do not bind themselves may be dealt
with in two ways; they may fail to do this through pusillanimity and a
natural want of courage, in which case you ought to make use of them,
especially of those who are of good counsel; and thus, whilst in
prosperity you honour them, in adversity you do not have to fear them.
But when for their own ambitious ends they shun binding themselves, it
is a token that they are giving more thought to themselves than to you,
and a prince ought to guard against such, and to fear them as if they
were open enemies, because in adversity they always help to ruin him.
Therefore, one who becomes a prince through the favour of the people
ought to keep them friendly, and this he can easily do seeing they
only ask not to be oppressed by him. But one who, in opposition to
the people, becomes a prince by the favour of the nobles, ought, above
everything, to seek to win the people over to himself, and this he may
easily do if he takes them under his protection. Because men, when they
receive good from him of whom they were expecting evil, are bound more
closely to their benefactor; thus the people quickly become more devoted
to him than if he had been raised to the principality by their favours;
and the prince can win their affections in many ways, but as these vary
according to the circumstances one cannot give fixed rules, so I omit
them; but, I repeat, it is necessary for a prince to have the people
friendly, otherwise he has no security in adversity.
Nabis,(*) Prince of the Spartans, sustained the attack of all Greece,
and of a victorious Roman army, and against them he defended his country
and his government; and for the overcoming of this peril it was only
necessary for him to make himself secure against a few, but this would
not have been sufficient had the people been hostile. And do not let any
one impugn this statement with the trite proverb that "He who builds on
the people, builds on the mud," for this is true when a private citizen
makes a foundation there, and persuades himself that the people will
free him when he is oppressed by his enemies or by the magistrates;
wherein he would find himself very often deceived, as happened to the
Gracchi in Rome and to Messer Giorgio Scali(+) in Florence. But granted
a prince who has established himself as above, who can command, and is
a man of courage, undismayed in adversity, who does not fail in other
qualifications, and who, by his resolution and energy, keeps the whole
people encouraged--such a one will never find himself deceived in them,
and it will be shown that he has laid his foundations well.
(*) Nabis, tyrant of Sparta, conquered by the Romans under
Flamininus in 195 B.C.; killed 192 B.C.
(+) Messer Giorgio Scali. This event is to be found in
Machiavelli's "Florentine History," Book III.
These principalities are liable to danger when they are passing from the
civil to the absolute order of government, for such princes either rule
personally or through magistrates. In the latter case their government
is weaker and more insecure, because it rests entirely on the goodwill
of those citizens who are raised to the magistracy, and who, especially
in troubled times, can destroy the government with great ease, either
by intrigue or open defiance; and the prince has not the chance amid
tumults to exercise absolute authority, because the citizens and
subjects, accustomed to receive orders from magistrates, are not of
a mind to obey him amid these confusions, and there will always be in
doubtful times a scarcity of men whom he can trust. For such a prince
cannot rely upon what he observes in quiet times, when citizens have
need of the state, because then every one agrees with him; they all
promise, and when death is far distant they all wish to die for him;
but in troubled times, when the state has need of its citizens, then
he finds but few. And so much the more is this experiment dangerous,
inasmuch as it can only be tried once. Therefore a wise prince ought to
adopt such a course that his citizens will always in every sort and
kind of circumstance have need of the state and of him, and then he will
always find them faithful.
| 2,649 | Section 3: Chapters VIII-IX | https://web.archive.org/web/20210417004655/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-prince/study-guide/summary-section-3-chapters-viii-ix | "On Those Who Have Become Princes By Crime," is one of the key chapters of The Prince. In it, Machiavelli seems to distinguish between outright cruelty and the kind of clever ruthlessness he describes earlier in the work . He makes use of two examples: the first ancient, and the second modern. Agathocles massacred all the senators and richest citizens of Syracuse, and thereby became prince. Oliverotto da Fermo murdered his uncle and other citizens, and forced Fermo to make him its prince. An interesting side-note: Oliverotto was later killed by Cesare Borgia at Sinigaglia, having fallen victim to another statesman's trickery. How, Machiavelli asks, did these two men "live long, secure lives in their native cities, defend themselves from foreign enemies, and never be conspired against by their fellow citizens?" His answer: because their cruelty was put to good use. Cruelty can be considered well-used if carried out in one stab, the wicked deeds executed all at once, and if it can be interpreted as necessary for self-preservation. This distinction leads Machiavelli to the following argument: "We may add this note that when a prince takes a new state, he should calculate the sum of all the injuries he will have to do, and do them all at once, so as not to have to do new ones every day; simply by not repeating them, he will then be able to reassure people, and win them over to his side with benefits." The next chapter, "On the Civil Principate," concerns another kind of prince: one who gains power "not through crimes or other intolerable violence, but by the choice of his fellow citizens ." A prince can rise in this fashion in one of two ways: either by the will of the people, or by the will of the nobles. "In every city," Machiavelli goes on to argue, "there are two different humors, one rising from the people's desire not to be ordered and commanded by the nobles, and the other from the desire of the nobles to command and oppress the people." If nobles see they are having trouble with the people, they make one of their own a prince; he becomes their puppet, and therefore they get what they want on a larger scale. If the people feel that the nobles are oppressing them, they will try to make one of their own a prince; he then becomes their shield against the nobles. As nobles are particularly difficult to deal with, a prince of any kind should try to win the favor of the populace and keep it dependent on the state. Machiavelli rejects the notion that "The man who counts on the people builds his house on mud," though he does concede that a prince should not let "himself think that the people will come to his aid when he is in trouble." As with so much else, it is all about balance. | Machiavelli has a reputation, largely based on The Prince, for a cold-hearted worldview, political cynicism, and philosophical ruthlessness. However, this reputation is largely exaggerated. As influential as Machiavelli's ideas may have been on future generations of totalitarians, realpolitik maestros, and Kissinger think-alikes, his own approach is far more complex: it reflects a taste for expediency and an emphasis on ends over means, but is muted by a concern for human needs and a genuine interest in human nature. Consider the following sentence, from Chapter IX: "In fact the aim of the common people is more honest than that of the nobles, since the nobles want to oppress others, while the people simply want not to be oppressed." Machiavelli adopts an altogether bitter tone when describing the nobles - their greed, their power-lust, their selfishness - and seems to argue that a good prince should rise above such petty wants and lowly attributes. If anything, a prince should pay more attention to the people than to the nobles. While such a formulation may seem to be common sense, it reflects an almost democratic view: the will of the many over the will of the few, protection for the powerless against the threats of the powerful. That this chapter follows a chapter exclusively devoted to criminal princes is telling. Machiavelli seems unsure whether to condone what he labels as "cruelty" or to condemn it. He seems to take a certain pleasure in recounting the wicked deeds of an Agathocles or an Oliverotto da Fermo; what these men did is indefensible, and yet it worked. Machiavelli, ever the theoretician, proceeds to meditate on why it worked. He nearly traps himself in a philosophical cul-de-sac when, about to explain what he means by well-used cruelty, he writes: "if it's permissible to say good words about something which is evil in itself." Why are the actions of Agathocles and Oliverotto evil, while those of Cesare Borgia are not? We are reminded of Borgia, since it was he who lured Oliverotto to his death. Never would Machiavelli refer to Borgia as a criminal prince, yet he murdered the leaders of rival factions to clear the way for his own ascent, much as did Agathocles and Oliverotto, and he made an example of his lieutenant general after using him to pacify his kingdom, just to save face. To Machiavelli, this is cleverness at its best: actions justified by their very brilliance. It's not hard to see why everyone from Macbeth to the Corleone family to Stalin have been labeled Machiavellian at various junctures. But would Machiavelli approve? It seems that because the deeds of Agathocles and Oliverotto reflected not so much urgent necessity as a kind of deep-seated bloodlust, they are distinguishable from Borgia's moves. Whatever the reasoning, Machiavelli's distinction is notable. Machiavelli has not touched the bottom of this particular well, in later chapters continues to examine the line between justifiable and unjustifiable cruelty. Nonetheless, what emerges at this juncture in The Prince is the simple assertion, fundamental to the book's argument, that some cruelty is good and some is not. This rejection of the categorical in favor of the relative or comparative is an important one: there is a sense in which the contradictions in Machiavelli's theorizing may reflect his own uncertainty as to when cruelty can be excused. It is worth remembering that he was imprisoned and tortured prior to writing The Prince; without lashing out at the Medici family, he does, in his introductory letter, suggest that the cruelty he experienced was unjustified: "you will recognize how unjustly I suffer the bitter and sustained malignity of fortune." The exile rails against the cruelty carried out against him while defending the cruelty of past princes. At the same time, he refers to historical figures such as Agathocles as wicked men; he writes that people should either be "caressed or destroyed," and then later turns around and argues that the common people are honest and more noble in their sentiments than the nobles. None of these various positions constitutes a complete about-face vis-a-vis an earlier position, but the shifting of rhetoric and the slipperiness of Machiavelli's tone does suggest that he himself has not finished grappling with what is perhaps the most fundamental question of all: when do the ends no longer justify the means? | 487 | 722 | [
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1,130 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/1130-chapters/22.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra/section_21_part_0.txt | The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra.act iii.scene x | act iii, scene x | null | {"name": "Act III, Scene x", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-iii-scene-x", "summary": "Stage directions show Taurus with Caesar's army and Canidius with Antony's army as they both cross paths. We can hear the battle off-stage, but Enobarbus comes in to deliver the horrifying news: in the middle of the battle, just when fortune could have gone one way or the other, Cleopatra's ship turned sail and ran away. Antony, seeing her flee, also turned his sails and followed her, leaving the battle to ruins and his honor to mockery. Canidius enters, announcing that this defeat was due to Antony not being remotely noble. Canidius decides to defect to Caesar's side with his troops, and Enobarbus leans toward defecting also, though he's not too happy about it.", "analysis": ""} | SCENE X.
Another part of the plain
CANIDIUS marcheth with his land army one way
over the stage, and TAURUS, the Lieutenant of
CAESAR, the other way. After their going in is heard
the noise of a sea-fight
Alarum. Enter ENOBARBUS
ENOBARBUS. Naught, naught, all naught! I can behold no longer.
Th' Antoniad, the Egyptian admiral,
With all their sixty, fly and turn the rudder.
To see't mine eyes are blasted.
Enter SCARUS
SCARUS. Gods and goddesses,
All the whole synod of them!
ENOBARBUS. What's thy passion?
SCARUS. The greater cantle of the world is lost
With very ignorance; we have kiss'd away
Kingdoms and provinces.
ENOBARBUS. How appears the fight?
SCARUS. On our side like the token'd pestilence,
Where death is sure. Yon ribaudred nag of Egypt-
Whom leprosy o'ertake!- i' th' midst o' th' fight,
When vantage like a pair of twins appear'd,
Both as the same, or rather ours the elder-
The breese upon her, like a cow in June-
Hoists sails and flies.
ENOBARBUS. That I beheld;
Mine eyes did sicken at the sight and could not
Endure a further view.
SCARUS. She once being loof'd,
The noble ruin of her magic, Antony,
Claps on his sea-wing, and, like a doting mallard,
Leaving the fight in height, flies after her.
I never saw an action of such shame;
Experience, manhood, honour, ne'er before
Did violate so itself.
ENOBARBUS. Alack, alack!
Enter CANIDIUS
CANIDIUS. Our fortune on the sea is out of breath,
And sinks most lamentably. Had our general
Been what he knew himself, it had gone well.
O, he has given example for our flight
Most grossly by his own!
ENOBARBUS. Ay, are you thereabouts?
Why then, good night indeed.
CANIDIUS. Toward Peloponnesus are they fled.
SCARUS. 'Tis easy to't; and there I will attend
What further comes.
CANIDIUS. To Caesar will I render
My legions and my horse; six kings already
Show me the way of yielding.
ENOBARBUS. I'll yet follow
The wounded chance of Antony, though my reason
Sits in the wind against me. Exeunt
ACT_3|SC_11
| 589 | Act III, Scene x | https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-iii-scene-x | Stage directions show Taurus with Caesar's army and Canidius with Antony's army as they both cross paths. We can hear the battle off-stage, but Enobarbus comes in to deliver the horrifying news: in the middle of the battle, just when fortune could have gone one way or the other, Cleopatra's ship turned sail and ran away. Antony, seeing her flee, also turned his sails and followed her, leaving the battle to ruins and his honor to mockery. Canidius enters, announcing that this defeat was due to Antony not being remotely noble. Canidius decides to defect to Caesar's side with his troops, and Enobarbus leans toward defecting also, though he's not too happy about it. | null | 114 | 1 | [
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5,658 | true | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_1_to_3.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/Lord Jim/section_0_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapters 1-3 | chapters 1-3 | null | {"name": "Chapters 1-3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-1-3", "summary": "Lord Jim begins with the powerful physical description of a man \"an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built.\" He has a deep voice and immaculate dress, being white \"from shoes to hat,\" and he makes his living as a water-clerk in \"various Eastern ports.\" He is \"very popular.\" This image is layered with attributes that arise in a consideration of what is required to be a water-clerk of quality. Thus the reader learns that the man has \"Ability in the abstract\" and that he is able to apply it \"practically.\" The man is called \"Jim.\" Jim comes to be known as \"Tuan Jim\" or \"Lord Jim\" among the Malays of the jungle village where he lives \"incognito.\" Answering just how he becomes \"Lord Jim\" and just why he is \"incognito\" is the project of the tale. Jim is rootless, moving farther and farther east, escaping whatever fact of his history that seems to be following him. Born the son of a parson, he is answering the call of the sea. He is smart, physically fit, and a dreamer of danger and success. The reader, however, now learns of a collision at sea where Jim leapt to his feet but was beaten. \"Too late, youngster,\" the captain of the ship tells him, as the glory of the rescue falls like a wreath over the bowman, who jumped first, \"a boy with a face like a girl's and big grey eyes.\" Jim is angry and frustrated with his missed opportunity to be a hero. Two years of training and life on the sea pass, and Jim feels let down by the humdrum nature of his experiences. The sea, he feels, is not so full of the adventures he once imagined. Jim is \"chief mate of a fine ship, without ever having been tested\" . He spends some time on his back because of an injury and is left at a hospital in an \"Eastern port.\" When able, Jim descends into the nearby port town and studies the nature of men and life around him, all sharing the same calling of the sea. In time, he discards the idea of returning to England and chooses, instead, to become chief mate of the Patna, an old local steamer, manned by a vastly overweight New South Wales German captain. The steamer is headed for Mecca with eight hundred pilgrims led by an Arab leader in white, who offers a prayer. There are only five white men on board. At night, as Jim contemplates the Arabian Sea from the bridge of the steamer, the speed steady, and the human landscape of passengers asleep, fathers and sons, beneath him, he considers his romantic dreams--\"the success of his imaginary achievements\" . The German captain appears with too little clothing; the second engineer complains. A conversation takes place regarding drink and being drunk, and then fear and courage, but \"those men did not belong to the world of heroic adventure\" . Suddenly, the three of them are lurched by the force of a disturbance beneath the boat. The sound is like the \"faint noise of thunder ... hardly more than a vibration\" .", "analysis": "Lord Jim begins with a direct, close-up view of its subject: Jim. His physical description is at first powerfully impressed upon the reader, and then the reader encounters the mysterious manner in which he drifts through the world. He is a clean-cut, well-liked young man, but the mystery is that he is constantly trying to outrun or escape a fact of his past. The reader is brought into a state of curiosity. Who is this young man? Why is he trying to maintain himself incognito? Why is he a water-clerk, when he appears to be gifted with intelligence and talent? And, most importantly, what is the fact from which he is so energetically trying to escape? The reference to Jim as having \"Ability in the abstract\" is crucial to the construction of his character in the novel. He is gifted with a kind of genius, but it only exists in an abstract way. The effort is then to realize this \"ability\" in the real world, to take action, to create change, and to realize the potential of such an \"ability.\" It is further important to note that Jim is never given a surname throughout the narrative. In this way, the lone \"Jim\" strikes the reader as intimately present yet anonymous, illustrating precisely the kind of ambiguity for which Conrad is famous. When the reader is then told that Jim becomes \"Tuan Jim\" or \"Lord Jim,\" Conrad drives the dramatic motion of the novel by causing curiosity regarding how Jim will attain this title. The view in the narrative then cuts to a significant moment in his personal history, the occasion when he was too late in seizing the opportunity to rescue a person at sea. Angry with the lost opportunity, Jim expresses his romantic temperament; this part of the tale also allows us to see his motivations for pursuing a life at sea in the first place. He is a dreamer, and he seems to be confident of some aspect of his self as being more than capable of achieving his dreams. This dreaming quality is characteristic of much of the driving force for young men to pursue a life at sea, and in this way Jim becomes a quintessential example of youthful aspiration. A question is then immediately suggested: how will Jim mature? How will he move from being a dreaming young man to the man running from his past and then a man with the title \"Lord Jim\"? One night, Jim observes his fellow crew members, thinking that they are not part of the world of \"heroic adventure.\" Thus Jim differentiates himself: \"he shared the air they breathed, but he was different\" . Now, as the sudden and strange vibration occurs beneath the ship, the situation leads us to ask: will Jim be able to prove his difference?"} | He was an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built, and he
advanced straight at you with a slight stoop of the shoulders, head
forward, and a fixed from-under stare which made you think of a charging
bull. His voice was deep, loud, and his manner displayed a kind of
dogged self-assertion which had nothing aggressive in it. It seemed
a necessity, and it was directed apparently as much at himself as at
anybody else. He was spotlessly neat, apparelled in immaculate white
from shoes to hat, and in the various Eastern ports where he got his
living as ship-chandler's water-clerk he was very popular.
A water-clerk need not pass an examination in anything under the sun,
but he must have Ability in the abstract and demonstrate it practically.
His work consists in racing under sail, steam, or oars against other
water-clerks for any ship about to anchor, greeting her captain
cheerily, forcing upon him a card--the business card of the
ship-chandler--and on his first visit on shore piloting him firmly but
without ostentation to a vast, cavern-like shop which is full of things
that are eaten and drunk on board ship; where you can get everything
to make her seaworthy and beautiful, from a set of chain-hooks for her
cable to a book of gold-leaf for the carvings of her stern; and where
her commander is received like a brother by a ship-chandler he has never
seen before. There is a cool parlour, easy-chairs, bottles, cigars,
writing implements, a copy of harbour regulations, and a warmth of
welcome that melts the salt of a three months' passage out of a seaman's
heart. The connection thus begun is kept up, as long as the ship remains
in harbour, by the daily visits of the water-clerk. To the captain he
is faithful like a friend and attentive like a son, with the patience
of Job, the unselfish devotion of a woman, and the jollity of a boon
companion. Later on the bill is sent in. It is a beautiful and humane
occupation. Therefore good water-clerks are scarce. When a water-clerk
who possesses Ability in the abstract has also the advantage of having
been brought up to the sea, he is worth to his employer a lot of money
and some humouring. Jim had always good wages and as much humouring
as would have bought the fidelity of a fiend. Nevertheless, with black
ingratitude he would throw up the job suddenly and depart. To his
employers the reasons he gave were obviously inadequate. They said
'Confounded fool!' as soon as his back was turned. This was their
criticism on his exquisite sensibility.
To the white men in the waterside business and to the captains of ships
he was just Jim--nothing more. He had, of course, another name, but he
was anxious that it should not be pronounced. His incognito, which had
as many holes as a sieve, was not meant to hide a personality but a
fact. When the fact broke through the incognito he would leave
suddenly the seaport where he happened to be at the time and go to
another--generally farther east. He kept to seaports because he was a
seaman in exile from the sea, and had Ability in the abstract, which is
good for no other work but that of a water-clerk. He retreated in good
order towards the rising sun, and the fact followed him casually but
inevitably. Thus in the course of years he was known successively in
Bombay, in Calcutta, in Rangoon, in Penang, in Batavia--and in each of
these halting-places was just Jim the water-clerk. Afterwards, when his
keen perception of the Intolerable drove him away for good from seaports
and white men, even into the virgin forest, the Malays of the jungle
village, where he had elected to conceal his deplorable faculty, added a
word to the monosyllable of his incognito. They called him Tuan Jim: as
one might say--Lord Jim.
Originally he came from a parsonage. Many commanders of fine
merchant-ships come from these abodes of piety and peace. Jim's father
possessed such certain knowledge of the Unknowable as made for the
righteousness of people in cottages without disturbing the ease of mind
of those whom an unerring Providence enables to live in mansions. The
little church on a hill had the mossy greyness of a rock seen through a
ragged screen of leaves. It had stood there for centuries, but the trees
around probably remembered the laying of the first stone. Below, the
red front of the rectory gleamed with a warm tint in the midst of
grass-plots, flower-beds, and fir-trees, with an orchard at the back,
a paved stable-yard to the left, and the sloping glass of greenhouses
tacked along a wall of bricks. The living had belonged to the family for
generations; but Jim was one of five sons, and when after a course of
light holiday literature his vocation for the sea had declared itself,
he was sent at once to a 'training-ship for officers of the mercantile
marine.'
He learned there a little trigonometry and how to cross top-gallant
yards. He was generally liked. He had the third place in navigation
and pulled stroke in the first cutter. Having a steady head with an
excellent physique, he was very smart aloft. His station was in the
fore-top, and often from there he looked down, with the contempt of a
man destined to shine in the midst of dangers, at the peaceful multitude
of roofs cut in two by the brown tide of the stream, while scattered
on the outskirts of the surrounding plain the factory chimneys rose
perpendicular against a grimy sky, each slender like a pencil, and
belching out smoke like a volcano. He could see the big ships departing,
the broad-beamed ferries constantly on the move, the little boats
floating far below his feet, with the hazy splendour of the sea in the
distance, and the hope of a stirring life in the world of adventure.
On the lower deck in the babel of two hundred voices he would forget
himself, and beforehand live in his mind the sea-life of light
literature. He saw himself saving people from sinking ships, cutting
away masts in a hurricane, swimming through a surf with a line; or as a
lonely castaway, barefooted and half naked, walking on uncovered reefs
in search of shellfish to stave off starvation. He confronted savages on
tropical shores, quelled mutinies on the high seas, and in a small boat
upon the ocean kept up the hearts of despairing men--always an example
of devotion to duty, and as unflinching as a hero in a book.
'Something's up. Come along.'
He leaped to his feet. The boys were streaming up the ladders. Above
could be heard a great scurrying about and shouting, and when he got
through the hatchway he stood still--as if confounded.
It was the dusk of a winter's day. The gale had freshened since noon,
stopping the traffic on the river, and now blew with the strength of a
hurricane in fitful bursts that boomed like salvoes of great guns firing
over the ocean. The rain slanted in sheets that flicked and subsided,
and between whiles Jim had threatening glimpses of the tumbling tide,
the small craft jumbled and tossing along the shore, the motionless
buildings in the driving mist, the broad ferry-boats pitching
ponderously at anchor, the vast landing-stages heaving up and down and
smothered in sprays. The next gust seemed to blow all this away. The
air was full of flying water. There was a fierce purpose in the gale, a
furious earnestness in the screech of the wind, in the brutal tumult of
earth and sky, that seemed directed at him, and made him hold his breath
in awe. He stood still. It seemed to him he was whirled around.
He was jostled. 'Man the cutter!' Boys rushed past him. A coaster
running in for shelter had crashed through a schooner at anchor, and one
of the ship's instructors had seen the accident. A mob of boys clambered
on the rails, clustered round the davits. 'Collision. Just ahead of us.
Mr. Symons saw it.' A push made him stagger against the mizzen-mast, and
he caught hold of a rope. The old training-ship chained to her moorings
quivered all over, bowing gently head to wind, and with her scanty
rigging humming in a deep bass the breathless song of her youth at sea.
'Lower away!' He saw the boat, manned, drop swiftly below the rail,
and rushed after her. He heard a splash. 'Let go; clear the falls!' He
leaned over. The river alongside seethed in frothy streaks. The cutter
could be seen in the falling darkness under the spell of tide and wind,
that for a moment held her bound, and tossing abreast of the ship.
A yelling voice in her reached him faintly: 'Keep stroke, you young
whelps, if you want to save anybody! Keep stroke!' And suddenly she
lifted high her bow, and, leaping with raised oars over a wave, broke
the spell cast upon her by the wind and tide.
Jim felt his shoulder gripped firmly. 'Too late, youngster.' The captain
of the ship laid a restraining hand on that boy, who seemed on the
point of leaping overboard, and Jim looked up with the pain of conscious
defeat in his eyes. The captain smiled sympathetically. 'Better luck
next time. This will teach you to be smart.'
A shrill cheer greeted the cutter. She came dancing back half full of
water, and with two exhausted men washing about on her bottom boards.
The tumult and the menace of wind and sea now appeared very contemptible
to Jim, increasing the regret of his awe at their inefficient menace.
Now he knew what to think of it. It seemed to him he cared nothing for
the gale. He could affront greater perils. He would do so--better than
anybody. Not a particle of fear was left. Nevertheless he brooded apart
that evening while the bowman of the cutter--a boy with a face like
a girl's and big grey eyes--was the hero of the lower deck. Eager
questioners crowded round him. He narrated: 'I just saw his head
bobbing, and I dashed my boat-hook in the water. It caught in his
breeches and I nearly went overboard, as I thought I would, only old
Symons let go the tiller and grabbed my legs--the boat nearly swamped.
Old Symons is a fine old chap. I don't mind a bit him being grumpy with
us. He swore at me all the time he held my leg, but that was only his
way of telling me to stick to the boat-hook. Old Symons is awfully
excitable--isn't he? No--not the little fair chap--the other, the big
one with a beard. When we pulled him in he groaned, "Oh, my leg! oh,
my leg!" and turned up his eyes. Fancy such a big chap fainting like
a girl. Would any of you fellows faint for a jab with a boat-hook?--I
wouldn't. It went into his leg so far.' He showed the boat-hook, which
he had carried below for the purpose, and produced a sensation. 'No,
silly! It was not his flesh that held him--his breeches did. Lots of
blood, of course.'
Jim thought it a pitiful display of vanity. The gale had ministered to
a heroism as spurious as its own pretence of terror. He felt angry with
the brutal tumult of earth and sky for taking him unawares and checking
unfairly a generous readiness for narrow escapes. Otherwise he was
rather glad he had not gone into the cutter, since a lower achievement
had served the turn. He had enlarged his knowledge more than those who
had done the work. When all men flinched, then--he felt sure--he alone
would know how to deal with the spurious menace of wind and seas. He
knew what to think of it. Seen dispassionately, it seemed contemptible.
He could detect no trace of emotion in himself, and the final effect of
a staggering event was that, unnoticed and apart from the noisy crowd of
boys, he exulted with fresh certitude in his avidity for adventure, and
in a sense of many-sided courage.
After two years of training he went to sea, and entering the regions so
well known to his imagination, found them strangely barren of adventure.
He made many voyages. He knew the magic monotony of existence between
sky and water: he had to bear the criticism of men, the exactions of the
sea, and the prosaic severity of the daily task that gives bread--but
whose only reward is in the perfect love of the work. This reward eluded
him. Yet he could not go back, because there is nothing more enticing,
disenchanting, and enslaving than the life at sea. Besides, his
prospects were good. He was gentlemanly, steady, tractable, with a
thorough knowledge of his duties; and in time, when yet very young, he
became chief mate of a fine ship, without ever having been tested by
those events of the sea that show in the light of day the inner worth of
a man, the edge of his temper, and the fibre of his stuff; that reveal
the quality of his resistance and the secret truth of his pretences, not
only to others but also to himself.
Only once in all that time he had again a glimpse of the earnestness in
the anger of the sea. That truth is not so often made apparent as people
might think. There are many shades in the danger of adventures and
gales, and it is only now and then that there appears on the face of
facts a sinister violence of intention--that indefinable something which
forces it upon the mind and the heart of a man, that this complication
of accidents or these elemental furies are coming at him with a purpose
of malice, with a strength beyond control, with an unbridled cruelty
that means to tear out of him his hope and his fear, the pain of his
fatigue and his longing for rest: which means to smash, to destroy, to
annihilate all he has seen, known, loved, enjoyed, or hated; all that is
priceless and necessary--the sunshine, the memories, the future; which
means to sweep the whole precious world utterly away from his sight by
the simple and appalling act of taking his life.
Jim, disabled by a falling spar at the beginning of a week of which his
Scottish captain used to say afterwards, 'Man! it's a pairfect meeracle
to me how she lived through it!' spent many days stretched on his back,
dazed, battered, hopeless, and tormented as if at the bottom of an
abyss of unrest. He did not care what the end would be, and in his lucid
moments overvalued his indifference. The danger, when not seen, has
the imperfect vagueness of human thought. The fear grows shadowy; and
Imagination, the enemy of men, the father of all terrors, unstimulated,
sinks to rest in the dullness of exhausted emotion. Jim saw nothing
but the disorder of his tossed cabin. He lay there battened down in the
midst of a small devastation, and felt secretly glad he had not to go on
deck. But now and again an uncontrollable rush of anguish would grip
him bodily, make him gasp and writhe under the blankets, and then the
unintelligent brutality of an existence liable to the agony of such
sensations filled him with a despairing desire to escape at any cost.
Then fine weather returned, and he thought no more about It.
His lameness, however, persisted, and when the ship arrived at an
Eastern port he had to go to the hospital. His recovery was slow, and he
was left behind.
There were only two other patients in the white men's ward: the purser
of a gunboat, who had broken his leg falling down a hatchway; and a kind
of railway contractor from a neighbouring province, afflicted by
some mysterious tropical disease, who held the doctor for an ass, and
indulged in secret debaucheries of patent medicine which his Tamil
servant used to smuggle in with unwearied devotion. They told each other
the story of their lives, played cards a little, or, yawning and in
pyjamas, lounged through the day in easy-chairs without saying a word.
The hospital stood on a hill, and a gentle breeze entering through the
windows, always flung wide open, brought into the bare room the softness
of the sky, the languor of the earth, the bewitching breath of the
Eastern waters. There were perfumes in it, suggestions of infinite
repose, the gift of endless dreams. Jim looked every day over the
thickets of gardens, beyond the roofs of the town, over the fronds of
palms growing on the shore, at that roadstead which is a thoroughfare
to the East,--at the roadstead dotted by garlanded islets, lighted by
festal sunshine, its ships like toys, its brilliant activity resembling
a holiday pageant, with the eternal serenity of the Eastern sky overhead
and the smiling peace of the Eastern seas possessing the space as far as
the horizon.
Directly he could walk without a stick, he descended into the town to
look for some opportunity to get home. Nothing offered just then, and,
while waiting, he associated naturally with the men of his calling in
the port. These were of two kinds. Some, very few and seen there but
seldom, led mysterious lives, had preserved an undefaced energy with the
temper of buccaneers and the eyes of dreamers. They appeared to live
in a crazy maze of plans, hopes, dangers, enterprises, ahead of
civilisation, in the dark places of the sea; and their death was the
only event of their fantastic existence that seemed to have a reasonable
certitude of achievement. The majority were men who, like himself,
thrown there by some accident, had remained as officers of country
ships. They had now a horror of the home service, with its harder
conditions, severer view of duty, and the hazard of stormy oceans. They
were attuned to the eternal peace of Eastern sky and sea. They
loved short passages, good deck-chairs, large native crews, and the
distinction of being white. They shuddered at the thought of hard work,
and led precariously easy lives, always on the verge of dismissal,
always on the verge of engagement, serving Chinamen, Arabs,
half-castes--would have served the devil himself had he made it easy
enough. They talked everlastingly of turns of luck: how So-and-so got
charge of a boat on the coast of China--a soft thing; how this one had
an easy billet in Japan somewhere, and that one was doing well in the
Siamese navy; and in all they said--in their actions, in their looks, in
their persons--could be detected the soft spot, the place of decay, the
determination to lounge safely through existence.
To Jim that gossiping crowd, viewed as seamen, seemed at first more
unsubstantial than so many shadows. But at length he found a fascination
in the sight of those men, in their appearance of doing so well on
such a small allowance of danger and toil. In time, beside the original
disdain there grew up slowly another sentiment; and suddenly, giving up
the idea of going home, he took a berth as chief mate of the Patna.
The Patna was a local steamer as old as the hills, lean like a
greyhound, and eaten up with rust worse than a condemned water-tank. She
was owned by a Chinaman, chartered by an Arab, and commanded by a sort
of renegade New South Wales German, very anxious to curse publicly
his native country, but who, apparently on the strength of Bismarck's
victorious policy, brutalised all those he was not afraid of, and wore a
'blood-and-iron' air,' combined with a purple nose and a red moustache.
After she had been painted outside and whitewashed inside, eight hundred
pilgrims (more or less) were driven on board of her as she lay with
steam up alongside a wooden jetty.
They streamed aboard over three gangways, they streamed in urged by
faith and the hope of paradise, they streamed in with a continuous tramp
and shuffle of bare feet, without a word, a murmur, or a look back; and
when clear of confining rails spread on all sides over the deck, flowed
forward and aft, overflowed down the yawning hatchways, filled the inner
recesses of the ship--like water filling a cistern, like water flowing
into crevices and crannies, like water rising silently even with the
rim. Eight hundred men and women with faith and hopes, with affections
and memories, they had collected there, coming from north and south
and from the outskirts of the East, after treading the jungle paths,
descending the rivers, coasting in praus along the shallows, crossing in
small canoes from island to island, passing through suffering, meeting
strange sights, beset by strange fears, upheld by one desire. They
came from solitary huts in the wilderness, from populous campongs, from
villages by the sea. At the call of an idea they had left their forests,
their clearings, the protection of their rulers, their prosperity,
their poverty, the surroundings of their youth and the graves of their
fathers. They came covered with dust, with sweat, with grime, with
rags--the strong men at the head of family parties, the lean old men
pressing forward without hope of return; young boys with fearless eyes
glancing curiously, shy little girls with tumbled long hair; the timid
women muffled up and clasping to their breasts, wrapped in loose ends of
soiled head-cloths, their sleeping babies, the unconscious pilgrims of
an exacting belief.
'Look at dese cattle,' said the German skipper to his new chief mate.
An Arab, the leader of that pious voyage, came last. He walked slowly
aboard, handsome and grave in his white gown and large turban. A string
of servants followed, loaded with his luggage; the Patna cast off and
backed away from the wharf.
She was headed between two small islets, crossed obliquely the
anchoring-ground of sailing-ships, swung through half a circle in the
shadow of a hill, then ranged close to a ledge of foaming reefs. The
Arab, standing up aft, recited aloud the prayer of travellers by sea.
He invoked the favour of the Most High upon that journey, implored His
blessing on men's toil and on the secret purposes of their hearts; the
steamer pounded in the dusk the calm water of the Strait; and far astern
of the pilgrim ship a screw-pile lighthouse, planted by unbelievers on
a treacherous shoal, seemed to wink at her its eye of flame, as if in
derision of her errand of faith.
She cleared the Strait, crossed the bay, continued on her way through
the 'One-degree' passage. She held on straight for the Red Sea under a
serene sky, under a sky scorching and unclouded, enveloped in a fulgor
of sunshine that killed all thought, oppressed the heart, withered all
impulses of strength and energy. And under the sinister splendour of
that sky the sea, blue and profound, remained still, without a stir,
without a ripple, without a wrinkle--viscous, stagnant, dead. The
Patna, with a slight hiss, passed over that plain, luminous and smooth,
unrolled a black ribbon of smoke across the sky, left behind her on the
water a white ribbon of foam that vanished at once, like the phantom of
a track drawn upon a lifeless sea by the phantom of a steamer.
Every morning the sun, as if keeping pace in his revolutions with the
progress of the pilgrimage, emerged with a silent burst of light exactly
at the same distance astern of the ship, caught up with her at noon,
pouring the concentrated fire of his rays on the pious purposes of the
men, glided past on his descent, and sank mysteriously into the sea
evening after evening, preserving the same distance ahead of her
advancing bows. The five whites on board lived amidships, isolated from
the human cargo. The awnings covered the deck with a white roof from
stem to stern, and a faint hum, a low murmur of sad voices, alone
revealed the presence of a crowd of people upon the great blaze of the
ocean. Such were the days, still, hot, heavy, disappearing one by one
into the past, as if falling into an abyss for ever open in the wake
of the ship; and the ship, lonely under a wisp of smoke, held on her
steadfast way black and smouldering in a luminous immensity, as if
scorched by a flame flicked at her from a heaven without pity.
The nights descended on her like a benediction.A marvellous stillness pervaded the world, and the stars, together with
the serenity of their rays, seemed to shed upon the earth the assurance
of everlasting security. The young moon recurved, and shining low in the
west, was like a slender shaving thrown up from a bar of gold, and the
Arabian Sea, smooth and cool to the eye like a sheet of ice, extended
its perfect level to the perfect circle of a dark horizon. The propeller
turned without a check, as though its beat had been part of the scheme
of a safe universe; and on each side of the Patna two deep folds of
water, permanent and sombre on the unwrinkled shimmer, enclosed within
their straight and diverging ridges a few white swirls of foam bursting
in a low hiss, a few wavelets, a few ripples, a few undulations that,
left behind, agitated the surface of the sea for an instant after the
passage of the ship, subsided splashing gently, calmed down at last
into the circular stillness of water and sky with the black speck of the
moving hull remaining everlastingly in its centre.
Jim on the bridge was penetrated by the great certitude of unbounded
safety and peace that could be read on the silent aspect of nature like
the certitude of fostering love upon the placid tenderness of a mother's
face. Below the roof of awnings, surrendered to the wisdom of white men
and to their courage, trusting the power of their unbelief and the iron
shell of their fire-ship, the pilgrims of an exacting faith slept
on mats, on blankets, on bare planks, on every deck, in all the dark
corners, wrapped in dyed cloths, muffled in soiled rags, with their
heads resting on small bundles, with their faces pressed to bent
forearms: the men, the women, the children; the old with the young, the
decrepit with the lusty--all equal before sleep, death's brother.
A draught of air, fanned from forward by the speed of the ship, passed
steadily through the long gloom between the high bulwarks, swept over
the rows of prone bodies; a few dim flames in globe-lamps were hung
short here and there under the ridge-poles, and in the blurred circles
of light thrown down and trembling slightly to the unceasing vibration
of the ship appeared a chin upturned, two closed eyelids, a dark hand
with silver rings, a meagre limb draped in a torn covering, a head bent
back, a naked foot, a throat bared and stretched as if offering itself
to the knife. The well-to-do had made for their families shelters with
heavy boxes and dusty mats; the poor reposed side by side with all they
had on earth tied up in a rag under their heads; the lone old men slept,
with drawn-up legs, upon their prayer-carpets, with their hands over
their ears and one elbow on each side of the face; a father, his
shoulders up and his knees under his forehead, dozed dejectedly by a
boy who slept on his back with tousled hair and one arm commandingly
extended; a woman covered from head to foot, like a corpse, with a piece
of white sheeting, had a naked child in the hollow of each arm; the
Arab's belongings, piled right aft, made a heavy mound of broken
outlines, with a cargo-lamp swung above, and a great confusion of
vague forms behind: gleams of paunchy brass pots, the foot-rest of a
deck-chair, blades of spears, the straight scabbard of an old sword
leaning against a heap of pillows, the spout of a tin coffee-pot. The
patent log on the taffrail periodically rang a single tinkling stroke
for every mile traversed on an errand of faith. Above the mass of
sleepers a faint and patient sigh at times floated, the exhalation of a
troubled dream; and short metallic clangs bursting out suddenly in the
depths of the ship, the harsh scrape of a shovel, the violent slam of a
furnace-door, exploded brutally, as if the men handling the mysterious
things below had their breasts full of fierce anger: while the slim high
hull of the steamer went on evenly ahead, without a sway of her bare
masts, cleaving continuously the great calm of the waters under the
inaccessible serenity of the sky.
Jim paced athwart, and his footsteps in the vast silence were loud to
his own ears, as if echoed by the watchful stars: his eyes, roaming
about the line of the horizon, seemed to gaze hungrily into the
unattainable, and did not see the shadow of the coming event. The only
shadow on the sea was the shadow of the black smoke pouring heavily from
the funnel its immense streamer, whose end was constantly dissolving in
the air. Two Malays, silent and almost motionless, steered, one on each
side of the wheel, whose brass rim shone fragmentarily in the oval
of light thrown out by the binnacle. Now and then a hand, with black
fingers alternately letting go and catching hold of revolving spokes,
appeared in the illumined part; the links of wheel-chains ground heavily
in the grooves of the barrel. Jim would glance at the compass, would
glance around the unattainable horizon, would stretch himself till his
joints cracked, with a leisurely twist of the body, in the very excess
of well-being; and, as if made audacious by the invincible aspect of the
peace, he felt he cared for nothing that could happen to him to the end
of his days. From time to time he glanced idly at a chart pegged
out with four drawing-pins on a low three-legged table abaft the
steering-gear case. The sheet of paper portraying the depths of the sea
presented a shiny surface under the light of a bull's-eye lamp lashed to
a stanchion, a surface as level and smooth as the glimmering surface of
the waters. Parallel rulers with a pair of dividers reposed on it; the
ship's position at last noon was marked with a small black cross, and
the straight pencil-line drawn firmly as far as Perim figured the course
of the ship--the path of souls towards the holy place, the promise of
salvation, the reward of eternal life--while the pencil with its sharp
end touching the Somali coast lay round and still like a naked ship's
spar floating in the pool of a sheltered dock. 'How steady she goes,'
thought Jim with wonder, with something like gratitude for this high
peace of sea and sky. At such times his thoughts would be full of
valorous deeds: he loved these dreams and the success of his imaginary
achievements. They were the best parts of life, its secret truth, its
hidden reality. They had a gorgeous virility, the charm of vagueness,
they passed before him with an heroic tread; they carried his soul away
with them and made it drunk with the divine philtre of an unbounded
confidence in itself. There was nothing he could not face. He was so
pleased with the idea that he smiled, keeping perfunctorily his eyes
ahead; and when he happened to glance back he saw the white streak of
the wake drawn as straight by the ship's keel upon the sea as the black
line drawn by the pencil upon the chart.
The ash-buckets racketed, clanking up and down the stoke-hold
ventilators, and this tin-pot clatter warned him the end of his watch
was near. He sighed with content, with regret as well at having to
part from that serenity which fostered the adventurous freedom of his
thoughts. He was a little sleepy too, and felt a pleasurable languor
running through every limb as though all the blood in his body had
turned to warm milk. His skipper had come up noiselessly, in pyjamas and
with his sleeping-jacket flung wide open. Red of face, only half awake,
the left eye partly closed, the right staring stupid and glassy, he hung
his big head over the chart and scratched his ribs sleepily. There was
something obscene in the sight of his naked flesh. His bared breast
glistened soft and greasy as though he had sweated out his fat in his
sleep. He pronounced a professional remark in a voice harsh and dead,
resembling the rasping sound of a wood-file on the edge of a plank; the
fold of his double chin hung like a bag triced up close under the hinge
of his jaw. Jim started, and his answer was full of deference; but
the odious and fleshy figure, as though seen for the first time in a
revealing moment, fixed itself in his memory for ever as the incarnation
of everything vile and base that lurks in the world we love: in our own
hearts we trust for our salvation, in the men that surround us, in the
sights that fill our eyes, in the sounds that fill our ears, and in the
air that fills our lungs.
The thin gold shaving of the moon floating slowly downwards had lost
itself on the darkened surface of the waters, and the eternity beyond
the sky seemed to come down nearer to the earth, with the augmented
glitter of the stars, with the more profound sombreness in the lustre of
the half-transparent dome covering the flat disc of an opaque sea. The
ship moved so smoothly that her onward motion was imperceptible to the
senses of men, as though she had been a crowded planet speeding through
the dark spaces of ether behind the swarm of suns, in the appalling and
calm solitudes awaiting the breath of future creations. 'Hot is no name
for it down below,' said a voice.
Jim smiled without looking round. The skipper presented an unmoved
breadth of back: it was the renegade's trick to appear pointedly unaware
of your existence unless it suited his purpose to turn at you with a
devouring glare before he let loose a torrent of foamy, abusive jargon
that came like a gush from a sewer. Now he emitted only a sulky grunt;
the second engineer at the head of the bridge-ladder, kneading with
damp palms a dirty sweat-rag, unabashed, continued the tale of his
complaints. The sailors had a good time of it up here, and what was the
use of them in the world he would be blowed if he could see. The poor
devils of engineers had to get the ship along anyhow, and they could
very well do the rest too; by gosh they--'Shut up!' growled the German
stolidly. 'Oh yes! Shut up--and when anything goes wrong you fly to
us, don't you?' went on the other. He was more than half cooked, he
expected; but anyway, now, he did not mind how much he sinned, because
these last three days he had passed through a fine course of training
for the place where the bad boys go when they die--b'gosh, he
had--besides being made jolly well deaf by the blasted racket below.
The durned, compound, surface-condensing, rotten scrap-heap rattled and
banged down there like an old deck-winch, only more so; and what made
him risk his life every night and day that God made amongst the refuse
of a breaking-up yard flying round at fifty-seven revolutions, was more
than _he_ could tell. He must have been born reckless, b'gosh.
He . . . 'Where did you get drink?' inquired the German, very savage; but
motionless in the light of the binnacle, like a clumsy effigy of a
man cut out of a block of fat. Jim went on smiling at the retreating
horizon; his heart was full of generous impulses, and his thought was
contemplating his own superiority. 'Drink!' repeated the engineer with
amiable scorn: he was hanging on with both hands to the rail, a shadowy
figure with flexible legs. 'Not from you, captain. You're far too mean,
b'gosh. You would let a good man die sooner than give him a drop of
schnapps. That's what you Germans call economy. Penny wise, pound
foolish.' He became sentimental. The chief had given him a four-finger
nip about ten o'clock--'only one, s'elp me!'--good old chief; but as to
getting the old fraud out of his bunk--a five-ton crane couldn't do
it. Not it. Not to-night anyhow. He was sleeping sweetly like a little
child, with a bottle of prime brandy under his pillow. From the thick
throat of the commander of the Patna came a low rumble, on which the
sound of the word schwein fluttered high and low like a capricious
feather in a faint stir of air. He and the chief engineer had been
cronies for a good few years--serving the same jovial, crafty, old
Chinaman, with horn-rimmed goggles and strings of red silk plaited into
the venerable grey hairs of his pigtail. The quay-side opinion in the
Patna's home-port was that these two in the way of brazen peculation
'had done together pretty well everything you can think of.' Outwardly
they were badly matched: one dull-eyed, malevolent, and of soft fleshy
curves; the other lean, all hollows, with a head long and bony like the
head of an old horse, with sunken cheeks, with sunken temples, with an
indifferent glazed glance of sunken eyes. He had been stranded out East
somewhere--in Canton, in Shanghai, or perhaps in Yokohama; he probably
did not care to remember himself the exact locality, nor yet the cause
of his shipwreck. He had been, in mercy to his youth, kicked quietly
out of his ship twenty years ago or more, and it might have been so much
worse for him that the memory of the episode had in it hardly a trace
of misfortune. Then, steam navigation expanding in these seas and men
of his craft being scarce at first, he had 'got on' after a sort. He
was eager to let strangers know in a dismal mumble that he was 'an old
stager out here.' When he moved, a skeleton seemed to sway loose in his
clothes; his walk was mere wandering, and he was given to wander thus
around the engine-room skylight, smoking, without relish, doctored
tobacco in a brass bowl at the end of a cherrywood stem four feet long,
with the imbecile gravity of a thinker evolving a system of philosophy
from the hazy glimpse of a truth. He was usually anything but free with
his private store of liquor; but on that night he had departed from his
principles, so that his second, a weak-headed child of Wapping, what
with the unexpectedness of the treat and the strength of the stuff,
had become very happy, cheeky, and talkative. The fury of the New South
Wales German was extreme; he puffed like an exhaust-pipe, and Jim,
faintly amused by the scene, was impatient for the time when he could
get below: the last ten minutes of the watch were irritating like a
gun that hangs fire; those men did not belong to the world of heroic
adventure; they weren't bad chaps though. Even the skipper himself . . .
His gorge rose at the mass of panting flesh from which issued
gurgling mutters, a cloudy trickle of filthy expressions; but he was
too pleasurably languid to dislike actively this or any other thing. The
quality of these men did not matter; he rubbed shoulders with them, but
they could not touch him; he shared the air they breathed, but he was
different. . . . Would the skipper go for the engineer? . . . The life
was easy and he was too sure of himself--too sure of himself to . . .
The line dividing his meditation from a surreptitious doze on his feet
was thinner than a thread in a spider's web.
The second engineer was coming by easy transitions to the consideration
of his finances and of his courage.
'Who's drunk? I? No, no, captain! That won't do. You ought to know by
this time the chief ain't free-hearted enough to make a sparrow drunk,
b'gosh. I've never been the worse for liquor in my life; the stuff ain't
made yet that would make _me_ drunk. I could drink liquid fire against
your whisky peg for peg, b'gosh, and keep as cool as a cucumber. If I
thought I was drunk I would jump overboard--do away with myself, b'gosh.
I would! Straight! And I won't go off the bridge. Where do you expect
me to take the air on a night like this, eh? On deck amongst that vermin
down there? Likely--ain't it! And I am not afraid of anything you can
do.'
The German lifted two heavy fists to heaven and shook them a little
without a word.
'I don't know what fear is,' pursued the engineer, with the enthusiasm
of sincere conviction. 'I am not afraid of doing all the bloomin' work
in this rotten hooker, b'gosh! And a jolly good thing for you that there
are some of us about the world that aren't afraid of their lives, or
where would you be--you and this old thing here with her plates like
brown paper--brown paper, s'elp me? It's all very fine for you--you
get a power of pieces out of her one way and another; but what about
me--what do I get? A measly hundred and fifty dollars a month and
find yourself. I wish to ask you respectfully--respectfully, mind--who
wouldn't chuck a dratted job like this? 'Tain't safe, s'elp me, it
ain't! Only I am one of them fearless fellows . . .'
He let go the rail and made ample gestures as if demonstrating in
the air the shape and extent of his valour; his thin voice darted in
prolonged squeaks upon the sea, he tiptoed back and forth for the better
emphasis of utterance, and suddenly pitched down head-first as though he
had been clubbed from behind. He said 'Damn!' as he tumbled; an instant
of silence followed upon his screeching: Jim and the skipper staggered
forward by common accord, and catching themselves up, stood very stiff
and still gazing, amazed, at the undisturbed level of the sea. Then they
looked upwards at the stars.
What had happened? The wheezy thump of the engines went on. Had the
earth been checked in her course? They could not understand; and
suddenly the calm sea, the sky without a cloud, appeared formidably
insecure in their immobility, as if poised on the brow of yawning
destruction. The engineer rebounded vertically full length and collapsed
again into a vague heap. This heap said 'What's that?' in the muffled
accents of profound grief. A faint noise as of thunder, of thunder
infinitely remote, less than a sound, hardly more than a vibration,
passed slowly, and the ship quivered in response, as if the thunder had
growled deep down in the water. The eyes of the two Malays at the wheel
glittered towards the white men, but their dark hands remained closed
on the spokes. The sharp hull driving on its way seemed to rise a few
inches in succession through its whole length, as though it had become
pliable, and settled down again rigidly to its work of cleaving the
smooth surface of the sea. Its quivering stopped, and the faint noise
of thunder ceased all at once, as though the ship had steamed across a
narrow belt of vibrating water and of humming air.
| 6,749 | Chapters 1-3 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-chapters-1-3 | Lord Jim begins with the powerful physical description of a man "an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built." He has a deep voice and immaculate dress, being white "from shoes to hat," and he makes his living as a water-clerk in "various Eastern ports." He is "very popular." This image is layered with attributes that arise in a consideration of what is required to be a water-clerk of quality. Thus the reader learns that the man has "Ability in the abstract" and that he is able to apply it "practically." The man is called "Jim." Jim comes to be known as "Tuan Jim" or "Lord Jim" among the Malays of the jungle village where he lives "incognito." Answering just how he becomes "Lord Jim" and just why he is "incognito" is the project of the tale. Jim is rootless, moving farther and farther east, escaping whatever fact of his history that seems to be following him. Born the son of a parson, he is answering the call of the sea. He is smart, physically fit, and a dreamer of danger and success. The reader, however, now learns of a collision at sea where Jim leapt to his feet but was beaten. "Too late, youngster," the captain of the ship tells him, as the glory of the rescue falls like a wreath over the bowman, who jumped first, "a boy with a face like a girl's and big grey eyes." Jim is angry and frustrated with his missed opportunity to be a hero. Two years of training and life on the sea pass, and Jim feels let down by the humdrum nature of his experiences. The sea, he feels, is not so full of the adventures he once imagined. Jim is "chief mate of a fine ship, without ever having been tested" . He spends some time on his back because of an injury and is left at a hospital in an "Eastern port." When able, Jim descends into the nearby port town and studies the nature of men and life around him, all sharing the same calling of the sea. In time, he discards the idea of returning to England and chooses, instead, to become chief mate of the Patna, an old local steamer, manned by a vastly overweight New South Wales German captain. The steamer is headed for Mecca with eight hundred pilgrims led by an Arab leader in white, who offers a prayer. There are only five white men on board. At night, as Jim contemplates the Arabian Sea from the bridge of the steamer, the speed steady, and the human landscape of passengers asleep, fathers and sons, beneath him, he considers his romantic dreams--"the success of his imaginary achievements" . The German captain appears with too little clothing; the second engineer complains. A conversation takes place regarding drink and being drunk, and then fear and courage, but "those men did not belong to the world of heroic adventure" . Suddenly, the three of them are lurched by the force of a disturbance beneath the boat. The sound is like the "faint noise of thunder ... hardly more than a vibration" . | Lord Jim begins with a direct, close-up view of its subject: Jim. His physical description is at first powerfully impressed upon the reader, and then the reader encounters the mysterious manner in which he drifts through the world. He is a clean-cut, well-liked young man, but the mystery is that he is constantly trying to outrun or escape a fact of his past. The reader is brought into a state of curiosity. Who is this young man? Why is he trying to maintain himself incognito? Why is he a water-clerk, when he appears to be gifted with intelligence and talent? And, most importantly, what is the fact from which he is so energetically trying to escape? The reference to Jim as having "Ability in the abstract" is crucial to the construction of his character in the novel. He is gifted with a kind of genius, but it only exists in an abstract way. The effort is then to realize this "ability" in the real world, to take action, to create change, and to realize the potential of such an "ability." It is further important to note that Jim is never given a surname throughout the narrative. In this way, the lone "Jim" strikes the reader as intimately present yet anonymous, illustrating precisely the kind of ambiguity for which Conrad is famous. When the reader is then told that Jim becomes "Tuan Jim" or "Lord Jim," Conrad drives the dramatic motion of the novel by causing curiosity regarding how Jim will attain this title. The view in the narrative then cuts to a significant moment in his personal history, the occasion when he was too late in seizing the opportunity to rescue a person at sea. Angry with the lost opportunity, Jim expresses his romantic temperament; this part of the tale also allows us to see his motivations for pursuing a life at sea in the first place. He is a dreamer, and he seems to be confident of some aspect of his self as being more than capable of achieving his dreams. This dreaming quality is characteristic of much of the driving force for young men to pursue a life at sea, and in this way Jim becomes a quintessential example of youthful aspiration. A question is then immediately suggested: how will Jim mature? How will he move from being a dreaming young man to the man running from his past and then a man with the title "Lord Jim"? One night, Jim observes his fellow crew members, thinking that they are not part of the world of "heroic adventure." Thus Jim differentiates himself: "he shared the air they breathed, but he was different" . Now, as the sudden and strange vibration occurs beneath the ship, the situation leads us to ask: will Jim be able to prove his difference? | 526 | 488 | [
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44,747 | false | cliffnotes | all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/24.txt | finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Red and the Black/section_5_part_0.txt | The Red and the Black.part 1.chapter 24 | chapter 24 | null | {"name": "Chapter 24", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201128052739/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/the-red-and-the-black/summary-and-analysis/part-1-chapter-24", "summary": "Julien visits the military installation in Besancon before reporting to the seminary. He stops at a cafe, and his fancy is taken by the barmaid, Armanda, who recognizes his obvious embarrassment at the strangeness of this large city. The arrival of one of her lovers nearly incites Julien to challenge him to a duel, but on the insistence of Armanda, Julien leaves the cafe. He stops at an inn to leave his clothes in the safekeeping of the landlady, then courageously starts out for the seminary.", "analysis": "This transitional chapter introduces Julien to the city of Besancon, where the next stage of his education will take place. The cafe scene will reappear in the second part of the novel in a slightly different form but will produce the same effect. Here, the young, inexperienced country boy ventures into a big city cafe. Stendhal creates for him an almost quixotic episode, where Julien may give heroic proportions to a trivial incident: Drawing from his experience as lover, Julien places himself abruptly in the role of Don Juan with Armanda, and his sudden declaration of love to the barmaid is reminiscent of a previous one, pronounced with less sureness but with as much hypocrisy to Mme. de Renal. After his brief and audacious visit to the fortress overlooking Besancon, where he has again evoked an imaginary military career, it is here in a cafe that he almost spontaneously gives form to his aggressiveness in an imagined amorous adventure. The arrival of Armanda's lover is but a part of this mock-heroic adventure, immediately awakening in Julien the sense of honor of the knight errant, who, without the intervention of Armanda, would have challenged his supposed \"rival.\" The scenes preliminary to Julien's arrival at the seminary should recall to the reader Julien's visit to the church prior to his entrance at the home of the Renals. In both, Julien is play-acting, rehearsing, in a sense, for his big scene. He musters up his courage, measures it, or rather \"takes its temperature,\" to assure himself in advance that he will not fall short of the ideal performance required in a new and challenging situation. Note that the \"glance\" is the basis of the real and imagined adventure that Stendhal narrates, and he gives Julien almost magical powers of self-extrication. Communication by the \"glance\" seems to be one of the secretive codes designed to protect the integrity of the superior being. As was predicted by the priest Chelan, Julien's merit will endanger him because of the envy it inspires in others. Therefore, it is not surprising that Julien seeks protection in women from his enemies. In this short chapter, the two incidents present women as a defense against the world. Lover and Mother are irresistibly attracted to Julien and would protect him. Even though his method is improvisational, Stendhal relies on \"preparation\" for the development of plot: This interlude will have served also as the basis of a subsequent plot devised by Julien's enemies to destroy him in the seminary."} | CHAPTER XXIV
A CAPITAL
What a noise, what busy people! What ideas for the
future in a brain of twenty! What distraction offered by
love.--_Barnave_.
Finally he saw some black walls near a distant mountain. It was the
citadel of Besancon. "How different it would be for me," he said
with a sigh, "if I were arriving at this noble military town to be
sub-lieutenant in one of the regiments entrusted with its defence."
Besancon is not only one of the prettiest towns in France, it abounds
in people of spirit and brains. But Julien was only a little peasant,
and had no means of approaching distinguished people.
He had taken a civilian suit at Fouque's, and it was in this dress that
he passed the drawbridge. Steeped as he was in the history of the siege
of 1674, he wished to see the ramparts of the citadel before shutting
himself up in the seminary. He was within an ace two or three times
of getting himself arrested by the sentinel. He was penetrating into
places which military genius forbids the public to enter, in order to
sell twelve or fifteen francs worth of corn every year.
The height of the walls, the depth of the ditches, the terrible aspect
of the cannons had been engrossing him for several hours when he passed
before the great cafe on the boulevard. He was motionless with wonder;
it was in vain that he read the word _cafe_, written in big characters
above the two immense doors. He could not believe his eyes. He made an
effort to overcome his timidity. He dared to enter, and found himself
in a hall twenty or thirty yards long, and with a ceiling at least
twenty feet high. To-day, everything had a fascination for him.
Two games of billiards were in progress. The waiters were crying out
the scores. The players ran round the tables encumbered by spectators.
Clouds of tobacco smoke came from everybody's mouth, and enveloped them
in a blue haze. The high stature of these men, their rounded shoulders,
their heavy gait, their enormous whiskers, the long tailed coats which
covered them, everything combined to attract Julien's attention. These
noble children of the antique Bisontium only spoke at the top of their
voice. They gave themselves terrible martial airs. Julien stood still
and admired them. He kept thinking of the immensity and magnificence
of a great capital like Besancon. He felt absolutely devoid of the
requisite courage to ask one of those haughty looking gentlemen, who
were crying out the billiard scores, for a cup of coffee.
But the young lady at the bar had noticed the charming face of this
young civilian from the country, who had stopped three feet from
the stove with his little parcel under his arm, and was looking at
the fine white plaster bust of the king. This young lady, a big
_Franc-comtoise_, very well made, and dressed with the elegance
suitable to the prestige of the cafe, had already said two or three
times in a little voice not intended to be heard by any one except
Julien, "Monsieur, Monsieur." Julien's eyes encountered big blue eyes
full of tenderness, and saw that he was the person who was being spoken
to.
He sharply approached the bar and the pretty girl, as though he had
been marching towards the enemy. In this great manoeuvre the parcel fell.
What pity will not our provincial inspire in the young lycee scholars
of Paris, who, at the early age of fifteen, know already how to enter
a cafe with so distinguished an air? But these children who have such
style at fifteen turn commonplace at eighteen. The impassioned timidity
which is met with in the provinces, sometimes manages to master its own
nervousness, and thus trains the will. "I must tell her the truth,"
thought Julien, who was becoming courageous by dint of conquering his
timidity as he approached this pretty girl, who deigned to address him.
"Madame, this is the first time in my life that I have come to
Besancon. I should like to have some bread and a cup of coffee in
return for payment."
The young lady smiled a little, and then blushed. She feared the ironic
attention and the jests of the billiard players might be turned against
this pretty young man. He would be frightened and would not appear
there again.
"Sit here near me," she said to him, showing him a marble table almost
completely hidden by the enormous mahogany counter which extended into
the hall.
The young lady leant over the counter, and had thus an opportunity of
displaying a superb figure. Julien noticed it. All his ideas changed.
The pretty young lady had just placed before him a cup, some sugar, and
a little roll. She hesitated to call a waiter for the coffee, as she
realised that his arrival would put an end to her _tete-a-tete_ with
Julien.
Julien was pensively comparing this blonde and merry beauty with
certain memories which would often thrill him. The thought of the
passion of which he had been the object, nearly freed him from all
his timidity. The pretty young woman had only one moment to save the
situation. She read it in Julien's looks.
"This pipe smoke makes you cough; come and have breakfast to-morrow
before eight o'clock in the morning. I am practically alone then."
"What is your name?" said Julien, with the caressing smile of happy
timidity.
"Amanda Binet."
"Will you allow me to send you within an hour's time a little parcel
about as big as this?"
The beautiful Amanda reflected a little.
"I am watched. What you ask may compromise me. All the same, I will
write my address on a card, which you will put on your parcel. Send it
boldly to me."
"My name is Julien Sorel," said the young man. "I have neither
relatives nor acquaintances at Besancon."
"Ah, I understand," she said joyfully. "You come to study law."
"Alas, no," answered Julien, "I am being sent to the Seminary."
The most complete discouragement damped Amanda's features. She called
a waiter. She had courage now. The waiter poured out some coffee for
Julien without looking at him.
Amanda was receiving money at the counter. Julien was proud of having
dared to speak: a dispute was going on at one of the billiard tables.
The cries and the protests of the players resounded over the immense
hall, and made a din which astonished Julien. Amanda was dreamy, and
kept her eyes lowered.
"If you like, Mademoiselle," he said to her suddenly with assurance, "I
will say that I am your cousin."
This little air of authority pleased Amanda. "He's not a mere nobody,"
she thought. She spoke to him very quickly, without looking at him,
because her eye was occupied in seeing if anybody was coming near the
counter.
"I come from Genlis, near Dijon. Say that you are also from Genlis and
are my mother's cousin."
"I shall not fail to do so."
"All the gentlemen who go to the Seminary pass here before the cafe
every Thursday in the summer at five o'clock."
"If you think of me when I am passing, have a bunch of violets in your
hand."
Amanda looked at him with an astonished air. This look changed Julien's
courage into audacity. Nevertheless, he reddened considerably, as he
said to her. "I feel that I love you with the most violent love."
"Speak in lower tones," she said to him with a frightened air.
Julien was trying to recollect phrases out of a volume of the _Nouvelle
Heloise_ which he had found at Vergy. His memory served him in good
stead. For ten minutes he recited the _Nouvelle Heloise_ to the
delighted Mademoiselle Amanda. He was happy on the strength of his own
bravery, when suddenly the beautiful Franc-contoise assumed an icy
air. One of her lovers had appeared at the cafe door. He approached
the bar, whistling, and swaggering his shoulders. He looked at Julien.
The latter's imagination, which always indulged in extremes, suddenly
brimmed over with ideas of a duel. He paled greatly, put down his
cup, assumed an assured demeanour, and considered his rival very
attentively. As this rival lowered his head, while he familiarly poured
out on the counter a glass of brandy for himself, Amanda ordered Julien
with a look to lower his eyes. He obeyed, and for two minutes kept
motionless in his place, pale, resolute, and only thinking of what was
going to happen. He was truly happy at this moment. The rival had been
astonished by Julien's eyes. Gulping down his glass of brandy, he said
a few words to Amanda, placed his two hands in the pockets of his big
tail coat, and approached the billiard table, whistling, and looking at
Julien. The latter got up transported with rage, but he did not know
what to do in order to be offensive. He put down his little parcel, and
walked towards the billiard table with all the swagger he could muster.
It was in vain that prudence said to him, "but your ecclesiastical
career will be ruined by a duel immediately on top of your arrival at
Besancon."
"What does it matter. It shall never be said that I let an insolent
fellow go scot free."
Amanda saw his courage. It contrasted prettily with the simplicity of
his manners. She instantly preferred him to the big young man with the
tail coat. She got up, and while appearing to be following with her eye
somebody who was passing in the street, she went and quickly placed
herself between him and the billiard table.
"Take care not to look askance at that gentleman. He is my
brother-in-law."
"What does it matter? He looked at me."
"Do you want to make me unhappy? No doubt he looked at you, why it may
be he is going to speak to you. I told him that you were a relative of
my mother, and that you had arrived from Genlis. He is a Franc-contois,
and has never gone beyond Doleon the Burgundy Road, so say what you
like and fear nothing."
Julien was still hesitating. Her barmaid's imagination furnished her
with an abundance of lies, and she quickly added.
"No doubt he looked at you, but it was at a moment when he was asking
me who you were. He is a man who is boorish with everyone. He did not
mean to insult you."
Julien's eye followed the pretended brother-in-law. He saw him buy a
ticket for the pool, which they were playing at the further of the
two billiard tables. Julien heard his loud voice shouting out in a
threatening tone, "My turn to play."
He passed sharply before Madame Amanda, and took a step towards the
billiard table. Amanda seized him by the arm.
"Come and pay me first," she said to him.
"That is right," thought Julien. "She is frightened that I shall leave
without paying." Amanda was as agitated as he was, and very red. She
gave him the change as slowly as she could, while she repeated to him,
in a low voice,
"Leave the cafe this instant, or I shall love you no more, and yet I do
love you very much."
Julien did go out, but slowly. "Am I not in duty bound," he repeated
to himself, "to go and stare at that coarse person in my turn?" This
uncertainty kept him on the boulevard in the front of the cafe for an
hour; he kept looking if his man was coming out. He did not come out,
and Julien went away.
He had only been at Besancon some hours, and already he had overcome
one pang of remorse. The old surgeon-major had formerly given him some
fencing lessons, in spite of his gout. That was all the science which
Julien could enlist in the service of his anger. But this embarrassment
would have been nothing if he had only known how to vent his temper
otherwise than by the giving of a blow, for if it had come to a matter
of fisticuffs, his enormous rival would have beaten him and then
cleared out.
"There is not much difference between a seminary and a prison," said
Julien to himself, "for a poor devil like me, without protectors and
without money. I must leave my civilian clothes in some inn, where I
can put my black suit on again. If I ever manage to get out of the
seminary for a few hours, I shall be able to see Mdlle. Amanda again in
my lay clothes." This reasoning was all very fine. Though Julien passed
in front of all the inns, he did not dare to enter a single one.
Finally, as he was passing again before the Hotel des Ambassadeurs, his
anxious eyes encountered those of a big woman, still fairly young, with
a high colour, and a gay and happy air. He approached her and told his
story.
"Certainly, my pretty little abbe," said the hostess of the
Ambassadeurs to him, "I will keep your lay clothes for you, and I will
even have them regularly brushed. In weather like this, it is not good
to leave a suit of cloth without touching it." She took a key, and
conducted him herself to a room, and advised him to make out a note of
what he was leaving.
"Good heavens. How well you look like that, M. the abbe Sorel," said
the big woman to him when he came down to the kitchen. I will go and
get a good dinner served up to you, and she added in a low voice, "It
will only cost twenty sous instead of the fifty which everybody else
pays, for one must really take care of your little purse strings."
"I have ten louis," Julien replied with certain pride.
"Oh, great heavens," answered the good hostess in alarm. "Don't talk
so loud, there are quite a lot of bad characters in Besancon. They'll
steal all that from you in less than no time, and above all, never go
into the cafe s, they are filled with bad characters."
"Indeed," said Julien, to whom those words gave food for thought.
"Don't go anywhere else, except to my place. I will make coffee for
you. Remember that you will always find a friend here, and a good
dinner for twenty sous. So now you understand, I hope. Go and sit down
at table, I will serve you myself."
"I shan't be able to eat," said Julien to her. "I am too upset. I am
going to enter the seminary, as I leave you." The good woman, would not
allow him to leave before she had filled his pockets with provisions.
Finally Julien took his road towards the terrible place. The hostess
was standing at the threshold, and showed him the way.
| 2,298 | Chapter 24 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201128052739/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/the-red-and-the-black/summary-and-analysis/part-1-chapter-24 | Julien visits the military installation in Besancon before reporting to the seminary. He stops at a cafe, and his fancy is taken by the barmaid, Armanda, who recognizes his obvious embarrassment at the strangeness of this large city. The arrival of one of her lovers nearly incites Julien to challenge him to a duel, but on the insistence of Armanda, Julien leaves the cafe. He stops at an inn to leave his clothes in the safekeeping of the landlady, then courageously starts out for the seminary. | This transitional chapter introduces Julien to the city of Besancon, where the next stage of his education will take place. The cafe scene will reappear in the second part of the novel in a slightly different form but will produce the same effect. Here, the young, inexperienced country boy ventures into a big city cafe. Stendhal creates for him an almost quixotic episode, where Julien may give heroic proportions to a trivial incident: Drawing from his experience as lover, Julien places himself abruptly in the role of Don Juan with Armanda, and his sudden declaration of love to the barmaid is reminiscent of a previous one, pronounced with less sureness but with as much hypocrisy to Mme. de Renal. After his brief and audacious visit to the fortress overlooking Besancon, where he has again evoked an imaginary military career, it is here in a cafe that he almost spontaneously gives form to his aggressiveness in an imagined amorous adventure. The arrival of Armanda's lover is but a part of this mock-heroic adventure, immediately awakening in Julien the sense of honor of the knight errant, who, without the intervention of Armanda, would have challenged his supposed "rival." The scenes preliminary to Julien's arrival at the seminary should recall to the reader Julien's visit to the church prior to his entrance at the home of the Renals. In both, Julien is play-acting, rehearsing, in a sense, for his big scene. He musters up his courage, measures it, or rather "takes its temperature," to assure himself in advance that he will not fall short of the ideal performance required in a new and challenging situation. Note that the "glance" is the basis of the real and imagined adventure that Stendhal narrates, and he gives Julien almost magical powers of self-extrication. Communication by the "glance" seems to be one of the secretive codes designed to protect the integrity of the superior being. As was predicted by the priest Chelan, Julien's merit will endanger him because of the envy it inspires in others. Therefore, it is not surprising that Julien seeks protection in women from his enemies. In this short chapter, the two incidents present women as a defense against the world. Lover and Mother are irresistibly attracted to Julien and would protect him. Even though his method is improvisational, Stendhal relies on "preparation" for the development of plot: This interlude will have served also as the basis of a subsequent plot devised by Julien's enemies to destroy him in the seminary. | 86 | 419 | [
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107 | true | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/chapters_28_to_31.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_4_part_0.txt | Far from the Madding Crowd.chapters 28-31 | chapters 28-31 | null | {"name": "Chapters 28-31", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210108004047/https://www.gradesaver.com/far-from-the-madding-crowd/study-guide/summary-chapters-28-31", "summary": "Bathsheba is increasingly distracted by her feelings for Troy, and Gabriel notices what is going on. He finds an opportunity to join her on an evening walk, and mentions the possibility of her marrying Boldwood. Bathsheba now asserts that she is not going to marry him, and that she will tell him so when he returns at harvest time. Gabriel expresses concern that she is toying with Boldwood's feelings, and his dislike of her relationship with Troy. He tells her that he does not think Troy is a good or trustworthy person, but Bathsheba defends him. Becoming more desperate, Gabriel tells her that he loves her, and that while he knows he has no chance of marrying her, he would much rather see her with Boldwood or anyone else other than Troy. Bathsheba becomes angry and tells Gabriel he cannot work for her any longer. He tells her that she needs him if the farm is going to continue to run successfully, and that he will only consent to leave if she agrees to hire another man as a bailiff. Since she refuses to do so, he insists on staying and she reluctantly agrees. She then asks Gabriel to leave her alone, and as he slips away, he sees that she is meeting up with Troy. Bathsheba returns from the meeting with Troy and writes a letter to Boldwood saying that she has decided she cannot marry him. She then overhears Liddy and other female servants gossiping about the possibility of her marrying Troy. She becomes very angry and swears that she hates Troy, but then becomes very emotional and confides to Liddy that she is in love with Troy and agitated by all the bad things people seem to say about him. She behaves so erratically that Liddy is hurt and says she does not want to work for Bathsheba anymore, but Bathsheba quickly persuades her to stay. After Bathsheba sends her letter to Boldwood, she is worried that he might try and come to discuss it with her, so she arranges to go away for a few days to visit Liddy's sister. However, as she is walking on her journey, she runs into Boldwood. He tells her how upset he is, and begs her to reconsider. Bathsheba pleads that she never truly had feelings for him, and that she has done nothing wrong. Boldwood becomes angry about the fact that she loves Troy and not him, and accuses her of letting Troy kiss her. Bathsheba defiantly refuses to deny this. Boldwood storms into a jealous rage, claiming Troy has seduced and manipulated her, and that he will punish him if he ever catches him. After Boldwood leaves, Bathsheba is very anxious, because while Boldwood and most of the other townspeople think Troy has returned to his regiment permanently, she knows that he is only away on a brief visit to Bath and is going to be returning the next day. She is fearful of what might happen if Boldwood runs into her lover. Bathsheba is unsure about whether she should tell Troy to remain in Bath but decides she needs to get there to tell him not to return before he sets out. The only way to accomplish this is for her to drive through the night. She decides to go home, get the horse, drive to Bath, end the relationship with Troy, and then continue on to visit Liddy's sister as she had originally planned. That night, Bathsheba's servant Mary-Ann wakes up to the sound of someone taking one of the horses and driving away with it. Believing that a theft has happened, she wakes up the men and Gabriel determines that he and Jan Coggan should pursue the thief on horseback. They go after the thief and eventually are shocked to find that it is Bathsheba herself with the horse and wagon. She explains that she suddenly needed to go to Bath. She continues on her journey, and Gabriel and Coggan go home after agreeing not to discuss what they saw.", "analysis": "Up until beginning her relationship with Troy, Bathsheba has largely operated from a rational and balanced perspective. She is capable of making good decisions about business and the future of the farm, and has shown herself to be a good manager and supervisor. But as her feelings for Troy deepen, Bathsheba behaves more irrationally and erratically. In some ways, as Bathsheba becomes more feminized by her first genuine experience of attraction and desire, she also moves away from the emphasis on logic that had previously characterized her. As Joanna Devereux observes, \"the narrator typically attributes the qualities of logic and thoughtfulness to men, and then notes the unusual circumstance of a woman possessing these traits\" . One sign that her relationship with Troy is not on a good track is that it alienates her from people she cares about. Her volatile moods disrupt her relationship with Liddy, who is essentially Bathsheba's only friend. More seriously, it leads to a confrontation with Gabriel. In both cases, these conflicts end with the risk of Bathsheba's employee leaving her service. While Bathsheba's elevated social and economic position gives her status and power, it is also a lonely situation for her. The only people she is close to still work for her, and that makes this emotional relationships even more complicated. The way in which her friendship with Gabriel has become atypical is made clear when, after she tries to fire him, he simply tells her that he won't leave because he knows she needs him in order for the farm to run. While the possibility that Bathsheba would marry Boldwood was clearly personally painful to Gabriel, he never attempted to interfere with the courtship because he respected and trusted Boldwood to be a good husband. Gabriel's concerns about the fact that Troy does not seem to attend church show that he is a traditional, even conservative, character; for a character like Troy who is not used to being part of tightly-knit community, it would not seem important to publicly demonstrate his integrity and values in this way. What is more significant than Troy not attending church is the fact that he lies about it. When Gabriel suspiciously goes to investigate Troy's story that he enters by the back door, he becomes clear that Troy has not been telling truth Bathsheba the truth, but instead telling her what she wants to hear. This relatively small deception foreshadows the bigger secrets he will turn out to be keeping. Bathsheba's confrontation with Boldwood echoes these themes of other characters mistrusting Troy and trying to protect her. However, while Gabriel and Liddy both seemed genuinely concerned about Bathsheba's welfare, Boldwood is primarily motivated by his jealousy and desire to possess and control her. While it might not seem provocative to modern readers, Boldwood's accusation that Bathsheba has allowed Troy to kiss her, and her refusal to deny this, would have been quite striking in the Victorian era. Boldwood interprets this as evidence that Troy is not a gentleman, and that he will manipulate women to get whatever he can without caring about the consequences to their reputation. Boldwood will turn out to be partially correct, but he overlooks the significant factor of Bathsheba's own desire and agency. He assumes she could only be pursuing a relationship with Troy because the soldier is coercing her, not because she actually wants him."} |
THE HOLLOW AMID THE FERNS
The hill opposite Bathsheba's dwelling extended, a mile off, into an
uncultivated tract of land, dotted at this season with tall thickets
of brake fern, plump and diaphanous from recent rapid growth, and
radiant in hues of clear and untainted green.
At eight o'clock this midsummer evening, whilst the bristling ball
of gold in the west still swept the tips of the ferns with its long,
luxuriant rays, a soft brushing-by of garments might have been heard
among them, and Bathsheba appeared in their midst, their soft,
feathery arms caressing her up to her shoulders. She paused, turned,
went back over the hill and half-way to her own door, whence she cast
a farewell glance upon the spot she had just left, having resolved
not to remain near the place after all.
She saw a dim spot of artificial red moving round the shoulder of the
rise. It disappeared on the other side.
She waited one minute--two minutes--thought of Troy's disappointment
at her non-fulfilment of a promised engagement, till she again ran
along the field, clambered over the bank, and followed the original
direction. She was now literally trembling and panting at this her
temerity in such an errant undertaking; her breath came and went
quickly, and her eyes shone with an infrequent light. Yet go she
must. She reached the verge of a pit in the middle of the ferns.
Troy stood in the bottom, looking up towards her.
"I heard you rustling through the fern before I saw you," he said,
coming up and giving her his hand to help her down the slope.
The pit was a saucer-shaped concave, naturally formed, with a top
diameter of about thirty feet, and shallow enough to allow the
sunshine to reach their heads. Standing in the centre, the sky
overhead was met by a circular horizon of fern: this grew nearly to
the bottom of the slope and then abruptly ceased. The middle within
the belt of verdure was floored with a thick flossy carpet of moss
and grass intermingled, so yielding that the foot was half-buried
within it.
"Now," said Troy, producing the sword, which, as he raised it into
the sunlight, gleamed a sort of greeting, like a living thing,
"first, we have four right and four left cuts; four right and four
left thrusts. Infantry cuts and guards are more interesting than
ours, to my mind; but they are not so swashing. They have seven
cuts and three thrusts. So much as a preliminary. Well, next, our
cut one is as if you were sowing your corn--so." Bathsheba saw a
sort of rainbow, upside down in the air, and Troy's arm was still
again. "Cut two, as if you were hedging--so. Three, as if you were
reaping--so. Four, as if you were threshing--in that way. Then the
same on the left. The thrusts are these: one, two, three, four,
right; one, two, three, four, left." He repeated them. "Have 'em
again?" he said. "One, two--"
She hurriedly interrupted: "I'd rather not; though I don't mind your
twos and fours; but your ones and threes are terrible!"
"Very well. I'll let you off the ones and threes. Next, cuts,
points and guards altogether." Troy duly exhibited them. "Then
there's pursuing practice, in this way." He gave the movements as
before. "There, those are the stereotyped forms. The infantry have
two most diabolical upward cuts, which we are too humane to use.
Like this--three, four."
"How murderous and bloodthirsty!"
"They are rather deathly. Now I'll be more interesting, and let you
see some loose play--giving all the cuts and points, infantry and
cavalry, quicker than lightning, and as promiscuously--with just
enough rule to regulate instinct and yet not to fetter it. You are
my antagonist, with this difference from real warfare, that I shall
miss you every time by one hair's breadth, or perhaps two. Mind you
don't flinch, whatever you do."
"I'll be sure not to!" she said invincibly.
He pointed to about a yard in front of him.
Bathsheba's adventurous spirit was beginning to find some grains of
relish in these highly novel proceedings. She took up her position
as directed, facing Troy.
"Now just to learn whether you have pluck enough to let me do what I
wish, I'll give you a preliminary test."
He flourished the sword by way of introduction number two, and the
next thing of which she was conscious was that the point and blade of
the sword were darting with a gleam towards her left side, just above
her hip; then of their reappearance on her right side, emerging as
it were from between her ribs, having apparently passed through her
body. The third item of consciousness was that of seeing the same
sword, perfectly clean and free from blood held vertically in Troy's
hand (in the position technically called "recover swords"). All was
as quick as electricity.
"Oh!" she cried out in affright, pressing her hand to her side. "Have
you run me through?--no, you have not! Whatever have you done!"
"I have not touched you," said Troy, quietly. "It was mere sleight
of hand. The sword passed behind you. Now you are not afraid, are
you? Because if you are I can't perform. I give my word that I will
not only not hurt you, but not once touch you."
"I don't think I am afraid. You are quite sure you will not hurt
me?"
"Quite sure."
"Is the sword very sharp?"
"O no--only stand as still as a statue. Now!"
In an instant the atmosphere was transformed to Bathsheba's eyes.
Beams of light caught from the low sun's rays, above, around, in
front of her, well-nigh shut out earth and heaven--all emitted in
the marvellous evolutions of Troy's reflecting blade, which seemed
everywhere at once, and yet nowhere specially. These circling gleams
were accompanied by a keen rush that was almost a whistling--also
springing from all sides of her at once. In short, she was enclosed
in a firmament of light, and of sharp hisses, resembling a sky-full
of meteors close at hand.
Never since the broadsword became the national weapon had there been
more dexterity shown in its management than by the hands of Sergeant
Troy, and never had he been in such splendid temper for the
performance as now in the evening sunshine among the ferns with
Bathsheba. It may safely be asserted with respect to the closeness
of his cuts, that had it been possible for the edge of the sword to
leave in the air a permanent substance wherever it flew past, the
space left untouched would have been almost a mould of Bathsheba's
figure.
Behind the luminous streams of this _aurora militaris_, she could see
the hue of Troy's sword arm, spread in a scarlet haze over the space
covered by its motions, like a twanged harpstring, and behind all
Troy himself, mostly facing her; sometimes, to show the rear cuts,
half turned away, his eye nevertheless always keenly measuring
her breadth and outline, and his lips tightly closed in sustained
effort. Next, his movements lapsed slower, and she could see them
individually. The hissing of the sword had ceased, and he stopped
entirely.
"That outer loose lock of hair wants tidying," he said, before she
had moved or spoken. "Wait: I'll do it for you."
An arc of silver shone on her right side: the sword had descended.
The lock dropped to the ground.
"Bravely borne!" said Troy. "You didn't flinch a shade's thickness.
Wonderful in a woman!"
"It was because I didn't expect it. Oh, you have spoilt my hair!"
"Only once more."
"No--no! I am afraid of you--indeed I am!" she cried.
"I won't touch you at all--not even your hair. I am only going to
kill that caterpillar settling on you. Now: still!"
It appeared that a caterpillar had come from the fern and chosen the
front of her bodice as his resting place. She saw the point glisten
towards her bosom, and seemingly enter it. Bathsheba closed her eyes
in the full persuasion that she was killed at last. However, feeling
just as usual, she opened them again.
"There it is, look," said the sergeant, holding his sword before her
eyes.
The caterpillar was spitted upon its point.
"Why, it is magic!" said Bathsheba, amazed.
"Oh no--dexterity. I merely gave point to your bosom where the
caterpillar was, and instead of running you through checked the
extension a thousandth of an inch short of your surface."
"But how could you chop off a curl of my hair with a sword that has
no edge?"
"No edge! This sword will shave like a razor. Look here."
He touched the palm of his hand with the blade, and then, lifting it,
showed her a thin shaving of scarf-skin dangling therefrom.
"But you said before beginning that it was blunt and couldn't cut
me!"
"That was to get you to stand still, and so make sure of your safety.
The risk of injuring you through your moving was too great not to
force me to tell you a fib to escape it."
She shuddered. "I have been within an inch of my life, and didn't
know it!"
"More precisely speaking, you have been within half an inch of being
pared alive two hundred and ninety-five times."
"Cruel, cruel, 'tis of you!"
"You have been perfectly safe, nevertheless. My sword never errs."
And Troy returned the weapon to the scabbard.
Bathsheba, overcome by a hundred tumultuous feelings resulting from
the scene, abstractedly sat down on a tuft of heather.
"I must leave you now," said Troy, softly. "And I'll venture to take
and keep this in remembrance of you."
She saw him stoop to the grass, pick up the winding lock which he
had severed from her manifold tresses, twist it round his fingers,
unfasten a button in the breast of his coat, and carefully put
it inside. She felt powerless to withstand or deny him. He was
altogether too much for her, and Bathsheba seemed as one who, facing
a reviving wind, finds it blow so strongly that it stops the breath.
He drew near and said, "I must be leaving you."
He drew nearer still. A minute later and she saw his scarlet form
disappear amid the ferny thicket, almost in a flash, like a brand
swiftly waved.
That minute's interval had brought the blood beating into her face,
set her stinging as if aflame to the very hollows of her feet, and
enlarged emotion to a compass which quite swamped thought. It had
brought upon her a stroke resulting, as did that of Moses in Horeb,
in a liquid stream--here a stream of tears. She felt like one who
has sinned a great sin.
The circumstance had been the gentle dip of Troy's mouth downwards
upon her own. He had kissed her.
PARTICULARS OF A TWILIGHT WALK
We now see the element of folly distinctly mingling with the many
varying particulars which made up the character of Bathsheba
Everdene. It was almost foreign to her intrinsic nature. Introduced
as lymph on the dart of Eros, it eventually permeated and coloured
her whole constitution. Bathsheba, though she had too much
understanding to be entirely governed by her womanliness, had too
much womanliness to use her understanding to the best advantage.
Perhaps in no minor point does woman astonish her helpmate more than
in the strange power she possesses of believing cajoleries that she
knows to be false--except, indeed, in that of being utterly sceptical
on strictures that she knows to be true.
Bathsheba loved Troy in the way that only self-reliant women
love when they abandon their self-reliance. When a strong woman
recklessly throws away her strength she is worse than a weak woman
who has never had any strength to throw away. One source of her
inadequacy is the novelty of the occasion. She has never had practice
in making the best of such a condition. Weakness is doubly weak by
being new.
Bathsheba was not conscious of guile in this matter. Though in one
sense a woman of the world, it was, after all, that world of daylight
coteries and green carpets wherein cattle form the passing crowd and
winds the busy hum; where a quiet family of rabbits or hares lives on
the other side of your party-wall, where your neighbour is everybody
in the tything, and where calculation is confined to market-days.
Of the fabricated tastes of good fashionable society she knew but
little, and of the formulated self-indulgence of bad, nothing at all.
Had her utmost thoughts in this direction been distinctly worded (and
by herself they never were), they would only have amounted to such a
matter as that she felt her impulses to be pleasanter guides than her
discretion. Her love was entire as a child's, and though warm as
summer it was fresh as spring. Her culpability lay in her making
no attempt to control feeling by subtle and careful inquiry into
consequences. She could show others the steep and thorny way, but
"reck'd not her own rede."
And Troy's deformities lay deep down from a woman's vision, whilst
his embellishments were upon the very surface; thus contrasting with
homely Oak, whose defects were patent to the blindest, and whose
virtues were as metals in a mine.
The difference between love and respect was markedly shown in her
conduct. Bathsheba had spoken of her interest in Boldwood with the
greatest freedom to Liddy, but she had only communed with her own
heart concerning Troy.
All this infatuation Gabriel saw, and was troubled thereby from the
time of his daily journey a-field to the time of his return, and on
to the small hours of many a night. That he was not beloved had
hitherto been his great sorrow; that Bathsheba was getting into
the toils was now a sorrow greater than the first, and one which
nearly obscured it. It was a result which paralleled the oft-quoted
observation of Hippocrates concerning physical pains.
That is a noble though perhaps an unpromising love which not even the
fear of breeding aversion in the bosom of the one beloved can deter
from combating his or her errors. Oak determined to speak to his
mistress. He would base his appeal on what he considered her unfair
treatment of Farmer Boldwood, now absent from home.
An opportunity occurred one evening when she had gone for a short
walk by a path through the neighbouring cornfields. It was dusk when
Oak, who had not been far a-field that day, took the same path and
met her returning, quite pensively, as he thought.
The wheat was now tall, and the path was narrow; thus the way was
quite a sunken groove between the embowing thicket on either side.
Two persons could not walk abreast without damaging the crop, and
Oak stood aside to let her pass.
"Oh, is it Gabriel?" she said. "You are taking a walk too.
Good-night."
"I thought I would come to meet you, as it is rather late," said Oak,
turning and following at her heels when she had brushed somewhat
quickly by him.
"Thank you, indeed, but I am not very fearful."
"Oh no; but there are bad characters about."
"I never meet them."
Now Oak, with marvellous ingenuity, had been going to introduce the
gallant sergeant through the channel of "bad characters." But all at
once the scheme broke down, it suddenly occurring to him that this
was rather a clumsy way, and too barefaced to begin with. He tried
another preamble.
"And as the man who would naturally come to meet you is away from
home, too--I mean Farmer Boldwood--why, thinks I, I'll go," he said.
"Ah, yes." She walked on without turning her head, and for many
steps nothing further was heard from her quarter than the rustle
of her dress against the heavy corn-ears. Then she resumed rather
tartly--
"I don't quite understand what you meant by saying that Mr. Boldwood
would naturally come to meet me."
"I meant on account of the wedding which they say is likely to take
place between you and him, miss. Forgive my speaking plainly."
"They say what is not true." she returned quickly. "No marriage is
likely to take place between us."
Gabriel now put forth his unobscured opinion, for the moment had
come. "Well, Miss Everdene," he said, "putting aside what people
say, I never in my life saw any courting if his is not a courting
of you."
Bathsheba would probably have terminated the conversation there and
then by flatly forbidding the subject, had not her conscious weakness
of position allured her to palter and argue in endeavours to better
it.
"Since this subject has been mentioned," she said very emphatically,
"I am glad of the opportunity of clearing up a mistake which is very
common and very provoking. I didn't definitely promise Mr. Boldwood
anything. I have never cared for him. I respect him, and he has
urged me to marry him. But I have given him no distinct answer.
As soon as he returns I shall do so; and the answer will be that I
cannot think of marrying him."
"People are full of mistakes, seemingly."
"They are."
"The other day they said you were trifling with him, and you almost
proved that you were not; lately they have said that you be not, and
you straightway begin to show--"
"That I am, I suppose you mean."
"Well, I hope they speak the truth."
"They do, but wrongly applied. I don't trifle with him; but then, I
have nothing to do with him."
Oak was unfortunately led on to speak of Boldwood's rival in a wrong
tone to her after all. "I wish you had never met that young Sergeant
Troy, miss," he sighed.
Bathsheba's steps became faintly spasmodic. "Why?" she asked.
"He is not good enough for 'ee."
"Did any one tell you to speak to me like this?"
"Nobody at all."
"Then it appears to me that Sergeant Troy does not concern us here,"
she said, intractably. "Yet I must say that Sergeant Troy is an
educated man, and quite worthy of any woman. He is well born."
"His being higher in learning and birth than the ruck o' soldiers
is anything but a proof of his worth. It show's his course to be
down'ard."
"I cannot see what this has to do with our conversation. Mr. Troy's
course is not by any means downward; and his superiority IS a proof
of his worth!"
"I believe him to have no conscience at all. And I cannot help
begging you, miss, to have nothing to do with him. Listen to me this
once--only this once! I don't say he's such a bad man as I have
fancied--I pray to God he is not. But since we don't exactly know
what he is, why not behave as if he MIGHT be bad, simply for your own
safety? Don't trust him, mistress; I ask you not to trust him so."
"Why, pray?"
"I like soldiers, but this one I do not like," he said, sturdily.
"His cleverness in his calling may have tempted him astray, and what
is mirth to the neighbours is ruin to the woman. When he tries to
talk to 'ee again, why not turn away with a short 'Good day'; and
when you see him coming one way, turn the other. When he says
anything laughable, fail to see the point and don't smile, and speak
of him before those who will report your talk as 'that fantastical
man,' or 'that Sergeant What's-his-name.' 'That man of a family
that has come to the dogs.' Don't be unmannerly towards en, but
harmless-uncivil, and so get rid of the man."
No Christmas robin detained by a window-pane ever pulsed as did
Bathsheba now.
"I say--I say again--that it doesn't become you to talk about
him. Why he should be mentioned passes me quite!" she exclaimed
desperately. "I know this, th-th-that he is a thoroughly
conscientious man--blunt sometimes even to rudeness--but always
speaking his mind about you plain to your face!"
"Oh."
"He is as good as anybody in this parish! He is very particular,
too, about going to church--yes, he is!"
"I am afeard nobody saw him there. I never did, certainly."
"The reason of that is," she said eagerly, "that he goes in privately
by the old tower door, just when the service commences, and sits at
the back of the gallery. He told me so."
This supreme instance of Troy's goodness fell upon Gabriel ears like
the thirteenth stroke of crazy clock. It was not only received with
utter incredulity as regarded itself, but threw a doubt on all the
assurances that had preceded it.
Oak was grieved to find how entirely she trusted him. He brimmed
with deep feeling as he replied in a steady voice, the steadiness of
which was spoilt by the palpableness of his great effort to keep it
so:--
"You know, mistress, that I love you, and shall love you always.
I only mention this to bring to your mind that at any rate I would
wish to do you no harm: beyond that I put it aside. I have lost in
the race for money and good things, and I am not such a fool as to
pretend to 'ee now I am poor, and you have got altogether above me.
But Bathsheba, dear mistress, this I beg you to consider--that, both
to keep yourself well honoured among the workfolk, and in common
generosity to an honourable man who loves you as well as I, you
should be more discreet in your bearing towards this soldier."
"Don't, don't, don't!" she exclaimed, in a choking voice.
"Are ye not more to me than my own affairs, and even life!" he went
on. "Come, listen to me! I am six years older than you, and Mr.
Boldwood is ten years older than I, and consider--I do beg of 'ee to
consider before it is too late--how safe you would be in his hands!"
Oak's allusion to his own love for her lessened, to some extent, her
anger at his interference; but she could not really forgive him for
letting his wish to marry her be eclipsed by his wish to do her good,
any more than for his slighting treatment of Troy.
"I wish you to go elsewhere," she commanded, a paleness of face
invisible to the eye being suggested by the trembling words. "Do not
remain on this farm any longer. I don't want you--I beg you to go!"
"That's nonsense," said Oak, calmly. "This is the second time you
have pretended to dismiss me; and what's the use o' it?"
"Pretended! You shall go, sir--your lecturing I will not hear! I am
mistress here."
"Go, indeed--what folly will you say next? Treating me like Dick,
Tom and Harry when you know that a short time ago my position was as
good as yours! Upon my life, Bathsheba, it is too barefaced. You
know, too, that I can't go without putting things in such a strait as
you wouldn't get out of I can't tell when. Unless, indeed, you'll
promise to have an understanding man as bailiff, or manager, or
something. I'll go at once if you'll promise that."
"I shall have no bailiff; I shall continue to be my own manager," she
said decisively.
"Very well, then; you should be thankful to me for biding. How would
the farm go on with nobody to mind it but a woman? But mind this, I
don't wish 'ee to feel you owe me anything. Not I. What I do, I do.
Sometimes I say I should be as glad as a bird to leave the place--for
don't suppose I'm content to be a nobody. I was made for better
things. However, I don't like to see your concerns going to ruin, as
they must if you keep in this mind.... I hate taking my own measure
so plain, but, upon my life, your provoking ways make a man say
what he wouldn't dream of at other times! I own to being rather
interfering. But you know well enough how it is, and who she is that
I like too well, and feel too much like a fool about to be civil to
her!"
It is more than probable that she privately and unconsciously
respected him a little for this grim fidelity, which had been shown
in his tone even more than in his words. At any rate she murmured
something to the effect that he might stay if he wished. She said
more distinctly, "Will you leave me alone now? I don't order it
as a mistress--I ask it as a woman, and I expect you not to be so
uncourteous as to refuse."
"Certainly I will, Miss Everdene," said Gabriel, gently. He wondered
that the request should have come at this moment, for the strife was
over, and they were on a most desolate hill, far from every human
habitation, and the hour was getting late. He stood still and
allowed her to get far ahead of him till he could only see her form
upon the sky.
A distressing explanation of this anxiety to be rid of him at that
point now ensued. A figure apparently rose from the earth beside
her. The shape beyond all doubt was Troy's. Oak would not be even
a possible listener, and at once turned back till a good two hundred
yards were between the lovers and himself.
Gabriel went home by way of the churchyard. In passing the tower
he thought of what she had said about the sergeant's virtuous habit
of entering the church unperceived at the beginning of service.
Believing that the little gallery door alluded to was quite disused,
he ascended the external flight of steps at the top of which
it stood, and examined it. The pale lustre yet hanging in the
north-western heaven was sufficient to show that a sprig of ivy had
grown from the wall across the door to a length of more than a foot,
delicately tying the panel to the stone jamb. It was a decisive
proof that the door had not been opened at least since Troy came back
to Weatherbury.
HOT CHEEKS AND TEARFUL EYES
Half an hour later Bathsheba entered her own house. There burnt
upon her face when she met the light of the candles the flush and
excitement which were little less than chronic with her now. The
farewell words of Troy, who had accompanied her to the very door,
still lingered in her ears. He had bidden her adieu for two days,
which were, so he stated, to be spent at Bath in visiting some
friends. He had also kissed her a second time.
It is only fair to Bathsheba to explain here a little fact which
did not come to light till a long time afterwards: that Troy's
presentation of himself so aptly at the roadside this evening was
not by any distinctly preconcerted arrangement. He had hinted--she
had forbidden; and it was only on the chance of his still coming
that she had dismissed Oak, fearing a meeting between them just
then.
She now sank down into a chair, wild and perturbed by all these
new and fevering sequences. Then she jumped up with a manner of
decision, and fetched her desk from a side table.
In three minutes, without pause or modification, she had written a
letter to Boldwood, at his address beyond Casterbridge, saying mildly
but firmly that she had well considered the whole subject he had
brought before her and kindly given her time to decide upon; that
her final decision was that she could not marry him. She had
expressed to Oak an intention to wait till Boldwood came home before
communicating to him her conclusive reply. But Bathsheba found that
she could not wait.
It was impossible to send this letter till the next day; yet to quell
her uneasiness by getting it out of her hands, and so, as it were,
setting the act in motion at once, she arose to take it to any one of
the women who might be in the kitchen.
She paused in the passage. A dialogue was going on in the kitchen,
and Bathsheba and Troy were the subject of it.
"If he marry her, she'll gie up farming."
"'Twill be a gallant life, but may bring some trouble between the
mirth--so say I."
"Well, I wish I had half such a husband."
Bathsheba had too much sense to mind seriously what her servitors
said about her; but too much womanly redundance of speech to leave
alone what was said till it died the natural death of unminded
things. She burst in upon them.
"Who are you speaking of?" she asked.
There was a pause before anybody replied. At last Liddy said
frankly, "What was passing was a bit of a word about yourself, miss."
"I thought so! Maryann and Liddy and Temperance--now I forbid you
to suppose such things. You know I don't care the least for Mr.
Troy--not I. Everybody knows how much I hate him.--Yes," repeated
the froward young person, "HATE him!"
"We know you do, miss," said Liddy; "and so do we all."
"I hate him too," said Maryann.
"Maryann--Oh you perjured woman! How can you speak that wicked
story!" said Bathsheba, excitedly. "You admired him from your heart
only this morning in the very world, you did. Yes, Maryann, you know
it!"
"Yes, miss, but so did you. He is a wild scamp now, and you are
right to hate him."
"He's NOT a wild scamp! How dare you to my face! I have no right to
hate him, nor you, nor anybody. But I am a silly woman! What is it
to me what he is? You know it is nothing. I don't care for him; I
don't mean to defend his good name, not I. Mind this, if any of you
say a word against him you'll be dismissed instantly!"
She flung down the letter and surged back into the parlour, with a
big heart and tearful eyes, Liddy following her.
"Oh miss!" said mild Liddy, looking pitifully into Bathsheba's face.
"I am sorry we mistook you so! I did think you cared for him; but I
see you don't now."
"Shut the door, Liddy."
Liddy closed the door, and went on: "People always say such foolery,
miss. I'll make answer hencefor'ard, 'Of course a lady like Miss
Everdene can't love him'; I'll say it out in plain black and white."
Bathsheba burst out: "O Liddy, are you such a simpleton? Can't you
read riddles? Can't you see? Are you a woman yourself?"
Liddy's clear eyes rounded with wonderment.
"Yes; you must be a blind thing, Liddy!" she said, in reckless
abandonment and grief. "Oh, I love him to very distraction and
misery and agony! Don't be frightened at me, though perhaps I am
enough to frighten any innocent woman. Come closer--closer." She
put her arms round Liddy's neck. "I must let it out to somebody; it
is wearing me away! Don't you yet know enough of me to see through
that miserable denial of mine? O God, what a lie it was! Heaven and
my Love forgive me. And don't you know that a woman who loves at
all thinks nothing of perjury when it is balanced against her love?
There, go out of the room; I want to be quite alone."
Liddy went towards the door.
"Liddy, come here. Solemnly swear to me that he's not a fast man;
that it is all lies they say about him!"
"But, miss, how can I say he is not if--"
"You graceless girl! How can you have the cruel heart to repeat what
they say? Unfeeling thing that you are.... But I'LL see if you or
anybody else in the village, or town either, dare do such a thing!"
She started off, pacing from fireplace to door, and back again.
"No, miss. I don't--I know it is not true!" said Liddy, frightened
at Bathsheba's unwonted vehemence.
"I suppose you only agree with me like that to please me. But,
Liddy, he CANNOT BE bad, as is said. Do you hear?"
"Yes, miss, yes."
"And you don't believe he is?"
"I don't know what to say, miss," said Liddy, beginning to cry. "If
I say No, you don't believe me; and if I say Yes, you rage at me!"
"Say you don't believe it--say you don't!"
"I don't believe him to be so bad as they make out."
"He is not bad at all.... My poor life and heart, how weak I
am!" she moaned, in a relaxed, desultory way, heedless of Liddy's
presence. "Oh, how I wish I had never seen him! Loving is misery
for women always. I shall never forgive God for making me a woman,
and dearly am I beginning to pay for the honour of owning a pretty
face." She freshened and turned to Liddy suddenly. "Mind this,
Lydia Smallbury, if you repeat anywhere a single word of what I have
said to you inside this closed door, I'll never trust you, or love
you, or have you with me a moment longer--not a moment!"
"I don't want to repeat anything," said Liddy, with womanly dignity
of a diminutive order; "but I don't wish to stay with you. And,
if you please, I'll go at the end of the harvest, or this week, or
to-day.... I don't see that I deserve to be put upon and stormed at
for nothing!" concluded the small woman, bigly.
"No, no, Liddy; you must stay!" said Bathsheba, dropping from
haughtiness to entreaty with capricious inconsequence. "You must not
notice my being in a taking just now. You are not as a servant--you
are a companion to me. Dear, dear--I don't know what I am doing
since this miserable ache of my heart has weighted and worn upon me
so! What shall I come to! I suppose I shall get further and further
into troubles. I wonder sometimes if I am doomed to die in the
Union. I am friendless enough, God knows!"
"I won't notice anything, nor will I leave you!" sobbed Liddy,
impulsively putting up her lips to Bathsheba's, and kissing her.
Then Bathsheba kissed Liddy, and all was smooth again.
"I don't often cry, do I, Lidd? but you have made tears come into my
eyes," she said, a smile shining through the moisture. "Try to think
him a good man, won't you, dear Liddy?"
"I will, miss, indeed."
"He is a sort of steady man in a wild way, you know. That's better
than to be as some are, wild in a steady way. I am afraid that's
how I am. And promise me to keep my secret--do, Liddy! And do not
let them know that I have been crying about him, because it will be
dreadful for me, and no good to him, poor thing!"
"Death's head himself shan't wring it from me, mistress, if I've
a mind to keep anything; and I'll always be your friend," replied
Liddy, emphatically, at the same time bringing a few more tears into
her own eyes, not from any particular necessity, but from an artistic
sense of making herself in keeping with the remainder of the picture,
which seems to influence women at such times. "I think God likes us
to be good friends, don't you?"
"Indeed I do."
"And, dear miss, you won't harry me and storm at me, will you?
because you seem to swell so tall as a lion then, and it frightens
me! Do you know, I fancy you would be a match for any man when you
are in one o' your takings."
"Never! do you?" said Bathsheba, slightly laughing, though somewhat
seriously alarmed by this Amazonian picture of herself. "I hope I am
not a bold sort of maid--mannish?" she continued with some anxiety.
"Oh no, not mannish; but so almighty womanish that 'tis getting on
that way sometimes. Ah! miss," she said, after having drawn her
breath very sadly in and sent it very sadly out, "I wish I had half
your failing that way. 'Tis a great protection to a poor maid in
these illegit'mate days!"
BLAME--FURY
The next evening Bathsheba, with the idea of getting out of the way
of Mr. Boldwood in the event of his returning to answer her note
in person, proceeded to fulfil an engagement made with Liddy some
few hours earlier. Bathsheba's companion, as a gauge of their
reconciliation, had been granted a week's holiday to visit her
sister, who was married to a thriving hurdler and cattle-crib-maker
living in a delightful labyrinth of hazel copse not far beyond
Yalbury. The arrangement was that Miss Everdene should honour
them by coming there for a day or two to inspect some ingenious
contrivances which this man of the woods had introduced into his
wares.
Leaving her instructions with Gabriel and Maryann, that they were to
see everything carefully locked up for the night, she went out of the
house just at the close of a timely thunder-shower, which had refined
the air, and daintily bathed the coat of the land, though all beneath
was dry as ever. Freshness was exhaled in an essence from the varied
contours of bank and hollow, as if the earth breathed maiden breath;
and the pleased birds were hymning to the scene. Before her, among
the clouds, there was a contrast in the shape of lairs of fierce
light which showed themselves in the neighbourhood of a hidden sun,
lingering on to the farthest north-west corner of the heavens that
this midsummer season allowed.
She had walked nearly two miles of her journey, watching how the
day was retreating, and thinking how the time of deeds was quietly
melting into the time of thought, to give place in its turn to the
time of prayer and sleep, when she beheld advancing over Yalbury
hill the very man she sought so anxiously to elude. Boldwood was
stepping on, not with that quiet tread of reserved strength which
was his customary gait, in which he always seemed to be balancing
two thoughts. His manner was stunned and sluggish now.
Boldwood had for the first time been awakened to woman's privileges
in tergiversation even when it involves another person's possible
blight. That Bathsheba was a firm and positive girl, far less
inconsequent than her fellows, had been the very lung of his hope;
for he had held that these qualities would lead her to adhere to a
straight course for consistency's sake, and accept him, though her
fancy might not flood him with the iridescent hues of uncritical
love. But the argument now came back as sorry gleams from a broken
mirror. The discovery was no less a scourge than a surprise.
He came on looking upon the ground, and did not see Bathsheba till
they were less than a stone's throw apart. He looked up at the sound
of her pit-pat, and his changed appearance sufficiently denoted to
her the depth and strength of the feelings paralyzed by her letter.
"Oh; is it you, Mr. Boldwood?" she faltered, a guilty warmth pulsing
in her face.
Those who have the power of reproaching in silence may find it a
means more effective than words. There are accents in the eye which
are not on the tongue, and more tales come from pale lips than can
enter an ear. It is both the grandeur and the pain of the remoter
moods that they avoid the pathway of sound. Boldwood's look was
unanswerable.
Seeing she turned a little aside, he said, "What, are you afraid of
me?"
"Why should you say that?" said Bathsheba.
"I fancied you looked so," said he. "And it is most strange, because
of its contrast with my feeling for you."
She regained self-possession, fixed her eyes calmly, and waited.
"You know what that feeling is," continued Boldwood, deliberately.
"A thing strong as death. No dismissal by a hasty letter affects
that."
"I wish you did not feel so strongly about me," she murmured. "It is
generous of you, and more than I deserve, but I must not hear it
now."
"Hear it? What do you think I have to say, then? I am not to marry
you, and that's enough. Your letter was excellently plain. I want
you to hear nothing--not I."
Bathsheba was unable to direct her will into any definite groove for
freeing herself from this fearfully awkward position. She confusedly
said, "Good evening," and was moving on. Boldwood walked up to her
heavily and dully.
"Bathsheba--darling--is it final indeed?"
"Indeed it is."
"Oh, Bathsheba--have pity upon me!" Boldwood burst out. "God's sake,
yes--I am come to that low, lowest stage--to ask a woman for pity!
Still, she is you--she is you."
Bathsheba commanded herself well. But she could hardly get a clear
voice for what came instinctively to her lips: "There is little
honour to the woman in that speech." It was only whispered, for
something unutterably mournful no less than distressing in this
spectacle of a man showing himself to be so entirely the vane of a
passion enervated the feminine instinct for punctilios.
"I am beyond myself about this, and am mad," he said. "I am no stoic
at all to be supplicating here; but I do supplicate to you. I wish
you knew what is in me of devotion to you; but it is impossible,
that. In bare human mercy to a lonely man, don't throw me off now!"
"I don't throw you off--indeed, how can I? I never had you." In her
noon-clear sense that she had never loved him she forgot for a moment
her thoughtless angle on that day in February.
"But there was a time when you turned to me, before I thought of you!
I don't reproach you, for even now I feel that the ignorant and cold
darkness that I should have lived in if you had not attracted me by
that letter--valentine you call it--would have been worse than my
knowledge of you, though it has brought this misery. But, I say,
there was a time when I knew nothing of you, and cared nothing
for you, and yet you drew me on. And if you say you gave me no
encouragement, I cannot but contradict you."
"What you call encouragement was the childish game of an idle minute.
I have bitterly repented of it--ay, bitterly, and in tears. Can you
still go on reminding me?"
"I don't accuse you of it--I deplore it. I took for earnest what
you insist was jest, and now this that I pray to be jest you say is
awful, wretched earnest. Our moods meet at wrong places. I wish
your feeling was more like mine, or my feeling more like yours! Oh,
could I but have foreseen the torture that trifling trick was going
to lead me into, how I should have cursed you; but only having been
able to see it since, I cannot do that, for I love you too well! But
it is weak, idle drivelling to go on like this.... Bathsheba, you
are the first woman of any shade or nature that I have ever looked at
to love, and it is the having been so near claiming you for my own
that makes this denial so hard to bear. How nearly you promised me!
But I don't speak now to move your heart, and make you grieve because
of my pain; it is no use, that. I must bear it; my pain would get no
less by paining you."
"But I do pity you--deeply--O, so deeply!" she earnestly said.
"Do no such thing--do no such thing. Your dear love, Bathsheba, is
such a vast thing beside your pity, that the loss of your pity as
well as your love is no great addition to my sorrow, nor does the
gain of your pity make it sensibly less. O sweet--how dearly you
spoke to me behind the spear-bed at the washing-pool, and in the barn
at the shearing, and that dearest last time in the evening at your
home! Where are your pleasant words all gone--your earnest hope to
be able to love me? Where is your firm conviction that you would get
to care for me very much? Really forgotten?--really?"
She checked emotion, looked him quietly and clearly in the face, and
said in her low, firm voice, "Mr. Boldwood, I promised you nothing.
Would you have had me a woman of clay when you paid me that furthest,
highest compliment a man can pay a woman--telling her he loves her?
I was bound to show some feeling, if I would not be a graceless
shrew. Yet each of those pleasures was just for the day--the day
just for the pleasure. How was I to know that what is a pastime to
all other men was death to you? Have reason, do, and think more
kindly of me!"
"Well, never mind arguing--never mind. One thing is sure: you
were all but mine, and now you are not nearly mine. Everything is
changed, and that by you alone, remember. You were nothing to me
once, and I was contented; you are now nothing to me again, and how
different the second nothing is from the first! Would to God you
had never taken me up, since it was only to throw me down!"
Bathsheba, in spite of her mettle, began to feel unmistakable signs
that she was inherently the weaker vessel. She strove miserably
against this femininity which would insist upon supplying unbidden
emotions in stronger and stronger current. She had tried to elude
agitation by fixing her mind on the trees, sky, any trivial object
before her eyes, whilst his reproaches fell, but ingenuity could not
save her now.
"I did not take you up--surely I did not!" she answered as heroically
as she could. "But don't be in this mood with me. I can endure
being told I am in the wrong, if you will only tell it me gently!
O sir, will you not kindly forgive me, and look at it cheerfully?"
"Cheerfully! Can a man fooled to utter heart-burning find a reason
for being merry? If I have lost, how can I be as if I had won?
Heavens you must be heartless quite! Had I known what a fearfully
bitter sweet this was to be, how I would have avoided you, and never
seen you, and been deaf of you. I tell you all this, but what do you
care! You don't care."
She returned silent and weak denials to his charges, and swayed
her head desperately, as if to thrust away the words as they came
showering about her ears from the lips of the trembling man in the
climax of life, with his bronzed Roman face and fine frame.
"Dearest, dearest, I am wavering even now between the two opposites
of recklessly renouncing you, and labouring humbly for you again.
Forget that you have said No, and let it be as it was! Say,
Bathsheba, that you only wrote that refusal to me in fun--come, say
it to me!"
"It would be untrue, and painful to both of us. You overrate my
capacity for love. I don't possess half the warmth of nature you
believe me to have. An unprotected childhood in a cold world has
beaten gentleness out of me."
He immediately said with more resentment: "That may be true,
somewhat; but ah, Miss Everdene, it won't do as a reason! You are
not the cold woman you would have me believe. No, no! It isn't
because you have no feeling in you that you don't love me. You
naturally would have me think so--you would hide from me that you
have a burning heart like mine. You have love enough, but it is
turned into a new channel. I know where."
The swift music of her heart became hubbub now, and she throbbed
to extremity. He was coming to Troy. He did then know what had
occurred! And the name fell from his lips the next moment.
"Why did Troy not leave my treasure alone?" he asked, fiercely.
"When I had no thought of injuring him, why did he force himself upon
your notice! Before he worried you your inclination was to have me;
when next I should have come to you your answer would have been Yes.
Can you deny it--I ask, can you deny it?"
She delayed the reply, but was too honest to withhold it. "I
cannot," she whispered.
"I know you cannot. But he stole in in my absence and robbed me.
Why didn't he win you away before, when nobody would have been
grieved?--when nobody would have been set tale-bearing. Now the
people sneer at me--the very hills and sky seem to laugh at me till I
blush shamefully for my folly. I have lost my respect, my good name,
my standing--lost it, never to get it again. Go and marry your
man--go on!"
"Oh sir--Mr. Boldwood!"
"You may as well. I have no further claim upon you. As for me, I
had better go somewhere alone, and hide--and pray. I loved a woman
once. I am now ashamed. When I am dead they'll say, miserable
love-sick man that he was. Heaven--heaven--if I had got jilted
secretly, and the dishonour not known, and my position kept! But
no matter, it is gone, and the woman not gained. Shame upon
him--shame!"
His unreasonable anger terrified her, and she glided from him,
without obviously moving, as she said, "I am only a girl--do not
speak to me so!"
"All the time you knew--how very well you knew--that your new freak
was my misery. Dazzled by brass and scarlet--Oh, Bathsheba--this is
woman's folly indeed!"
She fired up at once. "You are taking too much upon yourself!" she
said, vehemently. "Everybody is upon me--everybody. It is unmanly
to attack a woman so! I have nobody in the world to fight my battles
for me; but no mercy is shown. Yet if a thousand of you sneer and
say things against me, I WILL NOT be put down!"
"You'll chatter with him doubtless about me. Say to him, 'Boldwood
would have died for me.' Yes, and you have given way to him, knowing
him to be not the man for you. He has kissed you--claimed you as
his. Do you hear--he has kissed you. Deny it!"
The most tragic woman is cowed by a tragic man, and although Boldwood
was, in vehemence and glow, nearly her own self rendered into another
sex, Bathsheba's cheek quivered. She gasped, "Leave me, sir--leave
me! I am nothing to you. Let me go on!"
"Deny that he has kissed you."
"I shall not."
"Ha--then he has!" came hoarsely from the farmer.
"He has," she said, slowly, and, in spite of her fear, defiantly. "I
am not ashamed to speak the truth."
"Then curse him; and curse him!" said Boldwood, breaking into a
whispered fury. "Whilst I would have given worlds to touch your hand,
you have let a rake come in without right or ceremony and--kiss you!
Heaven's mercy--kiss you! ... Ah, a time of his life shall come
when he will have to repent, and think wretchedly of the pain he has
caused another man; and then may he ache, and wish, and curse, and
yearn--as I do now!"
"Don't, don't, oh, don't pray down evil upon him!" she implored in a
miserable cry. "Anything but that--anything. Oh, be kind to him,
sir, for I love him true!"
Boldwood's ideas had reached that point of fusion at which outline
and consistency entirely disappear. The impending night appeared to
concentrate in his eye. He did not hear her at all now.
"I'll punish him--by my soul, that will I! I'll meet him, soldier or
no, and I'll horsewhip the untimely stripling for this reckless theft
of my one delight. If he were a hundred men I'd horsewhip him--"
He dropped his voice suddenly and unnaturally. "Bathsheba, sweet,
lost coquette, pardon me! I've been blaming you, threatening you,
behaving like a churl to you, when he's the greatest sinner. He
stole your dear heart away with his unfathomable lies! ... It is a
fortunate thing for him that he's gone back to his regiment--that
he's away up the country, and not here! I hope he may not return
here just yet. I pray God he may not come into my sight, for I may
be tempted beyond myself. Oh, Bathsheba, keep him away--yes, keep
him away from me!"
For a moment Boldwood stood so inertly after this that his soul
seemed to have been entirely exhaled with the breath of his
passionate words. He turned his face away, and withdrew, and his
form was soon covered over by the twilight as his footsteps mixed
in with the low hiss of the leafy trees.
Bathsheba, who had been standing motionless as a model all this
latter time, flung her hands to her face, and wildly attempted to
ponder on the exhibition which had just passed away. Such astounding
wells of fevered feeling in a still man like Mr. Boldwood were
incomprehensible, dreadful. Instead of being a man trained to
repression he was--what she had seen him.
The force of the farmer's threats lay in their relation to a
circumstance known at present only to herself: her lover was coming
back to Weatherbury in the course of the very next day or two. Troy
had not returned to his distant barracks as Boldwood and others
supposed, but had merely gone to visit some acquaintance in Bath,
and had yet a week or more remaining to his furlough.
She felt wretchedly certain that if he revisited her just at this
nick of time, and came into contact with Boldwood, a fierce quarrel
would be the consequence. She panted with solicitude when she
thought of possible injury to Troy. The least spark would kindle
the farmer's swift feelings of rage and jealousy; he would lose his
self-mastery as he had this evening; Troy's blitheness might become
aggressive; it might take the direction of derision, and Boldwood's
anger might then take the direction of revenge.
With almost a morbid dread of being thought a gushing girl, this
guileless woman too well concealed from the world under a manner of
carelessness the warm depths of her strong emotions. But now there
was no reserve. In her distraction, instead of advancing further she
walked up and down, beating the air with her fingers, pressing on her
brow, and sobbing brokenly to herself. Then she sat down on a heap
of stones by the wayside to think. There she remained long. Above
the dark margin of the earth appeared foreshores and promontories of
coppery cloud, bounding a green and pellucid expanse in the western
sky. Amaranthine glosses came over them then, and the unresting
world wheeled her round to a contrasting prospect eastward, in the
shape of indecisive and palpitating stars. She gazed upon their
silent throes amid the shades of space, but realised none at all.
Her troubled spirit was far away with Troy.
| 8,740 | Chapters 28-31 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210108004047/https://www.gradesaver.com/far-from-the-madding-crowd/study-guide/summary-chapters-28-31 | Bathsheba is increasingly distracted by her feelings for Troy, and Gabriel notices what is going on. He finds an opportunity to join her on an evening walk, and mentions the possibility of her marrying Boldwood. Bathsheba now asserts that she is not going to marry him, and that she will tell him so when he returns at harvest time. Gabriel expresses concern that she is toying with Boldwood's feelings, and his dislike of her relationship with Troy. He tells her that he does not think Troy is a good or trustworthy person, but Bathsheba defends him. Becoming more desperate, Gabriel tells her that he loves her, and that while he knows he has no chance of marrying her, he would much rather see her with Boldwood or anyone else other than Troy. Bathsheba becomes angry and tells Gabriel he cannot work for her any longer. He tells her that she needs him if the farm is going to continue to run successfully, and that he will only consent to leave if she agrees to hire another man as a bailiff. Since she refuses to do so, he insists on staying and she reluctantly agrees. She then asks Gabriel to leave her alone, and as he slips away, he sees that she is meeting up with Troy. Bathsheba returns from the meeting with Troy and writes a letter to Boldwood saying that she has decided she cannot marry him. She then overhears Liddy and other female servants gossiping about the possibility of her marrying Troy. She becomes very angry and swears that she hates Troy, but then becomes very emotional and confides to Liddy that she is in love with Troy and agitated by all the bad things people seem to say about him. She behaves so erratically that Liddy is hurt and says she does not want to work for Bathsheba anymore, but Bathsheba quickly persuades her to stay. After Bathsheba sends her letter to Boldwood, she is worried that he might try and come to discuss it with her, so she arranges to go away for a few days to visit Liddy's sister. However, as she is walking on her journey, she runs into Boldwood. He tells her how upset he is, and begs her to reconsider. Bathsheba pleads that she never truly had feelings for him, and that she has done nothing wrong. Boldwood becomes angry about the fact that she loves Troy and not him, and accuses her of letting Troy kiss her. Bathsheba defiantly refuses to deny this. Boldwood storms into a jealous rage, claiming Troy has seduced and manipulated her, and that he will punish him if he ever catches him. After Boldwood leaves, Bathsheba is very anxious, because while Boldwood and most of the other townspeople think Troy has returned to his regiment permanently, she knows that he is only away on a brief visit to Bath and is going to be returning the next day. She is fearful of what might happen if Boldwood runs into her lover. Bathsheba is unsure about whether she should tell Troy to remain in Bath but decides she needs to get there to tell him not to return before he sets out. The only way to accomplish this is for her to drive through the night. She decides to go home, get the horse, drive to Bath, end the relationship with Troy, and then continue on to visit Liddy's sister as she had originally planned. That night, Bathsheba's servant Mary-Ann wakes up to the sound of someone taking one of the horses and driving away with it. Believing that a theft has happened, she wakes up the men and Gabriel determines that he and Jan Coggan should pursue the thief on horseback. They go after the thief and eventually are shocked to find that it is Bathsheba herself with the horse and wagon. She explains that she suddenly needed to go to Bath. She continues on her journey, and Gabriel and Coggan go home after agreeing not to discuss what they saw. | Up until beginning her relationship with Troy, Bathsheba has largely operated from a rational and balanced perspective. She is capable of making good decisions about business and the future of the farm, and has shown herself to be a good manager and supervisor. But as her feelings for Troy deepen, Bathsheba behaves more irrationally and erratically. In some ways, as Bathsheba becomes more feminized by her first genuine experience of attraction and desire, she also moves away from the emphasis on logic that had previously characterized her. As Joanna Devereux observes, "the narrator typically attributes the qualities of logic and thoughtfulness to men, and then notes the unusual circumstance of a woman possessing these traits" . One sign that her relationship with Troy is not on a good track is that it alienates her from people she cares about. Her volatile moods disrupt her relationship with Liddy, who is essentially Bathsheba's only friend. More seriously, it leads to a confrontation with Gabriel. In both cases, these conflicts end with the risk of Bathsheba's employee leaving her service. While Bathsheba's elevated social and economic position gives her status and power, it is also a lonely situation for her. The only people she is close to still work for her, and that makes this emotional relationships even more complicated. The way in which her friendship with Gabriel has become atypical is made clear when, after she tries to fire him, he simply tells her that he won't leave because he knows she needs him in order for the farm to run. While the possibility that Bathsheba would marry Boldwood was clearly personally painful to Gabriel, he never attempted to interfere with the courtship because he respected and trusted Boldwood to be a good husband. Gabriel's concerns about the fact that Troy does not seem to attend church show that he is a traditional, even conservative, character; for a character like Troy who is not used to being part of tightly-knit community, it would not seem important to publicly demonstrate his integrity and values in this way. What is more significant than Troy not attending church is the fact that he lies about it. When Gabriel suspiciously goes to investigate Troy's story that he enters by the back door, he becomes clear that Troy has not been telling truth Bathsheba the truth, but instead telling her what she wants to hear. This relatively small deception foreshadows the bigger secrets he will turn out to be keeping. Bathsheba's confrontation with Boldwood echoes these themes of other characters mistrusting Troy and trying to protect her. However, while Gabriel and Liddy both seemed genuinely concerned about Bathsheba's welfare, Boldwood is primarily motivated by his jealousy and desire to possess and control her. While it might not seem provocative to modern readers, Boldwood's accusation that Bathsheba has allowed Troy to kiss her, and her refusal to deny this, would have been quite striking in the Victorian era. Boldwood interprets this as evidence that Troy is not a gentleman, and that he will manipulate women to get whatever he can without caring about the consequences to their reputation. Boldwood will turn out to be partially correct, but he overlooks the significant factor of Bathsheba's own desire and agency. He assumes she could only be pursuing a relationship with Troy because the soldier is coercing her, not because she actually wants him. | 675 | 563 | [
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174 | false | cliffnotes | all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/15.txt | finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_14_part_0.txt | The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 15 | chapter 15 | null | {"name": "Chapter 15", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219150422/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/summary-and-analysis/chapter-15", "summary": "After the intensity of the previous three chapters, Wilde interjects this chapter as a dramatic pause. Like a light interlude in a play following profound action, Chapter 15 is more style than substance. The opening scene of the chapter is a dinner party at Lady Narborough's. Dorian arrives only an hour or so after Campbell's departure from his home. At first, Dorian is bored with the party. It includes a flirtatious but elderly hostess and several guests whose only distinction is their mediocrity. Dorian is relieved when Lord Henry arrives. At dinner, Dorian eats nothing but drinks several glasses of champagne; in fact, his thirst increases as he drinks, perhaps an allusion to his unquenchable passions. Lord Henry asks if his old protege is feeling out of sorts; Lady Narborough concludes that Dorian must be in love. Dorian manages to mutter that he has not been in love for a whole week. Despite the clever table talk, Dorian is distracted and irritable. For example, when Lord Henry questions him about his whereabouts the previous evening, Dorian becomes agitated and gives an excessively defensive and lengthy response. Lord Henry notes that there must be something wrong with Dorian, but he is characteristically unconcerned. Dorian continues to feel out of sorts, and he leaves the party early, asking Lord Henry to make excuses to the hostess for him. Again, readers should note that Dorian is so preoccupied with his secret life that he can't enjoy the pleasures for which he has given up his soul. Now Dorian has the weight of two secrets to bear -- the portrait and Basil's death. At home, Dorian burns Basil's hat and bag, the last of the evidence that Basil was ever there. He tries to relax, but a Florentine cabinet between two windows catches his attention. He stares at the cabinet, lights a cigarette, and then throws it away. Finally, he walks to the cabinet and removes a small Chinese box. In the box is a \"green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and persistent.\" The reader can assume that the paste is an opiate of some kind. Dorian dresses as a commoner, hails a cab, and takes off toward the river. Glossary Parma violet a variety cultivated for its fragrance; after Parma, a city in northern Italy. chaud-froid French, meaning \"hot-cold\"; a molded, jellied cold meat or fish dish with a jellied sauce. decolletee French, meaning \"in a low-cut dress.\" edition de luxe French, meaning \"luxury edition.\" trop de zele French, meaning \"too much zeal.\" trop d'audace French, meaning \"too much audacity.\" fin de siecle French, meaning \"end of the century\"; a phrase especially applied to the 1890s. fin du globe French, meaning \"end of the world.\" peerage a book listing noblemen and their families; peers as a class; rank or title of nobility. pastille French, meaning \"drop\"; a tablet containing aromatic substances. sovereign a gold coin formerly used in Great Britain, worth one pound.", "analysis": ""} |
That evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a large
button-hole of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into Lady
Narborough's drawing-room by bowing servants. His forehead was
throbbing with maddened nerves, and he felt wildly excited, but his
manner as he bent over his hostess's hand was as easy and graceful as
ever. Perhaps one never seems so much at one's ease as when one has to
play a part. Certainly no one looking at Dorian Gray that night could
have believed that he had passed through a tragedy as horrible as any
tragedy of our age. Those finely shaped fingers could never have
clutched a knife for sin, nor those smiling lips have cried out on God
and goodness. He himself could not help wondering at the calm of his
demeanour, and for a moment felt keenly the terrible pleasure of a
double life.
It was a small party, got up rather in a hurry by Lady Narborough, who
was a very clever woman with what Lord Henry used to describe as the
remains of really remarkable ugliness. She had proved an excellent
wife to one of our most tedious ambassadors, and having buried her
husband properly in a marble mausoleum, which she had herself designed,
and married off her daughters to some rich, rather elderly men, she
devoted herself now to the pleasures of French fiction, French cookery,
and French _esprit_ when she could get it.
Dorian was one of her especial favourites, and she always told him that
she was extremely glad she had not met him in early life. "I know, my
dear, I should have fallen madly in love with you," she used to say,
"and thrown my bonnet right over the mills for your sake. It is most
fortunate that you were not thought of at the time. As it was, our
bonnets were so unbecoming, and the mills were so occupied in trying to
raise the wind, that I never had even a flirtation with anybody.
However, that was all Narborough's fault. He was dreadfully
short-sighted, and there is no pleasure in taking in a husband who
never sees anything."
Her guests this evening were rather tedious. The fact was, as she
explained to Dorian, behind a very shabby fan, one of her married
daughters had come up quite suddenly to stay with her, and, to make
matters worse, had actually brought her husband with her. "I think it
is most unkind of her, my dear," she whispered. "Of course I go and
stay with them every summer after I come from Homburg, but then an old
woman like me must have fresh air sometimes, and besides, I really wake
them up. You don't know what an existence they lead down there. It is
pure unadulterated country life. They get up early, because they have
so much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little to
think about. There has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood since
the time of Queen Elizabeth, and consequently they all fall asleep
after dinner. You shan't sit next either of them. You shall sit by me
and amuse me."
Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room. Yes:
it was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seen
before, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those
middle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies,
but are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an
overdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always
trying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to
her great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against
her; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and
Venetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess's daughter, a dowdy
dull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once
seen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked,
white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the
impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of
ideas.
He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the
great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the
mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed: "How horrid of Henry Wotton to be
so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised
faithfully not to disappoint me."
It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door
opened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some
insincere apology, he ceased to feel bored.
But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away
untasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called "an
insult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you," and
now and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence
and abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass
with champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase.
"Dorian," said Lord Henry at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being handed
round, "what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out of
sorts."
"I believe he is in love," cried Lady Narborough, "and that he is
afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I
certainly should."
"Dear Lady Narborough," murmured Dorian, smiling, "I have not been in
love for a whole week--not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town."
"How you men can fall in love with that woman!" exclaimed the old lady.
"I really cannot understand it."
"It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl,
Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry. "She is the one link between us and
your short frocks."
"She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I
remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _decolletee_
she was then."
"She is still _decolletee_," he answered, taking an olive in his long
fingers; "and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an
_edition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and
full of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary.
When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief."
"How can you, Harry!" cried Dorian.
"It is a most romantic explanation," laughed the hostess. "But her
third husband, Lord Henry! You don't mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?"
"Certainly, Lady Narborough."
"I don't believe a word of it."
"Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends."
"Is it true, Mr. Gray?"
"She assures me so, Lady Narborough," said Dorian. "I asked her
whether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and
hung at her girdle. She told me she didn't, because none of them had
had any hearts at all."
"Four husbands! Upon my word that is _trop de zele_."
"_Trop d'audace_, I tell her," said Dorian.
"Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol
like? I don't know him."
"The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes,"
said Lord Henry, sipping his wine.
Lady Narborough hit him with her fan. "Lord Henry, I am not at all
surprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked."
"But what world says that?" asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows.
"It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellent
terms."
"Everybody I know says you are very wicked," cried the old lady,
shaking her head.
Lord Henry looked serious for some moments. "It is perfectly
monstrous," he said, at last, "the way people go about nowadays saying
things against one behind one's back that are absolutely and entirely
true."
"Isn't he incorrigible?" cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair.
"I hope so," said his hostess, laughing. "But really, if you all
worship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry
again so as to be in the fashion."
"You will never marry again, Lady Narborough," broke in Lord Henry.
"You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because she
detested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he
adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs."
"Narborough wasn't perfect," cried the old lady.
"If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady," was the
rejoinder. "Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them,
they will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will never
ask me to dinner again after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough,
but it is quite true."
"Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for
your defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be
married. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however,
that that would alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live like
bachelors, and all the bachelors like married men."
"_Fin de siecle_," murmured Lord Henry.
"_Fin du globe_," answered his hostess.
"I wish it were _fin du globe_," said Dorian with a sigh. "Life is a
great disappointment."
"Ah, my dear," cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves, "don't
tell me that you have exhausted life. When a man says that one knows
that life has exhausted him. Lord Henry is very wicked, and I
sometimes wish that I had been; but you are made to be good--you look
so good. I must find you a nice wife. Lord Henry, don't you think
that Mr. Gray should get married?"
"I am always telling him so, Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry with a
bow.
"Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him. I shall go
through Debrett carefully to-night and draw out a list of all the
eligible young ladies."
"With their ages, Lady Narborough?" asked Dorian.
"Of course, with their ages, slightly edited. But nothing must be done
in a hurry. I want it to be what _The Morning Post_ calls a suitable
alliance, and I want you both to be happy."
"What nonsense people talk about happy marriages!" exclaimed Lord
Henry. "A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he does not love
her."
"Ah! what a cynic you are!" cried the old lady, pushing back her chair
and nodding to Lady Ruxton. "You must come and dine with me soon
again. You are really an admirable tonic, much better than what Sir
Andrew prescribes for me. You must tell me what people you would like
to meet, though. I want it to be a delightful gathering."
"I like men who have a future and women who have a past," he answered.
"Or do you think that would make it a petticoat party?"
"I fear so," she said, laughing, as she stood up. "A thousand pardons,
my dear Lady Ruxton," she added, "I didn't see you hadn't finished your
cigarette."
"Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke a great deal too much. I am
going to limit myself, for the future."
"Pray don't, Lady Ruxton," said Lord Henry. "Moderation is a fatal
thing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a
feast."
Lady Ruxton glanced at him curiously. "You must come and explain that
to me some afternoon, Lord Henry. It sounds a fascinating theory," she
murmured, as she swept out of the room.
"Now, mind you don't stay too long over your politics and scandal,"
cried Lady Narborough from the door. "If you do, we are sure to
squabble upstairs."
The men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the
table and came up to the top. Dorian Gray changed his seat and went
and sat by Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about
the situation in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries.
The word _doctrinaire_--word full of terror to the British
mind--reappeared from time to time between his explosions. An
alliterative prefix served as an ornament of oratory. He hoisted the
Union Jack on the pinnacles of thought. The inherited stupidity of the
race--sound English common sense he jovially termed it--was shown to be
the proper bulwark for society.
A smile curved Lord Henry's lips, and he turned round and looked at
Dorian.
"Are you better, my dear fellow?" he asked. "You seemed rather out of
sorts at dinner."
"I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all."
"You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to
you. She tells me she is going down to Selby."
"She has promised to come on the twentieth."
"Is Monmouth to be there, too?"
"Oh, yes, Harry."
"He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very
clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of
weakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image
precious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay.
White porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire,
and what fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences."
"How long has she been married?" asked Dorian.
"An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it is
ten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity,
with time thrown in. Who else is coming?"
"Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey
Clouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian."
"I like him," said Lord Henry. "A great many people don't, but I find
him charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed by
being always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type."
"I don't know if he will be able to come, Harry. He may have to go to
Monte Carlo with his father."
"Ah! what a nuisance people's people are! Try and make him come. By
the way, Dorian, you ran off very early last night. You left before
eleven. What did you do afterwards? Did you go straight home?"
Dorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned.
"No, Harry," he said at last, "I did not get home till nearly three."
"Did you go to the club?"
"Yes," he answered. Then he bit his lip. "No, I don't mean that. I
didn't go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did.... How
inquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what one has been
doing. I always want to forget what I have been doing. I came in at
half-past two, if you wish to know the exact time. I had left my
latch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in. If you want any
corroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask him."
Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, as if I cared!
Let us go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman.
Something has happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You are
not yourself to-night."
"Don't mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I shall
come round and see you to-morrow, or next day. Make my excuses to Lady
Narborough. I shan't go upstairs. I shall go home. I must go home."
"All right, Dorian. I dare say I shall see you to-morrow at tea-time.
The duchess is coming."
"I will try to be there, Harry," he said, leaving the room. As he
drove back to his own house, he was conscious that the sense of terror
he thought he had strangled had come back to him. Lord Henry's casual
questioning had made him lose his nerve for the moment, and he wanted
his nerve still. Things that were dangerous had to be destroyed. He
winced. He hated the idea of even touching them.
Yet it had to be done. He realized that, and when he had locked the
door of his library, he opened the secret press into which he had
thrust Basil Hallward's coat and bag. A huge fire was blazing. He
piled another log on it. The smell of the singeing clothes and burning
leather was horrible. It took him three-quarters of an hour to consume
everything. At the end he felt faint and sick, and having lit some
Algerian pastilles in a pierced copper brazier, he bathed his hands and
forehead with a cool musk-scented vinegar.
Suddenly he started. His eyes grew strangely bright, and he gnawed
nervously at his underlip. Between two of the windows stood a large
Florentine cabinet, made out of ebony and inlaid with ivory and blue
lapis. He watched it as though it were a thing that could fascinate
and make afraid, as though it held something that he longed for and yet
almost loathed. His breath quickened. A mad craving came over him.
He lit a cigarette and then threw it away. His eyelids drooped till
the long fringed lashes almost touched his cheek. But he still watched
the cabinet. At last he got up from the sofa on which he had been
lying, went over to it, and having unlocked it, touched some hidden
spring. A triangular drawer passed slowly out. His fingers moved
instinctively towards it, dipped in, and closed on something. It was a
small Chinese box of black and gold-dust lacquer, elaborately wrought,
the sides patterned with curved waves, and the silken cords hung with
round crystals and tasselled in plaited metal threads. He opened it.
Inside was a green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and
persistent.
He hesitated for some moments, with a strangely immobile smile upon his
face. Then shivering, though the atmosphere of the room was terribly
hot, he drew himself up and glanced at the clock. It was twenty
minutes to twelve. He put the box back, shutting the cabinet doors as
he did so, and went into his bedroom.
As midnight was striking bronze blows upon the dusky air, Dorian Gray,
dressed commonly, and with a muffler wrapped round his throat, crept
quietly out of his house. In Bond Street he found a hansom with a good
horse. He hailed it and in a low voice gave the driver an address.
The man shook his head. "It is too far for me," he muttered.
"Here is a sovereign for you," said Dorian. "You shall have another if
you drive fast."
"All right, sir," answered the man, "you will be there in an hour," and
after his fare had got in he turned his horse round and drove rapidly
towards the river.
| 3,002 | Chapter 15 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201219150422/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/summary-and-analysis/chapter-15 | After the intensity of the previous three chapters, Wilde interjects this chapter as a dramatic pause. Like a light interlude in a play following profound action, Chapter 15 is more style than substance. The opening scene of the chapter is a dinner party at Lady Narborough's. Dorian arrives only an hour or so after Campbell's departure from his home. At first, Dorian is bored with the party. It includes a flirtatious but elderly hostess and several guests whose only distinction is their mediocrity. Dorian is relieved when Lord Henry arrives. At dinner, Dorian eats nothing but drinks several glasses of champagne; in fact, his thirst increases as he drinks, perhaps an allusion to his unquenchable passions. Lord Henry asks if his old protege is feeling out of sorts; Lady Narborough concludes that Dorian must be in love. Dorian manages to mutter that he has not been in love for a whole week. Despite the clever table talk, Dorian is distracted and irritable. For example, when Lord Henry questions him about his whereabouts the previous evening, Dorian becomes agitated and gives an excessively defensive and lengthy response. Lord Henry notes that there must be something wrong with Dorian, but he is characteristically unconcerned. Dorian continues to feel out of sorts, and he leaves the party early, asking Lord Henry to make excuses to the hostess for him. Again, readers should note that Dorian is so preoccupied with his secret life that he can't enjoy the pleasures for which he has given up his soul. Now Dorian has the weight of two secrets to bear -- the portrait and Basil's death. At home, Dorian burns Basil's hat and bag, the last of the evidence that Basil was ever there. He tries to relax, but a Florentine cabinet between two windows catches his attention. He stares at the cabinet, lights a cigarette, and then throws it away. Finally, he walks to the cabinet and removes a small Chinese box. In the box is a "green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and persistent." The reader can assume that the paste is an opiate of some kind. Dorian dresses as a commoner, hails a cab, and takes off toward the river. Glossary Parma violet a variety cultivated for its fragrance; after Parma, a city in northern Italy. chaud-froid French, meaning "hot-cold"; a molded, jellied cold meat or fish dish with a jellied sauce. decolletee French, meaning "in a low-cut dress." edition de luxe French, meaning "luxury edition." trop de zele French, meaning "too much zeal." trop d'audace French, meaning "too much audacity." fin de siecle French, meaning "end of the century"; a phrase especially applied to the 1890s. fin du globe French, meaning "end of the world." peerage a book listing noblemen and their families; peers as a class; rank or title of nobility. pastille French, meaning "drop"; a tablet containing aromatic substances. sovereign a gold coin formerly used in Great Britain, worth one pound. | null | 493 | 1 | [
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5,658 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/25.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_24_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapter 25 | chapter 25 | null | {"name": "Chapter 25", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-25", "summary": "Later Marlow and Jim visit the Rajah, and Jim goes into more detail about his captivity. After being imprisoned for a few days, he escaped by vaulting the stockade . He made a mad dash to Doramin , who took Jim in. Doramin's family then tended to Jim until he was better.", "analysis": ""} | '"This is where I was prisoner for three days," he murmured to me (it
was on the occasion of our visit to the Rajah), while we were making our
way slowly through a kind of awestruck riot of dependants across Tunku
Allang's courtyard. "Filthy place, isn't it? And I couldn't get anything
to eat either, unless I made a row about it, and then it was only
a small plate of rice and a fried fish not much bigger than a
stickleback--confound them! Jove! I've been hungry prowling inside this
stinking enclosure with some of these vagabonds shoving their mugs right
under my nose. I had given up that famous revolver of yours at the first
demand. Glad to get rid of the bally thing. Look like a fool walking
about with an empty shooting-iron in my hand." At that moment we came
into the presence, and he became unflinchingly grave and complimentary
with his late captor. Oh! magnificent! I want to laugh when I think of
it. But I was impressed, too. The old disreputable Tunku Allang could
not help showing his fear (he was no hero, for all the tales of his hot
youth he was fond of telling); and at the same time there was a wistful
confidence in his manner towards his late prisoner. Note! Even where he
would be most hated he was still trusted. Jim--as far as I could follow
the conversation--was improving the occasion by the delivery of a
lecture. Some poor villagers had been waylaid and robbed while on their
way to Doramin's house with a few pieces of gum or beeswax which they
wished to exchange for rice. "It was Doramin who was a thief," burst
out the Rajah. A shaking fury seemed to enter that old frail body.
He writhed weirdly on his mat, gesticulating with his hands and feet,
tossing the tangled strings of his mop--an impotent incarnation of rage.
There were staring eyes and dropping jaws all around us. Jim began to
speak. Resolutely, coolly, and for some time he enlarged upon the text
that no man should be prevented from getting his food and his children's
food honestly. The other sat like a tailor at his board, one palm on
each knee, his head low, and fixing Jim through the grey hair that
fell over his very eyes. When Jim had done there was a great stillness.
Nobody seemed to breathe even; no one made a sound till the old Rajah
sighed faintly, and looking up, with a toss of his head, said quickly,
"You hear, my people! No more of these little games." This decree
was received in profound silence. A rather heavy man, evidently in a
position of confidence, with intelligent eyes, a bony, broad, very dark
face, and a cheerily of officious manner (I learned later on he was the
executioner), presented to us two cups of coffee on a brass tray, which
he took from the hands of an inferior attendant. "You needn't drink,"
muttered Jim very rapidly. I didn't perceive the meaning at first, and
only looked at him. He took a good sip and sat composedly, holding the
saucer in his left hand. In a moment I felt excessively annoyed. "Why
the devil," I whispered, smiling at him amiably, "do you expose me to
such a stupid risk?" I drank, of course, there was nothing for it, while
he gave no sign, and almost immediately afterwards we took our leave.
While we were going down the courtyard to our boat, escorted by the
intelligent and cheery executioner, Jim said he was very sorry. It was
the barest chance, of course. Personally he thought nothing of poison.
The remotest chance. He was--he assured me--considered to be infinitely
more useful than dangerous, and so . . . "But the Rajah is afraid of
you abominably. Anybody can see that," I argued with, I own, a certain
peevishness, and all the time watching anxiously for the first twist of
some sort of ghastly colic. I was awfully disgusted. "If I am to do any
good here and preserve my position," he said, taking his seat by my
side in the boat, "I must stand the risk: I take it once every month, at
least. Many people trust me to do that--for them. Afraid of me! That's
just it. Most likely he is afraid of me because I am not afraid of his
coffee." Then showing me a place on the north front of the stockade
where the pointed tops of several stakes were broken, "This is where
I leaped over on my third day in Patusan. They haven't put new stakes
there yet. Good leap, eh?" A moment later we passed the mouth of a muddy
creek. "This is my second leap. I had a bit of a run and took this one
flying, but fell short. Thought I would leave my skin there. Lost my
shoes struggling. And all the time I was thinking to myself how beastly
it would be to get a jab with a bally long spear while sticking in the
mud like this. I remember how sick I felt wriggling in that slime. I
mean really sick--as if I had bitten something rotten."
'That's how it was--and the opportunity ran by his side, leaped over the
gap, floundered in the mud . . . still veiled. The unexpectedness of his
coming was the only thing, you understand, that saved him from being at
once dispatched with krisses and flung into the river. They had him, but
it was like getting hold of an apparition, a wraith, a portent. What did
it mean? What to do with it? Was it too late to conciliate him? Hadn't
he better be killed without more delay? But what would happen then?
Wretched old Allang went nearly mad with apprehension and through the
difficulty of making up his mind. Several times the council was broken
up, and the advisers made a break helter-skelter for the door and out
on to the verandah. One--it is said--even jumped down to the
ground--fifteen feet, I should judge--and broke his leg. The royal
governor of Patusan had bizarre mannerisms, and one of them was to
introduce boastful rhapsodies into every arduous discussion, when,
getting gradually excited, he would end by flying off his perch with a
kriss in his hand. But, barring such interruptions, the deliberations
upon Jim's fate went on night and day.
'Meanwhile he wandered about the courtyard, shunned by some, glared at
by others, but watched by all, and practically at the mercy of the first
casual ragamuffin with a chopper, in there. He took possession of a
small tumble-down shed to sleep in; the effluvia of filth and rotten
matter incommoded him greatly: it seems he had not lost his appetite
though, because--he told me--he had been hungry all the blessed time.
Now and again "some fussy ass" deputed from the council-room would
come out running to him, and in honeyed tones would administer amazing
interrogatories: "Were the Dutch coming to take the country? Would the
white man like to go back down the river? What was the object of coming
to such a miserable country? The Rajah wanted to know whether the white
man could repair a watch?" They did actually bring out to him a nickel
clock of New England make, and out of sheer unbearable boredom he busied
himself in trying to get the alarum to work. It was apparently when
thus occupied in his shed that the true perception of his extreme peril
dawned upon him. He dropped the thing--he says--"like a hot potato,"
and walked out hastily, without the slightest idea of what he would,
or indeed could, do. He only knew that the position was intolerable. He
strolled aimlessly beyond a sort of ramshackle little granary on posts,
and his eyes fell on the broken stakes of the palisade; and then--he
says--at once, without any mental process as it were, without any stir
of emotion, he set about his escape as if executing a plan matured for a
month. He walked off carelessly to give himself a good run, and when he
faced about there was some dignitary, with two spearmen in attendance,
close at his elbow ready with a question. He started off "from under his
very nose," went over "like a bird," and landed on the other side with
a fall that jarred all his bones and seemed to split his head. He picked
himself up instantly. He never thought of anything at the time; all he
could remember--he said--was a great yell; the first houses of Patusan
were before him four hundred yards away; he saw the creek, and as it
were mechanically put on more pace. The earth seemed fairly to fly
backwards under his feet. He took off from the last dry spot, felt
himself flying through the air, felt himself, without any shock, planted
upright in an extremely soft and sticky mudbank. It was only when he
tried to move his legs and found he couldn't that, in his own words,
"he came to himself." He began to think of the "bally long spears." As
a matter of fact, considering that the people inside the stockade had to
run to the gate, then get down to the landing-place, get into boats,
and pull round a point of land, he had more advance than he imagined.
Besides, it being low water, the creek was without water--you couldn't
call it dry--and practically he was safe for a time from everything but
a very long shot perhaps. The higher firm ground was about six feet in
front of him. "I thought I would have to die there all the same,"
he said. He reached and grabbed desperately with his hands, and only
succeeded in gathering a horrible cold shiny heap of slime against his
breast--up to his very chin. It seemed to him he was burying himself
alive, and then he struck out madly, scattering the mud with his fists.
It fell on his head, on his face, over his eyes, into his mouth. He told
me that he remembered suddenly the courtyard, as you remember a place
where you had been very happy years ago. He longed--so he said--to be
back there again, mending the clock. Mending the clock--that was the
idea. He made efforts, tremendous sobbing, gasping efforts, efforts that
seemed to burst his eyeballs in their sockets and make him blind, and
culminating into one mighty supreme effort in the darkness to crack the
earth asunder, to throw it off his limbs--and he felt himself creeping
feebly up the bank. He lay full length on the firm ground and saw the
light, the sky. Then as a sort of happy thought the notion came to him
that he would go to sleep. He will have it that he _did_ actually go to
sleep; that he slept--perhaps for a minute, perhaps for twenty seconds,
or only for one second, but he recollects distinctly the violent
convulsive start of awakening. He remained lying still for a while, and
then he arose muddy from head to foot and stood there, thinking he
was alone of his kind for hundreds of miles, alone, with no help, no
sympathy, no pity to expect from any one, like a hunted animal. The
first houses were not more than twenty yards from him; and it was the
desperate screaming of a frightened woman trying to carry off a child
that started him again. He pelted straight on in his socks, beplastered
with filth out of all semblance to a human being. He traversed more
than half the length of the settlement. The nimbler women fled right and
left, the slower men just dropped whatever they had in their hands, and
remained petrified with dropping jaws. He was a flying terror. He says
he noticed the little children trying to run for life, falling on their
little stomachs and kicking. He swerved between two houses up a slope,
clambered in desperation over a barricade of felled trees (there wasn't
a week without some fight in Patusan at that time), burst through a
fence into a maize-patch, where a scared boy flung a stick at him,
blundered upon a path, and ran all at once into the arms of several
startled men. He just had breath enough to gasp out, "Doramin! Doramin!"
He remembers being half-carried, half-rushed to the top of the slope,
and in a vast enclosure with palms and fruit trees being run up to a
large man sitting massively in a chair in the midst of the greatest
possible commotion and excitement. He fumbled in mud and clothes to
produce the ring, and, finding himself suddenly on his back, wondered
who had knocked him down. They had simply let him go--don't you
know?--but he couldn't stand. At the foot of the slope random shots were
fired, and above the roofs of the settlement there rose a dull roar of
amazement. But he was safe. Doramin's people were barricading the gate
and pouring water down his throat; Doramin's old wife, full of business
and commiseration, was issuing shrill orders to her girls. "The old
woman," he said softly, "made a to-do over me as if I had been her own
son. They put me into an immense bed--her state bed--and she ran in
and out wiping her eyes to give me pats on the back. I must have been a
pitiful object. I just lay there like a log for I don't know how long."
'He seemed to have a great liking for Doramin's old wife. She on her
side had taken a motherly fancy to him. She had a round, nut-brown,
soft face, all fine wrinkles, large, bright red lips (she chewed
betel assiduously), and screwed up, winking, benevolent eyes. She was
constantly in movement, scolding busily and ordering unceasingly a troop
of young women with clear brown faces and big grave eyes, her daughters,
her servants, her slave-girls. You know how it is in these households:
it's generally impossible to tell the difference. She was very spare,
and even her ample outer garment, fastened in front with jewelled
clasps, had somehow a skimpy effect. Her dark bare feet were thrust into
yellow straw slippers of Chinese make. I have seen her myself flitting
about with her extremely thick, long, grey hair falling about her
shoulders. She uttered homely shrewd sayings, was of noble birth, and
was eccentric and arbitrary. In the afternoon she would sit in a very
roomy arm-chair, opposite her husband, gazing steadily through a wide
opening in the wall which gave an extensive view of the settlement and
the river.
'She invariably tucked up her feet under her, but old Doramin sat
squarely, sat imposingly as a mountain sits on a plain. He was only
of the nakhoda or merchant class, but the respect shown to him and
the dignity of his bearing were very striking. He was the chief of
the second power in Patusan. The immigrants from Celebes (about sixty
families that, with dependants and so on, could muster some two hundred
men "wearing the kriss") had elected him years ago for their head. The
men of that race are intelligent, enterprising, revengeful, but with a
more frank courage than the other Malays, and restless under oppression.
They formed the party opposed to the Rajah. Of course the quarrels were
for trade. This was the primary cause of faction fights, of the sudden
outbreaks that would fill this or that part of the settlement with
smoke, flame, the noise of shots and shrieks. Villages were burnt, men
were dragged into the Rajah's stockade to be killed or tortured for the
crime of trading with anybody else but himself. Only a day or two before
Jim's arrival several heads of households in the very fishing village
that was afterwards taken under his especial protection had been driven
over the cliffs by a party of the Rajah's spearmen, on suspicion of
having been collecting edible birds' nests for a Celebes trader. Rajah
Allang pretended to be the only trader in his country, and the penalty
for the breach of the monopoly was death; but his idea of trading was
indistinguishable from the commonest forms of robbery. His cruelty and
rapacity had no other bounds than his cowardice, and he was afraid of
the organised power of the Celebes men, only--till Jim came--he was not
afraid enough to keep quiet. He struck at them through his subjects, and
thought himself pathetically in the right. The situation was complicated
by a wandering stranger, an Arab half-breed, who, I believe, on
purely religious grounds, had incited the tribes in the interior (the
bush-folk, as Jim himself called them) to rise, and had established
himself in a fortified camp on the summit of one of the twin hills. He
hung over the town of Patusan like a hawk over a poultry-yard, but he
devastated the open country. Whole villages, deserted, rotted on their
blackened posts over the banks of clear streams, dropping piecemeal into
the water the grass of their walls, the leaves of their roofs, with a
curious effect of natural decay as if they had been a form of vegetation
stricken by a blight at its very root. The two parties in Patusan were
not sure which one this partisan most desired to plunder. The Rajah
intrigued with him feebly. Some of the Bugis settlers, weary with
endless insecurity, were half inclined to call him in. The younger
spirits amongst them, chaffing, advised to "get Sherif Ali with his wild
men and drive the Rajah Allang out of the country." Doramin restrained
them with difficulty. He was growing old, and, though his influence had
not diminished, the situation was getting beyond him. This was the state
of affairs when Jim, bolting from the Rajah's stockade, appeared before
the chief of the Bugis, produced the ring, and was received, in a manner
of speaking, into the heart of the community.' | 2,774 | Chapter 25 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-25 | Later Marlow and Jim visit the Rajah, and Jim goes into more detail about his captivity. After being imprisoned for a few days, he escaped by vaulting the stockade . He made a mad dash to Doramin , who took Jim in. Doramin's family then tended to Jim until he was better. | null | 52 | 1 | [
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110 | false | novelguide | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/46.txt | finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_6_part_1.txt | Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter xlv | chapter xlv | null | {"name": "Chapter XLV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase6-chapter45-52", "summary": "It has been four years since Tess has last seen Alec, and she is shocked and horrified when she sees him preaching in the barn. She runs away but Alec, just as shocked, runs after her. He has suffered since the death of his mother and thanks to Reverend Clare he has been converted and feels he must save her. Tess is speechless, attacks him for ruining women's lives and doesn't for a moment believe his conversion is authentic. Referring to her errant husband Angel, she tells him she knows a truly good man. Alec makes her swear on a stone monument called the Cross-in-Hand, rumored to be an evil omen, that she will never tempt him. She swears before learning it is \"a thing of ill omen\" and leaves in anger. To soothe his nerves, Alec re-reads a letter from Reverend Clare congratulating him on his conversion", "analysis": ""} |
Till this moment she had never seen or heard from d'Urberville since
her departure from Trantridge.
The rencounter came at a heavy moment, one of all moments calculated
to permit its impact with the least emotional shock. But such was
unreasoning memory that, though he stood there openly and palpably a
converted man, who was sorrowing for his past irregularities, a fear
overcame her, paralyzing her movement so that she neither retreated
nor advanced.
To think of what emanated from that countenance when she saw it last,
and to behold it now! ... There was the same handsome unpleasantness
of mien, but now he wore neatly trimmed, old-fashioned whiskers, the
sable moustache having disappeared; and his dress was half-clerical,
a modification which had changed his expression sufficiently to
abstract the dandyism from his features, and to hinder for a second
her belief in his identity.
To Tess's sense there was, just at first, a ghastly _bizarrerie_,
a grim incongruity, in the march of these solemn words of Scripture
out of such a mouth. This too familiar intonation, less than four
years earlier, had brought to her ears expressions of such divergent
purpose that her heart became quite sick at the irony of the
contrast.
It was less a reform than a transfiguration. The former curves of
sensuousness were now modulated to lines of devotional passion.
The lip-shapes that had meant seductiveness were now made to
express supplication; the glow on the cheek that yesterday could be
translated as riotousness was evangelized to-day into the splendour
of pious rhetoric; animalism had become fanaticism; Paganism,
Paulinism; the bold rolling eye that had flashed upon her form in
the old time with such mastery now beamed with the rude energy of a
theolatry that was almost ferocious. Those black angularities which
his face had used to put on when his wishes were thwarted now did
duty in picturing the incorrigible backslider who would insist upon
turning again to his wallowing in the mire.
The lineaments, as such, seemed to complain. They had been diverted
from their hereditary connotation to signify impressions for which
Nature did not intend them. Strange that their very elevation was a
misapplication, that to raise seemed to falsify.
Yet could it be so? She would admit the ungenerous sentiment no
longer. D'Urberville was not the first wicked man who had turned
away from his wickedness to save his soul alive, and why should she
deem it unnatural in him? It was but the usage of thought which had
been jarred in her at hearing good new words in bad old notes. The
greater the sinner, the greater the saint; it was not necessary to
dive far into Christian history to discover that.
Such impressions as these moved her vaguely, and without strict
definiteness. As soon as the nerveless pause of her surprise would
allow her to stir, her impulse was to pass on out of his sight. He
had obviously not discerned her yet in her position against the sun.
But the moment that she moved again he recognized her. The effect
upon her old lover was electric, far stronger than the effect of his
presence upon her. His fire, the tumultuous ring of his eloquence,
seemed to go out of him. His lip struggled and trembled under the
words that lay upon it; but deliver them it could not as long as she
faced him. His eyes, after their first glance upon her face, hung
confusedly in every other direction but hers, but came back in a
desperate leap every few seconds. This paralysis lasted, however,
but a short time; for Tess's energies returned with the atrophy of
his, and she walked as fast as she was able past the barn and onward.
As soon as she could reflect, it appalled her, this change in their
relative platforms. He who had wrought her undoing was now on the
side of the Spirit, while she remained unregenerate. And, as in the
legend, it had resulted that her Cyprian image had suddenly appeared
upon his altar, whereby the fire of the priest had been well nigh
extinguished.
She went on without turning her head. Her back seemed to be endowed
with a sensitiveness to ocular beams--even her clothing--so alive
was she to a fancied gaze which might be resting upon her from the
outside of that barn. All the way along to this point her heart
had been heavy with an inactive sorrow; now there was a change in
the quality of its trouble. That hunger for affection too long
withheld was for the time displaced by an almost physical sense
of an implacable past which still engirdled her. It intensified
her consciousness of error to a practical despair; the break of
continuity between her earlier and present existence, which she had
hoped for, had not, after all, taken place. Bygones would never be
complete bygones till she was a bygone herself.
Thus absorbed, she recrossed the northern part of Long-Ash Lane at
right angles, and presently saw before her the road ascending whitely
to the upland along whose margin the remainder of her journey lay.
Its dry pale surface stretched severely onward, unbroken by a single
figure, vehicle, or mark, save some occasional brown horse-droppings
which dotted its cold aridity here and there. While slowly breasting
this ascent Tess became conscious of footsteps behind her, and
turning she saw approaching that well-known form--so strangely
accoutred as the Methodist--the one personage in all the world she
wished not to encounter alone on this side of the grave.
There was not much time, however, for thought or elusion, and she
yielded as calmly as she could to the necessity of letting him
overtake her. She saw that he was excited, less by the speed of his
walk than by the feelings within him.
"Tess!" he said.
She slackened speed without looking round.
"Tess!" he repeated. "It is I--Alec d'Urberville."
She then looked back at him, and he came up.
"I see it is," she answered coldly.
"Well--is that all? Yet I deserve no more! Of course," he added,
with a slight laugh, "there is something of the ridiculous to your
eyes in seeing me like this. But--I must put up with that. ... I
heard you had gone away; nobody knew where. Tess, you wonder why I
have followed you?"
"I do, rather; and I would that you had not, with all my heart!"
"Yes--you may well say it," he returned grimly, as they moved onward
together, she with unwilling tread. "But don't mistake me; I beg
this because you may have been led to do so in noticing--if you did
notice it--how your sudden appearance unnerved me down there. It was
but a momentary faltering; and considering what you have been to me,
it was natural enough. But will helped me through it--though perhaps
you think me a humbug for saying it--and immediately afterwards I
felt that of all persons in the world whom it was my duty and desire
to save from the wrath to come--sneer if you like--the woman whom I
had so grievously wronged was that person. I have come with that
sole purpose in view--nothing more."
There was the smallest vein of scorn in her words of rejoinder: "Have
you saved yourself? Charity begins at home, they say."
"_I_ have done nothing!" said he indifferently. "Heaven, as I have
been telling my hearers, has done all. No amount of contempt that
you can pour upon me, Tess, will equal what I have poured upon
myself--the old Adam of my former years! Well, it is a strange
story; believe it or not; but I can tell you the means by which my
conversion was brought about, and I hope you will be interested
enough at least to listen. Have you ever heard the name of the
parson of Emminster--you must have done do?--old Mr Clare; one of the
most earnest of his school; one of the few intense men left in the
Church; not so intense as the extreme wing of Christian believers
with which I have thrown in my lot, but quite an exception among the
Established clergy, the younger of whom are gradually attenuating the
true doctrines by their sophistries, till they are but the shadow of
what they were. I only differ from him on the question of Church and
State--the interpretation of the text, 'Come out from among them and
be ye separate, saith the Lord'--that's all. He is one who, I firmly
believe, has been the humble means of saving more souls in this
country than any other man you can name. You have heard of him?"
"I have," she said.
"He came to Trantridge two or three years ago to preach on behalf of
some missionary society; and I, wretched fellow that I was, insulted
him when, in his disinterestedness, he tried to reason with me and
show me the way. He did not resent my conduct, he simply said that
some day I should receive the first-fruits of the Spirit--that those
who came to scoff sometimes remained to pray. There was a strange
magic in his words. They sank into my mind. But the loss of my
mother hit me most; and by degrees I was brought to see daylight.
Since then my one desire has been to hand on the true view to others,
and that is what I was trying to do to-day; though it is only lately
that I have preached hereabout. The first months of my ministry have
been spent in the North of England among strangers, where I preferred
to make my earliest clumsy attempts, so as to acquire courage before
undergoing that severest of all tests of one's sincerity, addressing
those who have known one, and have been one's companions in the days
of darkness. If you could only know, Tess, the pleasure of having a
good slap at yourself, I am sure--"
"Don't go on with it!" she cried passionately, as she turned away
from him to a stile by the wayside, on which she bent herself. "I
can't believe in such sudden things! I feel indignant with you for
talking to me like this, when you know--when you know what harm
you've done me! You, and those like you, take your fill of pleasure
on earth by making the life of such as me bitter and black with
sorrow; and then it is a fine thing, when you have had enough of
that, to think of securing your pleasure in heaven by becoming
converted! Out upon such--I don't believe in you--I hate it!"
"Tess," he insisted; "don't speak so! It came to me like a jolly new
idea! And you don't believe me? What don't you believe?"
"Your conversion. Your scheme of religion."
"Why?"
She dropped her voice. "Because a better man than you does not
believe in such."
"What a woman's reason! Who is this better man?"
"I cannot tell you."
"Well," he declared, a resentment beneath his words seeming ready to
spring out at a moment's notice, "God forbid that I should say I am
a good man--and you know I don't say any such thing. I am new to
goodness, truly; but newcomers see furthest sometimes."
"Yes," she replied sadly. "But I cannot believe in your conversion
to a new spirit. Such flashes as you feel, Alec, I fear don't last!"
Thus speaking she turned from the stile over which she had been
leaning, and faced him; whereupon his eyes, falling casually upon
the familiar countenance and form, remained contemplating her. The
inferior man was quiet in him now; but it was surely not extracted,
nor even entirely subdued.
"Don't look at me like that!" he said abruptly.
Tess, who had been quite unconscious of her action and mien,
instantly withdrew the large dark gaze of her eyes, stammering with
a flush, "I beg your pardon!" And there was revived in her the
wretched sentiment which had often come to her before, that in
inhabiting the fleshly tabernacle with which Nature had endowed her
she was somehow doing wrong.
"No, no! Don't beg my pardon. But since you wear a veil to hide
your good looks, why don't you keep it down?"
She pulled down the veil, saying hastily, "It was mostly to keep off
the wind."
"It may seem harsh of me to dictate like this," he went on; "but
it is better that I should not look too often on you. It might be
dangerous."
"Ssh!" said Tess.
"Well, women's faces have had too much power over me already for me
not to fear them! An evangelist has nothing to do with such as they;
and it reminds me of the old times that I would forget!"
After this their conversation dwindled to a casual remark now and
then as they rambled onward, Tess inwardly wondering how far he was
going with her, and not liking to send him back by positive mandate.
Frequently when they came to a gate or stile they found painted
thereon in red or blue letters some text of Scripture, and she
asked him if he knew who had been at the pains to blazon these
announcements. He told her that the man was employed by himself and
others who were working with him in that district, to paint these
reminders that no means might be left untried which might move the
hearts of a wicked generation.
At length the road touched the spot called "Cross-in-Hand." Of all
spots on the bleached and desolate upland this was the most forlorn.
It was so far removed from the charm which is sought in landscape by
artists and view-lovers as to reach a new kind of beauty, a negative
beauty of tragic tone. The place took its name from a stone pillar
which stood there, a strange rude monolith, from a stratum unknown
in any local quarry, on which was roughly carved a human hand.
Differing accounts were given of its history and purport. Some
authorities stated that a devotional cross had once formed the
complete erection thereon, of which the present relic was but the
stump; others that the stone as it stood was entire, and that it had
been fixed there to mark a boundary or place of meeting. Anyhow,
whatever the origin of the relic, there was and is something
sinister, or solemn, according to mood, in the scene amid which it
stands; something tending to impress the most phlegmatic passer-by.
"I think I must leave you now," he remarked, as they drew near to
this spot. "I have to preach at Abbot's-Cernel at six this evening,
and my way lies across to the right from here. And you upset me
somewhat too, Tessy--I cannot, will not, say why. I must go away and
get strength. ... How is it that you speak so fluently now? Who has
taught you such good English?"
"I have learnt things in my troubles," she said evasively.
"What troubles have you had?"
She told him of the first one--the only one that related to him.
D'Urberville was struck mute. "I knew nothing of this till now!"
he next murmured. "Why didn't you write to me when you felt your
trouble coming on?"
She did not reply; and he broke the silence by adding: "Well--you
will see me again."
"No," she answered. "Do not again come near me!"
"I will think. But before we part come here." He stepped up to the
pillar. "This was once a Holy Cross. Relics are not in my creed; but
I fear you at moments--far more than you need fear me at present; and
to lessen my fear, put your hand upon that stone hand, and swear that
you will never tempt me--by your charms or ways."
"Good God--how can you ask what is so unnecessary! All that is
furthest from my thought!"
"Yes--but swear it."
Tess, half frightened, gave way to his importunity; placed her hand
upon the stone and swore.
"I am sorry you are not a believer," he continued; "that some
unbeliever should have got hold of you and unsettled your mind. But
no more now. At home at least I can pray for you; and I will; and
who knows what may not happen? I'm off. Goodbye!"
He turned to a hunting-gate in the hedge and, without letting his
eyes again rest upon her, leapt over and struck out across the down
in the direction of Abbot's-Cernel. As he walked his pace showed
perturbation, and by-and-by, as if instigated by a former thought,
he drew from his pocket a small book, between the leaves of which
was folded a letter, worn and soiled, as from much re-reading.
D'Urberville opened the letter. It was dated several months before
this time, and was signed by Parson Clare.
The letter began by expressing the writer's unfeigned joy at
d'Urberville's conversion, and thanked him for his kindness in
communicating with the parson on the subject. It expressed Mr
Clare's warm assurance of forgiveness for d'Urberville's former
conduct and his interest in the young man's plans for the future.
He, Mr Clare, would much have liked to see d'Urberville in the Church
to whose ministry he had devoted so many years of his own life, and
would have helped him to enter a theological college to that end; but
since his correspondent had possibly not cared to do this on account
of the delay it would have entailed, he was not the man to insist
upon its paramount importance. Every man must work as he could best
work, and in the method towards which he felt impelled by the Spirit.
D'Urberville read and re-read this letter, and seemed to quiz himself
cynically. He also read some passages from memoranda as he walked
till his face assumed a calm, and apparently the image of Tess no
longer troubled his mind.
She meanwhile had kept along the edge of the hill by which lay her
nearest way home. Within the distance of a mile she met a solitary
shepherd.
"What is the meaning of that old stone I have passed?" she asked of
him. "Was it ever a Holy Cross?"
"Cross--no; 'twer not a cross! 'Tis a thing of ill-omen, Miss. It
was put up in wuld times by the relations of a malefactor who was
tortured there by nailing his hand to a post and afterwards hung.
The bones lie underneath. They say he sold his soul to the devil,
and that he walks at times."
She felt the _petite mort_ at this unexpectedly gruesome information,
and left the solitary man behind her. It was dusk when she drew near
to Flintcomb-Ash, and in the lane at the entrance to the hamlet she
approached a girl and her lover without their observing her. They
were talking no secrets, and the clear unconcerned voice of the young
woman, in response to the warmer accents of the man, spread into the
chilly air as the one soothing thing within the dusky horizon, full
of a stagnant obscurity upon which nothing else intruded. For a
moment the voices cheered the heart of Tess, till she reasoned that
this interview had its origin, on one side or the other, in the same
attraction which had been the prelude to her own tribulation. When
she came close, the girl turned serenely and recognized her, the
young man walking off in embarrassment. The woman was Izz Huett,
whose interest in Tess's excursion immediately superseded her own
proceedings. Tess did not explain very clearly its results, and Izz,
who was a girl of tact, began to speak of her own little affair, a
phase of which Tess had just witnessed.
"He is Amby Seedling, the chap who used to sometimes come and help at
Talbothays," she explained indifferently. "He actually inquired and
found out that I had come here, and has followed me. He says he's
been in love wi' me these two years. But I've hardly answered him."
| 3,144 | Chapter XLV | https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase6-chapter45-52 | It has been four years since Tess has last seen Alec, and she is shocked and horrified when she sees him preaching in the barn. She runs away but Alec, just as shocked, runs after her. He has suffered since the death of his mother and thanks to Reverend Clare he has been converted and feels he must save her. Tess is speechless, attacks him for ruining women's lives and doesn't for a moment believe his conversion is authentic. Referring to her errant husband Angel, she tells him she knows a truly good man. Alec makes her swear on a stone monument called the Cross-in-Hand, rumored to be an evil omen, that she will never tempt him. She swears before learning it is "a thing of ill omen" and leaves in anger. To soothe his nerves, Alec re-reads a letter from Reverend Clare congratulating him on his conversion | null | 148 | 1 | [
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161 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/38.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Sense and Sensibility/section_37_part_0.txt | Sense and Sensibility.chapter 38 | chapter 38 | null | {"name": "Chapter 38", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility55.asp", "summary": "Three days after the incident at John Dashwood's house, Mrs. Jennings and Elinor go out for a walk to Kensington gardens. After separating from Mrs. Jennings, Elinor meets Anne Steele, and the two talk about Lucy and the unhappy incident. Miss Steele also tells Elinor about Edward's visit that morning and how she had overheard an intimate conversation between him and Lucy. Elinor is disgusted at her behavior. After reaching home, she relates the incident to Mrs. Jennings. Later, she receives a letter from Lucy by the two-penny post informing her of their current circumstances. She seeks the help of the Middletons or Palmers to offer a position to Edward. Elinor shows the letter to Mrs. Jennings. The old lady is impressed by the letter.", "analysis": "Notes The chapter reveals the somewhat crass behavior of the Steele sisters. Miss Steele reveals to Elinor that she had purposely stood outside the door of the locked room in which Lucy and Edward were conversing. She does not feel guilty about her behavior; her justification is that even Lucy had eavesdropped earlier. Lucy's letter also exposes her selfishness and base nature. Lucy asks Elinor to recommend her case to anyone who will be willing to provide a position to Edward. She looks forward to the help of Mrs. Jennings, the Middletons and the Palmers. Lucy is not ashamed to ask favors of others. CHAPTER 39 Summary Elinor and Marianne are invited by the Palmers to Cleveland. At the insistence of Mrs. Jennings, they decide to accept the invitation. One day Colonel Brandon visits them and asks Elinor to inform Edward that he is prepared to give a position at Delaford to him. Edward could lead a comfortable life on an income of two thousand pounds, but he would not be able to afford a wife. Mrs. Jennings, who observes Elinor and Colonel Brandon talking animatedly, concludes that they must be talking about a wedding. Notes In answer to Marianne's wish that they go home, the sisters are invited to accompany Mrs. Jennings to Cleveland. Since it will be easy for them to reach Barton from Cleveland, they accept the invitation. Mrs. Jennings, who is always engaged in matchmaking, starts imagining the Colonel to be in love with Elinor. Thus, when she hears the phrase, \"I am afraid it cannot take place very soon,\" she is angry with the Colonel for postponing their wedding. Misunderstanding causes much humor in the scene. Colonel Brandon can be rightly identified as a generous man who willingly offers a living to Edward in Delaford. His love for Marianne and respect for Elinor makes him extend help to their friends. It is ironic that he chooses Elinor to convey this information to Edward. CHAPTER 40 Summary Mrs. Jennings approaches Elinor soon after the Colonel's exit. She congratulates her and asks her many questions, which gradually reveal her mistaken assumption that there is an engagement between Elinor and the Colonel. Elinor mentions Brandon's generosity and his request to her to convey the information to Edward. Mrs. Jennings is puzzled, and as she is in a hurry to leave, she decides to speak further with Elinor upon her return. When Edward arrives, Elinor tells him the good news. He is pleasantly surprised. He promises to meet the Colonel and thank him for his generosity. Mrs. Jennings returns to the house and asks Elinor if Edward is prepared to get ordained to perform her marriage to the Colonel. Elinor is shocked to hear Mrs. Jennings' words. She corrects the misunderstanding by informing the old lady of the Colonel's offer to Edward. Notes This chapter demonstrates the misunderstandings that arise when a character like Mrs. Jennings gives her interpretation of the events that she witnesses. The conversation between Elinor and Mrs. Jennings is amusing as each misinterprets the other's words. Elinor is unaware of Mrs. Jennings' suspicions, and hence she talks about informing Edward of the Colonel's offer. Mrs. Jennings is then unable to understand why Edward should be informed of the Colonel's proposal. She surmises that Elinor and the Colonel might have decided to get married only after Edward has been ordained and is ready to perform their wedding. Much humor results from this confused conversation. Edward Ferrars is obviously surprised when Elinor informs him of the Colonel's generous offer at Delaford: in this time of crisis, assistance from such an unexpected quarter is astonishing. Like Mrs. Jennings, he believes the Colonel to be in love with Elinor. He feels that Brandon has offered him help only to please Elinor. Thus he thanks Elinor for helping him."} |
Mrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but only
Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit. THEY only knew how
little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the
consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain
to him in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor gloried in his
integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his
punishment. But though confidence between them was, by this public
discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which
either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor avoided it
upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the
too warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief of Edward's
continued affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and
Marianne's courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic
which always left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the
comparison it necessarily produced between Elinor's conduct and her own.
She felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had
hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of
continual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never
exerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence,
without the hope of amendment. Her mind was so much weakened that she
still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only
dispirited her more.
Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs
in Harley Street, or Bartlett's Buildings. But though so much of the
matter was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had
enough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after
more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and
inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the
hindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them
within that time.
The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so
fine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens,
though it was only the second week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor
were of the number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were
again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather
to stay at home, than venture into so public a place.
An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they
entered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing
with them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings's conversation, she was
herself left to quiet reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys,
nothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by
any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her. But at last
she found herself with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who,
though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting
them, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of
Mrs. Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their's.
Mrs. Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor,
"Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any thing if you
ask. You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke."
It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings's curiosity and Elinor's too,
that she would tell any thing WITHOUT being asked; for nothing would
otherwise have been learnt.
"I am so glad to meet you;" said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly by
the arm--"for I wanted to see you of all things in the world." And
then lowering her voice, "I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about
it. Is she angry?"
"Not at all, I believe, with you."
"That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is SHE angry?"
"I cannot suppose it possible that she should be."
"I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time of
it! I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first
she would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me
again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are
as good friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put
in the feather last night. There now, YOU are going to laugh at me
too. But why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do not care if it IS
the Doctor's favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I should never
have known he DID like it better than any other colour, if he had not
happened to say so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare
sometimes I do not know which way to look before them."
She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say,
and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to
the first.
"Well, but Miss Dashwood," speaking triumphantly, "people may say what
they chuse about Mr. Ferrars's declaring he would not have Lucy, for it
is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such
ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think
about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set
it down for certain."
"I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you,"
said Elinor.
"Oh, did not you? But it WAS said, I know, very well, and by more than
one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses could
expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with thirty
thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing at
all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my cousin
Richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was afraid Mr.
Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come near us for three
days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in my heart
Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your brother's
Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, and
Saturday, and did not know what was become of him. Once Lucy thought
to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that. However this
morning he came just as we came home from church; and then it all came
out, how he had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been
talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had declared before
them all that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he
have. And how he had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as
he had went away from his mother's house, he had got upon his horse,
and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he had stayed
about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better
of it. And after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it
seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it
would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must
be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no
hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some
thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live
upon that?--He could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so
he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the
matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say all
this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for HER sake,
and upon HER account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon
his own. I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired
of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But,
to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she
told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know,
and all that--Oh, la! one can't repeat such kind of things you
know)--she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world
to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so
ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know,
or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked
on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take
orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living.
And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from
below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take
one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room
and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did
not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of
silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons."
"I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor;
"you were all in the same room together, were not you?"
"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love
when any body else is by? Oh, for shame!--To be sure you must know
better than that. (Laughing affectedly.)--No, no; they were shut up in
the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the
door."
"How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only
learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it
before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me
particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known
yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?"
"Oh, la! there is nothing in THAT. I only stood at the door, and heard
what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me;
for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets
together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a
chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said."
Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be
kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.
"Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is
lodging at No. --, Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is,
an't she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I
shan't say anything against them to YOU; and to be sure they did send
us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And
for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us
for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however,
nothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight.
Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there
for a time; and after THAT, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he
will be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get!--Good gracious!
(giggling as she spoke) I'd lay my life I know what my cousins will
say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I should write to the
Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living. I know they will;
but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the world.-- 'La!' I
shall say directly, 'I wonder how you could think of such a thing? I
write to the Doctor, indeed!'"
"Well," said Elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst.
You have got your answer ready."
Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of
her own party made another more necessary.
"Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to
you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you
they are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and
they keep their own coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings
about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not
in anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything
should happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings
should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay
with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton
won't ask us any more this bout. Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was
not here. Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your
spotted muslin on!--I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn."
Such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay
her farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was
claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of
knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though
she had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and
foreplanned in her own mind. Edward's marriage with Lucy was as firmly
determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely
uncertain, as she had concluded it would be;--every thing depended,
exactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of
which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance.
As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for
information; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible
intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she
confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as
she felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would
choose to have known. The continuance of their engagement, and the
means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her
communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following
natural remark.
"Wait for his having a living!--ay, we all know how THAT will
end:--they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it,
will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest
of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr.
Pratt can give her.--Then they will have a child every year! and Lord
help 'em! how poor they will be!--I must see what I can give them
towards furnishing their house. Two maids and two men, indeed!--as I
talked of t'other day.--No, no, they must get a stout girl of all
works.-- Betty's sister would never do for them NOW."
The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from
Lucy herself. It was as follows:
"Bartlett's Building, March.
"I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the
liberty I take of writing to her; but I know your
friendship for me will make you pleased to hear such
a good account of myself and my dear Edward, after
all the troubles we have went through lately,
therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed
to say that, thank God! though we have suffered
dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy
as we must always be in one another's love. We have
had great trials, and great persecutions, but
however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge
many friends, yourself not the least among them,
whose great kindness I shall always thankfully
remember, as will Edward too, who I have told of
it. I am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise
dear Mrs. Jennings, I spent two happy hours with
him yesterday afternoon, he would not hear of our
parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my
duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake,
and would have parted for ever on the spot, would
he consent to it; but he said it should never be,
he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could
have my affections; our prospects are not very
bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for
the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should
it ever be in your power to recommend him to any
body that has a living to bestow, am very sure you
will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings too,
trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir John,
or Mr. Palmer, or any friend that may be able to
assist us.--Poor Anne was much to blame for what
she did, but she did it for the best, so I say
nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won't think it too much
trouble to give us a call, should she come this way
any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my
cousins would be proud to know her.--My paper reminds
me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully
and respectfully remembered to her, and to Sir John,
and Lady Middleton, and the dear children, when you
chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne,
"I am, &c."
As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to
be its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs.
Jennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and
praise.
"Very well indeed!--how prettily she writes!--aye, that was quite
proper to let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy.--Poor
soul! I wish I COULD get him a living, with all my heart.--She calls me
dear Mrs. Jennings, you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever
lived.--Very well upon my word. That sentence is very prettily turned.
Yes, yes, I will go and see her, sure enough. How attentive she is, to
think of every body!--Thank you, my dear, for shewing it me. It is as
pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart great
credit."
| 3,200 | Chapter 38 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility55.asp | Three days after the incident at John Dashwood's house, Mrs. Jennings and Elinor go out for a walk to Kensington gardens. After separating from Mrs. Jennings, Elinor meets Anne Steele, and the two talk about Lucy and the unhappy incident. Miss Steele also tells Elinor about Edward's visit that morning and how she had overheard an intimate conversation between him and Lucy. Elinor is disgusted at her behavior. After reaching home, she relates the incident to Mrs. Jennings. Later, she receives a letter from Lucy by the two-penny post informing her of their current circumstances. She seeks the help of the Middletons or Palmers to offer a position to Edward. Elinor shows the letter to Mrs. Jennings. The old lady is impressed by the letter. | Notes The chapter reveals the somewhat crass behavior of the Steele sisters. Miss Steele reveals to Elinor that she had purposely stood outside the door of the locked room in which Lucy and Edward were conversing. She does not feel guilty about her behavior; her justification is that even Lucy had eavesdropped earlier. Lucy's letter also exposes her selfishness and base nature. Lucy asks Elinor to recommend her case to anyone who will be willing to provide a position to Edward. She looks forward to the help of Mrs. Jennings, the Middletons and the Palmers. Lucy is not ashamed to ask favors of others. CHAPTER 39 Summary Elinor and Marianne are invited by the Palmers to Cleveland. At the insistence of Mrs. Jennings, they decide to accept the invitation. One day Colonel Brandon visits them and asks Elinor to inform Edward that he is prepared to give a position at Delaford to him. Edward could lead a comfortable life on an income of two thousand pounds, but he would not be able to afford a wife. Mrs. Jennings, who observes Elinor and Colonel Brandon talking animatedly, concludes that they must be talking about a wedding. Notes In answer to Marianne's wish that they go home, the sisters are invited to accompany Mrs. Jennings to Cleveland. Since it will be easy for them to reach Barton from Cleveland, they accept the invitation. Mrs. Jennings, who is always engaged in matchmaking, starts imagining the Colonel to be in love with Elinor. Thus, when she hears the phrase, "I am afraid it cannot take place very soon," she is angry with the Colonel for postponing their wedding. Misunderstanding causes much humor in the scene. Colonel Brandon can be rightly identified as a generous man who willingly offers a living to Edward in Delaford. His love for Marianne and respect for Elinor makes him extend help to their friends. It is ironic that he chooses Elinor to convey this information to Edward. CHAPTER 40 Summary Mrs. Jennings approaches Elinor soon after the Colonel's exit. She congratulates her and asks her many questions, which gradually reveal her mistaken assumption that there is an engagement between Elinor and the Colonel. Elinor mentions Brandon's generosity and his request to her to convey the information to Edward. Mrs. Jennings is puzzled, and as she is in a hurry to leave, she decides to speak further with Elinor upon her return. When Edward arrives, Elinor tells him the good news. He is pleasantly surprised. He promises to meet the Colonel and thank him for his generosity. Mrs. Jennings returns to the house and asks Elinor if Edward is prepared to get ordained to perform her marriage to the Colonel. Elinor is shocked to hear Mrs. Jennings' words. She corrects the misunderstanding by informing the old lady of the Colonel's offer to Edward. Notes This chapter demonstrates the misunderstandings that arise when a character like Mrs. Jennings gives her interpretation of the events that she witnesses. The conversation between Elinor and Mrs. Jennings is amusing as each misinterprets the other's words. Elinor is unaware of Mrs. Jennings' suspicions, and hence she talks about informing Edward of the Colonel's offer. Mrs. Jennings is then unable to understand why Edward should be informed of the Colonel's proposal. She surmises that Elinor and the Colonel might have decided to get married only after Edward has been ordained and is ready to perform their wedding. Much humor results from this confused conversation. Edward Ferrars is obviously surprised when Elinor informs him of the Colonel's generous offer at Delaford: in this time of crisis, assistance from such an unexpected quarter is astonishing. Like Mrs. Jennings, he believes the Colonel to be in love with Elinor. He feels that Brandon has offered him help only to please Elinor. Thus he thanks Elinor for helping him. | 125 | 639 | [
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