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ACT I
(SCENE.—DR. STOCKMANN'S sitting-room. It is evening. The room is
plainly but neatly appointed and furnished. In the right-hand wall are
two doors; the farther leads out to the hall, the nearer to the
doctor's study. In the left-hand wall, opposite the door leading to the
hall, is a door leading to the other rooms occupied by the family. In
the middle of the same wall stands the stove, and, further forward, a
couch with a looking-glass hanging over it and an oval table in front
of it. On the table, a lighted lamp, with a lampshade. At the back of
the room, an open door leads to the dining-room. BILLING is seen
sitting at the dining table, on which a lamp is burning. He has a
napkin tucked under his chin, and MRS. STOCKMANN is standing by the
table handing him a large plate-full of roast beef. The other places at
the table are empty, and the table somewhat in disorder, evidently a
meal having recently been finished.)
Mrs. Stockmann. You see, if you come an hour late, Mr. Billing, you
have to put up with cold meat.
Billing (as he eats). It is uncommonly good, thank you—remarkably good.
Mrs. Stockmann. My husband makes such a point of having his meals
punctually, you know.
Billing. That doesn't affect me a bit. Indeed, I almost think I enjoy a
meal all the better when I can sit down and eat all by myself, and
undisturbed.
Mrs. Stockmann. Oh well, as long as you are enjoying it—. (Turns to
the hall door, listening.) I expect that is Mr. Hovstad coming too.
Billing. Very likely.
(PETER STOCKMANN comes in. He wears an overcoat and his official hat,
and carries a stick.)
Peter Stockmann. Good evening, Katherine.
Mrs. Stockmann (coming forward into the sitting-room). Ah, good
evening—is it you? How good of you to come up and see us!
Peter Stockmann. I happened to be passing, and so—(looks into the
dining-room). But you have company with you, I see.
Mrs. Stockmann (a little embarrassed). Oh, no—it was quite by chance
he came in. (Hurriedly.) Won't you come in and have something, too?
Peter Stockmann. I! No, thank you. Good gracious—hot meat at night!
Not with my digestion.
Mrs. Stockmann. Oh, but just once in a way—
Peter Stockmann. No, no, my dear lady; I stick to my tea and bread and
butter. It is much more wholesome in the long run—and a little more
economical, too.
Mrs. Stockmann (smiling). Now you mustn't think that Thomas and I are
spendthrifts.
Peter Stockmann. Not you, my dear; I would never think that of you.
(Points to the Doctor's study.) Is he not at home?
Mrs. Stockmann. No, he went out for a little turn after supper—he and
the boys.
Peter Stockmann. I doubt if that is a wise thing to do. (Listens.) I
fancy I hear him coming now.
Mrs. Stockmann. No, I don't think it is he. (A knock is heard at the
door.) Come in! (HOVSTAD comes in from the hall.) Oh, it is you, Mr.
Hovstad!
Hovstad. Yes, I hope you will forgive me, but I was delayed at the
printers. Good evening, Mr. Mayor.
Peter Stockmann (bowing a little distantly). Good evening. You have
come on business, no doubt.
Hovstad. Partly. It's about an article for the paper.
Peter Stockmann. So I imagined. I hear my brother has become a prolific
contributor to the "People's Messenger."
Hovstad. Yes, he is good enough to write in the "People's Messenger"
when he has any home truths to tell.
Mrs. Stockmann (to HOVSTAD). But won't you—? (Points to the
dining-room.)
Peter Stockmann. Quite so, quite so. I don't blame him in the least, as
a writer, for addressing himself to the quarters where he will find the
readiest sympathy. And, besides that, I personally have no reason to
bear any ill will to your paper, Mr. Hovstad.
Hovstad. I quite agree with you.
Peter Stockmann. Taking one thing with another, there is an excellent
spirit of toleration in the town—an admirable municipal spirit. And it
all springs from the fact of our having a great common interest to
unite us—an interest that is in an equally high degree the concern of
every right-minded citizen.
Hovstad. The Baths, yes.
Peter Stockmann. Exactly—-our fine, new, handsome Baths. Mark my
words, Mr. Hovstad—the Baths will become the focus of our municipal
life! Not a doubt of it!
Mrs. Stockmann. That is just what Thomas says.
Peter Stockmann. Think how extraordinarily the place has developed
within the last year or two! Money has been flowing in, and there is
some life and some business doing in the town. Houses and landed
property are rising in value every day.
Hovstad. And unemployment is diminishing,
Peter Stockmann. Yes, that is another thing. The burden on the poor
rates has been lightened, to the great relief of the propertied
classes; and that relief will be even greater if only we get a really
good summer this year, and lots of visitors—plenty of invalids, who
will make the Baths talked about.
Hovstad. And there is a good prospect of that, I hear.
Peter Stockmann. It looks very promising. Inquiries about apartments
and that sort of thing are reaching us, every day.
Hovstad. Well, the doctor's article will come in very suitably.
Peter Stockmann. Has he been writing something just lately?
Hovstad. This is something he wrote in the winter; a recommendation of
the Baths—an account of the excellent sanitary conditions here. But I
held the article over, temporarily.
Peter Stockmann. Ah,—some little difficulty about it, I suppose?
Hovstad. No, not at all; I thought it would be better to wait until the
spring, because it is just at this time that people begin to think
seriously about their summer quarters.
Peter Stockmann. Quite right; you were perfectly right, Mr. Hovstad.
Hovstad. Yes, Thomas is really indefatigable when it is a question of
the Baths.
Peter Stockmann. Well remember, he is the Medical Officer to the Baths.
Hovstad. Yes, and what is more, they owe their existence to him.
Peter Stockmann. To him? Indeed! It is true I have heard from time to
time that some people are of that opinion. At the same time I must say
I imagined that I took a modest part in the enterprise.
Mrs. Stockmann. Yes, that is what Thomas is always saying.
Hovstad. But who denies it, Mr. Stockmann? You set the thing going and
made a practical concern of it; we all know that. I only meant that the
idea of it came first from the doctor.
Peter Stockmann. Oh, ideas yes! My brother has had plenty of them in
his time—unfortunately. But when it is a question of putting an idea
into practical shape, you have to apply to a man of different mettle,
Mr. Hovstad. And I certainly should have thought that in this house at
least...
Mrs. Stockmann. My dear Peter—
Hovstad. How can you think that—?
Mrs. Stockmann. Won't you go in and have something, Mr. Hovstad? My
husband is sure to be back directly.
Hovstad. Thank you, perhaps just a morsel. (Goes into the dining-room.)
Peter Stockmann (lowering his voice a little). It is a curious thing
that these farmers' sons never seem to lose their want of tact.
Mrs. Stockmann. Surely it is not worth bothering about! Cannot you and
Thomas share the credit as brothers?
Peter Stockmann. I should have thought so; but apparently some people
are not satisfied with a share.
Mrs. Stockmann. What nonsense! You and Thomas get on so capitally
together. (Listens.) There he is at last, I think. (Goes out and opens
the door leading to the hall.)
Dr. Stockmann (laughing and talking outside). Look here—here is
another guest for you, Katherine. Isn't that jolly! Come in, Captain
Horster; hang your coat up on this peg. Ah, you don't wear an overcoat.
Just think, Katherine; I met him in the street and could hardly
persuade him to come up! (CAPTAIN HORSTER comes into the room and
greets MRS. STOCKMANN. He is followed by DR. STOCKMANN.) Come along in,
boys. They are ravenously hungry again, you know. Come along, Captain
Horster; you must have a slice of beef. (Pushes HORSTER into the
dining-room. EJLIF and MORTEN go in after them.)
Mrs. Stockmann. But, Thomas, don't you see—?
Dr. Stockmann (turning in the doorway). Oh, is it you, Peter? (Shakes
hands with him.) Now that is very delightful.
Peter Stockmann. Unfortunately I must go in a moment—
Dr. Stockmann. Rubbish! There is some toddy just coming in. You haven't
forgotten the toddy, Katherine?
Mrs. Stockmann. Of course not; the water is boiling now. (Goes into the
dining-room.)
Peter Stockmann. Toddy too!
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, sit down and we will have it comfortably.
Peter Stockmann. Thanks, I never care about an evening's drinking.
Dr. Stockmann. But this isn't an evening's drinking.
Peter Stockmann. It seems to me—. (Looks towards the dining-room.) It
is extraordinary how they can put away all that food.
Dr. Stockmann (rubbing his hands). Yes, isn't it splendid to see young
people eat? They have always got an appetite, you know! That's as it
should be. Lots of food—to build up their strength! They are the
people who are going to stir up the fermenting forces of the future,
Peter.
Peter Stockmann. May I ask what they will find here to "stir up," as
you put it?
Dr. Stockmann. Ah, you must ask the young people that—when the times
comes. We shan't be able to see it, of course. That stands to
reason—two old fogies, like us.
Peter Stockmann. Really, really! I must say that is an extremely odd
expression to—
Dr. Stockmann. Oh, you mustn't take me too literally, Peter. I am so
heartily happy and contented, you know. I think it is such an
extraordinary piece of good fortune to be in the middle of all this
growing, germinating life. It is a splendid time to live in! It is as
if a whole new world were being created around one.
Peter Stockmann. Do you really think so?
Dr. Stockmann. Ah, naturally you can't appreciate it as keenly as I.
You have lived all your life in these surroundings, and your
impressions have been blunted. But I, who have been buried all these
years in my little corner up north, almost without ever seeing a
stranger who might bring new ideas with him—well, in my case it has
just the same effect as if I had been transported into the middle of a
crowded city.
Peter Stockmann. Oh, a city—!
Dr. Stockmann. I know, I know; it is all cramped enough here, compared
with many other places. But there is life here—there is promise—there
are innumerable things to work for and fight for; and that is the main
thing. (Calls.) Katherine, hasn't the postman been here?
Mrs. Stockmann (from the dining-room). No.
Dr. Stockmann. And then to be comfortably off, Peter! That is something
one learns to value, when one has been on the brink of starvation, as
we have.
Peter Stockmann. Oh, surely—
Dr. Stockmann. Indeed I can assure you we have often been very hard put
to it, up there. And now to be able to live like a lord! Today, for
instance, we had roast beef for dinner—and, what is more, for supper
too. Won't you come and have a little bit? Or let me show it you, at
any rate? Come here—
Peter Stockmann. No, no—not for worlds!
Dr. Stockmann. Well, but just come here then. Do you see, we have got a
table-cover?
Peter Stockmann. Yes, I noticed it.
Dr. Stockmann. And we have got a lamp-shade too. Do you see? All out of
Katherine's savings! It makes the room so cosy. Don't you think so?
Just stand here for a moment—no, no, not there—just here, that's it!
Look now, when you get the light on it altogether. I really think it
looks very nice, doesn't it?
Peter Stockmann. Oh, if you can afford luxuries of this kind—
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, I can afford it now. Katherine tells me I earn
almost as much as we spend.
Peter Stockmann. Almost—yes!
Dr. Stockmann. But a scientific man must live in a little bit of style.
I am quite sure an ordinary civil servant spends more in a year than I
do.
Peter Stockmann. I daresay. A civil servant—a man in a well-paid
position...
Dr. Stockmann. Well, any ordinary merchant, then! A man in that
position spends two or three times as much as—
Peter Stockmann. It just depends on circumstances.
Dr. Stockmann. At all events I assure you I don't waste money
unprofitably. But I can't find it in my heart to deny myself the
pleasure of entertaining my friends. I need that sort of thing, you
know. I have lived for so long shut out of it all, that it is a
necessity of life to me to mix with young, eager, ambitious men, men of
liberal and active minds; and that describes every one of those fellows
who are enjoying their supper in there. I wish you knew more of Hovstad.
Peter Stockmann. By the way, Hovstad was telling me he was going to
print another article of yours.
Dr. Stockmann. An article of mine?
Peter Stockmann. Yes, about the Baths. An article you wrote in the
winter.
Dr. Stockmann. Oh, that one! No, I don't intend that to appear just for
the present.
Peter Stockmann. Why not? It seems to me that this would be the most
opportune moment.
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, very likely—under normal conditions. (Crosses the
room.)
Peter Stockmann (following him with his eyes). Is there anything
abnormal about the present conditions?
Dr. Stockmann (standing still). To tell you the truth, Peter, I can't
say just at this moment—at all events not tonight. There may be much
that is very abnormal about the present conditions—and it is possible
there may be nothing abnormal about them at all. It is quite possible
it may be merely my imagination.
Peter Stockmann. I must say it all sounds most mysterious. Is there
something going on that I am to be kept in ignorance of? I should have
imagined that I, as Chairman of the governing body of the Baths—
Dr. Stockmann. And I should have imagined that I—. Oh, come, don't let
us fly out at one another, Peter.
Peter Stockmann. Heaven forbid! I am not in the habit of flying out at
people, as you call it. But I am entitled to request most emphatically
that all arrangements shall be made in a businesslike manner, through
the proper channels, and shall be dealt with by the legally constituted
authorities. I can allow no going behind our backs by any roundabout
means.
Dr. Stockmann. Have I ever at any time tried to go behind your backs?
Peter Stockmann. You have an ingrained tendency to take your own way,
at all events; and, that is almost equally inadmissible in a well
ordered community. The individual ought undoubtedly to acquiesce in
subordinating himself to the community—or, to speak more accurately,
to the authorities who have the care of the community's welfare.
Dr. Stockmann. Very likely. But what the deuce has all this got to do
with me?
Peter Stockmann. That is exactly what you never appear to be willing to
learn, my dear Thomas. But, mark my words, some day you will have to
suffer for it—sooner or later. Now I have told you. Good-bye.
Dr. Stockmann. Have you taken leave of your senses? You are on the
wrong scent altogether.
Peter Stockmann. I am not usually that. You must excuse me now if I—
(calls into the dining-room). Good night, Katherine. Good night,
gentlemen. (Goes out.)
Mrs. Stockmann (coming from the dining-room). Has he gone?
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, and in such a bad temper.
Mrs. Stockmann. But, dear Thomas, what have you been doing to him again?
Dr. Stockmann. Nothing at all. And, anyhow, he can't oblige me to make
my report before the proper time.
Mrs. Stockmann. What have you got to make a report to him about?
Dr. Stockmann. Hm! Leave that to me, Katherine. It is an extraordinary
thing that the postman doesn't come.
(HOVSTAD, BILLING and HORSTER have got up from the table and come into
the sitting-room. EJLIF and MORTEN come in after them.)
Billing (stretching himself). Ah!—one feels a new man after a meal
like that.
Hovstad. The mayor wasn't in a very sweet temper tonight, then.
Dr. Stockmann. It is his stomach; he has wretched digestion.
Hovstad. I rather think it was us two of the "People's Messenger" that
he couldn't digest.
Mrs. Stockmann. I thought you came out of it pretty well with him.
Hovstad. Oh yes; but it isn't anything more than a sort of truce.
Billing. That is just what it is! That word sums up the situation.
Dr. Stockmann. We must remember that Peter is a lonely man, poor chap.
He has no home comforts of any kind; nothing but everlasting business.
And all that infernal weak tea wash that he pours into himself! Now
then, my boys, bring chairs up to the table. Aren't we going to have
that toddy, Katherine?
Mrs. Stockmann (going into the dining-room). I am just getting it.
Dr. Stockmann. Sit down here on the couch beside me, Captain Horster.
We so seldom see you. Please sit down, my friends. (They sit down at
the table. MRS. STOCKMANN brings a tray, with a spirit-lamp, glasses,
bottles, etc., upon it.)
Mrs. Stockmann. There you are! This is arrack, and this is rum, and
this one is the brandy. Now every one must help themselves.
Dr. Stockmann (taking a glass). We will. (They all mix themselves some
toddy.) And let us have the cigars. Ejlif, you know where the box is.
And you, Morten, can fetch my pipe. (The two boys go into the room on
the right.) I have a suspicion that Ejlif pockets a cigar now and
then!—but I take no notice of it. (Calls out.) And my smoking-cap too,
Morten. Katherine, you can tell him where I left it. Ah, he has got it.
(The boys bring the various things.) Now, my friends. I stick to my
pipe, you know. This one has seen plenty of bad weather with me up
north. (Touches glasses with them.) Your good health! Ah, it is good to
be sitting snug and warm here.
Mrs. Stockmann (who sits knitting). Do you sail soon, Captain Horster?
Horster. I expect to be ready to sail next week.
Mrs. Stockmann. I suppose you are going to America?
Horster. Yes, that is the plan.
Mrs. Stockmann. Then you won't be able to take part in the coming
election?
Horster. Is there going to be an election?
Billing. Didn't you know?
Horster. No, I don't mix myself up with those things.
Billing. But do you not take an interest in public affairs?
Horster. No, I don't know anything about politics.
Billing. All the same, one ought to vote, at any rate.
Horster. Even if one doesn't know anything about what is going on?
Billing. Doesn't know! What do you mean by that? A community is like a
ship; everyone ought to be prepared to take the helm.
Horster. Maybe that is all very well on shore; but on board ship it
wouldn't work.
Hovstad. It is astonishing how little most sailors care about what goes
on on shore.
Billing. Very extraordinary.
Dr. Stockmann. Sailors are like birds of passage; they feel equally at
home in any latitude. And that is only an additional reason for our
being all the more keen, Hovstad. Is there to be anything of public
interest in tomorrow's "Messenger"?
Hovstad. Nothing about municipal affairs. But the day after tomorrow I
was thinking of printing your article—
Dr. Stockmann. Ah, devil take it—my article! Look here, that must wait
a bit.
Hovstad. Really? We had just got convenient space for it, and I thought
it was just the opportune moment—
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, yes, very likely you are right; but it must wait
all the same. I will explain to you later. (PETRA comes in from the
hall, in hat and cloak and with a bundle of exercise books under her
arm.)
Petra. Good evening.
Dr. Stockmann. Good evening, Petra; come along.
(Mutual greetings; PETRA takes off her things and puts them down on a
chair by the door.)
Petra. And you have all been sitting here enjoying yourselves, while I
have been out slaving!
Dr. Stockmann. Well, come and enjoy yourself too!
Billing. May I mix a glass for you?
Petra (coming to the table). Thanks, I would rather do it; you always
mix it too strong. But I forgot, father—I have a letter for you. (Goes
to the chair where she has laid her things.)
Dr. Stockmann. A letter? From whom?
Petra (looking in her coat pocket). The postman gave it to me just as I
was going out.
Dr. Stockmann (getting up and going to her). And you only give to me
now!
Petra. I really had not time to run up again. There it is!
Dr. Stockmann (seizing the letter). Let's see, let's see, child! (Looks
at the address.) Yes, that's all right!
Mrs. Stockmann. Is it the one you have been expecting go anxiously,
Thomas?
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, it is. I must go to my room now and— Where shall I
get a light, Katherine? Is there no lamp in my room again?
Mrs. Stockmann. Yes, your lamp is already lit on your desk.
Dr. Stockmann. Good, good. Excuse me for a moment—, (Goes into his
study.)
Petra. What do you suppose it is, mother?
Mrs. Stockmann. I don't know; for the last day or two he has always
been asking if the postman has not been.
Billing. Probably some country patient.
Petra. Poor old dad!—he will overwork himself soon. (Mixes a glass for
herself.) There, that will taste good!
Hovstad. Have you been teaching in the evening school again today?
Petra (sipping from her glass). Two hours.
Billing. And four hours of school in the morning?
Petra. Five hours.
Mrs. Stockmann. And you have still got exercises to correct, I see.
Petra. A whole heap, yes.
Horster. You are pretty full up with work too, it seems to me.
Petra. Yes—but that is good. One is so delightfully tired after it.
Billing. Do you like that?
Petra. Yes, because one sleeps so well then.
Morten. You must be dreadfully wicked, Petra.
Petra. Wicked?
Morten. Yes, because you work so much. Mr. Rorlund says work is a
punishment for our sins.
Ejlif. Pooh, what a duffer, you are, to believe a thing like that!
Mrs. Stockmann. Come, come, Ejlif!
Billing (laughing). That's capital!
Hovstad. Don't you want to work as hard as that, Morten?
Morten. No, indeed I don't.
Hovstad. What do you want to be, then?
Morten. I should like best to be a Viking,
Ejlif. You would have to be a pagan then.
Morten. Well, I could become a pagan, couldn't I?
Billing. I agree with you, Morten! My sentiments, exactly.
Mrs. Stockmann (signalling to him). I am sure that is not true, Mr.
Billing.
Billing. Yes, I swear it is! I am a pagan, and I am proud of it.
Believe me, before long we shall all be pagans.
Morten. And then shall be allowed to do anything we like?
Billing. Well, you'll see, Morten.
Mrs. Stockmann. You must go to your room now, boys; I am sure you have
some lessons to learn for tomorrow.
Ejlif. I should like so much to stay a little longer—
Mrs. Stockmann. No, no; away you go, both of you, (The boys say good
night and go into the room on the left.)
Hovstad. Do you really think it can do the boys any harm to hear such
things?
Mrs. Stockmann. I don't know; but I don't like it.
Petra. But you know, mother, I think you really are wrong about it.
Mrs. Stockmann. Maybe, but I don't like it—not in our own home.
Petra. There is so much falsehood both at home and at school. At home
one must not speak, and at school we have to stand and tell lies to the
children.
Horster. Tell lies?
Petra. Yes, don't you suppose we have to teach them all sorts of things
that we don't believe?
Billing. That is perfectly true.
Petra. If only I had the means, I would start a school of my own; and
it would be conducted on very different lines.
Billing. Oh, bother the means—!
Horster. Well if you are thinking of that, Miss Stockmann, I shall be
delighted to provide you with a schoolroom. The great big old house my
father left me is standing almost empty; there is an immense
dining-room downstairs—
Petra (laughing). Thank you very much; but I am afraid nothing will
come of it.
Hovstad. No, Miss Petra is much more likely to take to journalism, I
expect. By the way, have you had time to do anything with that English
story you promised to translate for us?
Petra. No, not yet, but you shall have it in good time.
(DR. STOCKMANN comes in from his room with an open letter in his hand.)
Dr. Stockmann (waving the letter). Well, now the town will have
something new to talk about, I can tell you!
Billing. Something new?
Mrs. Stockmann. What is this?
Dr. Stockmann. A great discovery, Katherine.
Hovstad. Really?
Mrs. Stockmann. A discovery of yours?
Dr. Stockmann. A discovery of mine. (Walks up and down.) Just let them
come saying, as usual, that it is all fancy and a crazy man's
imagination! But they will be careful what they say this time, I can
tell you!
Petra. But, father, tell us what it is.
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, yes—only give me time, and you shall know all
about it. If only I had Peter here now! It just shows how we men can go
about forming our judgments, when in reality we are as blind as any
moles—
Hovstad. What are you driving at, Doctor?
Dr. Stockmann (standing still by the table). Isn't it the universal
opinion that our town is a healthy spot?
Hovstad. Certainly.
Dr. Stockmann. Quite an unusually healthy spot, in fact—a place that
deserves to be recommended in the warmest possible manner either for
invalids or for people who are well—
Mrs. Stockmann. Yes, but my dear Thomas—
Dr. Stockmann. And we have been recommending it and praising it—I have
written and written, both in the "Messenger" and in pamphlets...
Hovstad. Well, what then?
Dr. Stockmann. And the Baths—we have called them the "main artery of
the town's life-blood," the "nerve-centre of our town," and the devil
knows what else—
Billing. "The town's pulsating heart" was the expression I once used on
an important occasion.
Dr. Stockmann. Quite so. Well, do you know what they really are, these
great, splendid, much praised Baths, that have cost so much money—do
you know what they are?
Hovstad. No, what are they?
Mrs. Stockmann. Yes, what are they?
Dr. Stockmann. The whole place is a pest-house!
Petra. The Baths, father?
Mrs. Stockmann (at the same time), Our Baths?
Hovstad. But, Doctor—
Billing. Absolutely incredible!
Dr. Stockmann. The whole Bath establishment is a whited, poisoned
sepulchre, I tell you—the gravest possible danger to the public
health! All the nastiness up at Molledal, all that stinking filth, is
infecting the water in the conduit-pipes leading to the reservoir; and
the same cursed, filthy poison oozes out on the shore too—
Horster. Where the bathing-place is?
Dr. Stockmann. Just there.
Hovstad. How do you come to be so certain of all this, Doctor?
Dr. Stockmann. I have investigated the matter most conscientiously. For
a long time past I have suspected something of the kind. Last year we
had some very strange cases of illness among the visitors—typhoid
cases, and cases of gastric fever—
Mrs. Stockmann. Yes, that is quite true.
Dr. Stockmann. At the time, we supposed the visitors had been infected
before they came; but later on, in the winter, I began to have a
different opinion; and so I set myself to examine the water, as well as
I could.
Mrs. Stockmann. Then that is what you have been so busy with?
Dr. Stockmann. Indeed I have been busy, Katherine. But here I had none
of the necessary scientific apparatus; so I sent samples, both of the
drinking-water and of the sea-water, up to the University, to have an
accurate analysis made by a chemist.
Hovstad. And have you got that?
Dr. Stockmann (showing him the letter). Here it is! It proves the
presence of decomposing organic matter in the water—it is full of
infusoria. The water is absolutely dangerous to use, either internally
or externally.
Mrs. Stockmann. What a mercy you discovered it in time.
Dr. Stockmann. You may well say so.
Hovstad. And what do you propose to do now, Doctor?
Dr. Stockmann. To see the matter put right, naturally.
Hovstad. Can that be done?
Dr. Stockmann. It must be done. Otherwise the Baths will be absolutely
useless and wasted. But we need not anticipate that; I have a very
clear idea what we shall have to do.
Mrs. Stockmann. But why have you kept this all so secret, dear?
Dr. Stockmann. Do you suppose I was going to run about the town
gossiping about it, before I had absolute proof? No, thank you. I am
not such a fool.
Petra. Still, you might have told us—
Dr. Stockmann. Not a living soul. But tomorrow you may run around to
the old Badger—
Mrs. Stockmann. Oh, Thomas! Thomas!
Dr. Stockmann. Well, to your grandfather, then. The old boy will have
something to be astonished at! I know he thinks I am cracked—and there
are lots of other people who think so too, I have noticed. But now
these good folks shall see—they shall just see! (Walks about, rubbing
his hands.) There will be a nice upset in the town, Katherine; you
can't imagine what it will be. All the conduit-pipes will have to be
relaid.
Hovstad (getting up). All the conduit-pipes—?
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, of course. The intake is too low down; it will have
to be lifted to a position much higher up.
Petra. Then you were right after all.
Dr. Stockmann. Ah, you remember, Petra—I wrote opposing the plans
before the work was begun. But at that time no one would listen to me.
Well, I am going to let them have it now. Of course I have prepared a
report for the Baths Committee; I have had it ready for a week, and was
only waiting for this to come. (Shows the letter.) Now it shall go off
at once. (Goes into his room and comes back with some papers.) Look at
that! Four closely written sheets!—and the letter shall go with them.
Give me a bit of paper, Katherine—something to wrap them up in. That
will do! Now give it to-to-(stamps his foot)—what the deuce is her
name?—give it to the maid, and tell her to take it at once to the
Mayor.
(Mrs. Stockmann takes the packet and goes out through the dining-room.)
Petra. What do you think Uncle Peter will say, father?
Dr. Stockmann. What is there for him to say? I should think he would be
very glad that such an important truth has been brought to light.
Hovstad. Will you let me print a short note about your discovery in the
"Messenger?"
Dr. Stockmann. I shall be very much obliged if you will.
Hovstad. It is very desirable that the public should be informed of it
without delay.
Dr. Stockmann. Certainly.
Mrs. Stockmann (coming back). She has just gone with it.
Billing. Upon my soul, Doctor, you are going to be the foremost man in
the town!
Dr. Stockmann (walking about happily). Nonsense! As a matter of
fact I have done nothing more than my duty. I have only made a lucky
find—that's all. Still, all the same...
Billing. Hovstad, don't you think the town ought to give Dr. Stockmann
some sort of testimonial?
Hovstad. I will suggest it, anyway.
Billing. And I will speak to Aslaksen about it.
Dr. Stockmann. No, my good friends, don't let us have any of that
nonsense. I won't hear anything of the kind. And if the Baths Committee
should think of voting me an increase of salary, I will not accept it.
Do you hear, Katherine?—I won't accept it.
Mrs. Stockmann. You are quite right, Thomas.
Petra (lifting her glass). Your health, father!
Hovstad and Billing. Your health, Doctor! Good health!
Horster (touches glasses with DR. STOCKMANN). I hope it will bring you
nothing but good luck.
Dr. Stockmann. Thank you, thank you, my dear fellows! I feel
tremendously happy! It is a splendid thing for a man to be able to feel
that he has done a service to his native town and to his
fellow-citizens. Hurrah, Katherine! (He puts his arms round her and
whirls her round and round, while she protests with laughing cries.
They all laugh, clap their hands, and cheer the DOCTOR. The boys put
their heads in at the door to see what is going on.) | In the home of Dr. Stockmann, Mrs. Stockmann is offering Mr. Billings, an assistant on the local paper, some more food. She thinks she hears the editor, Mr. Hovstad coming, but it is her brother-in-law, the Mayor . He is somewhat shocked to see that the Stockmanns have meat for supper. Mr. Hovstad appears and tells the Burgomaster that he is here on business. Dr. Stockmann often writes an article for Mr. Hovstad's liberal paper. The present article Dr. Stockmann is having printed is about the medicinal value of the new baths which are soon to open up in the town. The Burgomaster speaks about the great value of the baths to the town, but he resents the idea that his brother is credited with being the founder of the baths because he himself was responsible for the execution of the plan. Dr. Stockmann comes in bringing with him another guest, an old friend named Captain Horster. He greets his brother and explains how great it is now to have a job where he can afford to eat meat twice a day and to buy little items. For many years, he has had to live on almost starvation wages, but now that the Burgomaster has gotten him a position with the baths, he is always in good spirits. The Burgomaster wants to know about the new article Dr. Stockmann is publishing, but Dr. Stockmann tells him it isn't to appear until he checks on a few more facts. The Burgomaster knows that the article is about the baths and demands to be told immediately all about it. When Dr. Stockmann refuses, the Burgomaster leaves in anger. Hovstad comes in and intimates that the Burgomaster left because the crowd was too liberal for him. There is a town election coming soon and Hovstad's liberal paper has not been supporting the Burgomaster. Petra Stockmann comes in from the school where she teaches and tells her father that she has a letter for him. Dr. Stockmann becomes excited and goes immediately to his study to read the letter. His wife explains to the guests that Dr. Stockmann has been waiting every day for a week for some mysterious letter. Petra tells the group how difficult it is to teach when the little children have to be told so many things that are not true. She would like to open a school of her own. Captain Horster offers her the bottom of his old house which stands empty most of the time, especially since he is about to sail for America. Hovstad thinks she would do better to come over to journalism and asks her if she has finished the translation of the English novel. She promises to have it completed in a short time. Dr. Stockmann comes back in and is excited about the news he has just received. He thinks he has made a great discovery. He tells them that he has found out that their magnificent, lovely, highly praised baths are nothing more than a poisonous, pestiferous hole. He explains that the pipes are laid too low and all the filth from the tanning mills is infecting the water. He has spent the entire winter investigating the affair and has sent off samples of the water to the university for analysis. The water contains millions of putrefying organic matter called infusoria. These are detrimental to health whether they are used internally or externally. He explains that this was why so many people were sick last summer at the baths. At the time he thought the people brought the disease with them, but now he knows that they became sick from the water. To correct the situation, all of the water pipes will have to be re-laid. Dr. Stockmann explains that the town has often laughed at his ideas and proposals, but now everyone will see that he is not out of his head. He particularly wants Petra to tell her grandfather who has thought Dr. Stockmann was "not quite right." Furthermore, he has prepared a statement for the directors of the baths and is going to send it to the Burgomaster immediately. Hovstad wants to put a short announcement of the discovery in the paper, and it is suggested that the town should do something to honor Dr. Stockmann. Dr. Stockmann thinks, however, that it is a blessing to have served his native town and its citizens. |
The being finished speaking, and fixed his looks upon me in expectation
of a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable to arrange my
ideas sufficiently to understand the full extent of his proposition. He
continued--
"You must create a female for me, with whom I can live in the
interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being. This you alone
can do; and I demand it of you as a right which you must not refuse."
The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger that had
died away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers, and,
as he said this, I could no longer suppress the rage that burned within
me.
"I do refuse it," I replied; "and no torture shall ever extort a consent
from me. You may render me the most miserable of men, but you shall
never make me base in my own eyes. Shall I create another like yourself,
whose joint wickedness might desolate the world. Begone! I have answered
you; you may torture me, but I will never consent."
"You are in the wrong," replied the fiend; "and, instead of threatening,
I am content to reason with you. I am malicious because I am miserable;
am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear
me to pieces, and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity
man more than he pities me? You would not call it murder, if you could
precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts, and destroy my frame, the
work of your own hands. Shall I respect man, when he contemns me? Let
him live with me in the interchange of kindness, and, instead of injury,
I would bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his
acceptance. But that cannot be; the human senses are insurmountable
barriers to our union. Yet mine shall not be the submission of abject
slavery. I will revenge my injuries: if I cannot inspire love, I will
cause fear; and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator,
do I swear inextinguishable hatred. Have a care: I will work at your
destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you curse
the hour of your birth."
A fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face was wrinkled into
contortions too horrible for human eyes to behold; but presently he
calmed himself, and proceeded--
"I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me; for you do not
reflect that you are the cause of its excess. If any being felt emotions
of benevolence towards me, I should return them an hundred and an
hundred fold; for that one creature's sake, I would make peace with the
whole kind! But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be
realized. What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a
creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself: the gratification is
small, but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me. It is
true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that
account we shall be more attached to one another. Our lives will not be
happy, but they will be harmless, and free from the misery I now feel.
Oh! my creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one
benefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some existing thing;
do not deny me my request!"
I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible consequences of
my consent; but I felt that there was some justice in his argument. His
tale, and the feelings he now expressed, proved him to be a creature of
fine sensations; and did I not, as his maker, owe him all the portion of
happiness that it was in my power to bestow? He saw my change of
feeling, and continued--
"If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall ever see us
again: I will go to the vast wilds of South America. My food is not that
of man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid, to glut my appetite;
acorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment. My companion will
be of the same nature as myself, and will be content with the same fare.
We shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun will shine on us as on
man, and will ripen our food. The picture I present to you is peaceful
and human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the
wantonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless as you have been towards me, I
now see compassion in your eyes: let me seize the favourable moment, and
persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire."
"You propose," replied I, "to fly from the habitations of man, to dwell
in those wilds where the beasts of the field will be your only
companions. How can you, who long for the love and sympathy of man,
persevere in this exile? You will return, and again seek their kindness,
and you will meet with their detestation; your evil passions will be
renewed, and you will then have a companion to aid you in the task of
destruction. This may not be; cease to argue the point, for I cannot
consent."
"How inconstant are your feelings! but a moment ago you were moved by my
representations, and why do you again harden yourself to my complaints?
I swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit, and by you that made me,
that, with the companion you bestow, I will quit the neighbourhood of
man, and dwell, as it may chance, in the most savage of places. My evil
passions will have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy; my life will
flow quietly away, and, in my dying moments, I shall not curse my
maker."
His words had a strange effect upon me. I compassionated him, and
sometimes felt a wish to console him; but when I looked upon him, when I
saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart sickened, and my
feelings were altered to those of horror and hatred. I tried to stifle
these sensations; I thought, that as I could not sympathize with him, I
had no right to withhold from him the small portion of happiness which
was yet in my power to bestow.
"You swear," I said, "to be harmless; but have you not already shewn a
degree of malice that should reasonably make me distrust you? May not
even this be a feint that will increase your triumph by affording a
wider scope for your revenge?"
"How is this? I thought I had moved your compassion, and yet you still
refuse to bestow on me the only benefit that can soften my heart, and
render me harmless. If I have no ties and no affections, hatred and vice
must be my portion; the love of another will destroy the cause of my
crimes, and I shall become a thing, of whose existence every one will be
ignorant. My vices are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor;
and my virtues will necessarily arise when I live in communion with an
equal. I shall feel the affections of a sensitive being, and become
linked to the chain of existence and events, from which I am now
excluded."
I paused some time to reflect on all he had related, and the various
arguments which he had employed. I thought of the promise of virtues
which he had displayed on the opening of his existence, and the
subsequent blight of all kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which
his protectors had manifested towards him. His power and threats were
not omitted in my calculations: a creature who could exist in the ice
caves of the glaciers, and hide himself from pursuit among the ridges of
inaccessible precipices, was a being possessing faculties it would be
vain to cope with. After a long pause of reflection, I concluded, that
the justice due both to him and my fellow-creatures demanded of me that
I should comply with his request. Turning to him, therefore, I said--
"I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe for ever,
and every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon as I shall
deliver into your hands a female who will accompany you in your exile."
"I swear," he cried, "by the sun, and by the blue sky of heaven, that if
you grant my prayer, while they exist you shall never behold me again.
Depart to your home, and commence your labours: I shall watch their
progress with unutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are
ready I shall appear."
Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in
my sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed than
the flight of an eagle, and quickly lost him among the undulations of
the sea of ice.
His tale had occupied the whole day; and the sun was upon the verge of
the horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to hasten my descent
towards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my
heart was heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of winding among the
little paths of the mountains, and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced,
perplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the occurrences of
the day had produced. Night was far advanced, when I came to the
half-way resting-place, and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars
shone at intervals, as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines
rose before me, and every here and there a broken tree lay on the
ground: it was a scene of wonderful solemnity, and stirred strange
thoughts within me. I wept bitterly; and, clasping my hands in agony, I
exclaimed, "Oh! stars, and clouds, and winds, ye are all about to mock
me: if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as
nought; but if not, depart, depart and leave me in darkness."
These were wild and miserable thoughts; but I cannot describe to you how
the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me, and how I listened
to every blast of wind, as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its way to
consume me.
Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix; but my
presence, so haggard and strange, hardly calmed the fears of my family,
who had waited the whole night in anxious expectation of my return.
The following day we returned to Geneva. The intention of my father in
coming had been to divert my mind, and to restore me to my lost
tranquillity; but the medicine had been fatal. And, unable to account
for the excess of misery I appeared to suffer, he hastened to return
home, hoping the quiet and monotony of a domestic life would by degrees
alleviate my sufferings from whatsoever cause they might spring.
For myself, I was passive in all their arrangements; and the gentle
affection of my beloved Elizabeth was inadequate to draw me from the
depth of my despair. The promise I had made to the daemon weighed upon my
mind, like Dante's iron cowl on the heads of the hellish hypocrites. All
pleasures of earth and sky passed before me like a dream, and that
thought only had to me the reality of life. Can you wonder, that
sometimes a kind of insanity possessed me, or that I saw continually
about me a multitude of filthy animals inflicting on me incessant
torture, that often extorted screams and bitter groans?
By degrees, however, these feelings became calmed. I entered again into
the every-day scene of life, if not with interest, at least with some
degree of tranquillity. | The monster perhaps expects Victor to have a solution for both their predicaments, but the monster soon realizes that Victor wishes to be rid of him, and return to a normal way of life. The monster offers him a way out. The monster: "I demand a creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself; the gratification is small, but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me. It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from the entire world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another. '''''.. Oh! My creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one benefit!" Victor relents and agrees to recreate a monster to be a mate for him. |
V. The Wood-Sawyer
One year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never
sure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her
husband's head next day. Every day, through the stony streets, the
tumbrils now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright
women, brown-haired, black-haired, and grey; youths; stalwart men and
old; gentle born and peasant born; all red wine for La Guillotine, all
daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the loathsome prisons,
and carried to her through the streets to slake her devouring thirst.
Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death;--the last, much the easiest to
bestow, O Guillotine!
If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of the time,
had stunned the Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result in idle
despair, it would but have been with her as it was with many. But, from
the hour when she had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in
the garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was
truest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good
will always be.
As soon as they were established in their new residence, and her father
had entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little
household as exactly as if her husband had been there. Everything had
its appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught,
as regularly, as if they had all been united in their English home. The
slight devices with which she cheated herself into the show of a belief
that they would soon be reunited--the little preparations for his speedy
return, the setting aside of his chair and his books--these, and the
solemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among the many
unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death--were almost the only
outspoken reliefs of her heavy mind.
She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to
mourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well
attended to as the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her colour,
and the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional,
thing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at
night on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had
repressed all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven,
was on him. He always resolutely answered: "Nothing can happen to him
without my knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie."
They had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her
father said to her, on coming home one evening:
"My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can
sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to
it--which depends on many uncertainties and incidents--he might see you
in the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can
show you. But you will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even
if you could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition."
"O show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day."
From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the
clock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away.
When it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they
went together; at other times she was alone; but, she never missed a
single day.
It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel
of a cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was the only house at that
end; all else was wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed
her.
"Good day, citizeness."
"Good day, citizen."
This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been
established voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots;
but, was now law for everybody.
"Walking here again, citizeness?"
"You see me, citizen!"
The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he
had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed
at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent
bars, peeped through them jocosely.
"But it's not my business," said he. And went on sawing his wood.
Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she
appeared.
"What? Walking here again, citizeness?"
"Yes, citizen."
"Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?"
"Do I say yes, mamma?" whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her.
"Yes, dearest."
"Yes, citizen."
"Ah! But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I
call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head
comes!"
The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.
"I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again!
Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off _her_ head comes! Now, a child.
Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off _its_ head comes. All the
family!"
Lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but it was
impossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in
his sight. Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him
first, and often gave him drink-money, which he readily received.
He was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten
him in gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in lifting her heart
up to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her,
with his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work. "But it's
not my business!" he would generally say at those times, and would
briskly fall to his sawing again.
In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of
spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again
in the snow and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at
this place; and every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall.
Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it might be once in
five or six times: it might be twice or thrice running: it might be, not
for a week or a fortnight together. It was enough that he could and did
see her when the chances served, and on that possibility she would have
waited out the day, seven days a week.
These occupations brought her round to the December month, wherein her
father walked among the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing
afternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was a day of some wild
rejoicing, and a festival. She had seen the houses, as she came along,
decorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them;
also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the standard inscription
(tricoloured letters were the favourite), Republic One and Indivisible.
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!
The miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole
surface furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got
somebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death in
with most inappropriate difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike
and cap, as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his
saw inscribed as his "Little Sainte Guillotine"--for the great sharp
female was by that time popularly canonised. His shop was shut and he
was not there, which was a relief to Lucie, and left her quite alone.
But, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement
and a shouting coming along, which filled her with fear. A moment
afterwards, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the
prison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with
The Vengeance. There could not be fewer than five hundred people, and
they were dancing like five thousand demons. There was no other music
than their own singing. They danced to the popular Revolution song,
keeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison.
Men and women danced together, women danced together, men danced
together, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were a
mere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as they
filled the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, some ghastly
apparition of a dance-figure gone raving mad arose among them. They
advanced, retreated, struck at one another's hands, clutched at one
another's heads, spun round alone, caught one another and spun round
in pairs, until many of them dropped. While those were down, the rest
linked hand in hand, and all spun round together: then the ring broke,
and in separate rings of two and four they turned and turned until they
all stopped at once, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then
reversed the spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped
again, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the width
of the public way, and, with their heads low down and their hands high
up, swooped screaming off. No fight could have been half so terrible
as this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport--a something, once
innocent, delivered over to all devilry--a healthy pastime changed into
a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling the
heart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier, showing how
warped and perverted all things good by nature were become. The maidenly
bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child's head thus distracted, the
delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of
the disjointed time.
This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and
bewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer's house, the feathery snow
fell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.
"O my father!" for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she
had momentarily darkened with her hand; "such a cruel, bad sight."
"I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don't be
frightened! Not one of them would harm you."
"I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of my
husband, and the mercies of these people--"
"We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to
the window, and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may
kiss your hand towards that highest shelving roof."
"I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!"
"You cannot see him, my poor dear?"
"No, father," said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand,
"no."
A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. "I salute you, citizeness,"
from the Doctor. "I salute you, citizen." This in passing. Nothing more.
Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.
"Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulness
and courage, for his sake. That was well done;" they had left the spot;
"it shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow."
"For to-morrow!"
"There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are precautions
to be taken, that could not be taken until he was actually summoned
before the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet, but I know
that he will presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the
Conciergerie; I have timely information. You are not afraid?"
She could scarcely answer, "I trust in you."
"Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall
be restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed him with every
protection. I must see Lorry."
He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They
both knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring
away with their dread loads over the hushing snow.
"I must see Lorry," the Doctor repeated, turning her another way.
The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He
and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated
and made national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No
better man living to hold fast by what Tellson's had in keeping, and to
hold his peace.
A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted
the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the
Bank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and
deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters:
National Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality,
Fraternity, or Death!
Who could that be with Mr. Lorry--the owner of the riding-coat upon the
chair--who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he come out,
agitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom did
he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and
turning his head towards the door of the room from which he had issued,
he said: "Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?" | One year and three months have passed since Darnay's initial imprisonment. Lucie arranges her Parisian household as if her husband were there in hopes that he will soon appear. She also lives in fear. Every day she sees the tumbrels loaded with the condemned on their way to the guillotine and prays that Darnay is not included. Every day she and little Lucie would walk to the prison, hoping to catch a glimpse of Darnay. She is informed by her father that Darnay sometimes catches a glimpse of her standing outside. Next to the prison is a woodcutter's shop, and the road-mender from earlier in the novel is the wood sawyer. Lucie is at first scared of him, but she still talks to him and offers him drinking money. One day, there is a crowd rejoicing, as if there were a festival. A mob wildly rushes around the prison in a Revolution Dance called the Carmagnole. Lucie is frightened as the mob passes and is relieved to see her father standing protectively over her. He tells her that Darnay is to be brought to trial the next day. He also says that because of the activity it will be safe for her to signal Darnay. As Lucie gives her signal, Madame Defarge walks by; it is a bad omen. Lucie and her father go to give Mr. Lorry the good news about Darnay. Mr. Lorry has a visitor that he does not want them to see, so he hurries the person into the next room before receiving the Manettes. |
SCENE V.
Another part of the field.
[Enter Brutus, Dardanius, Clitus, Strato, and Volumnius.]
BRUTUS.
Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock.
CLITUS.
Statilius show'd the torch-light; but, my lord,
He came not back: he is or ta'en or slain.
BRUTUS.
Sit thee down, Clitus: slaying is the word;
It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus.
[Whispering.]
CLITUS.
What, I, my lord? No, not for all the world.
BRUTUS.
Peace then! no words.
CLITUS.
I'll rather kill myself.
BRUTUS.
Hark thee, Dardanius.
[Whispers him.]
DARDANIUS.
Shall I do such a deed?
CLITUS.
O Dardanius!
DARDANIUS.
O Clitus!
CLITUS.
What ill request did Brutus make to thee?
DARDANIUS.
To kill him, Clitus. Look, he meditates.
CLITUS.
Now is that noble vessel full of grief,
That it runs over even at his eyes.
BRUTUS.
Come hither, good Volumnius; list a word.
VOLUMNIUS.
What says my lord?
BRUTUS.
Why, this, Volumnius:
The ghost of Caesar hath appear'd to me
Two several times by night; at Sardis once,
And this last night here in Philippi fields:
I know my hour is come.
VOLUMNIUS.
Not so, my lord.
BRUTUS.
Nay I am sure it is, Volumnius.
Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes;
Our enemies have beat us to the pit:
[Low alarums.]
It is more worthy to leap in ourselves
Than tarry till they push us. Good Volumnius,
Thou know'st that we two went to school together;
Even for that our love of old, I pr'ythee,
Hold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it.
VOLUMNIUS.
That's not an office for a friend, my lord.
[Alarums still.]
CLITUS.
Fly, fly, my lord! there is no tarrying here.
BRUTUS.
Farewell to you;--and you;--and you, Volumnius.--
Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep;
Farewell to thee too, Strato.--Countrymen,
My heart doth joy, that yet in all my life
I found no man but he was true to me.
I shall have glory by this losing day,
More than Octavius and Mark Antony
By this vile conquest shall attain unto.
So, fare you well at once; for Brutus' tongue
Hath almost ended his life's history:
Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest
That have but labour'd to attain this hour.
[Alarums. Cry within, "Fly, fly, fly!"]
CLITUS.
Fly, my lord, fly!
BRUTUS.
Hence! I will follow.--
[Exeunt Clitus, Dardanius, and Volumnius.]
I pr'ythee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord:
Thou art a fellow of a good respect;
Thy life hath had some smack of honor in it:
Hold, then, my sword, and turn away thy face,
While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato?
STRATO.
Give me your hand first: fare you well, my lord.
BRUTUS.
Farewell, good Strato.--Caesar, now be still:
I kill'd not thee with half so good a will.
[He runs on his sword, and dies.]
[Alarum. Retreat. Enter Octavius, Antony, Messala, Lucilius, and
Army.]
OCTAVIUS.
What man is that?
MESSALA.
My master's man.--Strato, where is thy master?
STRATO.
Free from the bondage you are in, Messala:
The conquerors can but make a fire of him;
For Brutus only overcame himself,
And no man else hath honour by his death.
LUCILIUS.
So Brutus should be found.--I thank thee, Brutus,
That thou hast proved Lucilius' saying true.
OCTAVIUS.
All that served Brutus, I will entertain them.--
Fellow, wilt thou bestow thy time with me?
STRATO.
Ay, if Messala will prefer me to you.
OCTAVIUS.
Do so, good Messala.
MESSALA.
How died my master, Strato?
STRATO.
I held the sword, and he did run on it.
MESSALA.
Octavius, then take him to follow thee,
That did the latest service to my master.
ANTONY.
This was the noblest Roman of them all:
All the conspirators, save only he,
Did that they did in envy of great Caesar;
He only, in a general-honest thought
And common good to all, made one of them.
His life was gentle; and the elements
So mix'd in him that Nature might stand up
And say to all the world, "This was a man!"
OCTAVIUS.
According to his virtue let us use him
With all respect and rites of burial.
Within my tent his bones to-night shall lie,
Most like a soldier, order'd honorably.--
So, call the field to rest; and let's away,
To part the glories of this happy day.
[Exeunt.]
THE END | We observe Brutus and his generals resting from the arduous battle. He wishes one of them to kill him, but they refuse. Just then Caesar's ghost appears to Brutus again, and he knows it is time for him to die. Volumnius believes that the battle can still be won, but Brutus argues that the enemy has them cornered. He asks Volumnius to hold his sword while he runs onto it, but he refuses, believing it is improper for a friend to do this. Antony's army approaches and Clitus warns Brutus to flee. Brutus wishes his comrades farewell, and Strato who has just woken up agrees to hold Brutus' sword. They shake hands, and Brutus kills himself. Antony comes onto the scene and says, "This was the noblest Roman of them all: All the conspirators, save only he, Did that they did in envy of great Caesar. He only, in a general honest thought And common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elements So mixed in him that nature might stand up And say to all the world, this was a man!" Octavius promises an appropriate funeral for Brutus and the battle ceases. They celebrate their triumph. |
There was an empty room above-stairs at the wooden Midshipman's, which,
in days of yore, had been Walter's bedroom. Walter, rousing up the
Captain betimes in the morning, proposed that they should carry thither
such furniture out of the little parlour as would grace it best, so that
Florence might take possession of it when she rose. As nothing could be
more agreeable to Captain Cuttle than making himself very red and short
of breath in such a cause, he turned to (as he himself said) with a
will; and, in a couple of hours, this garret was transformed into a
species of land-cabin, adorned with all the choicest moveables out of
the parlour, inclusive even of the Tartar frigate, which the Captain
hung up over the chimney-piece with such extreme delight, that he could
do nothing for half-an-hour afterwards but walk backward from it, lost
in admiration.
The Captain could be induced by no persuasion of Walter's to wind up the
big watch, or to take back the canister, or to touch the sugar-tongs and
teaspoons. 'No, no, my lad;' was the Captain's invariable reply to any
solicitation of the kind, 'I've made that there little property over,
jintly.' These words he repeated with great unction and gravity,
evidently believing that they had the virtue of an Act of Parliament,
and that unless he committed himself by some new admission of ownership,
no flaw could be found in such a form of conveyance.
It was an advantage of the new arrangement, that besides the greater
seclusion it afforded Florence, it admitted of the Midshipman being
restored to his usual post of observation, and also of the shop shutters
being taken down. The latter ceremony, however little importance the
unconscious Captain attached to it, was not wholly superfluous; for,
on the previous day, so much excitement had been occasioned in
the neighbourhood, by the shutters remaining unopened, that the
Instrument-maker's house had been honoured with an unusual share of
public observation, and had been intently stared at from the opposite
side of the way, by groups of hungry gazers, at any time between sunrise
and sunset. The idlers and vagabonds had been particularly interested in
the Captain's fate; constantly grovelling in the mud to apply their
eyes to the cellar-grating, under the shop-window, and delighting their
imaginations with the fancy that they could see a piece of his coat as
he hung in a corner; though this settlement of him was stoutly disputed
by an opposite faction, who were of opinion that he lay murdered with
a hammer, on the stairs. It was not without exciting some discontent,
therefore, that the subject of these rumours was seen early in the
morning standing at his shop-door as hale and hearty as if nothing
had happened; and the beadle of that quarter, a man of an ambitious
character, who had expected to have the distinction of being present at
the breaking open of the door, and of giving evidence in full uniform
before the coroner, went so far as to say to an opposite neighbour, that
the chap in the glazed hat had better not try it on there--without more
particularly mentioning what--and further, that he, the beadle, would
keep his eye upon him.
'Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, musing, when they stood resting from
their labours at the shop-door, looking down the old familiar street; it
being still early in the morning; 'nothing at all of Uncle Sol, in all
that time!'
'Nothing at all, my lad,' replied the Captain, shaking his head.
'Gone in search of me, dear, kind old man,' said Walter: 'yet never
write to you! But why not? He says, in effect, in this packet that you
gave me,' taking the paper from his pocket, which had been opened in
the presence of the enlightened Bunsby, 'that if you never hear from
him before opening it, you may believe him dead. Heaven forbid! But
you would have heard of him, even if he were dead! Someone would have
written, surely, by his desire, if he could not; and have said, "on such
a day, there died in my house," or "under my care," or so forth, "Mr
Solomon Gills of London, who left this last remembrance and this last
request to you".'
The Captain, who had never climbed to such a clear height of probability
before, was greatly impressed by the wide prospect it opened, and
answered, with a thoughtful shake of his head, 'Well said, my lad; wery
well said.'
'I have been thinking of this, or, at least,' said Walter, colouring,
'I have been thinking of one thing and another, all through a sleepless
night, and I cannot believe, Captain Cuttle, but that my Uncle Sol (Lord
bless him!) is alive, and will return. I don't so much wonder at his
going away, because, leaving out of consideration that spice of the
marvellous which was always in his character, and his great affection
for me, before which every other consideration of his life became
nothing, as no one ought to know so well as I who had the best of
fathers in him,'--Walter's voice was indistinct and husky here, and he
looked away, along the street,--'leaving that out of consideration, I
say, I have often read and heard of people who, having some near and
dear relative, who was supposed to be shipwrecked at sea, have gone down
to live on that part of the sea-shore where any tidings of the missing
ship might be expected to arrive, though only an hour or two sooner than
elsewhere, or have even gone upon her track to the place whither she was
bound, as if their going would create intelligence. I think I should do
such a thing myself, as soon as another, or sooner than many, perhaps.
But why my Uncle shouldn't write to you, when he so clearly intended
to do so, or how he should die abroad, and you not know it through some
other hand, I cannot make out.'
Captain Cuttle observed, with a shake of his head, that Jack Bunsby
himself hadn't made it out, and that he was a man as could give a pretty
taut opinion too.
'If my Uncle had been a heedless young man, likely to be entrapped by
jovial company to some drinking-place, where he was to be got rid of for
the sake of what money he might have about him,' said Walter; 'or if he
had been a reckless sailor, going ashore with two or three months' pay
in his pocket, I could understand his disappearing, and leaving no trace
behind. But, being what he was--and is, I hope--I can't believe it.'
'Wal'r, my lad,' inquired the Captain, wistfully eyeing him as he
pondered and pondered, 'what do you make of it, then?'
'Captain Cuttle,' returned Walter, 'I don't know what to make of it. I
suppose he never has written! There is no doubt about that?'
'If so be as Sol Gills wrote, my lad,' replied the Captain,
argumentatively, 'where's his dispatch?'
'Say that he entrusted it to some private hand,' suggested Walter, 'and
that it has been forgotten, or carelessly thrown aside, or lost. Even
that is more probable to me, than the other event. In short, I not
only cannot bear to contemplate that other event, Captain Cuttle, but I
can't, and won't.'
'Hope, you see, Wal'r,' said the Captain, sagely, 'Hope. It's that
as animates you. Hope is a buoy, for which you overhaul your Little
Warbler, sentimental diwision, but Lord, my lad, like any other buoy, it
only floats; it can't be steered nowhere. Along with the figure-head of
Hope,' said the Captain, 'there's a anchor; but what's the good of my
having a anchor, if I can't find no bottom to let it go in?'
Captain Cuttle said this rather in his character of a sagacious citizen
and householder, bound to impart a morsel from his stores of wisdom to
an inexperienced youth, than in his own proper person. Indeed, his face
was quite luminous as he spoke, with new hope, caught from Walter; and
he appropriately concluded by slapping him on the back; and saying,
with enthusiasm, 'Hooroar, my lad! Indiwidually, I'm o' your opinion.'
Walter, with his cheerful laugh, returned the salutation, and said:
'Only one word more about my Uncle at present, Captain Cuttle. I suppose
it is impossible that he can have written in the ordinary course--by
mail packet, or ship letter, you understand--'
'Ay, ay, my lad,' said the Captain approvingly.
'--And that you have missed the letter, anyhow?'
'Why, Wal'r,' said the Captain, turning his eyes upon him with a faint
approach to a severe expression, 'ain't I been on the look-out for
any tidings of that man o' science, old Sol Gills, your Uncle, day and
night, ever since I lost him? Ain't my heart been heavy and watchful
always, along of him and you? Sleeping and waking, ain't I been upon my
post, and wouldn't I scorn to quit it while this here Midshipman held
together!'
'Yes, Captain Cuttle,' replied Walter, grasping his hand, 'I know you
would, and I know how faithful and earnest all you say and feel is. I am
sure of it. You don't doubt that I am as sure of it as I am that my foot
is again upon this door-step, or that I again have hold of this true
hand. Do you?'
'No, no, Wal'r,' returned the Captain, with his beaming
'I'll hazard no more conjectures,' said Walter, fervently shaking the
hard hand of the Captain, who shook his with no less goodwill. 'All I
will add is, Heaven forbid that I should touch my Uncle's possessions,
Captain Cuttle! Everything that he left here, shall remain in the care
of the truest of stewards and kindest of men--and if his name is not
Cuttle, he has no name! Now, best of friends, about--Miss Dombey.'
There was a change in Walter's manner, as he came to these two words;
and when he uttered them, all his confidence and cheerfulness appeared
to have deserted him.
'I thought, before Miss Dombey stopped me when I spoke of her father
last night,' said Walter, '--you remember how?'
The Captain well remembered, and shook his head.
'I thought,' said Walter, 'before that, that we had but one hard duty
to perform, and that it was, to prevail upon her to communicate with her
friends, and to return home.'
The Captain muttered a feeble 'Awast!' or a 'Stand by!' or something
or other, equally pertinent to the occasion; but it was rendered so
extremely feeble by the total discomfiture with which he received this
announcement, that what it was, is mere matter of conjecture.
'But,' said Walter, 'that is over. I think so, no longer. I would sooner
be put back again upon that piece of wreck, on which I have so often
floated, since my preservation, in my dreams, and there left to drift,
and drive, and die!'
'Hooroar, my lad!' exclaimed the Captain, in a burst of uncontrollable
satisfaction. 'Hooroar! hooroar! hooroar!'
'To think that she, so young, so good, and beautiful,' said Walter,
'so delicately brought up, and born to such a different fortune, should
strive with the rough world! But we have seen the gulf that cuts off all
behind her, though no one but herself can know how deep it is; and there
is no return.'
Captain Cuttle, without quite understanding this, greatly approved of
it, and observed in a tone of strong corroboration, that the wind was
quite abaft.
'She ought not to be alone here; ought she, Captain Cuttle?' said
Walter, anxiously.
'Well, my lad,' replied the Captain, after a little sagacious
consideration. 'I don't know. You being here to keep her company, you
see, and you two being jintly--'
'Dear Captain Cuttle!' remonstrated Walter. 'I being here! Miss Dombey,
in her guileless innocent heart, regards me as her adopted brother; but
what would the guile and guilt of my heart be, if I pretended to believe
that I had any right to approach her, familiarly, in that character--if
I pretended to forget that I am bound, in honour, not to do it?'
'Wal'r, my lad,' hinted the Captain, with some revival of his
discomfiture, 'ain't there no other character as--'
'Oh!' returned Walter, 'would you have me die in her esteem--in such
esteem as hers--and put a veil between myself and her angel's face for
ever, by taking advantage of her being here for refuge, so trusting and
so unprotected, to endeavour to exalt myself into her lover? What do I
say? There is no one in the world who would be more opposed to me if I
could do so, than you.'
'Wal'r, my lad,' said the Captain, drooping more and more, 'prowiding
as there is any just cause or impediment why two persons should not be
jined together in the house of bondage, for which you'll overhaul the
place and make a note, I hope I should declare it as promised and wowed
in the banns. So there ain't no other character; ain't there, my lad?'
Walter briskly waved his hand in the negative.
'Well, my lad,' growled the Captain slowly, 'I won't deny but what I
find myself wery much down by the head, along o' this here, or but
what I've gone clean about. But as to Lady lass, Wal'r, mind you, wot's
respect and duty to her, is respect and duty in my articles, howsumever
disapinting; and therefore I follows in your wake, my lad, and feel
as you are, no doubt, acting up to yourself. And there ain't no other
character, ain't there?' said the Captain, musing over the ruins of his
fallen castle, with a very despondent face.
'Now, Captain Cuttle,' said Walter, starting a fresh point with a gayer
air, to cheer the Captain up--but nothing could do that; he was too much
concerned--'I think we should exert ourselves to find someone who would
be a proper attendant for Miss Dombey while she remains here, and who
may be trusted. None of her relations may. It's clear Miss Dombey feels
that they are all subservient to her father. What has become of Susan?'
'The young woman?' returned the Captain. 'It's my belief as she was sent
away again the will of Heart's Delight. I made a signal for her when
Lady lass first come, and she rated of her wery high, and said she had
been gone a long time.'
'Then,' said Walter, 'do you ask Miss Dombey where she's gone, and we'll
try to find her. The morning's getting on, and Miss Dombey will soon be
rising. You are her best friend. Wait for her upstairs, and leave me to
take care of all down here.'
The Captain, very crest-fallen indeed, echoed the sigh with which Walter
said this, and complied. Florence was delighted with her new room,
anxious to see Walter, and overjoyed at the prospect of greeting her old
friend Susan. But Florence could not say where Susan was gone, except
that it was in Essex, and no one could say, she remembered, unless it
were Mr Toots.
With this information the melancholy Captain returned to Walter, and
gave him to understand that Mr Toots was the young gentleman whom he had
encountered on the door-step, and that he was a friend of his, and that
he was a young gentleman of property, and that he hopelessly adored
Miss Dombey. The Captain also related how the intelligence of Walter's
supposed fate had first made him acquainted with Mr Toots, and how there
was solemn treaty and compact between them, that Mr Toots should be mute
upon the subject of his love.
The question then was, whether Florence could trust Mr Toots; and
Florence saying, with a smile, 'Oh, yes, with her whole heart!' it
became important to find out where Mr Toots lived. This, Florence didn't
know, and the Captain had forgotten; and the Captain was telling Walter,
in the little parlour, that Mr Toots was sure to be there soon, when in
came Mr Toots himself.
'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, rushing into the parlour without any
ceremony, 'I'm in a state of mind bordering on distraction!'
Mr Toots had discharged those words, as from a mortar, before he
observed Walter, whom he recognised with what may be described as a
chuckle of misery.
'You'll excuse me, Sir,' said Mr Toots, holding his forehead, 'but
I'm at present in that state that my brain is going, if not gone, and
anything approaching to politeness in an individual so situated would
be a hollow mockery. Captain Gills, I beg to request the favour of a
private interview.'
'Why, Brother,' returned the Captain, taking him by the hand, 'you are
the man as we was on the look-out for.'
'Oh, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'what a look-out that must be, of
which I am the object! I haven't dared to shave, I'm in that rash state.
I haven't had my clothes brushed. My hair is matted together. I told the
Chicken that if he offered to clean my boots, I'd stretch him a Corpse
before me!'
All these indications of a disordered mind were verified in Mr Toots's
appearance, which was wild and savage.
'See here, Brother,' said the Captain. 'This here's old Sol Gills's nevy
Wal'r. Him as was supposed to have perished at sea.'
Mr Toots took his hand from his forehead, and stared at Walter.
'Good gracious me!' stammered Mr Toots. 'What a complication of misery!
How-de-do? I--I--I'm afraid you must have got very wet. Captain Gills,
will you allow me a word in the shop?'
He took the Captain by the coat, and going out with him whispered:
'That then, Captain Gills, is the party you spoke of, when you said that
he and Miss Dombey were made for one another?'
'Why, ay, my lad,' replied the disconsolate Captain; 'I was of that mind
once.'
'And at this time!' exclaimed Mr Toots, with his hand to his forehead
again. 'Of all others!--a hated rival! At least, he ain't a hated
rival,' said Mr Toots, stopping short, on second thoughts, and taking
away his hand; 'what should I hate him for? No. If my affection has been
truly disinterested, Captain Gills, let me prove it now!'
Mr Toots shot back abruptly into the parlour, and said, wringing Walter
by the hand:
'How-de-do? I hope you didn't take any cold. I--I shall be very glad if
you'll give me the pleasure of your acquaintance. I wish you many happy
returns of the day. Upon my word and honour,' said Mr Toots, warming
as he became better acquainted with Walter's face and figure, 'I'm very
glad to see you!'
'Thank you, heartily,' said Walter. 'I couldn't desire a more genuine
and genial welcome.'
'Couldn't you, though?' said Mr Toots, still shaking his hand. 'It's
very kind of you. I'm much obliged to you. How-de-do? I hope you left
everybody quite well over the--that is, upon the--I mean wherever you
came from last, you know.'
All these good wishes, and better intentions, Walter responded to
manfully.
'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'I should wish to be strictly
honourable; but I trust I may be allowed now, to allude to a certain
subject that--'
'Ay, ay, my lad,' returned the Captain. 'Freely, freely.'
'Then, Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'and Lieutenant Walters--are you
aware that the most dreadful circumstances have been happening at Mr
Dombey's house, and that Miss Dombey herself has left her father, who,
in my opinion,' said Mr Toots, with great excitement, 'is a Brute,
that it would be a flattery to call a--a marble monument, or a bird
of prey,--and that she is not to be found, and has gone no one knows
where?'
'May I ask how you heard this?' inquired Walter.
'Lieutenant Walters,' said Mr Toots, who had arrived at that appellation
by a process peculiar to himself; probably by jumbling up his Christian
name with the seafaring profession, and supposing some relationship
between him and the Captain, which would extend, as a matter of course,
to their titles; 'Lieutenant Walters, I can have no objection to make a
straightforward reply. The fact is, that feeling extremely interested
in everything that relates to Miss Dombey--not for any selfish reason,
Lieutenant Walters, for I am well aware that the most able thing I could
do for all parties would be to put an end to my existence, which can
only be regarded as an inconvenience--I have been in the habit of
bestowing a trifle now and then upon a footman; a most respectable young
man, of the name of Towlinson, who has lived in the family some time;
and Towlinson informed me, yesterday evening, that this was the state of
things. Since which, Captain Gills--and Lieutenant Walters--I have been
perfectly frantic, and have been lying down on the sofa all night, the
Ruin you behold.'
'Mr Toots,' said Walter, 'I am happy to be able to relieve your mind.
Pray calm yourself. Miss Dombey is safe and well.'
'Sir!' cried Mr Toots, starting from his chair and shaking hands with
him anew, 'the relief is so excessive, and unspeakable, that if you were
to tell me now that Miss Dombey was married even, I could smile. Yes,
Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, appealing to him, 'upon my soul and body,
I really think, whatever I might do to myself immediately afterwards,
that I could smile, I am so relieved.'
'It will be a greater relief and delight still, to such a generous mind
as yours,' said Walter, not at all slow in returning his greeting, 'to
find that you can render service to Miss Dombey. Captain Cuttle, will
you have the kindness to take Mr Toots upstairs?'
The Captain beckoned to Mr Toots, who followed him with a bewildered
countenance, and, ascending to the top of the house, was introduced,
without a word of preparation from his conductor, into Florence's new
retreat.
Poor Mr Toots's amazement and pleasure at sight of her were such, that
they could find a vent in nothing but extravagance. He ran up to her,
seized her hand, kissed it, dropped it, seized it again, fell upon one
knee, shed tears, chuckled, and was quite regardless of his danger of
being pinned by Diogenes, who, inspired by the belief that there was
something hostile to his mistress in these demonstrations, worked round
and round him, as if only undecided at what particular point to go in
for the assault, but quite resolved to do him a fearful mischief.
'Oh Di, you bad, forgetful dog! Dear Mr Toots, I am so rejoiced to see
you!'
'Thankee,' said Mr Toots, 'I am pretty well, I'm much obliged to you,
Miss Dombey. I hope all the family are the same.'
Mr Toots said this without the least notion of what he was talking
about, and sat down on a chair, staring at Florence with the liveliest
contention of delight and despair going on in his face that any face
could exhibit.
'Captain Gills and Lieutenant Walters have mentioned, Miss Dombey,'
gasped Mr Toots, 'that I can do you some service. If I could by any
means wash out the remembrance of that day at Brighton, when I conducted
myself--much more like a Parricide than a person of independent
property,' said Mr Toots, with severe self-accusation, 'I should sink
into the silent tomb with a gleam of joy.'
'Pray, Mr Toots,' said Florence, 'do not wish me to forget anything in
our acquaintance. I never can, believe me. You have been far too kind
and good to me always.'
'Miss Dombey,' returned Mr Toots, 'your consideration for my feelings is
a part of your angelic character. Thank you a thousand times. It's of no
consequence at all.'
'What we thought of asking you,' said Florence, 'is, whether you
remember where Susan, whom you were so kind as to accompany to the
coach-office when she left me, is to be found.'
'Why I do not certainly, Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots, after a little
consideration, 'remember the exact name of the place that was on the
coach; and I do recollect that she said she was not going to stop there,
but was going farther on. But, Miss Dombey, if your object is to find
her, and to have her here, myself and the Chicken will produce her with
every dispatch that devotion on my part, and great intelligence on the
Chicken's, can ensure.'
Mr Toots was so manifestly delighted and revived by the prospect of
being useful, and the disinterested sincerity of his devotion was so
unquestionable, that it would have been cruel to refuse him. Florence,
with an instinctive delicacy, forbore to urge the least obstacle, though
she did not forbear to overpower him with thanks; and Mr Toots proudly
took the commission upon himself for immediate execution.
'Miss Dombey,' said Mr Toots, touching her proffered hand, with a pang
of hopeless love visibly shooting through him, and flashing out in
his face, 'Good-bye! Allow me to take the liberty of saying, that your
misfortunes make me perfectly wretched, and that you may trust me,
next to Captain Gills himself. I am quite aware, Miss Dombey, of my own
deficiencies--they're not of the least consequence, thank you--but I am
entirely to be relied upon, I do assure you, Miss Dombey.'
With that Mr Toots came out of the room, again accompanied by the
Captain, who, standing at a little distance, holding his hat under his
arm and arranging his scattered locks with his hook, had been a not
uninterested witness of what passed. And when the door closed behind
them, the light of Mr Toots's life was darkly clouded again.
'Captain Gills,' said that gentleman, stopping near the bottom of the
stairs, and turning round, 'to tell you the truth, I am not in a frame
of mind at the present moment, in which I could see Lieutenant Walters
with that entirely friendly feeling towards him that I should wish to
harbour in my breast. We cannot always command our feelings, Captain
Gills, and I should take it as a particular favour if you'd let me out
at the private door.'
'Brother,' returned the Captain, 'you shall shape your own course.
Wotever course you take, is plain and seamanlike, I'm wery sure.'
'Captain Gills,' said Mr Toots, 'you're extremely kind. Your good
opinion is a consolation to me. There is one thing,' said Mr Toots,
standing in the passage, behind the half-opened door, 'that I hope
you'll bear in mind, Captain Gills, and that I should wish Lieutenant
Walters to be made acquainted with. I have quite come into my property
now, you know, and--and I don't know what to do with it. If I could
be at all useful in a pecuniary point of view, I should glide into the
silent tomb with ease and smoothness.'
Mr Toots said no more, but slipped out quietly and shut the door upon
himself, to cut the Captain off from any reply.
Florence thought of this good creature, long after he had left her,
with mingled emotions of pain and pleasure. He was so honest and
warm-hearted, that to see him again and be assured of his truth to her
in her distress, was a joy and comfort beyond all price; but for that
very reason, it was so affecting to think that she caused him a moment's
unhappiness, or ruffled, by a breath, the harmless current of his life,
that her eyes filled with tears, and her bosom overflowed with pity.
Captain Cuttle, in his different way, thought much of Mr Toots too;
and so did Walter; and when the evening came, and they were all
sitting together in Florence's new room, Walter praised him in a most
impassioned manner, and told Florence what he had said on leaving
the house, with every graceful setting-off in the way of comment and
appreciation that his own honesty and sympathy could surround it with.
Mr Toots did not return upon the next day, or the next, or for several
days; and in the meanwhile Florence, without any new alarm, lived like
a quiet bird in a cage, at the top of the old Instrument-maker's house.
But Florence drooped and hung her head more and more plainly, as the
days went on; and the expression that had been seen in the face of the
dead child, was often turned to the sky from her high window, as if it
sought his angel out, on the bright shore of which he had spoken: lying
on his little bed.
Florence had been weak and delicate of late, and the agitation she had
undergone was not without its influences on her health. But it was no
bodily illness that affected her now. She was distressed in mind; and
the cause of her distress was Walter.
Interested in her, anxious for her, proud and glad to serve her, and
showing all this with the enthusiasm and ardour of his character,
Florence saw that he avoided her. All the long day through, he seldom
approached her room. If she asked for him, he came, again for the moment
as earnest and as bright as she remembered him when she was a lost
child in the staring streets; but he soon became constrained--her quick
affection was too watchful not to know it--and uneasy, and soon left
her. Unsought, he never came, all day, between the morning and the
night. When the evening closed in, he was always there, and that was
her happiest time, for then she half believed that the old Walter of her
childhood was not changed. But, even then, some trivial word, look,
or circumstance would show her that there was an indefinable division
between them which could not be passed.
And she could not but see that these revealings of a great alteration
in Walter manifested themselves in despite of his utmost efforts to hide
them. In his consideration for her, she thought, and in the earnestness
of his desire to spare her any wound from his kind hand, he resorted
to innumerable little artifices and disguises. So much the more did
Florence feel the greatness of the alteration in him; so much the
oftener did she weep at this estrangement of her brother.
The good Captain--her untiring, tender, ever zealous friend--saw it,
too, Florence thought, and it pained him. He was less cheerful and
hopeful than he had been at first, and would steal looks at her and
Walter, by turns, when they were all three together of an evening, with
quite a sad face.
Florence resolved, at last, to speak to Walter. She believed she knew
now what the cause of his estrangement was, and she thought it would be
a relief to her full heart, and would set him more at ease, if she
told him she had found it out, and quite submitted to it, and did not
reproach him.
It was on a certain Sunday afternoon, that Florence took this
resolution. The faithful Captain, in an amazing shirt-collar, was
sitting by her, reading with his spectacles on, and she asked him where
Walter was.
'I think he's down below, my lady lass,' returned the Captain.
'I should like to speak to him,' said Florence, rising hurriedly as if
to go downstairs.
'I'll rouse him up here, Beauty,' said the Captain, 'in a trice.'
Thereupon the Captain, with much alacrity, shouldered his book--for he
made it a point of duty to read none but very large books on a Sunday,
as having a more staid appearance: and had bargained, years ago, for
a prodigious volume at a book-stall, five lines of which utterly
confounded him at any time, insomuch that he had not yet ascertained of
what subject it treated--and withdrew. Walter soon appeared.
'Captain Cuttle tells me, Miss Dombey,' he eagerly began on coming
in--but stopped when he saw her face.
'You are not so well to-day. You look distressed. You have been
weeping.'
He spoke so kindly, and with such a fervent tremor in his voice, that
the tears gushed into her eyes at the sound of his words.
'Walter,' said Florence, gently, 'I am not quite well, and I have been
weeping. I want to speak to you.'
He sat down opposite to her, looking at her beautiful and innocent face;
and his own turned pale, and his lips trembled.
'You said, upon the night when I knew that you were saved--and oh! dear
Walter, what I felt that night, and what I hoped!--'
He put his trembling hand upon the table between them, and sat looking
at her.
'--that I was changed. I was surprised to hear you say so, but I
understand, now, that I am. Don't be angry with me, Walter. I was too
much overjoyed to think of it, then.'
She seemed a child to him again. It was the ingenuous, confiding, loving
child he saw and heard. Not the dear woman, at whose feet he would have
laid the riches of the earth.
'You remember the last time I saw you, Walter, before you went away?'
He put his hand into his breast, and took out a little purse.
'I have always worn it round my neck! If I had gone down in the deep, it
would have been with me at the bottom of the sea.'
'And you will wear it still, Walter, for my old sake?'
'Until I die!'
She laid her hand on his, as fearlessly and simply, as if not a day had
intervened since she gave him the little token of remembrance.
'I am glad of that. I shall be always glad to think so, Walter. Do you
recollect that a thought of this change seemed to come into our minds at
the same time that evening, when we were talking together?'
'No!' he answered, in a wondering tone.
'Yes, Walter. I had been the means of injuring your hopes and prospects
even then. I feared to think so, then, but I know it now. If you were
able, then, in your generosity, to hide from me that you knew it too,
you cannot do so now, although you try as generously as before. You do.
I thank you for it, Walter, deeply, truly; but you cannot succeed.
You have suffered too much in your own hardships, and in those of your
dearest relation, quite to overlook the innocent cause of all the peril
and affliction that has befallen you. You cannot quite forget me in that
character, and we can be brother and sister no longer. But, dear
Walter, do not think that I complain of you in this. I might have known
it--ought to have known it--but forgot it in my joy. All I hope is that
you may think of me less irksomely when this feeling is no more a secret
one; and all I ask is, Walter, in the name of the poor child who was
your sister once, that you will not struggle with yourself, and pain
yourself, for my sake, now that I know all!'
Walter had looked upon her while she said this, with a face so full of
wonder and amazement, that it had room for nothing else. Now he caught
up the hand that touched his, so entreatingly, and held it between his
own.
'Oh, Miss Dombey,' he said, 'is it possible that while I have been
suffering so much, in striving with my sense of what is due to you, and
must be rendered to you, I have made you suffer what your words disclose
to me? Never, never, before Heaven, have I thought of you but as the
single, bright, pure, blessed recollection of my boyhood and my youth.
Never have I from the first, and never shall I to the last, regard your
part in my life, but as something sacred, never to be lightly thought
of, never to be esteemed enough, never, until death, to be forgotten.
Again to see you look, and hear you speak, as you did on that night when
we parted, is happiness to me that there are no words to utter; and to
be loved and trusted as your brother, is the next gift I could receive
and prize!'
'Walter,' said Florence, looking at him earnestly, but with a changing
face, 'what is that which is due to me, and must be rendered to me, at
the sacrifice of all this?'
'Respect,' said Walter, in a low tone. 'Reverence.'
The colour dawned in her face, and she timidly and thoughtfully withdrew
her hand; still looking at him with unabated earnestness.
'I have not a brother's right,' said Walter. 'I have not a brother's
claim. I left a child. I find a woman.'
The colour overspread her face. She made a gesture as if of entreaty
that he would say no more, and her face dropped upon her hands.
They were both silent for a time; she weeping.
'I owe it to a heart so trusting, pure, and good,' said Walter, 'even
to tear myself from it, though I rend my own. How dare I say it is my
sister's!'
She was weeping still.
'If you had been happy; surrounded as you should be by loving and
admiring friends, and by all that makes the station you were born to
enviable,' said Walter; 'and if you had called me brother, then, in your
affectionate remembrance of the past, I could have answered to the name
from my distant place, with no inward assurance that I wronged your
spotless truth by doing so. But here--and now!'
'Oh thank you, thank you, Walter! Forgive my having wronged you so much.
I had no one to advise me. I am quite alone.'
'Florence!' said Walter, passionately. 'I am hurried on to say, what I
thought, but a few moments ago, nothing could have forced from my lips.
If I had been prosperous; if I had any means or hope of being one day
able to restore you to a station near your own; I would have told you
that there was one name you might bestow upon--me--a right above all
others, to protect and cherish you--that I was worthy of in nothing but
the love and honour that I bore you, and in my whole heart being yours.
I would have told you that it was the only claim that you could give me
to defend and guard you, which I dare accept and dare assert; but that
if I had that right, I would regard it as a trust so precious and so
priceless, that the undivided truth and fervour of my life would poorly
acknowledge its worth.'
The head was still bent down, the tears still falling, and the bosom
swelling with its sobs.
'Dear Florence! Dearest Florence! whom I called so in my thoughts before
I could consider how presumptuous and wild it was. One last time let me
call you by your own dear name, and touch this gentle hand in token of
your sisterly forgetfulness of what I have said.'
She raised her head, and spoke to him with such a solemn sweetness in
her eyes; with such a calm, bright, placid smile shining on him through
her tears; with such a low, soft tremble in her frame and voice; that
the innermost chords of his heart were touched, and his sight was dim as
he listened.
'No, Walter, I cannot forget it. I would not forget it, for the world.
Are you--are you very poor?'
'I am but a wanderer,' said Walter, 'making voyages to live, across the
sea. That is my calling now.'
'Are you soon going away again, Walter?'
'Very soon.'
She sat looking at him for a moment; then timidly put her trembling hand
in his.
'If you will take me for your wife, Walter, I will love you dearly.
If you will let me go with you, Walter, I will go to the world's end
without fear. I can give up nothing for you--I have nothing to resign,
and no one to forsake; but all my love and life shall be devoted to you,
and with my last breath I will breathe your name to God if I have sense
and memory left.'
He caught her to his heart, and laid her cheek against his own, and now,
no more repulsed, no more forlorn, she wept indeed, upon the breast of
her dear lover.
Blessed Sunday Bells, ringing so tranquilly in their entranced and happy
ears! Blessed Sunday peace and quiet, harmonising with the calmness in
their souls, and making holy air around them! Blessed twilight stealing
on, and shading her so soothingly and gravely, as she falls asleep, like
a hushed child, upon the bosom she has clung to!
Oh load of love and trustfulness that lies to lightly there! Ay, look
down on the closed eyes, Walter, with a proudly tender gaze; for in all
the wide wide world they seek but thee now--only thee!
The Captain remained in the little parlour until it was quite dark. He
took the chair on which Walter had been sitting, and looked up at the
skylight, until the day, by little and little, faded away, and the stars
peeped down. He lighted a candle, lighted a pipe, smoked it out, and
wondered what on earth was going on upstairs, and why they didn't call
him to tea.
Florence came to his side while he was in the height of his wonderment.
'Ay! lady lass!' cried the Captain. 'Why, you and Wal'r have had a long
spell o' talk, my beauty.'
Florence put her little hand round one of the great buttons of his coat,
and said, looking down into his face:
'Dear Captain, I want to tell you something, if you please.
The Captain raised his head pretty smartly, to hear what it was.
Catching by this means a more distinct view of Florence, he pushed back
his chair, and himself with it, as far as they could go.
'What! Heart's Delight!' cried the Captain, suddenly elated, 'Is it
that?'
'Yes!' said Florence, eagerly.
'Wal'r! Husband! THAT?' roared the Captain, tossing up his glazed hat
into the skylight.
'Yes!' cried Florence, laughing and crying together.
The Captain immediately hugged her; and then, picking up the glazed hat
and putting it on, drew her arm through his, and conducted her upstairs
again; where he felt that the great joke of his life was now to be made.
'What, Wal'r my lad!' said the Captain, looking in at the door, with his
face like an amiable warming-pan. 'So there ain't NO other character,
ain't there?'
He had like to have suffocated himself with this pleasantry, which he
repeated at least forty times during tea; polishing his radiant face
with the sleeve of his coat, and dabbing his head all over with his
pocket-handkerchief, in the intervals. But he was not without a graver
source of enjoyment to fall back upon, when so disposed, for he was
repeatedly heard to say in an undertone, as he looked with ineffable
delight at Walter and Florence:
'Ed'ard Cuttle, my lad, you never shaped a better course in your life,
than when you made that there little property over, jintly!' | Walter and Cuttle set up rooms so that Florence can be as comfortable as possible. They also talk about Sol Gills. Walter is concerned that he has not contacted Cuttle, but believes that if Sol had in fact died, someone would have notified Cuttle. Walter continues to be astonished that Sol has not sent any letters and asks Cuttle if there is any way he could have missed them, but Cuttle assures him this is impossible. They also determine that Florence should not be sent back to her father's house. When Cuttle raises his hopes of a match between Walter and Florence, Walter is quick to swear that he would never damage her trust, since she thinks of him as a brother. Since it is not appropriate for Florence to continue to live without female supervision, Walter suggests that they find Susan so that she can come and serve as Florence's maid. Having determined that the best person who might know Susan's whereabouts is Toots, they are all happy when Toots himself arrives at the house. Toots is in a state of disorder, and is even more disoriented when he is introduced to Walter. He is briefly resentful, and then quickly warms to him. Toots is still unaware that Florence is at the house, and tells them the story of her having fled from her father's. He is very distressed at her unknown whereabouts and relieved when they tell him that Florence is safe and sound. They take him up to Florence's rooms. He vows to find Susan for her, and a little later, he also tells Cuttle that he would like to use his money to help Florence in any way that he can. A few days pass, and Florence is distressed to realize that, while he is always kind, Walter is watchful and guarded with her. She finally decides to confront him, and asks him to come and speak to her. Florence says that she believes Walter is angry with her because it was due to her that her father sent him on the ill-fated voyage and upended his life. Dismayed, Walter explains that he is in love with her, and has been struggling with trying to conceal his feelings. Hearing this, Florence realizes her own feelings and the two agree to marry. Cuttle is overjoyed with the news |
STAVE FIVE
THE END OF IT
Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his
own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make
amends in!
"I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!" Scrooge repeated
as he scrambled out of bed. "The Spirits of all Three shall strive
within me. Oh, Jacob Marley! Heaven and the Christmas Time be praised
for this! I say it on my knees, old Jacob; on my knees!"
He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his
broken voice would scarcely answer to his call. He had been sobbing
violently in his conflict with the Spirit, and his face was wet with
tears.
"They are not torn down," cried Scrooge, folding one of his bed-curtains
in his arms, "they are not torn down, rings and all. They are here--I am
here--the shadows of the things that would have been may be dispelled.
They will be. I know they will!"
His hands were busy with his garments all this time; turning them inside
out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, making
them parties to every kind of extravagance.
"I don't know what to do!" cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the
same breath; and making a perfect Laocooen of himself with his stockings.
"I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as
a school-boy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. A merry Christmas to
everybody! A happy New Year to all the world! Hallo here! Whoop!
Hallo!"
He had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now standing there:
perfectly winded.
"There's the saucepan that the gruel was in!" cried Scrooge, starting
off again, and going round the fire-place. "There's the door by which
the Ghost of Jacob Marley entered! There's the corner where the Ghost of
Christmas Present sat! There's the window where I saw the wandering
Spirits! It's all right, it's all true, it all happened. Ha, ha, ha!"
Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was
a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh. The father of a long, long
line of brilliant laughs!
"I don't know what day of the month it is," said Scrooge. "I don't know
how long I have been among the Spirits. I don't know anything. I'm quite
a baby. Never mind. I don't care. I'd rather be a baby. Hallo! Whoop!
Hallo here!"
He was checked in his transports by the churches ringing out the
lustiest peals he had ever heard. Clash, clash, hammer; ding, dong,
bell! Bell, dong, ding; hammer, clang, clash! Oh, glorious, glorious!
Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. No fog, no
mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold, piping for the blood
to dance to; Golden sun-light; Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry
bells. Oh, glorious! Glorious!
"What's to-day?" cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday
clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him.
"EH?" returned the boy with all his might of wonder.
"What's to-day, my fine fellow?" said Scrooge.
"To-day!" replied the boy. "Why, CHRISTMAS DAY."
"It's Christmas Day!" said Scrooge to himself. "I haven't missed it. The
Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like.
Of course they can. Of course they can. Hallo, my fine fellow!"
"Hallo!" returned the boy.
"Do you know the Poulterer's in the next street but one, at the corner?"
Scrooge inquired.
"I should hope I did," replied the lad.
"An intelligent boy!" said Scrooge. "A remarkable boy! Do you know
whether they've sold the prize Turkey that was hanging up there?--Not
the little prize Turkey: the big one?"
"What! the one as big as me?" returned the boy.
"What a delightful boy!" said Scrooge. "It's a pleasure to talk to him.
Yes, my buck!"
"It's hanging there now," replied the boy.
"Is it?" said Scrooge. "Go and buy it."
"Walk-ER!" exclaimed the boy.
"No, no," said Scrooge, "I am in earnest. Go and buy it, and tell 'em to
bring it here, that I may give them the directions where to take it.
Come back with the man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him
in less than five minutes, and I'll give you half-a-crown!"
The boy was off like a shot. He must have had a steady hand at a trigger
who could have got a shot off half so fast.
"I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's," whispered Scrooge, rubbing his hands,
and splitting with a laugh. "He shan't know who sends it. It's twice the
size of Tiny Tim. Joe Miller never made such a joke as sending it to
Bob's will be!"
The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one; but write
it he did, somehow, and went down-stairs to open the street-door, ready
for the coming of the poulterer's man. As he stood there, waiting his
arrival, the knocker caught his eye.
"I shall love it as long as I live!" cried Scrooge, patting it with his
hand. "I scarcely ever looked at it before. What an honest expression it
has in its face! It's a wonderful knocker!--Here's the Turkey. Hallo!
Whoop! How are you? Merry Christmas!"
It _was_ a Turkey! He never could have stood upon his legs, that bird.
He would have snapped 'em short off in a minute, like sticks of
sealing-wax.
"Why, it's impossible to carry that to Camden Town," said Scrooge. "You
must have a cab."
The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid
for the Turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the
chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were only to be exceeded by
the chuckle with which he sat down breathless in his chair again, and
chuckled till he cried.
Shaving was not an easy task, for his hand continued to shake very much;
and shaving requires attention, even when you don't dance while you are
at it. But, if he had cut the end of his nose off, he would have put a
piece of sticking-plaster over it, and been quite satisfied.
He dressed himself "all in his best," and at last got out into the
streets. The people were by this time pouring forth, as he had seen them
with the Ghost of Christmas Present; and, walking with his hands behind
him, Scrooge regarded every one with a delighted smile. He looked so
irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humoured
fellows said, "Good morning, sir! A merry Christmas to you!" And Scrooge
said often afterwards that, of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard,
those were the blithest in his ears.
He had not gone far when, coming on towards him, he beheld the portly
gentleman who had walked into his counting-house the day before, and
said, "Scrooge and Marley's, I believe?" It sent a pang across his heart
to think how this old gentleman would look upon him when they met; but
he knew what path lay straight before him, and he took it.
"My dear sir," said Scrooge, quickening his pace, and taking the old
gentleman by both his hands, "how do you do? I hope you succeeded
yesterday. It was very kind of you. A merry Christmas to you, sir!"
"Mr. Scrooge?"
"Yes," said Scrooge. "That is my name, and I fear it may not be pleasant
to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have the goodness----"
Here Scrooge whispered in his ear.
"Lord bless me!" cried the gentleman, as if his breath were taken away.
"My dear Mr. Scrooge, are you serious?"
"If you please," said Scrooge. "Not a farthing less. A great many
back-payments are included in it, I assure you. Will you do me that
favour?"
"My dear sir," said the other, shaking hands with him, "I don't know
what to say to such munifi----"
"Don't say anything, please," retorted Scrooge. "Come and see me. Will
you come and see me?"
"I will!" cried the old gentleman. And it was clear he meant to do it.
"Thankee," said Scrooge. "I am much obliged to you. I thank you fifty
times. Bless you!"
He went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people
hurrying to and fro, and patted the children on the head, and questioned
beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the
windows; and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had
never dreamed that any walk--that anything--could give him so much
happiness. In the afternoon he turned his steps towards his nephew's
house.
He passed the door a dozen times before he had the courage to go up and
knock. But he made a dash, and did it.
"Is your master at home, my dear?" said Scrooge to the girl. Nice girl!
Very.
"Yes sir."
"Where is he, my love?" said Scrooge.
"He's in the dining-room, sir, along with mistress. I'll show you
up-stairs, if you please."
"Thankee. He knows me," said Scrooge, with his hand already on the
dining-room lock. "I'll go in here, my dear."
He turned it gently, and sidled his face in round the door. They were
looking at the table (which was spread out in great array); for these
young housekeepers are always nervous on such points, and like to see
that everything is right.
"Fred!" said Scrooge.
Dear heart alive, how his niece by marriage started! Scrooge had
forgotten, for the moment, about her sitting in the corner with the
footstool, or he wouldn't have done it on any account.
"Why, bless my soul!" cried Fred, "who's that?"
"It's I. Your uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner. Will you let me in,
Fred?"
Let him in! It is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. He was at home in
five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked just the same.
So did Topper when _he_ came. So did the plump sister when _she_ came.
So did every one when _they_ came. Wonderful party, wonderful games,
wonderful unanimity, won-der-ful happiness!
But he was early at the office next morning. Oh, he was early there! If
he could only be there first, and catch Bob Cratchit coming late! That
was the thing he had set his heart upon.
And he did it; yes, he did! The clock struck nine. No Bob. A quarter
past. No Bob. He was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time.
Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come into the
tank.
His hat was off before he opened the door; his comforter too. He was on
his stool in a jiffy; driving away with his pen, as if he were trying to
overtake nine o'clock.
"Hallo!" growled Scrooge in his accustomed voice as near as he could
feign it. "What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?"
"I am very sorry, sir," said Bob. "I _am_ behind my time."
"You are!" repeated Scrooge. "Yes. I think you are. Step this way, sir,
if you please."
"It's only once a year, sir," pleaded Bob, appearing from the tank. "It
shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir."
"Now, I'll tell you what, my friend," said Scrooge. "I am not going to
stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore," he continued,
leaping from his stool, and giving Bob such a dig in the waistcoat that
he staggered back into the tank again: "and therefore I am about to
raise your salary!"
Bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a momentary
idea of knocking Scrooge down with it, holding him, and calling to the
people in the court for help and a strait-waistcoat.
"A merry Christmas, Bob!" said Scrooge with an earnestness that could
not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. "A merrier Christmas,
Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year! I'll raise
your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling family, and we will
discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of
smoking bishop, Bob! Make up the fires and buy another coal-scuttle
before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit!"
* * * * *
Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more;
and to Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, he was a second father. He became as
good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man as the good old City
knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough in the good old
world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them
laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that
nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did
not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and, knowing that such as
these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they
should wrinkle up their eyes in grins as have the malady in less
attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for
him.
He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the
Total-Abstinence Principle ever afterwards; and it was always said of
him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed
the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as
Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One! | Scrooge wakes up in his bedroom and joyfully repeats his vow to live from the lessons of the three ghosts. He runs around his house and then outside, where church bells ring. A boy tells him it is Christmas Day, and Scrooge realizes that the ghosts visited him all in one night. Scrooge buys a prize turkey and sends it to Bob Cratchit's house. Scrooge dresses in his best clothing and walks in the crowds with a smile. He gives a great deal of money to the portly gentleman who had asked him for a charitable donation yesterday. Scrooge continues to walk through the city and happily talks with everyone he meets. He visits Fred's house and has a wonderful time at the party. The next morning, Scrooge gets to work early. When Cratchit comes in late, Scrooge pretends to reprimand him, then gives him a raise. Scrooge continues his kindly ways, befriending everyone and becoming a second father to Tiny Tim, who does not die. He never sees the ghosts again, but he keeps the spirit of Christmas alive in his heart as well as anyone. |
By the time his mother began leaving the cave on hunting expeditions, the
cub had learned well the law that forbade his approaching the entrance.
Not only had this law been forcibly and many times impressed on him by
his mother's nose and paw, but in him the instinct of fear was
developing. Never, in his brief cave-life, had he encountered anything
of which to be afraid. Yet fear was in him. It had come down to him
from a remote ancestry through a thousand thousand lives. It was a
heritage he had received directly from One Eye and the she-wolf; but to
them, in turn, it had been passed down through all the generations of
wolves that had gone before. Fear!--that legacy of the Wild which no
animal may escape nor exchange for pottage.
So the grey cub knew fear, though he knew not the stuff of which fear was
made. Possibly he accepted it as one of the restrictions of life. For
he had already learned that there were such restrictions. Hunger he had
known; and when he could not appease his hunger he had felt restriction.
The hard obstruction of the cave-wall, the sharp nudge of his mother's
nose, the smashing stroke of her paw, the hunger unappeased of several
famines, had borne in upon him that all was not freedom in the world,
that to life there were limitations and restraints. These limitations and
restraints were laws. To be obedient to them was to escape hurt and make
for happiness.
He did not reason the question out in this man fashion. He merely
classified the things that hurt and the things that did not hurt. And
after such classification he avoided the things that hurt, the
restrictions and restraints, in order to enjoy the satisfactions and the
remunerations of life.
Thus it was that in obedience to the law laid down by his mother, and in
obedience to the law of that unknown and nameless thing, fear, he kept
away from the mouth of the cave. It remained to him a white wall of
light. When his mother was absent, he slept most of the time, while
during the intervals that he was awake he kept very quiet, suppressing
the whimpering cries that tickled in his throat and strove for noise.
Once, lying awake, he heard a strange sound in the white wall. He did
not know that it was a wolverine, standing outside, all a-trembling with
its own daring, and cautiously scenting out the contents of the cave. The
cub knew only that the sniff was strange, a something unclassified,
therefore unknown and terrible--for the unknown was one of the chief
elements that went into the making of fear.
The hair bristled upon the grey cub's back, but it bristled silently. How
was he to know that this thing that sniffed was a thing at which to
bristle? It was not born of any knowledge of his, yet it was the visible
expression of the fear that was in him, and for which, in his own life,
there was no accounting. But fear was accompanied by another
instinct--that of concealment. The cub was in a frenzy of terror, yet he
lay without movement or sound, frozen, petrified into immobility, to all
appearances dead. His mother, coming home, growled as she smelt the
wolverine's track, and bounded into the cave and licked and nozzled him
with undue vehemence of affection. And the cub felt that somehow he had
escaped a great hurt.
But there were other forces at work in the cub, the greatest of which was
growth. Instinct and law demanded of him obedience. But growth demanded
disobedience. His mother and fear impelled him to keep away from the
white wall. Growth is life, and life is for ever destined to make for
light. So there was no damming up the tide of life that was rising
within him--rising with every mouthful of meat he swallowed, with every
breath he drew. In the end, one day, fear and obedience were swept away
by the rush of life, and the cub straddled and sprawled toward the
entrance.
Unlike any other wall with which he had had experience, this wall seemed
to recede from him as he approached. No hard surface collided with the
tender little nose he thrust out tentatively before him. The substance
of the wall seemed as permeable and yielding as light. And as condition,
in his eyes, had the seeming of form, so he entered into what had been
wall to him and bathed in the substance that composed it.
It was bewildering. He was sprawling through solidity. And ever the
light grew brighter. Fear urged him to go back, but growth drove him on.
Suddenly he found himself at the mouth of the cave. The wall, inside
which he had thought himself, as suddenly leaped back before him to an
immeasurable distance. The light had become painfully bright. He was
dazzled by it. Likewise he was made dizzy by this abrupt and tremendous
extension of space. Automatically, his eyes were adjusting themselves to
the brightness, focusing themselves to meet the increased distance of
objects. At first, the wall had leaped beyond his vision. He now saw it
again; but it had taken upon itself a remarkable remoteness. Also, its
appearance had changed. It was now a variegated wall, composed of the
trees that fringed the stream, the opposing mountain that towered above
the trees, and the sky that out-towered the mountain.
A great fear came upon him. This was more of the terrible unknown. He
crouched down on the lip of the cave and gazed out on the world. He was
very much afraid. Because it was unknown, it was hostile to him.
Therefore the hair stood up on end along his back and his lips wrinkled
weakly in an attempt at a ferocious and intimidating snarl. Out of his
puniness and fright he challenged and menaced the whole wide world.
Nothing happened. He continued to gaze, and in his interest he forgot to
snarl. Also, he forgot to be afraid. For the time, fear had been routed
by growth, while growth had assumed the guise of curiosity. He began to
notice near objects--an open portion of the stream that flashed in the
sun, the blasted pine-tree that stood at the base of the slope, and the
slope itself, that ran right up to him and ceased two feet beneath the
lip of the cave on which he crouched.
Now the grey cub had lived all his days on a level floor. He had never
experienced the hurt of a fall. He did not know what a fall was. So he
stepped boldly out upon the air. His hind-legs still rested on the cave-
lip, so he fell forward head downward. The earth struck him a harsh blow
on the nose that made him yelp. Then he began rolling down the slope,
over and over. He was in a panic of terror. The unknown had caught him
at last. It had gripped savagely hold of him and was about to wreak upon
him some terrific hurt. Growth was now routed by fear, and he ki-yi'd
like any frightened puppy.
The unknown bore him on he knew not to what frightful hurt, and he yelped
and ki-yi'd unceasingly. This was a different proposition from crouching
in frozen fear while the unknown lurked just alongside. Now the unknown
had caught tight hold of him. Silence would do no good. Besides, it was
not fear, but terror, that convulsed him.
But the slope grew more gradual, and its base was grass-covered. Here
the cub lost momentum. When at last he came to a stop, he gave one last
agonised yell and then a long, whimpering wail. Also, and quite as a
matter of course, as though in his life he had already made a thousand
toilets, he proceeded to lick away the dry clay that soiled him.
After that he sat up and gazed about him, as might the first man of the
earth who landed upon Mars. The cub had broken through the wall of the
world, the unknown had let go its hold of him, and here he was without
hurt. But the first man on Mars would have experienced less
unfamiliarity than did he. Without any antecedent knowledge, without any
warning whatever that such existed, he found himself an explorer in a
totally new world.
Now that the terrible unknown had let go of him, he forgot that the
unknown had any terrors. He was aware only of curiosity in all the
things about him. He inspected the grass beneath him, the moss-berry
plant just beyond, and the dead trunk of the blasted pine that stood on
the edge of an open space among the trees. A squirrel, running around
the base of the trunk, came full upon him, and gave him a great fright.
He cowered down and snarled. But the squirrel was as badly scared. It
ran up the tree, and from a point of safety chattered back savagely.
This helped the cub's courage, and though the woodpecker he next
encountered gave him a start, he proceeded confidently on his way. Such
was his confidence, that when a moose-bird impudently hopped up to him,
he reached out at it with a playful paw. The result was a sharp peck on
the end of his nose that made him cower down and ki-yi. The noise he
made was too much for the moose-bird, who sought safety in flight.
But the cub was learning. His misty little mind had already made an
unconscious classification. There were live things and things not alive.
Also, he must watch out for the live things. The things not alive
remained always in one place, but the live things moved about, and there
was no telling what they might do. The thing to expect of them was the
unexpected, and for this he must be prepared.
He travelled very clumsily. He ran into sticks and things. A twig that
he thought a long way off, would the next instant hit him on the nose or
rake along his ribs. There were inequalities of surface. Sometimes he
overstepped and stubbed his nose. Quite as often he understepped and
stubbed his feet. Then there were the pebbles and stones that turned
under him when he trod upon them; and from them he came to know that the
things not alive were not all in the same state of stable equilibrium as
was his cave--also, that small things not alive were more liable than
large things to fall down or turn over. But with every mishap he was
learning. The longer he walked, the better he walked. He was adjusting
himself. He was learning to calculate his own muscular movements, to
know his physical limitations, to measure distances between objects, and
between objects and himself.
His was the luck of the beginner. Born to be a hunter of meat (though he
did not know it), he blundered upon meat just outside his own cave-door
on his first foray into the world. It was by sheer blundering that he
chanced upon the shrewdly hidden ptarmigan nest. He fell into it. He
had essayed to walk along the trunk of a fallen pine. The rotten bark
gave way under his feet, and with a despairing yelp he pitched down the
rounded crescent, smashed through the leafage and stalks of a small bush,
and in the heart of the bush, on the ground, fetched up in the midst of
seven ptarmigan chicks.
They made noises, and at first he was frightened at them. Then he
perceived that they were very little, and he became bolder. They moved.
He placed his paw on one, and its movements were accelerated. This was a
source of enjoyment to him. He smelled it. He picked it up in his
mouth. It struggled and tickled his tongue. At the same time he was
made aware of a sensation of hunger. His jaws closed together. There
was a crunching of fragile bones, and warm blood ran in his mouth. The
taste of it was good. This was meat, the same as his mother gave him,
only it was alive between his teeth and therefore better. So he ate the
ptarmigan. Nor did he stop till he had devoured the whole brood. Then
he licked his chops in quite the same way his mother did, and began to
crawl out of the bush.
He encountered a feathered whirlwind. He was confused and blinded by the
rush of it and the beat of angry wings. He hid his head between his paws
and yelped. The blows increased. The mother ptarmigan was in a fury.
Then he became angry. He rose up, snarling, striking out with his paws.
He sank his tiny teeth into one of the wings and pulled and tugged
sturdily. The ptarmigan struggled against him, showering blows upon him
with her free wing. It was his first battle. He was elated. He forgot
all about the unknown. He no longer was afraid of anything. He was
fighting, tearing at a live thing that was striking at him. Also, this
live thing was meat. The lust to kill was on him. He had just destroyed
little live things. He would now destroy a big live thing. He was too
busy and happy to know that he was happy. He was thrilling and exulting
in ways new to him and greater to him than any he had known before.
He held on to the wing and growled between his tight-clenched teeth. The
ptarmigan dragged him out of the bush. When she turned and tried to drag
him back into the bush's shelter, he pulled her away from it and on into
the open. And all the time she was making outcry and striking with her
free wing, while feathers were flying like a snow-fall. The pitch to
which he was aroused was tremendous. All the fighting blood of his breed
was up in him and surging through him. This was living, though he did
not know it. He was realising his own meaning in the world; he was doing
that for which he was made--killing meat and battling to kill it. He was
justifying his existence, than which life can do no greater; for life
achieves its summit when it does to the uttermost that which it was
equipped to do.
After a time, the ptarmigan ceased her struggling. He still held her by
the wing, and they lay on the ground and looked at each other. He tried
to growl threateningly, ferociously. She pecked on his nose, which by
now, what of previous adventures was sore. He winced but held on. She
pecked him again and again. From wincing he went to whimpering. He
tried to back away from her, oblivious to the fact that by his hold on
her he dragged her after him. A rain of pecks fell on his ill-used nose.
The flood of fight ebbed down in him, and, releasing his prey, he turned
tail and scampered on across the open in inglorious retreat.
He lay down to rest on the other side of the open, near the edge of the
bushes, his tongue lolling out, his chest heaving and panting, his nose
still hurting him and causing him to continue his whimper. But as he lay
there, suddenly there came to him a feeling as of something terrible
impending. The unknown with all its terrors rushed upon him, and he
shrank back instinctively into the shelter of the bush. As he did so, a
draught of air fanned him, and a large, winged body swept ominously and
silently past. A hawk, driving down out of the blue, had barely missed
him.
While he lay in the bush, recovering from his fright and peering
fearfully out, the mother-ptarmigan on the other side of the open space
fluttered out of the ravaged nest. It was because of her loss that she
paid no attention to the winged bolt of the sky. But the cub saw, and it
was a warning and a lesson to him--the swift downward swoop of the hawk,
the short skim of its body just above the ground, the strike of its
talons in the body of the ptarmigan, the ptarmigan's squawk of agony and
fright, and the hawk's rush upward into the blue, carrying the ptarmigan
away with it
It was a long time before the cub left its shelter. He had learned much.
Live things were meat. They were good to eat. Also, live things when
they were large enough, could give hurt. It was better to eat small live
things like ptarmigan chicks, and to let alone large live things like
ptarmigan hens. Nevertheless he felt a little prick of ambition, a
sneaking desire to have another battle with that ptarmigan hen--only the
hawk had carried her away. Maybe there were other ptarmigan hens. He
would go and see.
He came down a shelving bank to the stream. He had never seen water
before. The footing looked good. There were no inequalities of surface.
He stepped boldly out on it; and went down, crying with fear, into the
embrace of the unknown. It was cold, and he gasped, breathing quickly.
The water rushed into his lungs instead of the air that had always
accompanied his act of breathing. The suffocation he experienced was
like the pang of death. To him it signified death. He had no conscious
knowledge of death, but like every animal of the Wild, he possessed the
instinct of death. To him it stood as the greatest of hurts. It was the
very essence of the unknown; it was the sum of the terrors of the
unknown, the one culminating and unthinkable catastrophe that could
happen to him, about which he knew nothing and about which he feared
everything.
He came to the surface, and the sweet air rushed into his open mouth. He
did not go down again. Quite as though it had been a long-established
custom of his he struck out with all his legs and began to swim. The
near bank was a yard away; but he had come up with his back to it, and
the first thing his eyes rested upon was the opposite bank, toward which
he immediately began to swim. The stream was a small one, but in the
pool it widened out to a score of feet.
Midway in the passage, the current picked up the cub and swept him
downstream. He was caught in the miniature rapid at the bottom of the
pool. Here was little chance for swimming. The quiet water had become
suddenly angry. Sometimes he was under, sometimes on top. At all times
he was in violent motion, now being turned over or around, and again,
being smashed against a rock. And with every rock he struck, he yelped.
His progress was a series of yelps, from which might have been adduced
the number of rocks he encountered.
Below the rapid was a second pool, and here, captured by the eddy, he was
gently borne to the bank, and as gently deposited on a bed of gravel. He
crawled frantically clear of the water and lay down. He had learned some
more about the world. Water was not alive. Yet it moved. Also, it
looked as solid as the earth, but was without any solidity at all. His
conclusion was that things were not always what they appeared to be. The
cub's fear of the unknown was an inherited distrust, and it had now been
strengthened by experience. Thenceforth, in the nature of things, he
would possess an abiding distrust of appearances. He would have to learn
the reality of a thing before he could put his faith into it.
One other adventure was destined for him that day. He had recollected
that there was such a thing in the world as his mother. And then there
came to him a feeling that he wanted her more than all the rest of the
things in the world. Not only was his body tired with the adventures it
had undergone, but his little brain was equally tired. In all the days
he had lived it had not worked so hard as on this one day. Furthermore,
he was sleepy. So he started out to look for the cave and his mother,
feeling at the same time an overwhelming rush of loneliness and
helplessness.
He was sprawling along between some bushes, when he heard a sharp
intimidating cry. There was a flash of yellow before his eyes. He saw a
weasel leaping swiftly away from him. It was a small live thing, and he
had no fear. Then, before him, at his feet, he saw an extremely small
live thing, only several inches long, a young weasel, that, like himself,
had disobediently gone out adventuring. It tried to retreat before him.
He turned it over with his paw. It made a queer, grating noise. The
next moment the flash of yellow reappeared before his eyes. He heard
again the intimidating cry, and at the same instant received a sharp blow
on the side of the neck and felt the sharp teeth of the mother-weasel cut
into his flesh.
While he yelped and ki-yi'd and scrambled backward, he saw the mother-
weasel leap upon her young one and disappear with it into the
neighbouring thicket. The cut of her teeth in his neck still hurt, but
his feelings were hurt more grievously, and he sat down and weakly
whimpered. This mother-weasel was so small and so savage. He was yet to
learn that for size and weight the weasel was the most ferocious,
vindictive, and terrible of all the killers of the Wild. But a portion
of this knowledge was quickly to be his.
He was still whimpering when the mother-weasel reappeared. She did not
rush him, now that her young one was safe. She approached more
cautiously, and the cub had full opportunity to observe her lean,
snakelike body, and her head, erect, eager, and snake-like itself. Her
sharp, menacing cry sent the hair bristling along his back, and he
snarled warningly at her. She came closer and closer. There was a leap,
swifter than his unpractised sight, and the lean, yellow body disappeared
for a moment out of the field of his vision. The next moment she was at
his throat, her teeth buried in his hair and flesh.
At first he snarled and tried to fight; but he was very young, and this
was only his first day in the world, and his snarl became a whimper, his
fight a struggle to escape. The weasel never relaxed her hold. She hung
on, striving to press down with her teeth to the great vein where his
life-blood bubbled. The weasel was a drinker of blood, and it was ever
her preference to drink from the throat of life itself.
The grey cub would have died, and there would have been no story to write
about him, had not the she-wolf come bounding through the bushes. The
weasel let go the cub and flashed at the she-wolf's throat, missing, but
getting a hold on the jaw instead. The she-wolf flirted her head like
the snap of a whip, breaking the weasel's hold and flinging it high in
the air. And, still in the air, the she-wolf's jaws closed on the lean,
yellow body, and the weasel knew death between the crunching teeth.
The cub experienced another access of affection on the part of his
mother. Her joy at finding him seemed even greater than his joy at being
found. She nozzled him and caressed him and licked the cuts made in him
by the weasel's teeth. Then, between them, mother and cub, they ate the
blood-drinker, and after that went back to the cave and slept. | The She-wolf now leaves her cub alone more often to go on her hunting expeditions. It has been impressed upon him that he should not set foot outside the cave. Since instinct is developing in him, he accepts fear as one of the restrictions of life, and he does not go near the mouth of the cave. Once he hears a strange sniffing at the cave, which comes from a wolverine. His mother arrives in time to protect him. One day the cub goes out into the open, rolls down the slope, is dazzled by the light, and starts crying like any frightened puppy. When he finally gains a foothold, he goes on to explore the grassy area that surrounds him. He is frightened by a squirrel and a woodpecker. He comes across a ptarmigan nest, eats the babies , and dares to fight the mother ptarmigan, injuring her. A hawk interrupts the battle, which the ptarmigan seemed to be winning, and kills the bird. The cub then falls into a river. He struggles towards land, swimming for the first time, but is carried downstream where he is safely deposited. He also comes across a weasel with whom he starts a fight. He would have been killed by the mother weasel had it not been for the timely intervention of his own mother. When she kills the weasel, they eat it together. |
It is time to relate what a change took place in English public opinion
when it transpired that the real bankrobber, a certain James Strand,
had been arrested, on the 17th day of December, at Edinburgh. Three
days before, Phileas Fogg had been a criminal, who was being
desperately followed up by the police; now he was an honourable
gentleman, mathematically pursuing his eccentric journey round the
world.
The papers resumed their discussion about the wager; all those who had
laid bets, for or against him, revived their interest, as if by magic;
the "Phileas Fogg bonds" again became negotiable, and many new wagers
were made. Phileas Fogg's name was once more at a premium on 'Change.
His five friends of the Reform Club passed these three days in a state
of feverish suspense. Would Phileas Fogg, whom they had forgotten,
reappear before their eyes! Where was he at this moment? The 17th of
December, the day of James Strand's arrest, was the seventy-sixth since
Phileas Fogg's departure, and no news of him had been received. Was he
dead? Had he abandoned the effort, or was he continuing his journey
along the route agreed upon? And would he appear on Saturday, the 21st
of December, at a quarter before nine in the evening, on the threshold
of the Reform Club saloon?
The anxiety in which, for three days, London society existed, cannot be
described. Telegrams were sent to America and Asia for news of Phileas
Fogg. Messengers were dispatched to the house in Saville Row morning
and evening. No news. The police were ignorant what had become of the
detective, Fix, who had so unfortunately followed up a false scent.
Bets increased, nevertheless, in number and value. Phileas Fogg, like
a racehorse, was drawing near his last turning-point. The bonds were
quoted, no longer at a hundred below par, but at twenty, at ten, and at
five; and paralytic old Lord Albemarle bet even in his favour.
A great crowd was collected in Pall Mall and the neighbouring streets
on Saturday evening; it seemed like a multitude of brokers permanently
established around the Reform Club. Circulation was impeded, and
everywhere disputes, discussions, and financial transactions were going
on. The police had great difficulty in keeping back the crowd, and as
the hour when Phileas Fogg was due approached, the excitement rose to
its highest pitch.
The five antagonists of Phileas Fogg had met in the great saloon of the
club. John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, the bankers, Andrew Stuart,
the engineer, Gauthier Ralph, the director of the Bank of England, and
Thomas Flanagan, the brewer, one and all waited anxiously.
When the clock indicated twenty minutes past eight, Andrew Stuart got
up, saying, "Gentlemen, in twenty minutes the time agreed upon between
Mr. Fogg and ourselves will have expired."
"What time did the last train arrive from Liverpool?" asked Thomas
Flanagan.
"At twenty-three minutes past seven," replied Gauthier Ralph; "and the
next does not arrive till ten minutes after twelve."
"Well, gentlemen," resumed Andrew Stuart, "if Phileas Fogg had come in
the 7:23 train, he would have got here by this time. We can,
therefore, regard the bet as won."
"Wait; don't let us be too hasty," replied Samuel Fallentin. "You know
that Mr. Fogg is very eccentric. His punctuality is well known; he
never arrives too soon, or too late; and I should not be surprised if
he appeared before us at the last minute."
"Why," said Andrew Stuart nervously, "if I should see him, I should not
believe it was he."
"The fact is," resumed Thomas Flanagan, "Mr. Fogg's project was
absurdly foolish. Whatever his punctuality, he could not prevent the
delays which were certain to occur; and a delay of only two or three
days would be fatal to his tour."
"Observe, too," added John Sullivan, "that we have received no
intelligence from him, though there are telegraphic lines all along his
route."
"He has lost, gentleman," said Andrew Stuart, "he has a hundred times
lost! You know, besides, that the China the only steamer he could have
taken from New York to get here in time arrived yesterday. I have seen
a list of the passengers, and the name of Phileas Fogg is not among
them. Even if we admit that fortune has favoured him, he can scarcely
have reached America. I think he will be at least twenty days
behind-hand, and that Lord Albemarle will lose a cool five thousand."
"It is clear," replied Gauthier Ralph; "and we have nothing to do but
to present Mr. Fogg's cheque at Barings to-morrow."
At this moment, the hands of the club clock pointed to twenty minutes
to nine.
"Five minutes more," said Andrew Stuart.
The five gentlemen looked at each other. Their anxiety was becoming
intense; but, not wishing to betray it, they readily assented to Mr.
Fallentin's proposal of a rubber.
"I wouldn't give up my four thousand of the bet," said Andrew Stuart,
as he took his seat, "for three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine."
The clock indicated eighteen minutes to nine.
The players took up their cards, but could not keep their eyes off the
clock. Certainly, however secure they felt, minutes had never seemed
so long to them!
"Seventeen minutes to nine," said Thomas Flanagan, as he cut the cards
which Ralph handed to him.
Then there was a moment of silence. The great saloon was perfectly
quiet; but the murmurs of the crowd outside were heard, with now and
then a shrill cry. The pendulum beat the seconds, which each player
eagerly counted, as he listened, with mathematical regularity.
"Sixteen minutes to nine!" said John Sullivan, in a voice which
betrayed his emotion.
One minute more, and the wager would be won. Andrew Stuart and his
partners suspended their game. They left their cards, and counted the
seconds.
At the fortieth second, nothing. At the fiftieth, still nothing.
At the fifty-fifth, a loud cry was heard in the street, followed by
applause, hurrahs, and some fierce growls.
The players rose from their seats.
At the fifty-seventh second the door of the saloon opened; and the
pendulum had not beat the sixtieth second when Phileas Fogg appeared,
followed by an excited crowd who had forced their way through the club
doors, and in his calm voice, said, "Here I am, gentlemen!" | In this chapter, the state of England is described. Once the real thief is arrested everyone starts taking interest in Fogg's wager once again. Betting is revived. A great crowd gathers near the Reform Club on Saturday evening. In the meantime Fogg's five fellow club members and whist partners come together at the Club. They all discuss whether Fogg will be able to make it on time. They think that he won't be able to. As their tension grows, they start counting the seconds to the time of the wager. Barely a few seconds before Fogg makes his appearance in his usual calm way. Outside the club, a delirious crowd makes much noise |
ACT IV. SCENE 1.
Troy. A street
Enter, at one side, AENEAS, and servant with a torch; at another,
PARIS, DEIPHOBUS, ANTENOR, DIOMEDES the Grecian, and others, with
torches
PARIS. See, ho! Who is that there?
DEIPHOBUS. It is the Lord Aeneas.
AENEAS. Is the Prince there in person?
Had I so good occasion to lie long
As you, Prince Paris, nothing but heavenly business
Should rob my bed-mate of my company.
DIOMEDES. That's my mind too. Good morrow, Lord Aeneas.
PARIS. A valiant Greek, Aeneas -take his hand:
Witness the process of your speech, wherein
You told how Diomed, a whole week by days,
Did haunt you in the field.
AENEAS. Health to you, valiant sir,
During all question of the gentle truce;
But when I meet you arm'd, as black defiance
As heart can think or courage execute.
DIOMEDES. The one and other Diomed embraces.
Our bloods are now in calm; and so long health!
But when contention and occasion meet,
By Jove, I'll play the hunter for thy life
With all my force, pursuit, and policy.
AENEAS. And thou shalt hunt a lion, that will fly
With his face backward. In humane gentleness,
Welcome to Troy! now, by Anchises' life,
Welcome indeed! By Venus' hand I swear
No man alive can love in such a sort
The thing he means to kill, more excellently.
DIOMEDES. We sympathise. Jove let Aeneas live,
If to my sword his fate be not the glory,
A thousand complete courses of the sun!
But in mine emulous honour let him die
With every joint a wound, and that to-morrow!
AENEAS. We know each other well.
DIOMEDES.We do; and long to know each other worse.
PARIS. This is the most despiteful'st gentle greeting
The noblest hateful love, that e'er I heard of.
What business, lord, so early?
AENEAS. I was sent for to the King; but why, I know not.
PARIS. His purpose meets you: 'twas to bring this Greek
To Calchas' house, and there to render him,
For the enfreed Antenor, the fair Cressid.
Let's have your company; or, if you please,
Haste there before us. I constantly believe-
Or rather call my thought a certain knowledge-
My brother Troilus lodges there to-night.
Rouse him and give him note of our approach,
With the whole quality wherefore; I fear
We shall be much unwelcome.
AENEAS. That I assure you:
Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece
Than Cressid borne from Troy.
PARIS. There is no help;
The bitter disposition of the time
Will have it so. On, lord; we'll follow you.
AENEAS. Good morrow, all. Exit with servant
PARIS. And tell me, noble Diomed-faith, tell me true,
Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship-
Who in your thoughts deserves fair Helen best,
Myself or Menelaus?
DIOMEDES. Both alike:
He merits well to have her that doth seek her,
Not making any scruple of her soilure,
With such a hell of pain and world of charge;
And you as well to keep her that defend her,
Not palating the taste of her dishonour,
With such a costly loss of wealth and friends.
He like a puling cuckold would drink up
The lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece;
You, like a lecher, out of whorish loins
Are pleas'd to breed out your inheritors.
Both merits pois'd, each weighs nor less nor more;
But he as he, the heavier for a whore.
PARIS. You are too bitter to your country-woman.
DIOMEDES. She's bitter to her country. Hear me, Paris:
For every false drop in her bawdy veins
A Grecian's life hath sunk; for every scruple
Of her contaminated carrion weight
A Troyan hath been slain; since she could speak,
She hath not given so many good words breath
As for her Greeks and Troyans suff'red death.
PARIS. Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do,
Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy;
But we in silence hold this virtue well:
We'll not commend what we intend to sell.
Here lies our way.
Exeunt | On a street in Troy, Aeneas meets up with Paris and his posse of Trojan leaders, along with Diomedes, a Greek leader. Aeneas greets Paris by saying something like "Hey, if I had a girl like Helen in my bed, I wouldn't be out here prowling the streets of Troy." Then Aeneas turns to the Greek Diomedes, and the two guys exchange some friendly banter about how funny it is that they're always trying to hunt down and kill each other on the battlefield. LOL! Paris declares that this little display is the "noblest hateful love" he's ever witnessed. Translation: they're totally frenemies. Aeneas finds out that the King wants him to escort Diomedes to Calchas' house to trade Cressida for the prisoner Antenor. But Paris is afraid that they'll find Cressida in bed with Troilus, so he asks Aeneas to run ahead and warn him. Aeneas notes that Troilus would rather see Troy lose the war to Greece than lose Cressida. Sure, Paris says, it's a bummer the lovebirds have to be broken up. But that's the way it goes when you're in the middle of a nasty war. Easy for Paris to say--he started the whole thing. Anyway, Aeneas trots off to warn Troilus. Then Paris turns to Diomedes and asks who he thinks deserves Helen more: him or Menelaus? Diomedes replies that both men deserve her because they're willing to fight over a "whore" who isn't worth the loss of money and soldiers. Paris thinks Diomedes is too bitter toward Helen, and we really have to agree. But Diomedes doesn't stop there. He refers to Helen as "contaminated carrion" and says she's not worth the lives that have been lost fighting over who should get to have her. Um, we really have to ask--how much of a choice did Helen really have? Paris agrees to disagree, and they head off to Calchas' house to collect Cressida. |
On board POMPEY'S Galley, lying near Misenum.
[Music. Enter two or three SERVANTS with a banquet.]
FIRST SERVANT.
Here they'll be, man. Some o' their plants are ill-rooted
already; the least wind i' the world will blow them down.
SECOND SERVANT.
Lepidus is high-coloured.
FIRST SERVANT.
They have made him drink alms-drink.
SECOND SERVANT.
As they pinch one another by the disposition, he cries out 'no
more'; reconciles them to his entreaty and himself to the drink.
FIRST SERVANT.
But it raises the greater war between him and his discretion.
SECOND SERVANT.
Why, this it is to have a name in great men's fellowship: I had
as lief have a reed that will do me no service as a partizan I
could not heave.
FIRST SERVANT.
To be called into a huge sphere, and not to be seen to move in't,
are the holes where eyes should be, which pitifully disaster the
cheeks.
[A sennet sounded. Enter CAESAR, ANTONY, LEPIDUS, POMPEY,
AGRIPPA, MAECENAS, ENOBARBUS, MENAS, with other Captains.]
ANTONY.
[To CAESAR.] Thus do they, sir: they take the flow o' the Nile
By certain scales i' the pyramid; they know
By the height, the lowness, or the mean, if dearth
Or foison follow: the higher Nilus swells
The more it promises; as it ebbs, the seedsman
Upon the slime and ooze scatters his grain,
And shortly comes to harvest.
LEPIDUS.
You've strange serpents there.
ANTONY.
Ay, Lepidus.
LEPIDUS.
Your serpent of Egypt is bred now of your mud by the operation of
your sun: so is your crocodile.
ANTONY.
They are so.
POMPEY.
Sit --and some wine!--A health to Lepidus!
LEPIDUS.
I am not so well as I should be, but I'll ne'er out.
ENOBARBUS.
Not till you have slept; I fear me you'll be in till then.
LEPIDUS.
Nay, certainly, I have heard the Ptolemies' pyramises are very
goodly things; without contradiction I have heard that.
MENAS.
[Aside to POMPEY.] Pompey, a word.
POMPEY.
[Aside to MENAS.] Say in mine ear: what is't?
MENAS.
[Aside to POMPEY.] Forsake thy seat, I do beseech thee, captain,
And hear me speak a word.
POMPEY.
[Aside to MENAS.] Forbear me till ano.n--
This wine for Lepidus!
LEPIDUS.
What manner o' thing is your crocodile?
ANTONY.
It is shaped, sir, like itself; and it is as broad as it hath
breadth: it is just so high as it is, and moves with it own
organs: it lives by that which nourisheth it, and the elements
once out of it, it transmigrates.
LEPIDUS.
What colour is it of?
ANTONY.
Of its own colour too.
LEPIDUS.
'Tis a strange serpent.
ANTONY.
'Tis so. And the tears of it are wet.
CAESAR.
Will this description satisfy him?
ANTONY.
With the health that Pompey gives him, else he is a very epicure.
POMPEY.
[Aside to MENAS.] Go, hang, sir, hang! Tell me of that! away!
Do as I bid you.--Where's this cup I call'd for?
MENAS.
[Aside to POMPEY.] If for the sake of merit thou wilt hear me,
Rise from thy stool.
POMPEY.
[Aside to MENAS.] I think thou'rt mad.
[Rises and walks aside.]
The matter?
MENAS.
I have ever held my cap off to thy fortunes.
POMPEY.
Thou hast serv'd me with much faith.
What's else to say?--
Be jolly, lords.
ANTONY.
These quicksands, Lepidus,
Keep off them, for you sink.
MENAS.
Wilt thou be lord of all the world?
POMPEY.
What say'st thou?
MENAS.
Wilt thou be lord of the whole world?
That's twice.
POMPEY.
How should that be?
MENAS.
But entertain it,
And though you think me poor, I am the man
Will give thee all the world.
POMPEY.
Hast thou drunk well?
MENAS.
No, Pompey, I have kept me from the cup.
Thou art, if thou dar'st be, the earthly Jove:
Whate'er the ocean pales or sky inclips
Is thine, if thou wilt have't.
POMPEY.
Show me which way.
MENAS.
These three world-sharers, these competitors,
Are in thy vessel: let me cut the cable;
And when we are put off, fall to their throats:
All then is thine.
POMPEY.
Ah, this thou shouldst have done,
And not have spoke on't! In me 'tis villainy:
In thee't had been good service. Thou must know
'Tis not my profit that does lead mine honour:
Mine honour it. Repent that e'er thy tongue
Hath so betray'd thine act: being done unknown,
I should have found it afterwards well done;
But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink.
MENAS.
[Aside.] For this,
I'll never follow thy pall'd fortunes more.
Who seeks, and will not take when once 'tis offer'd,
Shall never find it more.
POMPEY.
This health to Lepidus!
ANTONY.
Bear him ashore. I'll pledge it for him, Pompey.
ENOBARBUS.
Here's to thee, Menas!
MENAS.
Enobarbus, welcome!
POMPEY.
Fill till the cup be hid.
ENOBARBUS.
There's a strong fellow, Menas.
[Pointing to the servant who carries off LEPIDUS.]
MENAS.
Why?
ENOBARBUS.
'A bears the third part of the world, man; see'st not?
MENAS.
The third part, then, is drunk; would it were all,
That it might go on wheels!
ENOBARBUS.
Drink thou; increase the reels.
MENAS.
Come.
POMPEY.
This is not yet an Alexandrian feast.
ANTONY.
It ripens towards it.--Strike the vessels, ho!--
Here is to Caesar!
CAESAR.
I could well forbear't.
It's monstrous labour when I wash my brain
And it grows fouler.
ANTONY.
Be a child o' the time.
CAESAR.
Possess it, I'll make answer:
But I had rather fast from all four days
Than drink so much in one.
ENOBARBUS.
[To ANTONY.] Ha, my brave emperor!
Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals
And celebrate our drink?
POMPEY.
Let's ha't, good soldier.
ANTONY.
Come, let's all take hands,
Till that the conquering wine hath steep'd our sense
In soft and delicate Lethe.
ENOBARBUS.
All take hands.--
Make battery to our ears with the loud music:--
The while I'll place you: then the boy shall sing;
The holding every man shall bear as loud
As his strong sides can volley.
[Music plays. ENOBARBUS places them hand in hand.]
SONG.
Come, thou monarch of the vine,
Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne!
In thy fats our cares be drown'd,
With thy grapes our hairs be crown'd:
Cup us, till the world go round,
Cup us, till the world go round!
CAESAR.
What would you more?--Pompey, good night. Good brother,
Let me request you off: our graver business
Frowns at this levity.--Gentle lords, let's part;
You see we have burnt our cheeks: strong Enobarb
Is weaker than the wine; and mine own tongue
Splits what it speaks: the wild disguise hath almost
Antick'd us all. What needs more words. Good night.--
Good Antony, your hand.
POMPEY.
I'll try you on the shore.
ANTONY.
And shall, sir: give's your hand.
POMPEY.
O Antony,
You have my father's house,--but, what? we are friends.
Come, down into the boat.
ENOBARBUS.
Take heed you fall not.
[Exeunt POMPEY, CAESAR, ANTONY, and Attendants.]
Menas, I'll not on shore.
MENAS.
No, to my cabin.--
These drums!--these trumpets, flutes! what!--
Let Neptune hear we bid a loud farewell
To these great fellows: sound and be hang'd, sound out!
[A flourish of trumpets, with drums.]
ENOBARBUS.
Hoo! says 'a.--There's my cap.
MENAS.
Hoo!--noble captain, come.
[Exeunt.] | Pompey throws a feast for the Roman leaders on his boats. While everyone drinks, Menas tells Pompey he can make him the king of the world. Pompey asks how, and Menas states that he could kill all of the leaders while they are on the boat. Pompey refuses because it would offend his honor, and the men have to remove Ledipus from the boat because he becomes so drunk |
Lily woke from happy dreams to find two notes at her bedside.
One was from Mrs. Trenor, who announced that she was coming to town that
afternoon for a flying visit, and hoped Miss Bart would be able to dine
with her. The other was from Selden. He wrote briefly that an important
case called him to Albany, whence he would be unable to return till the
evening, and asked Lily to let him know at what hour on the following day
she would see him.
Lily, leaning back among her pillows, gazed musingly at his letter. The
scene in the Brys' conservatory had been like a part of her dreams; she
had not expected to wake to such evidence of its reality. Her first
movement was one of annoyance: this unforeseen act of Selden's added
another complication to life. It was so unlike him to yield to such an
irrational impulse! Did he really mean to ask her to marry him? She had
once shown him the impossibility of such a hope, and his subsequent
behaviour seemed to prove that he had accepted the situation with a
reasonableness somewhat mortifying to her vanity. It was all the more
agreeable to find that this reasonableness was maintained only at the
cost of not seeing her; but, though nothing in life was as sweet as the
sense of her power over him, she saw the danger of allowing the episode
of the previous night to have a sequel. Since she could not marry him, it
would be kinder to him, as well as easier for herself, to write a line
amicably evading his request to see her: he was not the man to mistake
such a hint, and when next they met it would be on their usual friendly
footing.
Lily sprang out of bed, and went straight to her desk. She wanted to
write at once, while she could trust to the strength of her resolve. She
was still languid from her brief sleep and the exhilaration of the
evening, and the sight of Selden's writing brought back the culminating
moment of her triumph: the moment when she had read in his eyes that no
philosophy was proof against her power. It would be pleasant to have that
sensation again . . . no one else could give it to her in its fulness;
and she could not bear to mar her mood of luxurious retrospection by an
act of definite refusal. She took up her pen and wrote hastily: "TOMORROW
AT FOUR;" murmuring to herself, as she slipped the sheet into its
envelope: "I can easily put him off when tomorrow comes."
Judy Trenor's summons was very welcome to Lily. It was the first time she
had received a direct communication from Bellomont since the close of her
last visit there, and she was still visited by the dread of having
incurred Judy's displeasure. But this characteristic command seemed to
reestablish their former relations; and Lily smiled at the thought that
her friend had probably summoned her in order to hear about the Brys'
entertainment. Mrs. Trenor had absented herself from the feast, perhaps
for the reason so frankly enunciated by her husband, perhaps because, as
Mrs. Fisher somewhat differently put it, she "couldn't bear new people
when she hadn't discovered them herself." At any rate, though she
remained haughtily at Bellomont, Lily suspected in her a devouring
eagerness to hear of what she had missed, and to learn exactly in what
measure Mrs. Wellington Bry had surpassed all previous competitors for
social recognition. Lily was quite ready to gratify this curiosity, but
it happened that she was dining out. She determined, however, to see Mrs.
Trenor for a few moments, and ringing for her maid she despatched a
telegram to say that she would be with her friend that evening at ten.
She was dining with Mrs. Fisher, who had gathered at an informal feast a
few of the performers of the previous evening. There was to be plantation
music in the studio after dinner--for Mrs. Fisher, despairing of the
republic, had taken up modelling, and annexed to her small crowded house
a spacious apartment, which, whatever its uses in her hours of plastic
inspiration, served at other times for the exercise of an indefatigable
hospitality. Lily was reluctant to leave, for the dinner was amusing, and
she would have liked to lounge over a cigarette and hear a few songs; but
she could not break her engagement with Judy, and shortly after ten she
asked her hostess to ring for a hansom, and drove up Fifth Avenue to the
Trenors'.
She waited long enough on the doorstep to wonder that Judy's presence in
town was not signalized by a greater promptness in admitting her; and her
surprise was increased when, instead of the expected footman, pushing his
shoulders into a tardy coat, a shabby care-taking person in calico let
her into the shrouded hall. Trenor, however, appeared at once on the
threshold of the drawing-room, welcoming her with unusual volubility
while he relieved her of her cloak and drew her into the room.
"Come along to the den; it's the only comfortable place in the house.
Doesn't this room look as if it was waiting for the body to be brought
down? Can't see why Judy keeps the house wrapped up in this awful
slippery white stuff--it's enough to give a fellow pneumonia to walk
through these rooms on a cold day. You look a little pinched yourself, by
the way: it's rather a sharp night out. I noticed it walking up from the
club. Come along, and I'll give you a nip of brandy, and you can toast
yourself over the fire and try some of my new Egyptians--that little
Turkish chap at the Embassy put me on to a brand that I want you to try,
and if you like 'em I'll get out a lot for you: they don't have 'em here
yet, but I'll cable."
He led her through the house to the large room at the back, where Mrs.
Trenor usually sat, and where, even in her absence, there was an air of
occupancy. Here, as usual, were flowers, newspapers, a littered
writing-table, and a general aspect of lamp-lit familiarity, so that it
was a surprise not to see Judy's energetic figure start up from the
arm-chair near the fire.
It was apparently Trenor himself who had been occupying the seat in
question, for it was overhung by a cloud of cigar smoke, and near it
stood one of those intricate folding tables which British ingenuity has
devised to facilitate the circulation of tobacco and spirits. The sight
of such appliances in a drawing-room was not unusual in Lily's set, where
smoking and drinking were unrestricted by considerations of time and
place, and her first movement was to help herself to one of the
cigarettes recommended by Trenor, while she checked his loquacity by
asking, with a surprised glance: "Where's Judy?"
Trenor, a little heated by his unusual flow of words, and perhaps by
prolonged propinquity with the decanters, was bending over the latter to
decipher their silver labels.
"Here, now, Lily, just a drop of cognac in a little fizzy water--you do
look pinched, you know: I swear the end of your nose is red. I'll take
another glass to keep you company--Judy?--Why, you see, Judy's got a
devil of a head ache--quite knocked out with it, poor thing--she asked me
to explain--make it all right, you know--Do come up to the fire, though;
you look dead-beat, really. Now do let me make you comfortable, there's a
good girl."
He had taken her hand, half-banteringly, and was drawing her toward a low
seat by the hearth; but she stopped and freed herself quietly.
"Do you mean to say that Judy's not well enough to see me? Doesn't she
want me to go upstairs?"
Trenor drained the glass he had filled for himself, and paused to set it
down before he answered.
"Why, no--the fact is, she's not up to seeing anybody. It came on
suddenly, you know, and she asked me to tell you how awfully sorry she
was--if she'd known where you were dining she'd have sent you word."
"She did know where I was dining; I mentioned it in my telegram. But it
doesn't matter, of course. I suppose if she's so poorly she won't go back
to Bellomont in the morning, and I can come and see her then."
"Yes: exactly--that's capital. I'll tell her you'll pop in tomorrow
morning. And now do sit down a minute, there's a dear, and let's have a
nice quiet jaw together. You won't take a drop, just for sociability?
Tell me what you think of that cigarette. Why, don't you like it? What
are you chucking it away for?"
"I am chucking it away because I must go, if you'll have the goodness to
call a cab for me," Lily returned with a smile.
She did not like Trenor's unusual excitability, with its too evident
explanation, and the thought of being alone with him, with her friend out
of reach upstairs, at the other end of the great empty house, did not
conduce to a desire to prolong their TETE-A-TETE.
But Trenor, with a promptness which did not escape her, had moved between
herself and the door.
"Why must you go, I should like to know? If Judy'd been here you'd have
sat gossiping till all hours--and you can't even give me five minutes!
It's always the same story. Last night I couldn't get near you--I went to
that damned vulgar party just to see you, and there was everybody talking
about you, and asking me if I'd ever seen anything so stunning, and when
I tried to come up and say a word, you never took any notice, but just
went on laughing and joking with a lot of asses who only wanted to be
able to swagger about afterward, and look knowing when you were
mentioned."
He paused, flushed by his diatribe, and fixing on her a look in which
resentment was the ingredient she least disliked. But she had regained
her presence of mind, and stood composedly in the middle of the room,
while her slight smile seemed to put an ever increasing distance between
herself and Trenor.
Across it she said: "Don't be absurd, Gus. It's past eleven, and I must
really ask you to ring for a cab."
He remained immovable, with the lowering forehead she had grown to detest.
"And supposing I won't ring for one--what'll you do then?"
"I shall go upstairs to Judy if you force me to disturb her."
Trenor drew a step nearer and laid his hand on her arm. "Look here, Lily:
won't you give me five minutes of your own accord?"
"Not tonight, Gus: you----"
"Very good, then: I'll take 'em. And as many more as I want." He had
squared himself on the threshold, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.
He nodded toward the chair on the hearth.
"Go and sit down there, please: I've got a word to say to you."
Lily's quick temper was getting the better of her fears. She drew herself
up and moved toward the door.
"If you have anything to say to me, you must say it another time. I
shall go up to Judy unless you call a cab for me at once."
He burst into a laugh. "Go upstairs and welcome, my dear; but you won't
find Judy. She ain't there."
Lily cast a startled look upon him. "Do you mean that Judy is not in the
house--not in town?" she exclaimed.
"That's just what I do mean," returned Trenor, his bluster sinking to
sullenness under her look.
"Nonsense--I don't believe you. I am going upstairs," she said
impatiently.
He drew unexpectedly aside, letting her reach the threshold unimpeded.
"Go up and welcome; but my wife is at Bellomont."
But Lily had a flash of reassurance. "If she hadn't come she would have
sent me word----"
"She did; she telephoned me this afternoon to let you know."
"I received no message."
"I didn't send any."
The two measured each other for a moment, but Lily still saw her opponent
through a blur of scorn that made all other considerations indistinct.
"I can't imagine your object in playing such a stupid trick on me; but if
you have fully gratified your peculiar sense of humour I must again ask
you to send for a cab."
It was the wrong note, and she knew it as she spoke. To be stung by irony
it is not necessary to understand it, and the angry streaks on Trenor's
face might have been raised by an actual lash.
"Look here, Lily, don't take that high and mighty tone with me." He had
again moved toward the door, and in her instinctive shrinking from him
she let him regain command of the threshold. "I DID play a trick on you;
I own up to it; but if you think I'm ashamed you're mistaken. Lord knows
I've been patient enough--I've hung round and looked like an ass. And
all the while you were letting a lot of other fellows make up to
you . . . letting 'em make fun of me, I daresay . . . I'm not sharp, and
can't dress my friends up to look funny, as you do . . . but I can tell
when it's being done to me . . . I can tell fast enough when I'm made a
fool of . . ."
"Ah, I shouldn't have thought that!" flashed from Lily; but her laugh
dropped to silence under his look.
"No; you wouldn't have thought it; but you'll know better now. That's
what you're here for tonight. I've been waiting for a quiet time to talk
things over, and now I've got it I mean to make you hear me out."
His first rush of inarticulate resentment had been followed by a
steadiness and concentration of tone more disconcerting to Lily than the
excitement preceding it. For a moment her presence of mind forsook her.
She had more than once been in situations where a quick sword-play of wit
had been needful to cover her retreat; but her frightened heart-throbs
told her that here such skill would not avail.
To gain time she repeated: "I don't understand what you want."
Trenor had pushed a chair between herself and the door. He threw himself
in it, and leaned back, looking up at her.
"I'll tell you what I want: I want to know just where you and I stand.
Hang it, the man who pays for the dinner is generally allowed to have a
seat at table."
She flamed with anger and abasement, and the sickening need of having to
conciliate where she longed to humble.
"I don't know what you mean--but you must see, Gus, that I can't stay
here talking to you at this hour----"
"Gad, you go to men's houses fast enough in broad day light--strikes me
you're not always so deuced careful of appearances."
The brutality of the thrust gave her the sense of dizziness that follows
on a physical blow. Rosedale had spoken then--this was the way men talked
of her--She felt suddenly weak and defenceless: there was a throb of
self-pity in her throat. But all the while another self was sharpening
her to vigilance, whispering the terrified warning that every word and
gesture must be measured.
"If you have brought me here to say insulting things----" she began.
Trenor laughed. "Don't talk stage-rot. I don't want to insult you. But a
man's got his feelings--and you've played with mine too long. I didn't
begin this business--kept out of the way, and left the track clear for
the other chaps, till you rummaged me out and set to work to make an ass
of me--and an easy job you had of it, too. That's the trouble--it was too
easy for you--you got reckless--thought you could turn me inside out, and
chuck me in the gutter like an empty purse. But, by gad, that ain't
playing fair: that's dodging the rules of the game. Of course I know now
what you wanted--it wasn't my beautiful eyes you were after--but I tell
you what, Miss Lily, you've got to pay up for making me think so----"
He rose, squaring his shoulders aggressively, and stepped toward her with
a reddening brow; but she held her footing, though every nerve tore at
her to retreat as he advanced.
"Pay up?" she faltered. "Do you mean that I owe you money?"
He laughed again. "Oh, I'm not asking for payment in kind. But there's
such a thing as fair play--and interest on one's money--and hang me if
I've had as much as a look from you----"
"Your money? What have I to do with your money? You advised me how to
invest mine . . . you must have seen I knew nothing of business . . .
you told me it was all right----"
"It WAS all right--it is, Lily: you're welcome to all of it, and ten
times more. I'm only asking for a word of thanks from you." He was closer
still, with a hand that grew formidable; and the frightened self in her
was dragging the other down.
"I HAVE thanked you; I've shown I was grateful. What more have you done
than any friend might do, or any one accept from a friend?"
Trenor caught her up with a sneer. "I don't doubt you've accepted as much
before--and chucked the other chaps as you'd like to chuck me. I don't
care how you settled your score with them--if you fooled 'em I'm that
much to the good. Don't stare at me like that--I know I'm not talking the
way a man is supposed to talk to a girl--but, hang it, if you don't like
it you can stop me quick enough--you know I'm mad about you--damn the
money, there's plenty more of it--if THAT bothers you . . . I was a
brute, Lily--Lily!--just look at me----"
Over and over her the sea of humiliation broke--wave crashing on wave so
close that the moral shame was one with the physical dread. It seemed to
her that self-esteem would have made her invulnerable--that it was her
own dishonour which put a fearful solitude about her.
His touch was a shock to her drowning consciousness. She drew back from
him with a desperate assumption of scorn.
"I've told you I don't understand--but if I owe you money you shall be
paid----"
Trenor's face darkened to rage: her recoil of abhorrence had called out
the primitive man.
"Ah--you'll borrow from Selden or Rosedale--and take your chances of
fooling them as you've fooled me! Unless--unless you've settled your
other scores already--and I'm the only one left out in the cold!"
She stood silent, frozen to her place. The words--the words were worse
than the touch! Her heart was beating all over her body--in her throat,
her limbs, her helpless useless hands. Her eyes travelled despairingly
about the room--they lit on the bell, and she remembered that help was in
call. Yes, but scandal with it--a hideous mustering of tongues. No, she
must fight her way out alone. It was enough that the servants knew her to
be in the house with Trenor--there must be nothing to excite conjecture
in her way of leaving it.
She raised her head, and achieved a last clear look at him.
"I am here alone with you," she said. "What more have you to say?"
To her surprise, Trenor answered the look with a speechless stare. With
his last gust of words the flame had died out, leaving him chill and
humbled. It was as though a cold air had dispersed the fumes of his
libations, and the situation loomed before him black and naked as the
ruins of a fire. Old habits, old restraints, the hand of inherited order,
plucked back the bewildered mind which passion had jolted from its ruts.
Trenor's eye had the haggard look of the sleep-walker waked on a deathly
ledge.
"Go home! Go away from here"----he stammered, and turning his back on her
walked toward the hearth.
The sharp release from her fears restored Lily to immediate lucidity.
The collapse of Trenor's will left her in control, and she heard herself,
in a voice that was her own yet outside herself, bidding him ring for the
servant, bidding him give the order for a hansom, directing him to put
her in it when it came. Whence the strength came to her she knew not; but
an insistent voice warned her that she must leave the house openly, and
nerved her, in the hall before the hovering care taker, to exchange light
words with Trenor, and charge him with the usual messages for Judy, while
all the while she shook with inward loathing. On the doorstep, with the
street before her, she felt a mad throb of liberation, intoxicating as
the prisoner's first draught of free air; but the clearness of brain
continued, and she noted the mute aspect of Fifth Avenue, guessed at the
lateness of the hour, and even observed a man's figure--was there
something half-familiar in its outline?--which, as she entered the
hansom, turned from the opposite corner and vanished in the obscurity of
the side street.
But with the turn of the wheels reaction came, and shuddering darkness
closed on her. "I can't think--I can't think," she moaned, and leaned her
head against the rattling side of the cab. She seemed a stranger to
herself, or rather there were two selves in her, the one she had always
known, and a new abhorrent being to which it found itself chained. She
had once picked up, in a house where she was staying, a translation of
the EUMENIDES, and her imagination had been seized by the high terror of
the scene where Orestes, in the cave of the oracle, finds his implacable
huntresses asleep, and snatches an hour's repose. Yes, the Furies might
sometimes sleep, but they were there, always there in the dark corners,
and now they were awake and the iron clang of their wings was in her
brain . . . She opened her eyes and saw the streets passing--the familiar
alien streets. All she looked on was the same and yet changed. There was
a great gulf fixed between today and yesterday. Everything in the past
seemed simple, natural, full of daylight--and she was alone in a place of
darkness and pollution.--Alone! It was the loneliness that frightened
her. Her eyes fell on an illuminated clock at a street corner, and she
saw that the hands marked the half hour after eleven. Only half-past
eleven--there were hours and hours left of the night! And she must spend
them alone, shuddering sleepless on her bed. Her soft nature recoiled
from this ordeal, which had none of the stimulus of conflict to goad her
through it. Oh, the slow cold drip of the minutes on her head! She had a
vision of herself lying on the black walnut bed--and the darkness would
frighten her, and if she left the light burning the dreary details of the
room would brand themselves forever on her brain. She had always hated
her room at Mrs. Peniston's--its ugliness, its impersonality, the fact
that nothing in it was really hers. To a torn heart uncomforted by human
nearness a room may open almost human arms, and the being to whom no four
walls mean more than any others, is, at such hours, expatriate everywhere.
Lily had no heart to lean on. Her relation with her aunt was as
superficial as that of chance lodgers who pass on the stairs. But even
had the two been in closer contact, it was impossible to think of Mrs.
Peniston's mind as offering shelter or comprehension to such misery as
Lily's. As the pain that can be told is but half a pain, so the pity that
questions has little healing in its touch. What Lily craved was the
darkness made by enfolding arms, the silence which is not solitude, but
compassion holding its breath.
She started up and looked forth on the passing streets. Gerty!--they
were nearing Gerty's corner. If only she could reach there before this
labouring anguish burst from her breast to her lips--if only she could
feel the hold of Gerty's arms while she shook in the ague-fit of fear
that was coming upon her! She pushed up the door in the roof and called
the address to the driver. It was not so late--Gerty might still be
waking. And even if she were not, the sound of the bell would penetrate
every recess of her tiny apartment, and rouse her to answer her friend's
call. | Lily wakes up the day after the party to find two notes for her. One is from Mrs. Trenor, who wants to see Lily that afternoon. The next is from Selden, who was called away on business but would like to see her the following evening. Lily is irritated by Selden's note - it makes her life more complicated. Also, she's made it clear that she doesn't intend to marry him, so what is he doing? She enjoys having power over him, but she knows it would be dangerous for last night's scene to "have a sequel." Still, she answers his note with a message to meet her tomorrow at 4pm, figuring she can tell him off in person. In the meantime, Lily can rest easy that Judy is again her friend . Lily has dinner with Mrs. Fisher and then heads to the Trenors' after 10pm to see Judy. She finds it odd that the house is mostly dark, and that a shabby caretaker opens the door for her rather than the usual footman. Gus Trenor greets her and leads her into the den where he sets about getting her a drink. Lily asks where Judy is, but he says she's upstairs in bed with a headache and not to worry about it. He keeps trying to change the subject. Lily says that if Judy isn't well enough to see her, she'll have to come back tomorrow to visit instead. She asks repeatedly for a cab, but Trenor keeps refusing to call her one. He starts in again on how Lily just wanted to use him for stock tips, and now that she's gotten what she wanted, she never spends any time with him. Lily explains that it's past eleven and therefore inappropriate for the two of them to be alone together while Judy is upstairs. She says if he won't call her a cab, she'll go upstairs and get his wife. Then, Gus admits the truth: Judy isn't here. She's at Bellomont. He orchestrated the evening to get Lily alone with him in the house. Lily is all, "This is so indecent!", which enrages him further. He says that he's been giving Lily tons of money and, in return, she owes him. He never explicitly says anything about sex, but it's clear that that's what he's talking about. Lily is indignant; she thought he was simply investing her money on the stock market for her. Gus doesn't think a woman like Lily - who "goes to men's houses in broad daylight" - has any right to take the moral high road with him. Lily realizes that Rosedale told him about the afternoon he found her leaving Selden's room at the Benedick. Finally, she says that if she owes Gus money, she will surely pay him back. He doesn't want money - he wants something else. But Lily insists she will pay him back and then runs out of the house. As she gets into a carriage and departs, she thinks she recognizes the outline of a pair of gentlemen outside on the street... Lily is horrified and distraught. Seeing that it's only 11:30, she doesn't know where to go for the rest of the night. She doesn't want to be alone. She decides to go stay with Gerty Farish, who has always been so kind to her. |
No sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged herself
in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she
was provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer than till
every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her with
surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly hoped
that she would not be settled far from Norland. She had great
satisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire.--Edward
turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise
and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated,
"Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And to
what part of it?" She explained the situation. It was within four miles
northward of Exeter.
"It is but a cottage," she continued, "but I hope to see many of my
friends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends
find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will
find none in accommodating them."
She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood
to visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still greater
affection. Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had
made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer than was
unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that
point to which it principally tended. To separate Edward and Elinor
was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to show Mrs.
John Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally
she disregarded her disapprobation of the match.
Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry
he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from Norland as to
prevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture. He
really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very
exertion to which he had limited the performance of his promise to his
father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.-- The furniture
was all sent around by water. It chiefly consisted of household linen,
plate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte of Marianne's.
Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not
help feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income would be so
trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any handsome
article of furniture.
Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished,
and she might have immediate possession. No difficulty arose on either
side in the agreement; and she waited only for the disposal of her
effects at Norland, and to determine her future household, before she
set off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the
performance of everything that interested her, was soon done.--The
horses which were left her by her husband had been sold soon after his
death, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage,
she agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest
daughter. For the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her
own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor
prevailed. HER wisdom too limited the number of their servants to
three; two maids and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from
amongst those who had formed their establishment at Norland.
The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devonshire,
to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for as Lady
Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going
directly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and she
relied so undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the house, as to
feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own.
Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by
the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her
removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed
under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure. Now was the
time when her son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular
propriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do it on first
coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be looked on as
the most suitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs. Dashwood
began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced,
from the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended
no farther than their maintenance for six months at Norland. He so
frequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of
the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in
the world was beyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to
stand in need of more money himself than to have any design of giving
money away.
In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's
first letter to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their future
abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin their
journey.
Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so
much beloved. "Dear, dear Norland!" said Marianne, as she wandered
alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there; "when
shall I cease to regret you!--when learn to feel a home elsewhere!--Oh!
happy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this
spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more!--And you, ye
well-known trees!--but you will continue the same.--No leaf will decay
because we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we
can observe you no longer!--No; you will continue the same; unconscious
of the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any
change in those who walk under your shade!--But who will remain to
enjoy you?" | Mrs. Dashwood announces that they are to leave soon, and take the cottage in Devonshire; Fanny Dashwood is pleased of course, though Edward seems surprised that they are moving so far away. Mrs. Dashwood takes pleasure in the arrangements, and sends their furniture ahead to the house; she invites Edward warmly, hoping he will come to visit them there. Mrs. Dashwood's former hopes that John Dashwood might assist them in some way come to naught; indeed, he starts to comment on the expenses of his housekeeping, indicating that his generosity only extended to keeping them at Norland for those few months. |
But the privations, or rather the hardships, of Lowood lessened. Spring
drew on: she was indeed already come; the frosts of winter had ceased;
its snows were melted, its cutting winds ameliorated. My wretched feet,
flayed and swollen to lameness by the sharp air of January, began to heal
and subside under the gentler breathings of April; the nights and
mornings no longer by their Canadian temperature froze the very blood in
our veins; we could now endure the play-hour passed in the garden:
sometimes on a sunny day it began even to be pleasant and genial, and a
greenness grew over those brown beds, which, freshening daily, suggested
the thought that Hope traversed them at night, and left each morning
brighter traces of her steps. Flowers peeped out amongst the leaves;
snow-drops, crocuses, purple auriculas, and golden-eyed pansies. On
Thursday afternoons (half-holidays) we now took walks, and found still
sweeter flowers opening by the wayside, under the hedges.
I discovered, too, that a great pleasure, an enjoyment which the horizon
only bounded, lay all outside the high and spike-guarded walls of our
garden: this pleasure consisted in prospect of noble summits girdling a
great hill-hollow, rich in verdure and shadow; in a bright beck, full of
dark stones and sparkling eddies. How different had this scene looked
when I viewed it laid out beneath the iron sky of winter, stiffened in
frost, shrouded with snow!--when mists as chill as death wandered to the
impulse of east winds along those purple peaks, and rolled down "ing" and
holm till they blended with the frozen fog of the beck! That beck itself
was then a torrent, turbid and curbless: it tore asunder the wood, and
sent a raving sound through the air, often thickened with wild rain or
whirling sleet; and for the forest on its banks, _that_ showed only ranks
of skeletons.
April advanced to May: a bright serene May it was; days of blue sky,
placid sunshine, and soft western or southern gales filled up its
duration. And now vegetation matured with vigour; Lowood shook loose its
tresses; it became all green, all flowery; its great elm, ash, and oak
skeletons were restored to majestic life; woodland plants sprang up
profusely in its recesses; unnumbered varieties of moss filled its
hollows, and it made a strange ground-sunshine out of the wealth of its
wild primrose plants: I have seen their pale gold gleam in overshadowed
spots like scatterings of the sweetest lustre. All this I enjoyed often
and fully, free, unwatched, and almost alone: for this unwonted liberty
and pleasure there was a cause, to which it now becomes my task to
advert.
Have I not described a pleasant site for a dwelling, when I speak of it
as bosomed in hill and wood, and rising from the verge of a stream?
Assuredly, pleasant enough: but whether healthy or not is another
question.
That forest-dell, where Lowood lay, was the cradle of fog and fog-bred
pestilence; which, quickening with the quickening spring, crept into the
Orphan Asylum, breathed typhus through its crowded schoolroom and
dormitory, and, ere May arrived, transformed the seminary into an
hospital.
Semi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed most of the pupils to
receive infection: forty-five out of the eighty girls lay ill at one
time. Classes were broken up, rules relaxed. The few who continued well
were allowed almost unlimited license; because the medical attendant
insisted on the necessity of frequent exercise to keep them in health:
and had it been otherwise, no one had leisure to watch or restrain them.
Miss Temple's whole attention was absorbed by the patients: she lived in
the sick-room, never quitting it except to snatch a few hours' rest at
night. The teachers were fully occupied with packing up and making other
necessary preparations for the departure of those girls who were
fortunate enough to have friends and relations able and willing to remove
them from the seat of contagion. Many, already smitten, went home only
to die: some died at the school, and were buried quietly and quickly, the
nature of the malady forbidding delay.
While disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood, and death its
frequent visitor; while there was gloom and fear within its walls; while
its rooms and passages steamed with hospital smells, the drug and the
pastille striving vainly to overcome the effluvia of mortality, that
bright May shone unclouded over the bold hills and beautiful woodland out
of doors. Its garden, too, glowed with flowers: hollyhocks had sprung up
tall as trees, lilies had opened, tulips and roses were in bloom; the
borders of the little beds were gay with pink thrift and crimson double
daisies; the sweetbriars gave out, morning and evening, their scent of
spice and apples; and these fragrant treasures were all useless for most
of the inmates of Lowood, except to furnish now and then a handful of
herbs and blossoms to put in a coffin.
But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully the beauties of the
scene and season; they let us ramble in the wood, like gipsies, from
morning till night; we did what we liked, went where we liked: we lived
better too. Mr. Brocklehurst and his family never came near Lowood now:
household matters were not scrutinised into; the cross housekeeper was
gone, driven away by the fear of infection; her successor, who had been
matron at the Lowton Dispensary, unused to the ways of her new abode,
provided with comparative liberality. Besides, there were fewer to feed;
the sick could eat little; our breakfast-basins were better filled; when
there was no time to prepare a regular dinner, which often happened, she
would give us a large piece of cold pie, or a thick slice of bread and
cheese, and this we carried away with us to the wood, where we each chose
the spot we liked best, and dined sumptuously.
My favourite seat was a smooth and broad stone, rising white and dry from
the very middle of the beck, and only to be got at by wading through the
water; a feat I accomplished barefoot. The stone was just broad enough
to accommodate, comfortably, another girl and me, at that time my chosen
comrade--one Mary Ann Wilson; a shrewd, observant personage, whose
society I took pleasure in, partly because she was witty and original,
and partly because she had a manner which set me at my ease. Some years
older than I, she knew more of the world, and could tell me many things I
liked to hear: with her my curiosity found gratification: to my faults
also she gave ample indulgence, never imposing curb or rein on anything I
said. She had a turn for narrative, I for analysis; she liked to inform,
I to question; so we got on swimmingly together, deriving much
entertainment, if not much improvement, from our mutual intercourse.
And where, meantime, was Helen Burns? Why did I not spend these sweet
days of liberty with her? Had I forgotten her? or was I so worthless as
to have grown tired of her pure society? Surely the Mary Ann Wilson I
have mentioned was inferior to my first acquaintance: she could only tell
me amusing stories, and reciprocate any racy and pungent gossip I chose
to indulge in; while, if I have spoken truth of Helen, she was qualified
to give those who enjoyed the privilege of her converse a taste of far
higher things.
True, reader; and I knew and felt this: and though I am a defective
being, with many faults and few redeeming points, yet I never tired of
Helen Burns; nor ever ceased to cherish for her a sentiment of
attachment, as strong, tender, and respectful as any that ever animated
my heart. How could it be otherwise, when Helen, at all times and under
all circumstances, evinced for me a quiet and faithful friendship, which
ill-humour never soured, nor irritation never troubled? But Helen was
ill at present: for some weeks she had been removed from my sight to I
knew not what room upstairs. She was not, I was told, in the hospital
portion of the house with the fever patients; for her complaint was
consumption, not typhus: and by consumption I, in my ignorance,
understood something mild, which time and care would be sure to
alleviate.
I was confirmed in this idea by the fact of her once or twice coming
downstairs on very warm sunny afternoons, and being taken by Miss Temple
into the garden; but, on these occasions, I was not allowed to go and
speak to her; I only saw her from the schoolroom window, and then not
distinctly; for she was much wrapped up, and sat at a distance under the
verandah.
One evening, in the beginning of June, I had stayed out very late with
Mary Ann in the wood; we had, as usual, separated ourselves from the
others, and had wandered far; so far that we lost our way, and had to ask
it at a lonely cottage, where a man and woman lived, who looked after a
herd of half-wild swine that fed on the mast in the wood. When we got
back, it was after moonrise: a pony, which we knew to be the surgeon's,
was standing at the garden door. Mary Ann remarked that she supposed
some one must be very ill, as Mr. Bates had been sent for at that time of
the evening. She went into the house; I stayed behind a few minutes to
plant in my garden a handful of roots I had dug up in the forest, and
which I feared would wither if I left them till the morning. This done,
I lingered yet a little longer: the flowers smelt so sweet as the dew
fell; it was such a pleasant evening, so serene, so warm; the still
glowing west promised so fairly another fine day on the morrow; the moon
rose with such majesty in the grave east. I was noting these things and
enjoying them as a child might, when it entered my mind as it had never
done before:--
"How sad to be lying now on a sick bed, and to be in danger of dying!
This world is pleasant--it would be dreary to be called from it, and to
have to go who knows where?"
And then my mind made its first earnest effort to comprehend what had
been infused into it concerning heaven and hell; and for the first time
it recoiled, baffled; and for the first time glancing behind, on each
side, and before it, it saw all round an unfathomed gulf: it felt the one
point where it stood--the present; all the rest was formless cloud and
vacant depth; and it shuddered at the thought of tottering, and plunging
amid that chaos. While pondering this new idea, I heard the front door
open; Mr. Bates came out, and with him was a nurse. After she had seen
him mount his horse and depart, she was about to close the door, but I
ran up to her.
"How is Helen Burns?"
"Very poorly," was the answer.
"Is it her Mr. Bates has been to see?"
"Yes."
"And what does he say about her?"
"He says she'll not be here long."
This phrase, uttered in my hearing yesterday, would have only conveyed
the notion that she was about to be removed to Northumberland, to her own
home. I should not have suspected that it meant she was dying; but I
knew instantly now! It opened clear on my comprehension that Helen Burns
was numbering her last days in this world, and that she was going to be
taken to the region of spirits, if such region there were. I experienced
a shock of horror, then a strong thrill of grief, then a desire--a
necessity to see her; and I asked in what room she lay.
"She is in Miss Temple's room," said the nurse.
"May I go up and speak to her?"
"Oh no, child! It is not likely; and now it is time for you to come in;
you'll catch the fever if you stop out when the dew is falling."
The nurse closed the front door; I went in by the side entrance which led
to the schoolroom: I was just in time; it was nine o'clock, and Miss
Miller was calling the pupils to go to bed.
It might be two hours later, probably near eleven, when I--not having
been able to fall asleep, and deeming, from the perfect silence of the
dormitory, that my companions were all wrapt in profound repose--rose
softly, put on my frock over my night-dress, and, without shoes, crept
from the apartment, and set off in quest of Miss Temple's room. It was
quite at the other end of the house; but I knew my way; and the light of
the unclouded summer moon, entering here and there at passage windows,
enabled me to find it without difficulty. An odour of camphor and burnt
vinegar warned me when I came near the fever room: and I passed its door
quickly, fearful lest the nurse who sat up all night should hear me. I
dreaded being discovered and sent back; for I _must_ see Helen,--I must
embrace her before she died,--I must give her one last kiss, exchange
with her one last word.
Having descended a staircase, traversed a portion of the house below, and
succeeded in opening and shutting, without noise, two doors, I reached
another flight of steps; these I mounted, and then just opposite to me
was Miss Temple's room. A light shone through the keyhole and from under
the door; a profound stillness pervaded the vicinity. Coming near, I
found the door slightly ajar; probably to admit some fresh air into the
close abode of sickness. Indisposed to hesitate, and full of impatient
impulses--soul and senses quivering with keen throes--I put it back and
looked in. My eye sought Helen, and feared to find death.
Close by Miss Temple's bed, and half covered with its white curtains,
there stood a little crib. I saw the outline of a form under the
clothes, but the face was hid by the hangings: the nurse I had spoken to
in the garden sat in an easy-chair asleep; an unsnuffed candle burnt
dimly on the table. Miss Temple was not to be seen: I knew afterwards
that she had been called to a delirious patient in the fever-room. I
advanced; then paused by the crib side: my hand was on the curtain, but I
preferred speaking before I withdrew it. I still recoiled at the dread
of seeing a corpse.
"Helen!" I whispered softly, "are you awake?"
She stirred herself, put back the curtain, and I saw her face, pale,
wasted, but quite composed: she looked so little changed that my fear was
instantly dissipated.
"Can it be you, Jane?" she asked, in her own gentle voice.
"Oh!" I thought, "she is not going to die; they are mistaken: she could
not speak and look so calmly if she were."
I got on to her crib and kissed her: her forehead was cold, and her cheek
both cold and thin, and so were her hand and wrist; but she smiled as of
old.
"Why are you come here, Jane? It is past eleven o'clock: I heard it
strike some minutes since."
"I came to see you, Helen: I heard you were very ill, and I could not
sleep till I had spoken to you."
"You came to bid me good-bye, then: you are just in time probably."
"Are you going somewhere, Helen? Are you going home?"
"Yes; to my long home--my last home."
"No, no, Helen!" I stopped, distressed. While I tried to devour my
tears, a fit of coughing seized Helen; it did not, however, wake the
nurse; when it was over, she lay some minutes exhausted; then she
whispered--
"Jane, your little feet are bare; lie down and cover yourself with my
quilt."
I did so: she put her arm over me, and I nestled close to her. After a
long silence, she resumed, still whispering--
"I am very happy, Jane; and when you hear that I am dead, you must be
sure and not grieve: there is nothing to grieve about. We all must die
one day, and the illness which is removing me is not painful; it is
gentle and gradual: my mind is at rest. I leave no one to regret me
much: I have only a father; and he is lately married, and will not miss
me. By dying young, I shall escape great sufferings. I had not
qualities or talents to make my way very well in the world: I should have
been continually at fault."
"But where are you going to, Helen? Can you see? Do you know?"
"I believe; I have faith: I am going to God."
"Where is God? What is God?"
"My Maker and yours, who will never destroy what He created. I rely
implicitly on His power, and confide wholly in His goodness: I count the
hours till that eventful one arrives which shall restore me to Him,
reveal Him to me."
"You are sure, then, Helen, that there is such a place as heaven, and
that our souls can get to it when we die?"
"I am sure there is a future state; I believe God is good; I can resign
my immortal part to Him without any misgiving. God is my father; God is
my friend: I love Him; I believe He loves me."
"And shall I see you again, Helen, when I die?"
"You will come to the same region of happiness: be received by the same
mighty, universal Parent, no doubt, dear Jane."
Again I questioned, but this time only in thought. "Where is that
region? Does it exist?" And I clasped my arms closer round Helen; she
seemed dearer to me than ever; I felt as if I could not let her go; I lay
with my face hidden on her neck. Presently she said, in the sweetest
tone--
"How comfortable I am! That last fit of coughing has tired me a little;
I feel as if I could sleep: but don't leave me, Jane; I like to have you
near me."
"I'll stay with you, _dear_ Helen: no one shall take me away."
"Are you warm, darling?"
"Yes."
"Good-night, Jane."
"Good-night, Helen."
She kissed me, and I her, and we both soon slumbered.
When I awoke it was day: an unusual movement roused me; I looked up; I
was in somebody's arms; the nurse held me; she was carrying me through
the passage back to the dormitory. I was not reprimanded for leaving my
bed; people had something else to think about; no explanation was
afforded then to my many questions; but a day or two afterwards I learned
that Miss Temple, on returning to her own room at dawn, had found me laid
in the little crib; my face against Helen Burns's shoulder, my arms round
her neck. I was asleep, and Helen was--dead.
Her grave is in Brocklebridge churchyard: for fifteen years after her
death it was only covered by a grassy mound; but now a grey marble tablet
marks the spot, inscribed with her name, and the word "Resurgam." | Lowood is beautiful in the springtime, and the hardships of winter are greatly reduced. However, typhus spreads through the school and infects over half the pupils. Classes are not held and the rules are relaxed. Miss Temple is entirely occupied attending the sick. Many girls die in the school and many others go home to die. Since there are only a few people to feed, there is finally an ample supply of food. Fear of infection keeps Mr. Brocklehurst and his family away from Lowood. Jane spends her time with another new friend, Mary Ann Wilson. Unfortunately, Helen is suffering from tuberculosis and is not allowed outside. One day Jane finds the doctor's pony at the garden door. The nurse tells her that he has come to see Helen Burns. Jane feels a strong desire to see her friend and rushes to her bedside. Helen seems happy that she is going to God. The next morning Jane is found asleep with her arms around the dead Helen. |
He had recently read a eulogy on a new method for curing club-foot, and
as he was a partisan of progress, he conceived the patriotic idea that
Yonville, in order to keep to the fore, ought to have some operations
for strephopody or club-foot.
"For," said he to Emma, "what risk is there? See--" (and he enumerated
on his fingers the advantages of the attempt), "success, almost certain
relief and beautifying of the patient, celebrity acquired by the
operator. Why, for example, should not your husband relieve poor
Hippolyte of the 'Lion d'Or'? Note that he would not fail to tell about
his cure to all the travellers, and then" (Homais lowered his voice and
looked round him) "who is to prevent me from sending a short paragraph
on the subject to the paper? Eh! goodness me! an article gets about; it
is talked of; it ends by making a snowball! And who knows? who knows?"
In fact, Bovary might succeed. Nothing proved to Emma that he was not
clever; and what a satisfaction for her to have urged him to a step by
which his reputation and fortune would be increased! She only wished to
lean on something more solid than love.
Charles, urged by the druggist and by her, allowed himself to be
persuaded. He sent to Rouen for Dr. Duval's volume, and every evening,
holding his head between both hands, plunged into the reading of it.
While he was studying equinus, varus, and valgus, that is to say,
katastrephopody, endostrephopody, and exostrephopody (or better, the
various turnings of the foot downwards, inwards, and outwards, with the
hypostrephopody and anastrephopody), otherwise torsion downwards and
upwards, Monsier Homais, with all sorts of arguments, was exhorting the
lad at the inn to submit to the operation.
"You will scarcely feel, probably, a slight pain; it is a simple prick,
like a little blood-letting, less than the extraction of certain corns."
Hippolyte, reflecting, rolled his stupid eyes.
"However," continued the chemist, "it doesn't concern me. It's for your
sake, for pure humanity! I should like to see you, my friend, rid of
your hideous caudication, together with that waddling of the lumbar
regions which, whatever you say, must considerably interfere with you in
the exercise of your calling."
Then Homais represented to him how much jollier and brisker he would
feel afterwards, and even gave him to understand that he would be more
likely to please the women; and the stable-boy began to smile heavily.
Then he attacked him through his vanity:
"Aren't you a man? Hang it! what would you have done if you had had to
go into the army, to go and fight beneath the standard? Ah! Hippolyte!"
And Homais retired, declaring that he could not understand this
obstinacy, this blindness in refusing the benefactions of science.
The poor fellow gave way, for it was like a conspiracy. Binet, who never
interfered with other people's business, Madame Lefrancois, Artemise,
the neighbours, even the mayor, Monsieur Tuvache--everyone persuaded
him, lectured him, shamed him; but what finally decided him was that it
would cost him nothing. Bovary even undertook to provide the machine
for the operation. This generosity was an idea of Emma's, and Charles
consented to it, thinking in his heart of hearts that his wife was an
angel.
So by the advice of the chemist, and after three fresh starts, he had a
kind of box made by the carpenter, with the aid of the locksmith,
that weighed about eight pounds, and in which iron, wood, sheer-iron,
leather, screws, and nuts had not been spared.
But to know which of Hippolyte's tendons to cut, it was necessary first
of all to find out what kind of club-foot he had.
He had a foot forming almost a straight line with the leg, which,
however, did not prevent it from being turned in, so that it was an
equinus together with something of a varus, or else a slight varus with
a strong tendency to equinus. But with this equinus, wide in foot like
a horse's hoof, with rugose skin, dry tendons, and large toes, on which
the black nails looked as if made of iron, the clubfoot ran about like
a deer from morn till night. He was constantly to be seen on the Place,
jumping round the carts, thrusting his limping foot forwards. He seemed
even stronger on that leg than the other. By dint of hard service it had
acquired, as it were, moral qualities of patience and energy; and
when he was given some heavy work, he stood on it in preference to its
fellow.
Now, as it was an equinus, it was necessary to cut the tendon of
Achilles, and, if need were, the anterior tibial muscle could be seen to
afterwards for getting rid of the varus; for the doctor did not dare to
risk both operations at once; he was even trembling already for fear of
injuring some important region that he did not know.
Neither Ambrose Pare, applying for the first time since Celsus, after an
interval of fifteen centuries, a ligature to an artery, nor Dupuytren,
about to open an abscess in the brain, nor Gensoul when he first took
away the superior maxilla, had hearts that trembled, hands that shook,
minds so strained as Monsieur Bovary when he approached Hippolyte, his
tenotome between his fingers. And as at hospitals, near by on a table
lay a heap of lint, with waxed thread, many bandages--a pyramid of
bandages--every bandage to be found at the druggist's. It was Monsieur
Homais who since morning had been organising all these preparations,
as much to dazzle the multitude as to keep up his illusions. Charles
pierced the skin; a dry crackling was heard. The tendon was cut, the
operation over. Hippolyte could not get over his surprise, but bent over
Bovary's hands to cover them with kisses.
"Come, be calm," said the druggist; "later on you will show your
gratitude to your benefactor."
And he went down to tell the result to five or six inquirers who were
waiting in the yard, and who fancied that Hippolyte would reappear
walking properly. Then Charles, having buckled his patient into the
machine, went home, where Emma, all anxiety, awaited him at the door.
She threw herself on his neck; they sat down to table; he ate much,
and at dessert he even wanted to take a cup of coffee, a luxury he only
permitted himself on Sundays when there was company.
The evening was charming, full of prattle, of dreams together. They
talked about their future fortune, of the improvements to be made in
their house; he saw people's estimation of him growing, his comforts
increasing, his wife always loving him; and she was happy to refresh
herself with a new sentiment, healthier, better, to feel at last some
tenderness for this poor fellow who adored her. The thought of Rodolphe
for one moment passed through her mind, but her eyes turned again to
Charles; she even noticed with surprise that he had not bad teeth.
They were in bed when Monsieur Homais, in spite of the servant, suddenly
entered the room, holding in his hand a sheet of paper just written. It
was the paragraph he intended for the "Fanal de Rouen." He brought it
for them to read.
"Read it yourself," said Bovary.
He read--
"'Despite the prejudices that still invest a part of the face of Europe
like a net, the light nevertheless begins to penetrate our country
places. Thus on Tuesday our little town of Yonville found itself the
scene of a surgical operation which is at the same time an act of
loftiest philanthropy. Monsieur Bovary, one of our most distinguished
practitioners--'"
"Oh, that is too much! too much!" said Charles, choking with emotion.
"No, no! not at all! What next!"
"'--Performed an operation on a club-footed man.' I have not used the
scientific term, because you know in a newspaper everyone would not
perhaps understand. The masses must--'"
"No doubt," said Bovary; "go on!"
"I proceed," said the chemist. "'Monsieur Bovary, one of our most
distinguished practitioners, performed an operation on a club-footed man
called Hippolyte Tautain, stableman for the last twenty-five years at
the hotel of the "Lion d'Or," kept by Widow Lefrancois, at the Place
d'Armes. The novelty of the attempt, and the interest incident to the
subject, had attracted such a concourse of persons that there was
a veritable obstruction on the threshold of the establishment. The
operation, moreover, was performed as if by magic, and barely a
few drops of blood appeared on the skin, as though to say that the
rebellious tendon had at last given way beneath the efforts of art. The
patient, strangely enough--we affirm it as an eye-witness--complained
of no pain. His condition up to the present time leaves nothing to be
desired. Everything tends to show that his convelescence will be brief;
and who knows even if at our next village festivity we shall not see our
good Hippolyte figuring in the bacchic dance in the midst of a chorus
of joyous boon-companions, and thus proving to all eyes by his verve
and his capers his complete cure? Honour, then, to the generous savants!
Honour to those indefatigable spirits who consecrate their vigils to the
amelioration or to the alleviation of their kind! Honour, thrice honour!
Is it not time to cry that the blind shall see, the deaf hear, the lame
walk? But that which fanaticism formerly promised to its elect, science
now accomplishes for all men. We shall keep our readers informed as to
the successive phases of this remarkable cure.'"
This did not prevent Mere Lefrancois, from coming five days after,
scared, and crying out--
"Help! he is dying! I am going crazy!"
Charles rushed to the "Lion d'Or," and the chemist, who caught sight
of him passing along the Place hatless, abandoned his shop. He appeared
himself breathless, red, anxious, and asking everyone who was going up
the stairs--
"Why, what's the matter with our interesting strephopode?"
The strephopode was writhing in hideous convulsions, so that the machine
in which his leg was enclosed was knocked against the wall enough to
break it.
With many precautions, in order not to disturb the position of the limb,
the box was removed, and an awful sight presented itself. The outlines
of the foot disappeared in such a swelling that the entire skin seemed
about to burst, and it was covered with ecchymosis, caused by the famous
machine. Hippolyte had already complained of suffering from it. No
attention had been paid to him; they had to acknowledge that he had not
been altogether wrong, and he was freed for a few hours. But, hardly had
the oedema gone down to some extent, than the two savants thought fit
to put back the limb in the apparatus, strapping it tighter to hasten
matters. At last, three days after, Hippolyte being unable to endure it
any longer, they once more removed the machine, and were much surprised
at the result they saw. The livid tumefaction spread over the leg, with
blisters here and there, whence there oozed a black liquid. Matters
were taking a serious turn. Hippolyte began to worry himself, and Mere
Lefrancois, had him installed in the little room near the kitchen, so
that he might at least have some distraction.
But the tax-collector, who dined there every day, complained bitterly of
such companionship. Then Hippolyte was removed to the billiard-room.
He lay there moaning under his heavy coverings, pale with long beard,
sunken eyes, and from time to time turning his perspiring head on the
dirty pillow, where the flies alighted. Madame Bovary went to see him.
She brought him linen for his poultices; she comforted, and encouraged
him. Besides, he did not want for company, especially on market-days,
when the peasants were knocking about the billiard-balls round him,
fenced with the cues, smoked, drank, sang, and brawled.
"How are you?" they said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Ah! you're not
up to much, it seems, but it's your own fault. You should do this! do
that!" And then they told him stories of people who had all been cured
by other remedies than his. Then by way of consolation they added--
"You give way too much! Get up! You coddle yourself like a king! All the
same, old chap, you don't smell nice!"
Gangrene, in fact, was spreading more and more. Bovary himself turned
sick at it. He came every hour, every moment. Hippolyte looked at him
with eyes full of terror, sobbing--
"When shall I get well? Oh, save me! How unfortunate I am! How
unfortunate I am!"
And the doctor left, always recommending him to diet himself.
"Don't listen to him, my lad," said Mere Lefrancois, "Haven't they
tortured you enough already? You'll grow still weaker. Here! swallow
this."
And she gave him some good beef-tea, a slice of mutton, a piece of
bacon, and sometimes small glasses of brandy, that he had not the
strength to put to his lips.
Abbe Bournisien, hearing that he was growing worse, asked to see him.
He began by pitying his sufferings, declaring at the same time that he
ought to rejoice at them since it was the will of the Lord, and take
advantage of the occasion to reconcile himself to Heaven.
"For," said the ecclesiastic in a paternal tone, "you rather neglected
your duties; you were rarely seen at divine worship. How many years is
it since you approached the holy table? I understand that your work,
that the whirl of the world may have kept you from care for your
salvation. But now is the time to reflect. Yet don't despair. I have
known great sinners, who, about to appear before God (you are not yet
at this point I know), had implored His mercy, and who certainly died in
the best frame of mind. Let us hope that, like them, you will set us a
good example. Thus, as a precaution, what is to prevent you from saying
morning and evening a 'Hail Mary, full of grace,' and 'Our Father which
art in heaven'? Yes, do that, for my sake, to oblige me. That won't cost
you anything. Will you promise me?"
The poor devil promised. The cure came back day after day. He chatted
with the landlady; and even told anecdotes interspersed with jokes and
puns that Hippolyte did not understand. Then, as soon as he could, he
fell back upon matters of religion, putting on an appropriate expression
of face.
His zeal seemed successful, for the club-foot soon manifested a desire
to go on a pilgrimage to Bon-Secours if he were cured; to which Monsieur
Bournisien replied that he saw no objection; two precautions were better
than one; it was no risk anyhow.
The druggist was indignant at what he called the manoeuvres of the
priest; they were prejudicial, he said, to Hippolyte's convalescence,
and he kept repeating to Madame Lefrancois, "Leave him alone! leave him
alone! You perturb his morals with your mysticism." But the good woman
would no longer listen to him; he was the cause of it all. From a spirit
of contradiction she hung up near the bedside of the patient a basin
filled with holy-water and a branch of box.
Religion, however, seemed no more able to succour him than surgery, and
the invincible gangrene still spread from the extremities towards
the stomach. It was all very well to vary the potions and change the
poultices; the muscles each day rotted more and more; and at last
Charles replied by an affirmative nod of the head when Mere Lefrancois,
asked him if she could not, as a forlorn hope, send for Monsieur Canivet
of Neufchatel, who was a celebrity.
A doctor of medicine, fifty years of age, enjoying a good position
and self-possessed, Charles's colleague did not refrain from laughing
disdainfully when he had uncovered the leg, mortified to the knee. Then
having flatly declared that it must be amputated, he went off to the
chemist's to rail at the asses who could have reduced a poor man to such
a state. Shaking Monsieur Homais by the button of his coat, he shouted
out in the shop--
"These are the inventions of Paris! These are the ideas of those gentry
of the capital! It is like strabismus, chloroform, lithotrity, a heap of
monstrosities that the Government ought to prohibit. But they want to do
the clever, and they cram you with remedies without, troubling about
the consequences. We are not so clever, not we! We are not savants,
coxcombs, fops! We are practitioners; we cure people, and we should
not dream of operating on anyone who is in perfect health. Straighten
club-feet! As if one could straighten club-feet! It is as if one wished,
for example, to make a hunchback straight!"
Homais suffered as he listened to this discourse, and he concealed his
discomfort beneath a courtier's smile; for he needed to humour Monsier
Canivet, whose prescriptions sometimes came as far as Yonville. So he
did not take up the defence of Bovary; he did not even make a single
remark, and, renouncing his principles, he sacrificed his dignity to the
more serious interests of his business.
This amputation of the thigh by Doctor Canivet was a great event in the
village. On that day all the inhabitants got up earlier, and the Grande
Rue, although full of people, had something lugubrious about it, as
if an execution had been expected. At the grocer's they discussed
Hippolyte's illness; the shops did no business, and Madame Tuvache, the
mayor's wife, did not stir from her window, such was her impatience to
see the operator arrive.
He came in his gig, which he drove himself. But the springs of the right
side having at length given way beneath the weight of his corpulence, it
happened that the carriage as it rolled along leaned over a little, and
on the other cushion near him could be seen a large box covered in red
sheep-leather, whose three brass clasps shone grandly.
After he had entered like a whirlwind the porch of the "Lion d'Or," the
doctor, shouting very loud, ordered them to unharness his horse. Then he
went into the stable to see that she was eating her oats all right; for
on arriving at a patient's he first of all looked after his mare and his
gig. People even said about this--
"Ah! Monsieur Canivet's a character!"
And he was the more esteemed for this imperturbable coolness. The
universe to the last man might have died, and he would not have missed
the smallest of his habits.
Homais presented himself.
"I count on you," said the doctor. "Are we ready? Come along!"
But the druggist, turning red, confessed that he was too sensitive to
assist at such an operation.
"When one is a simple spectator," he said, "the imagination, you know,
is impressed. And then I have such a nervous system!"
"Pshaw!" interrupted Canivet; "on the contrary, you seem to me inclined
to apoplexy. Besides, that doesn't astonish me, for you chemist fellows
are always poking about your kitchens, which must end by spoiling your
constitutions. Now just look at me. I get up every day at four o'clock;
I shave with cold water (and am never cold). I don't wear flannels, and
I never catch cold; my carcass is good enough! I live now in one way,
now in another, like a philosopher, taking pot-luck; that is why I
am not squeamish like you, and it is as indifferent to me to carve a
Christian as the first fowl that turns up. Then, perhaps, you will say,
habit! habit!"
Then, without any consideration for Hippolyte, who was sweating with
agony between his sheets, these gentlemen entered into a conversation,
in which the druggist compared the coolness of a surgeon to that of a
general; and this comparison was pleasing to Canivet, who launched out
on the exigencies of his art. He looked upon, it as a sacred office,
although the ordinary practitioners dishonoured it. At last, coming back
to the patient, he examined the bandages brought by Homais, the same
that had appeared for the club-foot, and asked for someone to hold the
limb for him. Lestiboudois was sent for, and Monsieur Canivet having
turned up his sleeves, passed into the billiard-room, while the druggist
stayed with Artemise and the landlady, both whiter than their aprons,
and with ears strained towards the door.
Bovary during this time did not dare to stir from his house.
He kept downstairs in the sitting-room by the side of the fireless
chimney, his chin on his breast, his hands clasped, his eyes staring.
"What a mishap!" he thought, "what a mishap!" Perhaps, after all, he had
made some slip. He thought it over, but could hit upon nothing. But the
most famous surgeons also made mistakes; and that is what no one would
ever believe! People, on the contrary, would laugh, jeer! It would
spread as far as Forges, as Neufchatel, as Rouen, everywhere! Who could
say if his colleagues would not write against him. Polemics would ensue;
he would have to answer in the papers. Hippolyte might even prosecute
him. He saw himself dishonoured, ruined, lost; and his imagination,
assailed by a world of hypotheses, tossed amongst them like an empty
cask borne by the sea and floating upon the waves.
Emma, opposite, watched him; she did not share his humiliation; she felt
another--that of having supposed such a man was worth anything. As if
twenty times already she had not sufficiently perceived his mediocrity.
Charles was walking up and down the room; his boots creaked on the
floor.
"Sit down," she said; "you fidget me."
He sat down again.
How was it that she--she, who was so intelligent--could have allowed
herself to be deceived again? and through what deplorable madness had
she thus ruined her life by continual sacrifices? She recalled all her
instincts of luxury, all the privations of her soul, the sordidness of
marriage, of the household, her dream sinking into the mire like wounded
swallows; all that she had longed for, all that she had denied herself,
all that she might have had! And for what? for what?
In the midst of the silence that hung over the village a heart-rending
cry rose on the air. Bovary turned white to fainting. She knit her
brows with a nervous gesture, then went on. And it was for him, for this
creature, for this man, who understood nothing, who felt nothing! For he
was there quite quiet, not even suspecting that the ridicule of his name
would henceforth sully hers as well as his. She had made efforts to love
him, and she had repented with tears for having yielded to another!
"But it was perhaps a valgus!" suddenly exclaimed Bovary, who was
meditating.
At the unexpected shock of this phrase falling on her thought like a
leaden bullet on a silver plate, Emma, shuddering, raised her head in
order to find out what he meant to say; and they looked at the other in
silence, almost amazed to see each other, so far sundered were they
by their inner thoughts. Charles gazed at her with the dull look of
a drunken man, while he listened motionless to the last cries of the
sufferer, that followed each other in long-drawn modulations, broken by
sharp spasms like the far-off howling of some beast being slaughtered.
Emma bit her wan lips, and rolling between her fingers a piece of coral
that she had broken, fixed on Charles the burning glance of her eyes
like two arrows of fire about to dart forth. Everything in him irritated
her now; his face, his dress, what he did not say, his whole person, his
existence, in fine. She repented of her past virtue as of a crime, and
what still remained of it rumbled away beneath the furious blows of her
pride. She revelled in all the evil ironies of triumphant adultery.
The memory of her lover came back to her with dazzling attractions; she
threw her whole soul into it, borne away towards this image with a fresh
enthusiasm; and Charles seemed to her as much removed from her life, as
absent forever, as impossible and annihilated, as if he had been about
to die and were passing under her eyes.
There was a sound of steps on the pavement. Charles looked up, and
through the lowered blinds he saw at the corner of the market in
the broad sunshine Dr. Canivet, who was wiping his brow with his
handkerchief. Homais, behind him, was carrying a large red box in his
hand, and both were going towards the chemist's.
Then with a feeling of sudden tenderness and discouragement Charles
turned to his wife saying to her--
"Oh, kiss me, my own!"
"Leave me!" she said, red with anger.
"What is the matter?" he asked, stupefied. "Be calm; compose yourself.
You know well enough that I love you. Come!"
"Enough!" she cried with a terrible look.
And escaping from the room, Emma closed the door so violently that the
barometer fell from the wall and smashed on the floor.
Charles sank back into his arm-chair overwhelmed, trying to discover
what could be wrong with her, fancying some nervous illness, weeping,
and vaguely feeling something fatal and incomprehensible whirling round
him.
When Rodolphe came to the garden that evening, he found his mistress
waiting for him at the foot of the steps on the lowest stair. They threw
their arms round one another, and all their rancour melted like snow
beneath the warmth of that kiss. | One day it was learned that a doctor in Rouen had published a remarkable new surgical procedure for curing clubfoot. Emma and Homais urged Charles to carry out the new operation on Hippolyte, the crippled servant at the inn. Emma hoped in this way to advance Bovary in his career and thus satisfy her desire to be a good wife; she had many daydreams about the wealth and increased prestige to which his success would entitle them. Homais expected to gain personal repute from his own part in the operation and to bring more business to Yonville as word of the cure spread. Neither Homais nor Emma was particularly concerned with the safety of the operation or the well-being of Hippolyte. Bovary was dubious about the new technique and was unwilling to cooperate, but, under the combined pressure of Emma and Homais, finally gave in. Moreover, nearly everyone in the town, including the mayor, was a staunch advocate of the new operation, for they had all been convinced by Homais of its advantage to them. Their ceaseless prodding continued until Bovary was ready to proceed. Hippolyte was terrified and confused by the whole idea, but he was a simple youth and was induced to volunteer his body for the sake of Yonville and Science. The operation was carried out by Homais and Charles in the local inn. At first it seemed a success, but Hippolyte soon became ill and suffered terrible pain. It was discovered that his leg was infested with gangrene. Bovary was very upset and unable to act; so a consultant was called in from another town. The doctor sternly admonished Bovary for his foolish treatment and amputated the patient's leg. Homais, meanwhile, disclaimed any responsibility, and Emma was disgusted by what she interpreted as a further demonstration of Charles' stupid incompetence. In fact, however, the fault was not entirely Bovary's although no one recognized this. Some of the blame also belonged to the specialist who had published an untested and undependable "cure." Bovary and Emma were both depressed by this incident, although for different reasons. He was ashamed of what he had done and felt that he had been irresponsible. She reproached herself for ever having had faith in him and decided that she was now absolved of any responsibility to her husband. Her passion for Rodolphe flared up again, and she saw him that night for the first time in many days. Charles, in his simplicity, assumed that Emma's depression had been caused by sympathy for him and was gratified by her demonstration of devotion. |
SCENE II.
A room of state in TIMON'S house
Hautboys playing loud music. A great banquet serv'd in;
FLAVIUS and others attending; and then enter LORD TIMON, the
states,
the ATHENIAN LORDS, VENTIDIUS, which TIMON redeem'd from prison.
Then comes, dropping after all, APEMANTUS, discontentedly, like
himself
VENTIDIUS. Most honoured Timon,
It hath pleas'd the gods to remember my father's age,
And call him to long peace.
He is gone happy, and has left me rich.
Then, as in grateful virtue I am bound
To your free heart, I do return those talents,
Doubled with thanks and service, from whose help
I deriv'd liberty.
TIMON. O, by no means,
Honest Ventidius! You mistake my love;
I gave it freely ever; and there's none
Can truly say he gives, if he receives.
If our betters play at that game, we must not dare
To imitate them: faults that are rich are fair.
VENTIDIUS. A noble spirit!
TIMON. Nay, my lords, ceremony was but devis'd at first
To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes,
Recanting goodness, sorry ere 'tis shown;
But where there is true friendship there needs none.
Pray, sit; more welcome are ye to my fortunes
Than my fortunes to me. [They sit]
FIRST LORD. My lord, we always have confess'd it.
APEMANTUS. Ho, ho, confess'd it! Hang'd it, have you not?
TIMON. O, Apemantus, you are welcome.
APEMANTUS. No;
You shall not make me welcome.
I come to have thee thrust me out of doors.
TIMON. Fie, th'art a churl; ye have got a humour there
Does not become a man; 'tis much to blame.
They say, my lords, Ira furor brevis est; but yond man is
ever
angry. Go, let him have a table by himself; for he does
neither
affect company nor is he fit for't indeed.
APEMANTUS. Let me stay at thine apperil, Timon.
I come to observe; I give thee warning on't.
TIMON. I take no heed of thee. Th'art an Athenian, therefore
welcome. I myself would have no power; prithee let my meat
make
thee silent.
APEMANTUS. I scorn thy meat; 't'would choke me, for I should
ne'er
flatter thee. O you gods, what a number of men eats Timon,
and he
sees 'em not! It grieves me to see so many dip their meat in
one
man's blood; and all the madness is, he cheers them up too.
I wonder men dare trust themselves with men.
Methinks they should invite them without knives:
Good for their meat and safer for their lives.
There's much example for't; the fellow that sits next him
now,
parts bread with him, pledges the breath of him in a divided
draught, is the readiest man to kill him. 'T has been proved.
If
I were a huge man I should fear to drink at meals.
Lest they should spy my windpipe's dangerous notes:
Great men should drink with harness on their throats.
TIMON. My lord, in heart! and let the health go round.
SECOND LORD. Let it flow this way, my good lord.
APEMANTUS. Flow this way! A brave fellow! He keeps his tides
well.
Those healths will make thee and thy state look ill, Timon.
Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner, honest water,
which
ne'er left man i' th' mire.
This and my food are equals; there's no odds.
Feasts are too proud to give thanks to the gods.
APEMANTUS' Grace
Immortal gods, I crave no pelf;
I pray for no man but myself.
Grant I may never prove so fond
To trust man on his oath or bond,
Or a harlot for her weeping,
Or a dog that seems a-sleeping,
Or a keeper with my freedom,
Or my friends, if I should need 'em.
Amen. So fall to't.
Rich men sin, and I eat root. [Eats and drinks]
Much good dich thy good heart, Apemantus!
TIMON. Captain Alcibiades, your heart's in the field now.
ALCIBIADES. My heart is ever at your service, my lord.
TIMON. You had rather be at a breakfast of enemies than dinner
of
friends.
ALCIBIADES. So they were bleeding new, my lord, there's no meat
like 'em; I could wish my best friend at such a feast.
APEMANTUS. Would all those flatterers were thine enemies then,
that
then thou mightst kill 'em, and bid me to 'em.
FIRST LORD. Might we but have that happiness, my lord, that you
would once use our hearts, whereby we might express some part
of
our zeals, we should think ourselves for ever perfect.
TIMON. O, no doubt, my good friends, but the gods themselves
have
provided that I shall have much help from you. How had you
been
my friends else? Why have you that charitable title from
thousands, did not you chiefly belong to my heart? I have
told
more of you to myself than you can with modesty speak in your
own
behalf; and thus far I confirm you. O you gods, think I, what
need we have any friends if we should ne'er have need of 'em?
They were the most needless creatures living, should we ne'er
have use for 'em; and would most resemble sweet instruments
hung
up in cases, that keep their sounds to themselves. Why, I
have
often wish'd myself poorer, that I might come nearer to you.
We
are born to do benefits; and what better or properer can we
call
our own than the riches of our friends? O, what a precious
comfort 'tis to have so many like brothers commanding one
another's fortunes! O, joy's e'en made away ere't can be
born!
Mine eyes cannot hold out water, methinks. To forget their
faults, I drink to you.
APEMANTUS. Thou weep'st to make them drink, Timon.
SECOND LORD. Joy had the like conception in our eyes,
And at that instant like a babe sprung up.
APEMANTUS. Ho, ho! I laugh to think that babe a bastard.
THIRD LORD. I promise you, my lord, you mov'd me much.
APEMANTUS. Much! [Sound tucket]
TIMON. What means that trump?
Enter a SERVANT
How now?
SERVANT. Please you, my lord, there are certain ladies most
desirous of admittance.
TIMON. Ladies! What are their wills?
SERVANT. There comes with them a forerunner, my lord, which
bears
that office to signify their pleasures.
TIMON. I pray let them be admitted.
Enter CUPID
CUPID. Hail to thee, worthy Timon, and to all
That of his bounties taste! The five best Senses
Acknowledge thee their patron, and come freely
To gratulate thy plenteous bosom. Th' Ear,
Taste, Touch, Smell, pleas'd from thy table rise;
They only now come but to feast thine eyes.
TIMON. They're welcome all; let 'em have kind admittance.
Music, make their welcome. Exit CUPID
FIRST LORD. You see, my lord, how ample y'are belov'd.
Music. Re-enter CUPID, witb a Masque of LADIES as Amazons,
with lutes in their hands, dancing and playing
APEMANTUS. Hoy-day, what a sweep of vanity comes this way!
They dance? They are mad women.
Like madness is the glory of this life,
As this pomp shows to a little oil and root.
We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves,
And spend our flatteries to drink those men
Upon whose age we void it up again
With poisonous spite and envy.
Who lives that's not depraved or depraves?
Who dies that bears not one spurn to their graves
Of their friends' gift?
I should fear those that dance before me now
Would one day stamp upon me. 'T has been done:
Men shut their doors against a setting sun.
The LORDS rise from table, with much adoring of
TIMON; and to show their loves, each single out an
Amazon, and all dance, men with women, a lofty
strain or two to the hautboys, and cease
TIMON. You have done our pleasures much grace, fair ladies,
Set a fair fashion on our entertainment,
Which was not half so beautiful and kind;
You have added worth unto't and lustre,
And entertain'd me with mine own device;
I am to thank you for't.
FIRST LADY. My lord, you take us even at the best.
APEMANTUS. Faith, for the worst is filthy, and would not hold
taking, I doubt me.
TIMON. Ladies, there is an idle banquet attends you;
Please you to dispose yourselves.
ALL LADIES. Most thankfully, my lord.
Exeunt CUPID and LADIES
TIMON. Flavius!
FLAVIUS. My lord?
TIMON. The little casket bring me hither.
FLAVIUS. Yes, my lord. [Aside] More jewels yet!
There is no crossing him in's humour,
Else I should tell him- well i' faith, I should-
When all's spent, he'd be cross'd then, an he could.
'Tis pity bounty had not eyes behind,
That man might ne'er be wretched for his mind. Exit
FIRST LORD. Where be our men?
SERVANT. Here, my lord, in readiness.
SECOND LORD. Our horses!
Re-enter FLAVIUS, with the casket
TIMON. O my friends,
I have one word to say to you. Look you, my good lord,
I must entreat you honour me so much
As to advance this jewel; accept it and wear it,
Kind my lord.
FIRST LORD. I am so far already in your gifts-
ALL. So are we all.
Enter a SERVANT
SERVANT. My lord, there are certain nobles of the Senate newly
alighted and come to visit you.
TIMON. They are fairly welcome. Exit SERVANT
FLAVIUS. I beseech your honour, vouchsafe me a word; it does
concern you near.
TIMON. Near! Why then, another time I'll hear thee. I prithee
let's
be provided to show them entertainment.
FLAVIUS. [Aside] I scarce know how.
Enter another SERVANT
SECOND SERVANT. May it please vour honour, Lord Lucius, out of
his
free love, hath presented to you four milk-white horses,
trapp'd
in silver.
TIMON. I shall accept them fairly. Let the presents
Be worthily entertain'd. Exit SERVANT
Enter a third SERVANT
How now! What news?
THIRD SERVANT. Please you, my lord, that honourable gentleman,
Lord
Lucullus, entreats your company to-morrow to hunt with him
and
has sent your honour two brace of greyhounds.
TIMON. I'll hunt with him; and let them be receiv'd,
Not without fair reward. Exit SERVANT
FLAVIUS. [Aside] What will this come to?
He commands us to provide and give great gifts,
And all out of an empty coffer;
Nor will he know his purse, or yield me this,
To show him what a beggar his heart is,
Being of no power to make his wishes good.
His promises fly so beyond his state
That what he speaks is all in debt; he owes
For ev'ry word. He is so kind that he now
Pays interest for't; his land's put to their books.
Well, would I were gently put out of office
Before I were forc'd out!
Happier is he that has no friend to feed
Than such that do e'en enemies exceed.
I bleed inwardly for my lord. Exit
TIMON. You do yourselves much wrong;
You bate too much of your own merits.
Here, my lord, a trifle of our love.
SECOND LORD. With more than common thanks I will receive it.
THIRD LORD. O, he's the very soul of bounty!
TIMON. And now I remember, my lord, you gave good words the
other
day of a bay courser I rode on. 'Tis yours because you lik'd
it.
THIRD LORD. O, I beseech you pardon me, my lord, in that.
TIMON. You may take my word, my lord: I know no man
Can justly praise but what he does affect.
I weigh my friend's affection with mine own.
I'll tell you true; I'll call to you.
ALL LORDS. O, none so welcome!
TIMON. I take all and your several visitations
So kind to heart 'tis not enough to give;
Methinks I could deal kingdoms to my friends
And ne'er be weary. Alcibiades,
Thou art a soldier, therefore seldom rich.
It comes in charity to thee; for all thy living
Is 'mongst the dead, and all the lands thou hast
Lie in a pitch'd field.
ALCIBIADES. Ay, defil'd land, my lord.
FIRST LORD. We are so virtuously bound-
TIMON. And so am I to you.
SECOND LORD. So infinitely endear'd-
TIMON. All to you. Lights, more lights!
FIRST LORD. The best of happiness, honour, and fortunes, keep
with
you, Lord Timon!
TIMON. Ready for his friends.
Exeunt all but APEMANTUS and TIMON
APEMANTUS. What a coil's here!
Serving of becks and jutting-out of bums!
I doubt whether their legs be worth the sums
That are given for 'em. Friendship's full of dregs:
Methinks false hearts should never have sound legs.
Thus honest fools lay out their wealth on curtsies.
TIMON. Now, Apemantus, if thou wert not sullen
I would be good to thee.
APEMANTUS. No, I'll nothing; for if I should be brib'd too,
there
would be none left to rail upon thee, and then thou wouldst
sin
the faster. Thou giv'st so long, Timon, I fear me thou wilt
give
away thyself in paper shortly. What needs these feasts,
pomps,
and vain-glories?
TIMON. Nay, an you begin to rail on society once, I am sworn
not to
give regard to you. Farewell; and come with better music.
Exit
APEMANTUS. So. Thou wilt not hear me now: thou shalt not then.
I'll
lock thy heaven from thee.
O that men's ears should be
To counsel deaf, but not to flattery! Exit | Timon and all his friends and servants enter, followed by a lagging Apemantus. A man named Venditius, just released from prison, thanks Timon for paying for his release. He says he hopes to repay Timon someday, but Timon says he gave the money out of love, and he won't feel that he has truly been generous if he gets anything back. All the lords acknowledge these deeds, but Timon says there's no need for ceremony among friends. Apemantus makes a snickering comment, so Timon welcomes him, but again Apemantus refuses his welcome. Timon sends Apemantus to a distant table by himself so his bad temper won't infect the rest of the party. Apemantus declares that he has come to the feast merely to observe, and he scorns Timon's proffered food, saying he won't be paid to flatter Timon. He is horrified at the mob of senators and lords who eat up Timon's feast like birds of prey would eat Timon's flesh. Yet Timon doesn't notice them diminishing his bounty, he rather urges them on. The other lords give thanks to the gods, but Apemantus says his own grace, declaring he will never trust the oath or bond of anyone, and he prays for no one but himself. Timon speaks to Alcibiades, asking him if he would rather be out in the field with his soldiers. Alcibiades says he would rather be at the feast, and Apemantus scorns him for flattery. A lord says to Timon that he wishes Timon would come to some trial whereby all his friends could help him out for once. But Timon says they all help him by being his friends, and he was born to help them out and benefit them, sharing his bounty with his friends. A servant announces several ladies outside who have asked to be admitted to the feast. A group of ladies disguised as Amazons enter and perform a dance for the feasters. Apemantus criticizes the dancers, calling them madwomen and depraved flatterers. The other lords join the ladies in dancing before the ladies depart. Then Timon calls his servant Flavius to bring in a small casket. Flavius notes to himself that Timon's bounty is running out, but he can't say anything to Timon about it when he is in a giving mood. Flavius returns with the casket, and from it Timon gives jewels to all the lords. Flavius asks Timon if he may speak to him about an important matter, but Timon puts him off. One servant enters, announcing that nobles of the senate have come to visit. Another servant enters to say that Lord Lucius has sent Timon a gift, and a third servant announces Lord Lucullus's gifts. Flavius notes to himself that Timon gives great gifts to these lords out of an empty coffer, and he refuses to listen to an account of his holdings. Now Timon has become bankrupt, so that all his gifts are based on debt. He owes money on every gift, having mortgaged all his lands. Timon ruins himself faster by providing for friends than by struggling with enemies, declares Flavius. Timon then bestows an array of gifts on the lords in attendance. He gives his horse to one lord, money to Alcibiades. The lords say how indebted they are to Timon, and depart. Apemantus remains with Timon. Timon says he would give Apemantus a gift too if only he would be less sullen, but Apemantus says there would be no one to criticize Timon if he is bribed, and then Timon's downfall would come even faster. Timon swears he won't listen to Apemantus and departs. Apemantus says he wishes men would listen to advice more readily than they do to flattery. |
WALTON, _in continuation_.
August 26th, 17--.
You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do you not
feel your blood congealed with horror, like that which even now curdles
mine? Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he could not continue his
tale; at others, his voice broken, yet piercing, uttered with difficulty
the words so replete with agony. His fine and lovely eyes were now
lighted up with indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow, and
quenched in infinite wretchedness. Sometimes he commanded his
countenance and tones, and related the most horrible incidents with a
tranquil voice, suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like a
volcano bursting forth, his face would suddenly change to an expression
of the wildest rage, as he shrieked out imprecations on his persecutor.
His tale is connected, and told with an appearance of the simplest
truth; yet I own to you that the letters of Felix and Safie, which he
shewed me, and the apparition of the monster, seen from our ship,
brought to me a greater conviction of the truth of his narrative than
his asseverations, however earnest and connected. Such a monster has
then really existence; I cannot doubt it; yet I am lost in surprise and
admiration. Sometimes I endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein the
particulars of his creature's formation; but on this point he was
impenetrable.
"Are you mad, my friend?" said he, "or whither does your senseless
curiosity lead you? Would you also create for yourself and the world a
demoniacal enemy? Or to what do your questions tend? Peace, peace! learn
my miseries, and do not seek to increase your own."
Frankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning his history: he
asked to see them, and then himself corrected and augmented them in many
places; but principally in giving the life and spirit to the
conversations he held with his enemy. "Since you have preserved my
narration," said he, "I would not that a mutilated one should go down to
posterity."
Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest tale
that ever imagination formed. My thoughts, and every feeling of my soul,
have been drunk up by the interest for my guest, which this tale, and
his own elevated and gentle manners have created. I wish to soothe him;
yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable, so destitute of every
hope of consolation, to live? Oh, no! the only joy that he can now know
will be when he composes his shattered feelings to peace and death. Yet
he enjoys one comfort, the offspring of solitude and delirium: he
believes, that, when in dreams he holds converse with his friends, and
derives from that communion consolation for his miseries, or excitements
to his vengeance, that they are not the creations of his fancy, but the
real beings who visit him from the regions of a remote world. This faith
gives a solemnity to his reveries that render them to me almost as
imposing and interesting as truth.
Our conversations are not always confined to his own history and
misfortunes. On every point of general literature he displays unbounded
knowledge, and a quick and piercing apprehension. His eloquence is
forcible and touching; nor can I hear him, when he relates a pathetic
incident, or endeavours to move the passions of pity or love, without
tears. What a glorious creature must he have been in the days of his
prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin. He seems to feel
his own worth, and the greatness of his fall.
"When younger," said he, "I felt as if I were destined for some great
enterprise. My feelings are profound; but I possessed a coolness of
judgment that fitted me for illustrious achievements. This sentiment of
the worth of my nature supported me, when others would have been
oppressed; for I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those
talents that might be useful to my fellow-creatures. When I reflected on
the work I had completed, no less a one than the creation of a
sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank myself with the herd of
common projectors. But this feeling, which supported me in the
commencement of my career, now serves only to plunge me lower in the
dust. All my speculations and hopes are as nothing; and, like the
archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell.
My imagination was vivid, yet my powers of analysis and application were
intense; by the union of these qualities I conceived the idea, and
executed the creation of a man. Even now I cannot recollect, without
passion, my reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod heaven in my
thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea of their
effects. From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty
ambition; but how am I sunk! Oh! my friend, if you had known me as I
once was, you would not recognize me in this state of degradation.
Despondency rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear me
on, until I fell, never, never again to rise."
Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a friend; I
have sought one who would sympathize with and love me. Behold, on these
desert seas I have found such a one; but, I fear, I have gained him only
to know his value, and lose him. I would reconcile him to life, but he
repulses the idea.
"I thank you, Walton," he said, "for your kind intentions towards so
miserable a wretch; but when you speak of new ties, and fresh
affections, think you that any can replace those who are gone? Can any
man be to me as Clerval was; or any woman another Elizabeth? Even where
the affections are not strongly moved by any superior excellence, the
companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our
minds, which hardly any later friend can obtain. They know our infantine
dispositions, which, however they may be afterwards modified, are never
eradicated; and they can judge of our actions with more certain
conclusions as to the integrity of our motives. A sister or a brother
can never, unless indeed such symptoms have been shewn early, suspect
the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however
strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be invaded with
suspicion. But I enjoyed friends, dear not only through habit and
association, but from their own merits; and, wherever I am, the soothing
voice of my Elizabeth, and the conversation of Clerval, will be ever
whispered in my ear. They are dead; and but one feeling in such a
solitude can persuade me to preserve my life. If I were engaged in any
high undertaking or design, fraught with extensive utility to my
fellow-creatures, then could I live to fulfil it. But such is not my
destiny; I must pursue and destroy the being to whom I gave existence;
then my lot on earth will be fulfilled, and I may die."
* * * * *
September 2d.
MY BELOVED SISTER,
I write to you, encompassed by peril, and ignorant whether I am ever
doomed to see again dear England, and the dearer friends that inhabit
it. I am surrounded by mountains of ice, which admit of no escape, and
threaten every moment to crush my vessel. The brave fellows, whom I have
persuaded to be my companions, look towards me for aid; but I have none
to bestow. There is something terribly appalling in our situation, yet
my courage and hopes do not desert me. We may survive; and if we do not,
I will repeat the lessons of my Seneca, and die with a good heart.
Yet what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will not hear of
my destruction, and you will anxiously await my return. Years will pass,
and you will have visitings of despair, and yet be tortured by hope. Oh!
my beloved sister, the sickening failings of your heart-felt
expectations are, in prospect, more terrible to me than my own death.
But you have a husband, and lovely children; you may be happy: heaven
bless you, and make you so!
My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion. He
endeavours to fill me with hope; and talks as if life were a possession
which he valued. He reminds me how often the same accidents have
happened to other navigators, who have attempted this sea, and, in spite
of myself, he fills me with cheerful auguries. Even the sailors feel the
power of his eloquence: when he speaks, they no longer despair: he
rouses their energies, and, while they hear his voice, they believe
these vast mountains of ice are mole-hills, which will vanish before the
resolutions of man. These feelings are transitory; each day's
expectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny
caused by this despair.
* * * * *
September 5th.
A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest, that although it is
highly probable that these papers may never reach you, yet I cannot
forbear recording it.
We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger of
being crushed in their conflict. The cold is excessive, and many of my
unfortunate comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene of
desolation. Frankenstein has daily declined in health: a feverish fire
still glimmers in his eyes; but he is exhausted, and, when suddenly
roused to any exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent
lifelessness.
I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny. This
morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend--his eyes
half closed, and his limbs hanging listlessly,--I was roused by half a
dozen of the sailors, who desired admission into the cabin. They
entered; and their leader addressed me. He told me that he and his
companions had been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation to
me, to make me a demand, which, in justice, I could not refuse. We were
immured in ice, and should probably never escape; but they feared that
if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate, and a free passage be
opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage, and lead them
into fresh dangers, after they might happily have surmounted this. They
desired, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn promise, that if
the vessel should be freed, I would instantly direct my coarse
southward.
This speech troubled me. I had not despaired; nor had I yet conceived
the idea of returning, if set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in
possibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before I answered; when
Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and, indeed, appeared hardly
to have force enough to attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled,
and his cheeks flushed with momentary vigour. Turning towards the men,
he said--
"What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain? Are you then so
easily turned from your design? Did you not call this a glorious
expedition? and wherefore was it glorious? Not because the way was
smooth and placid as a southern sea, but because it was full of dangers
and terror; because, at every new incident, your fortitude was to be
called forth, and your courage exhibited; because danger and death
surrounded, and these dangers you were to brave and overcome. For this
was it a glorious, for this was it an honourable undertaking. You were
hereafter to be hailed as the benefactors of your species; your name
adored, as belonging to brave men who encountered death for honour and
the benefit of mankind. And now, behold, with the first imagination of
danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and terrific trial of your
courage, you shrink away, and are content to be handed down as men who
had not strength enough to endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls,
they were chilly, and returned to their warm fire-sides. Why, that
requires not this preparation; ye need not have come thus far, and
dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat, merely to prove
yourselves cowards. Oh! be men, or be more than men. Be steady to your
purposes, and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as your
hearts might be; it is mutable, cannot withstand you, if you say that it
shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma of disgrace
marked on your brows. Return as heroes who have fought and conquered,
and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe."
He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different feelings
expressed in his speech, with an eye so full of lofty design and
heroism, that can you wonder that these men were moved. They looked at
one another, and were unable to reply. I spoke; I told them to retire,
and consider of what had been said: that I would not lead them further
north, if they strenuously desired the contrary; but that I hoped that,
with reflection, their courage would return.
They retired, and I turned towards my friend; but he was sunk in
languor, and almost deprived of life.
How all this will terminate, I know not; but I had rather die, than
return shamefully,--my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear such will be my
fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and honour, can never
willingly continue to endure their present hardships.
* * * * *
September 7th.
The die is cast; I have consented to return, if we are not destroyed.
Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back
ignorant and disappointed. It requires more philosophy than I possess,
to bear this injustice with patience.
* * * * *
September 12th.
It is past; I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of utility
and glory;--I have lost my friend. But I will endeavour to detail these
bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister; and, while I am wafted
towards England, and towards you, I will not despond.
September 19th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were
heard at a distance, as the islands split and cracked in every
direction. We were in the most imminent peril; but, as we could only
remain passive, my chief attention was occupied by my unfortunate guest,
whose illness increased in such a degree, that he was entirely confined
to his bed. The ice cracked behind us, and was driven with force towards
the north; a breeze sprung from the west, and on the 11th the passage
towards the south became perfectly free. When the sailors saw this, and
that their return to their native country was apparently assured, a
shout of tumultuous joy broke from, them, loud and long-continued.
Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke, and asked the cause of the tumult.
"They shout," I said, "because they will soon return to England."
"Do you then really return?"
"Alas! yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead them
unwillingly to danger, and I must return."
"Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your purpose; but
mine is assigned to me by heaven, and I dare not. I am weak; but surely
the spirits who assist my vengeance will endow me with sufficient
strength." Saying this, he endeavoured to spring from the bed, but the
exertion was too great for him; he fell back, and fainted.
It was long before he was restored; and I often thought that life was
entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes, but he breathed with
difficulty, and was unable to speak. The surgeon gave him a composing
draught, and ordered us to leave him undisturbed. In the mean time he
told me, that my friend had certainly not many hours to live.
His sentence was pronounced; and I could only grieve, and be patient. I
sat by his bed watching him; his eyes were closed, and I thought he
slept; but presently he called to me in a feeble voice, and, bidding me
come near, said--"Alas! the strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I
shall soon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor, may still be in being.
Think not, Walton, that in the last moments of my existence I feel that
burning hatred, and ardent desire of revenge, I once expressed, but I
feel myself justified in desiring the death of my adversary. During
these last days I have been occupied in examining my past conduct; nor
do I find it blameable. In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a
rational creature, and was bound towards him, to assure, as far as was
in my power, his happiness and well-being. This was my duty; but there
was another still paramount to that. My duties towards my
fellow-creatures had greater claims to my attention, because they
included a greater proportion of happiness or misery. Urged by this
view, I refused, and I did right in refusing, to create a companion for
the first creature. He shewed unparalleled malignity and selfishness, in
evil: he destroyed my friends; he devoted to destruction beings who
possessed exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom; nor do I know
where this thirst for vengeance may end. Miserable himself, that he may
render no other wretched, he ought to die. The task of his destruction
was mine, but I have failed. When actuated by selfish and vicious
motives, I asked you to undertake my unfinished work; and I renew this
request now, when I am only induced by reason and virtue.
"Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends, to fulfil
this task; and now, that you are returning to England, you will have
little chance of meeting with him. But the consideration of these
points, and the well-balancing of what you may esteem your duties, I
leave to you; my judgment and ideas are already disturbed by the near
approach of death. I dare not ask you to do what I think right, for I
may still be misled by passion.
"That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs me; in
other respects this hour, when I momentarily expect my release, is the
only happy one which I have enjoyed for several years. The forms of the
beloved dead flit before me, and I hasten to their arms. Farewell,
Walton! Seek happiness in tranquillity, and avoid ambition, even if it
be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in
science and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I have myself been
blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed."
His voice became fainter as he spoke; and at length, exhausted by his
effort, he sunk into silence. About half an hour afterwards he attempted
again to speak, but was unable; he pressed my hand feebly, and his eyes
closed for ever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile passed away
from his lips.
Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction of this
glorious spirit? What can I say, that will enable you to understand the
depth of my sorrow? All that I should express would be inadequate and
feeble. My tears flow; my mind is overshadowed by a cloud of
disappointment. But I journey towards England, and I may there find
consolation.
I am interrupted. What do these sounds portend? It is midnight; the
breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck scarcely stir. Again; there
is a sound as of a human voice, but hoarser; it comes from the cabin
where the remains of Frankenstein still lie. I must arise, and examine.
Good night, my sister.
Great God! what a scene has just taken place! I am yet dizzy with the
remembrance of it. I hardly know whether I shall have the power to
detail it; yet the tale which I have recorded would be incomplete
without this final and wonderful catastrophe.
I entered the cabin, where lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable
friend. Over him hung a form which I cannot find words to describe;
gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and distorted in its proportions. As he
hung over the coffin, his face was concealed by long locks of ragged
hair; but one vast hand was extended, in colour and apparent texture
like that of a mummy. When he heard the sound of my approach, he ceased
to utter exclamations of grief and horror, and sprung towards the
window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of such
loathsome, yet appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes involuntarily, and
endeavoured to recollect what were my duties with regard to this
destroyer. I called on him to stay.
He paused, looking on me with wonder; and, again turning towards the
lifeless form of his creator, he seemed to forget my presence, and every
feature and gesture seemed instigated by the wildest rage of some
uncontrollable passion.
"That is also my victim!" he exclaimed; "in his murder my crimes are
consummated; the miserable series of my being is wound to its close! Oh,
Frankenstein! generous and self-devoted being! what does it avail that I
now ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably destroyed thee by
destroying all thou lovedst. Alas! he is cold; he may not answer me."
His voice seemed suffocated; and my first impulses, which had suggested
to me the duty of obeying the dying request of my friend, in destroying
his enemy, were now suspended by a mixture of curiosity and compassion.
I approached this tremendous being; I dared not again raise my looks
upon his face, there was something so scaring and unearthly in his
ugliness. I attempted to speak, but the words died away on my lips. The
monster continued to utter wild and incoherent self-reproaches. At
length I gathered resolution to address him, in a pause of the tempest
of his passion: "Your repentance," I said, "is now superfluous. If you
had listened to the voice of conscience, and heeded the stings of
remorse, before you had urged your diabolical vengeance to this
extremity, Frankenstein would yet have lived."
"And do you dream?" said the daemon; "do you think that I was then dead
to agony and remorse?--He," he continued, pointing to the corpse, "he
suffered not more in the consummation of the deed;--oh! not the
ten-thousandth portion of the anguish that was mine during the lingering
detail of its execution. A frightful selfishness hurried me on, while
my heart was poisoned with remorse. Think ye that the groans of Clerval
were music to my ears? My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love
and sympathy; and, when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did
not endure the violence of the change without torture such as you cannot
even imagine.
"After the murder of Clerval, I returned to Switzerland, heart-broken
and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror: I
abhorred myself. But when I discovered that he, the author at once of my
existence and of its unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happiness;
that while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me, he sought
his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from the indulgence of which
I was for ever barred, then impotent envy and bitter indignation filled
me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I recollected my threat, and
resolved that it should be accomplished. I knew that I was preparing for
myself a deadly torture; but I was the slave, not the master of an
impulse, which I detested, yet could not disobey. Yet when she
died!--nay, then I was not miserable. I had cast off all feeling,
subdued all anguish to riot in the excess of my despair. Evil
thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no choice but to adapt
my nature to an element which I had willingly chosen. The completion of
my demoniacal design became an insatiable passion. And now it is ended;
there is my last victim!"
I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet when I
called to mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers of eloquence and
persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on the lifeless form of my
friend, indignation was re-kindled within me. "Wretch!" I said, "it is
well that you come here to whine over the desolation that you have made.
You throw a torch into a pile of buildings, and when they are consumed
you sit among the ruins, and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend! if he
whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object, again would he
become the prey of your accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you
feel; you lament only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn
from your power."
"Oh, it is not thus--not thus," interrupted the being; "yet such must be
the impression conveyed to you by what appears to be the purport of my
actions. Yet I seek not a fellow-feeling in my misery. No sympathy may I
ever find. When I first sought it, it was the love of virtue, the
feelings of happiness and affection with which my whole being
overflowed, that I wished to be participated. But now, that virtue has
become to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection are turned into
bitter and loathing despair, in what should I seek for sympathy? I am
content to suffer alone, while my sufferings shall endure: when I die, I
am well satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory.
Once my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of
enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings, who, pardoning my
outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I was
capable of bringing forth. I was nourished with high thoughts of honour
and devotion. But now vice has degraded me beneath the meanest animal.
No crime, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found comparable
to mine. When I call over the frightful catalogue of my deeds, I cannot
believe that I am he whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and
transcendant visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it
is even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that
enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation; I am
quite alone.
"You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my
crimes and his misfortunes. But, in the detail which he gave you of
them, he could not sum up the hours and months of misery which I
endured, wasting in impotent passions. For whilst I destroyed his hopes,
I did not satisfy my own desires. They were for ever ardent and craving;
still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was there
no injustice in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all
human kind sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his
friend from his door with contumely? Why do you not execrate the rustic
who sought to destroy the saviour of his child? Nay, these are virtuous
and immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an
abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my
blood boils at the recollection of this injustice.
"But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the
helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept, and grasped to
death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have
devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love
and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that
irremediable ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me;
but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I look
on the hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the
imagination of it was conceived, and long for the moment when they will
meet my eyes, when it will haunt my thoughts, no more.
"Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work is
nearly complete. Neither your's nor any man's death is needed to
consummate the series of my being, and accomplish that which must be
done; but it requires my own. Do not think that I shall be slow to
perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice-raft which
brought me hither, and shall seek the most northern extremity of the
globe; I shall collect my funeral pile, and consume to ashes this
miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and
unhallowed wretch, who would create such another as I have been. I shall
die. I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me, or be the
prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched. He is dead who called me
into being; and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both
will speedily vanish. I shall no longer see the sun or stars, or feel
the winds play on my cheeks. Light, feeling, and sense, will pass away;
and in this condition must I find my happiness. Some years ago, when the
images which this world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the
cheering warmth of summer, and heard the rustling of the leaves and the
chirping of the birds, and these were all to me, I should have wept to
die; now it is my only consolation. Polluted by crimes, and torn by the
bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death?
"Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of human kind whom these
eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If thou wert yet alive,
and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it would be better
satiated in my life than in my destruction. But it was not so; thou
didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater wretchedness;
and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hast not yet ceased to
think and feel, thou desirest not my life for my own misery. Blasted as
thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine; for the bitter sting of
remorse may not cease to rankle in my wounds until death shall close
them for ever.
"But soon," he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm, "I shall die, and
what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will be
extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly, and exult in the
agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration will fade
away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will
sleep in peace; or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus.
Farewell."
He sprung from the cabin-window, as he said this, upon the ice-raft
which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves, and
lost in darkness and distance. | In the first letter, dated August 26, 17 -- , Walton is now the narrator for the remainder of the story. Walton tells how Victor proves his tale by producing the letters of Felix and Safie. Victor tells Walton to learn from his mistakes, that knowledge for evil ends leads to disaster. Walton comforts Victor in his last days and the two pass the time discussing other topics, such as literature, when Walton notices that it has taken a full week for Victor to narrate this story. Victor tells Robert that he must carry on the mission to destroy the monster. In the letter dated September 2, 17 -- , Walton grieves at the fact that he has found a friend who seems on the verge of death and that his own mission to discover a northwest Arctic passage has failed. He writes to his sister to remember him fondly and to wish her family well. In the letter dated September 5, 17 -- , Walton writes that Victor is now dying, and Walton has a near mutiny aboard his ship. The crew wants the ship to return to warmer waters before the ship is crushed by the weight of the ice. Walton chides the crew for their lack of adventure, and they agree to rescind their demand to turn the ship southward to escape a certain death. In the letter dated September 7, Walton is in deep despair, now far short of his goal. He informs the crew that they will return to England if they are not destroyed. In the last letter of the book, dated September 12, Victor wants to remain in this inhospitable climate even if Walton's ship returns home. However, Walton cannot lead the men to their deaths. Victor will not return to Europe or England without confronting his enemy. Walton knows that Victor will die soon from exhaustion and exposure. In the end, Victor dies. The monster breaks into the ship's cabin where Victor's body lies in state. Walton and the monster startle each other and the monster begins to tell his part of the story when he began his reign of terror. The monster finds that he can gain no sympathy from man, so he pledges to remain in the frozen north until he dies. The monster tells that he has suffered along with Victor and made evil his version of good. The monster promises no harm to Walton or his crew and leaves the ship to live out his days in the frozen land of ice. To the monster, dying is his only consolation to relieve the pain he has endured since he was given that spark of life in Ingolstadt. He swears "I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly and exult in the agony of the torturing flames." With this statement, the monster leaps overboard from the ship and disappears in the mist. |
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. | 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. |
That illustrious man and great national ornament, Mr Merdle, continued
his shining course. It began to be widely understood that one who had
done society the admirable service of making so much money out of it,
could not be suffered to remain a commoner. A baronetcy was spoken of
with confidence; a peerage was frequently mentioned. Rumour had it
that Mr Merdle had set his golden face against a baronetcy; that he had
plainly intimated to Lord Decimus that a baronetcy was not enough
for him; that he had said, 'No--a Peerage, or plain Merdle.' This was
reported to have plunged Lord Decimus as nigh to his noble chin in a
slough of doubts as so lofty a person could be sunk. For the Barnacles,
as a group of themselves in creation, had an idea that such distinctions
belonged to them; and that when a soldier, sailor, or lawyer became
ennobled, they let him in, as it were, by an act of condescension, at
the family door, and immediately shut it again. Not only (said Rumour)
had the troubled Decimus his own hereditary part in this impression, but
he also knew of several Barnacle claims already on the file, which came
into collision with that of the master spirit. Right or wrong, Rumour
was very busy; and Lord Decimus, while he was, or was supposed to be, in
stately excogitation of the difficulty, lent her some countenance by
taking, on several public occasions, one of those elephantine trots of
his through a jungle of overgrown sentences, waving Mr Merdle about on
his trunk as Gigantic Enterprise, The Wealth of England, Elasticity,
Credit, Capital, Prosperity, and all manner of blessings.
So quietly did the mowing of the old scythe go on, that fully three
months had passed unnoticed since the two English brothers had been laid
in one tomb in the strangers' cemetery at Rome. Mr and Mrs Sparkler were
established in their own house: a little mansion, rather of the Tite
Barnacle class, quite a triumph of inconvenience, with a perpetual smell
in it of the day before yesterday's soup and coach-horses, but extremely
dear, as being exactly in the centre of the habitable globe. In this
enviable abode (and envied it really was by many people), Mrs Sparkler
had intended to proceed at once to the demolition of the Bosom, when
active hostilities had been suspended by the arrival of the Courier with
his tidings of death. Mrs Sparkler, who was not unfeeling, had received
them with a violent burst of grief, which had lasted twelve hours;
after which, she had arisen to see about her mourning, and to take every
precaution that could ensure its being as becoming as Mrs Merdle's. A
gloom was then cast over more than one distinguished family (according
to the politest sources of intelligence), and the Courier went back
again.
Mr and Mrs Sparkler had been dining alone, with their gloom cast over
them, and Mrs Sparkler reclined on a drawing-room sofa. It was a hot
summer Sunday evening. The residence in the centre of the habitable
globe, at all times stuffed and close as if it had an incurable cold in
its head, was that evening particularly stifling. The bells of the
churches had done their worst in the way of clanging among the
unmelodious echoes of the streets, and the lighted windows of the
churches had ceased to be yellow in the grey dusk, and had died out
opaque black. Mrs Sparkler, lying on her sofa, looking through an open
window at the opposite side of a narrow street over boxes of mignonette
and flowers, was tired of the view. Mrs Sparkler, looking at another
window where her husband stood in the balcony, was tired of that view.
Mrs Sparkler, looking at herself in her mourning, was even tired of that
view: though, naturally, not so tired of that as of the other two.
'It's like lying in a well,' said Mrs Sparkler, changing her position
fretfully. 'Dear me, Edmund, if you have anything to say, why don't you
say it?'
Mr Sparkler might have replied with ingenuousness, 'My life, I have
nothing to say.' But, as the repartee did not occur to him, he contented
himself with coming in from the balcony and standing at the side of his
wife's couch.
'Good gracious, Edmund!' said Mrs Sparkler more fretfully still, 'you are
absolutely putting mignonette up your nose! Pray don't!'
Mr Sparkler, in absence of mind--perhaps in a more literal absence of
mind than is usually understood by the phrase--had smelt so hard at a
sprig in his hand as to be on the verge of the offence in question. He
smiled, said, 'I ask your pardon, my dear,' and threw it out of window.
'You make my head ache by remaining in that position, Edmund,' said Mrs
Sparkler, raising her eyes to him after another minute; 'you look so
aggravatingly large by this light. Do sit down.'
'Certainly, my dear,' said Mr Sparkler, and took a chair on the same
spot.
'If I didn't know that the longest day was past,' said Fanny, yawning in
a dreary manner, 'I should have felt certain this was the longest day. I
never did experience such a day.'
'Is that your fan, my love?' asked Mr Sparkler, picking up one and
presenting it.
'Edmund,' returned his wife, more wearily yet, 'don't ask weak
questions, I entreat you not. Whose can it be but mine?'
'Yes, I thought it was yours,' said Mr Sparkler.
'Then you shouldn't ask,' retorted Fanny. After a little while she
turned on her sofa and exclaimed, 'Dear me, dear me, there never was
such a long day as this!' After another little while, she got up slowly,
walked about, and came back again.
'My dear,' said Mr Sparkler, flashing with an original conception, 'I
think you must have got the fidgets.'
'Oh, Fidgets!' repeated Mrs Sparkler. 'Don't.'
'My adorable girl,' urged Mr Sparkler, 'try your aromatic vinegar. I
have often seen my mother try it, and it seemingly refreshed her.
And she is, as I believe you are aware, a remarkably fine woman, with no
non--'
'Good Gracious!' exclaimed Fanny, starting up again. 'It's beyond all
patience! This is the most wearisome day that ever did dawn upon the
world, I am certain.'
Mr Sparkler looked meekly after her as she lounged about the room, and
he appeared to be a little frightened. When she had tossed a few trifles
about, and had looked down into the darkening street out of all the
three windows, she returned to her sofa, and threw herself among its
pillows.
'Now Edmund, come here! Come a little nearer, because I want to be able
to touch you with my fan, that I may impress you very much with what I
am going to say. That will do. Quite close enough. Oh, you _do_ look so
big!'
Mr Sparkler apologised for the circumstance, pleaded that he couldn't
help it, and said that 'our fellows,' without more particularly
indicating whose fellows, used to call him by the name of Quinbus
Flestrin, Junior, or the Young Man Mountain.
'You ought to have told me so before,' Fanny complained.
'My dear,' returned Mr Sparkler, rather gratified, 'I didn't know
It would interest you, or I would have made a point of telling you.'
'There! For goodness sake, don't talk,' said Fanny; 'I want to talk,
myself. Edmund, we must not be alone any more. I must take such
precautions as will prevent my being ever again reduced to the state of
dreadful depression in which I am this evening.'
'My dear,' answered Mr Sparkler; 'being as you are well known to be, a
remarkably fine woman with no--'
'Oh, good GRACIOUS!' cried Fanny.
Mr Sparkler was so discomposed by the energy of this exclamation,
accompanied with a flouncing up from the sofa and a flouncing down
again, that a minute or two elapsed before he felt himself equal to
saying in explanation:
'I mean, my dear, that everybody knows you are calculated to shine in
society.'
'Calculated to shine in society,' retorted Fanny with great
irritability; 'yes, indeed! And then what happens? I no sooner recover,
in a visiting point of view, the shock of poor dear papa's death, and my
poor uncle's--though I do not disguise from myself that the last was
a happy release, for, if you are not presentable you had much better
die--'
'You are not referring to me, my love, I hope?' Mr Sparkler humbly
interrupted.
'Edmund, Edmund, you would wear out a Saint. Am I not expressly speaking
of my poor uncle?'
'You looked with so much expression at myself, my dear girl,' said Mr
Sparkler, 'that I felt a little uncomfortable. Thank you, my love.'
'Now you have put me out,' observed Fanny with a resigned toss of her
fan, 'and I had better go to bed.'
'Don't do that, my love,' urged Mr Sparkler. 'Take time.'
Fanny took a good deal of time: lying back with her eyes shut, and her
eyebrows raised with a hopeless expression as if she had utterly given
up all terrestrial affairs. At length, without the slightest notice, she
opened her eyes again, and recommenced in a short, sharp manner:
'What happens then, I ask! What happens? Why, I find myself at the very
period when I might shine most in society, and should most like for
very momentous reasons to shine in society--I find myself in a situation
which to a certain extent disqualifies me for going into society. It's
too bad, really!'
'My dear,' said Mr Sparkler. 'I don't think it need keep you at
home.'
'Edmund, you ridiculous creature,' returned Fanny, with great
indignation; 'do you suppose that a woman in the bloom of youth and not
wholly devoid of personal attractions, can put herself, at such a
time, in competition as to figure with a woman in every other way her
inferior? If you do suppose such a thing, your folly is boundless.'
Mr Sparkler submitted that he had thought 'it might be got over.'
'Got over!' repeated Fanny, with immeasurable scorn.
'For a time,' Mr Sparkler submitted.
Honouring the last feeble suggestion with no notice, Mrs Sparkler
declared with bitterness that it really was too bad, and that positively
it was enough to make one wish one was dead!
'However,' she said, when she had in some measure recovered from her
sense of personal ill-usage; 'provoking as it is, and cruel as it seems,
I suppose it must be submitted to.'
'Especially as it was to be expected,' said Mr Sparkler.
'Edmund,' returned his wife, 'if you have nothing more becoming to do
than to attempt to insult the woman who has honoured you with her hand,
when she finds herself in adversity, I think _you_ had better go to bed!'
Mr Sparkler was much afflicted by the charge, and offered a most
tender and earnest apology. His apology was accepted; but Mrs Sparkler
requested him to go round to the other side of the sofa and sit in the
window-curtain, to tone himself down.
'Now, Edmund,' she said, stretching out her fan, and touching him with
it at arm's length, 'what I was going to say to you when you began as
usual to prose and worry, is, that I shall guard against our being alone
any more, and that when circumstances prevent my going out to my own
satisfaction, I must arrange to have some people or other always here;
for I really cannot, and will not, have another such day as this has
been.'
Mr Sparkler's sentiments as to the plan were, in brief, that it had no
nonsense about it. He added, 'And besides, you know it's likely that
you'll soon have your sister--'
'Dearest Amy, yes!' cried Mrs Sparkler with a sigh of affection.
'Darling little thing! Not, however, that Amy would do here alone.'
Mr Sparkler was going to say 'No?' interrogatively, but he saw his
danger and said it assentingly, 'No, Oh dear no; she wouldn't do here
alone.'
'No, Edmund. For not only are the virtues of the precious child of that
still character that they require a contrast--require life and movement
around them to bring them out in their right colours and make one love
them of all things; but she will require to be roused, on more accounts
than one.'
'That's it,' said Mr Sparkler. 'Roused.'
'Pray don't, Edmund! Your habit of interrupting without having the least
thing in the world to say, distracts one. You must be broken of it.
Speaking of Amy;--my poor little pet was devotedly attached to poor
papa, and no doubt will have lamented his loss exceedingly, and grieved
very much. I have done so myself. I have felt it dreadfully. But Amy
will no doubt have felt it even more, from having been on the spot the
whole time, and having been with poor dear papa at the last; which I
unhappily was not.'
Here Fanny stopped to weep, and to say, 'Dear, dear, beloved papa! How
truly gentlemanly he was! What a contrast to poor uncle!'
'From the effects of that trying time,' she pursued, 'my good little
Mouse will have to be roused. Also, from the effects of this long
attendance upon Edward in his illness; an attendance which is not
yet over, which may even go on for some time longer, and which in the
meanwhile unsettles us all by keeping poor dear papa's affairs from
being wound up. Fortunately, however, the papers with his agents
here being all sealed up and locked up, as he left them when he
providentially came to England, the affairs are in that state of order
that they can wait until my brother Edward recovers his health in
Sicily, sufficiently to come over, and administer, or execute, or
whatever it may be that will have to be done.'
'He couldn't have a better nurse to bring him round,' Mr Sparkler made
bold to opine.
'For a wonder, I can agree with you,' returned his wife, languidly
turning her eyelids a little in his direction (she held forth, in
general, as if to the drawing-room furniture), 'and can adopt your
words. He couldn't have a better nurse to bring him round. There are
times when my dear child is a little wearing to an active mind; but, as
a nurse, she is Perfection. Best of Amys!'
Mr Sparkler, growing rash on his late success, observed that Edward had
had, biggodd, a long bout of it, my dear girl.
'If Bout, Edmund,' returned Mrs Sparkler, 'is the slang term for
indisposition, he has. If it is not, I am unable to give an opinion
on the barbarous language you address to Edward's sister. That he
contracted Malaria Fever somewhere, either by travelling day and night
to Rome, where, after all, he arrived too late to see poor dear papa
before his death--or under some other unwholesome circumstances--is
indubitable, if that is what you mean. Likewise that his extremely
careless life has made him a very bad subject for it indeed.'
Mr Sparkler considered it a parallel case to that of some of our fellows
in the West Indies with Yellow Jack. Mrs Sparkler closed her eyes again,
and refused to have any consciousness of our fellows of the West Indies,
or of Yellow Jack.
'So, Amy,' she pursued, when she reopened her eyelids, 'will require
to be roused from the effects of many tedious and anxious weeks. And
lastly, she will require to be roused from a low tendency which I know
very well to be at the bottom of her heart. Don't ask me what it is,
Edmund, because I must decline to tell you.'
'I am not going to, my dear,' said Mr Sparkler.
'I shall thus have much improvement to effect in my sweet child,' Mrs
Sparkler continued, 'and cannot have her near me too soon. Amiable and
dear little Twoshoes! As to the settlement of poor papa's affairs, my
interest in that is not very selfish. Papa behaved very generously to me
when I was married, and I have little or nothing to expect. Provided
he had made no will that can come into force, leaving a legacy to Mrs
General, I am contented. Dear papa, dear papa.'
She wept again, but Mrs General was the best of restoratives. The name
soon stimulated her to dry her eyes and say:
'It is a highly encouraging circumstance in Edward's illness, I am
thankful to think, and gives one the greatest confidence in his sense
not being impaired, or his proper spirit weakened--down to the time
of poor dear papa's death at all events--that he paid off Mrs General
instantly, and sent her out of the house. I applaud him for it. I could
forgive him a great deal for doing, with such promptitude, so exactly
what I would have done myself!'
Mrs Sparkler was in the full glow of her gratification, when a double
knock was heard at the door. A very odd knock. Low, as if to avoid
making a noise and attracting attention. Long, as if the person knocking
were preoccupied in mind, and forgot to leave off.
'Halloa!' said Mr Sparkler. 'Who's this?'
'Not Amy and Edward without notice and without a carriage!' said Mrs
Sparkler. 'Look out.'
The room was dark, but the street was lighter, because of its lamps. Mr
Sparkler's head peeping over the balcony looked so very bulky and heavy
that it seemed on the point of overbalancing him and flattening the
unknown below.
'It's one fellow,' said Mr Sparkler. 'I can't see who--stop though!'
On this second thought he went out into the balcony again and had
another look. He came back as the door was opened, and announced that he
believed he had identified 'his governor's tile.' He was not mistaken,
for his governor, with his tile in his hand, was introduced immediately
afterwards.
'Candles!' said Mrs Sparkler, with a word of excuse for the darkness.
'It's light enough for me,' said Mr Merdle.
When the candles were brought in, Mr Merdle was discovered standing
behind the door, picking his lips. 'I thought I'd give you a call,' he
said. 'I am rather particularly occupied just now; and, as I happened to
be out for a stroll, I thought I'd give you a call.'
As he was in dinner dress, Fanny asked him where he had been dining?
'Well,' said Mr Merdle, 'I haven't been dining anywhere, particularly.'
'Of course you have dined?' said Fanny.
'Why--no, I haven't exactly dined,' said Mr Merdle.
He had passed his hand over his yellow forehead and considered, as if he
were not sure about it. Something to eat was proposed. 'No, thank you,'
said Mr Merdle, 'I don't feel inclined for it. I was to have dined out
along with Mrs Merdle. But as I didn't feel inclined for dinner, I let
Mrs Merdle go by herself just as we were getting into the carriage, and
thought I'd take a stroll instead.'
Would he have tea or coffee? 'No, thank you,' said Mr Merdle. 'I looked
in at the Club, and got a bottle of wine.'
At this period of his visit, Mr Merdle took the chair which Edmund
Sparkler had offered him, and which he had hitherto been pushing slowly
about before him, like a dull man with a pair of skates on for the first
time, who could not make up his mind to start. He now put his hat upon
another chair beside him, and, looking down into it as if it were some
twenty feet deep, said again: 'You see I thought I'd give you a call.'
'Flattering to us,' said Fanny, 'for you are not a calling man.'
'No--no,' returned Mr Merdle, who was by this time taking himself into
custody under both coat-sleeves. 'No, I am not a calling man.'
'You have too much to do for that,' said Fanny. 'Having so much to do,
Mr Merdle, loss of appetite is a serious thing with you, and you must
have it seen to. You must not be ill.'
'Oh! I am very well,' replied Mr Merdle, after deliberating about it. 'I
am as well as I usually am. I am well enough. I am as well as I want to
be.'
The master-mind of the age, true to its characteristic of being at all
times a mind that had as little as possible to say for itself and great
difficulty in saying it, became mute again. Mrs Sparkler began to wonder
how long the master-mind meant to stay.
'I was speaking of poor papa when you came in, sir.'
'Aye! Quite a coincidence,' said Mr Merdle.
Fanny did not see that; but felt it incumbent on her to continue
talking. 'I was saying,' she pursued, 'that my brother's illness has
occasioned a delay in examining and arranging papa's property.'
'Yes,' said Mr Merdle; 'yes. There has been a delay.'
'Not that it is of consequence,' said Fanny.
'Not,' assented Mr Merdle, after having examined the cornice of all
that part of the room which was within his range: 'not that it is of any
consequence.'
'My only anxiety is,' said Fanny, 'that Mrs General should not get
anything.'
'_She_ won't get anything,' said Mr Merdle.
Fanny was delighted to hear him express the opinion. Mr Merdle, after
taking another gaze into the depths of his hat as if he thought he saw
something at the bottom, rubbed his hair and slowly appended to his last
remark the confirmatory words, 'Oh dear no. No. Not she. Not likely.'
As the topic seemed exhausted, and Mr Merdle too, Fanny inquired if he
were going to take up Mrs Merdle and the carriage in his way home?
'No,' he answered; 'I shall go by the shortest way, and leave Mrs Merdle
to--' here he looked all over the palms of both his hands as if he were
telling his own fortune--'to take care of herself. I dare say she'll
manage to do it.'
'Probably,' said Fanny.
There was then a long silence; during which, Mrs Sparkler, lying back
on her sofa again, shut her eyes and raised her eyebrows in her former
retirement from mundane affairs.
'But, however,' said Mr Merdle, 'I am equally detaining you and myself.
I thought I'd give you a call, you know.'
'Charmed, I am sure,' said Fanny.
'So I am off,' added Mr Merdle, getting up. 'Could you lend me a
penknife?'
It was an odd thing, Fanny smilingly observed, for her who could seldom
prevail upon herself even to write a letter, to lend to a man of such
vast business as Mr Merdle. 'Isn't it?' Mr Merdle acquiesced; 'but
I want one; and I know you have got several little wedding keepsakes
about, with scissors and tweezers and such things in them. You shall
have it back to-morrow.'
'Edmund,' said Mrs Sparkler, 'open (now, very carefully, I beg and
beseech, for you are so very awkward) the mother of pearl box on my
little table there, and give Mr Merdle the mother of pearl penknife.'
'Thank you,' said Mr Merdle; 'but if you have got one with a darker
handle, I think I should prefer one with a darker handle.'
'Tortoise-shell?'
'Thank you,' said Mr Merdle; 'yes. I think I should prefer
tortoise-shell.'
Edmund accordingly received instructions to open the tortoise-shell box,
and give Mr Merdle the tortoise-shell knife. On his doing so, his wife
said to the master-spirit graciously:
'I will forgive you, if you ink it.'
'I'll undertake not to ink it,' said Mr Merdle.
The illustrious visitor then put out his coat-cuff, and for a moment
entombed Mrs Sparkler's hand: wrist, bracelet, and all. Where his own
hand had shrunk to, was not made manifest, but it was as remote from Mrs
Sparkler's sense of touch as if he had been a highly meritorious Chelsea
Veteran or Greenwich Pensioner.
Thoroughly convinced, as he went out of the room, that it was the
longest day that ever did come to an end at last, and that there never
was a woman, not wholly devoid of personal attractions, so worn out by
idiotic and lumpish people, Fanny passed into the balcony for a breath
of air. Waters of vexation filled her eyes; and they had the effect of
making the famous Mr Merdle, in going down the street, appear to leap,
and waltz, and gyrate, as if he were possessed of several Devils. | Things are looking up for Merdle. Now he wants a title, and not just be a Baronet . The Barnacles are looking into it. Meanwhile Fanny and Sparkler are now in their new house. It's kind of a tiny, crappy house in the best possible location. Fanny is super bored. Her house is boring, her reflection is boring, the view out her windows is boring. And her husband? He's the most boring of all. They have nothing to talk about. And every time he opens his mouth to say anything, even to answer one of her questions, she immediately shuts him up. Ah, married life is grand. It turns out they've been stuck at home for some time. First there was the mourning period for Dorrit and Frederick Dorrit. Also, Fanny is preggers, which also limits her social life. Sparkler suggests that she could still party a little bit, but Fanny doesn't want her body compared with those who aren't pregnant. Finally Fanny suggests that they need to just have people over to their house all the time. All. The. Time. Because otherwise she is going to go crazy. Sparkler suggests Amy. Fanny is psyched at the idea of Amy coming, but obviously Amy alone won't be much fun. And besides, she is right now taking care of Tip, who is ill with malaria. Suddenly there is a tiny knock on the door. It's Merdle! He says repeatedly that he was out for a walk and decided to say hello. He is totally unable to make any conversation. He asks Fanny for a penknife . She offers him a mother-of-pearl one, but he prefers a tortoiseshell one instead. She asks him to try not to get ink on it. OK, then. He takes it and leaves. Fanny and Sparkler continuing their boring evening. |
SCENE 4.
France. Before Orleans
Enter, on the walls, the MASTER-GUNNER
OF ORLEANS and his BOY
MASTER-GUNNER. Sirrah, thou know'st how Orleans is
besieg'd,
And how the English have the suburbs won.
BOY. Father, I know; and oft have shot at them,
Howe'er unfortunate I miss'd my aim.
MASTER-GUNNER. But now thou shalt not. Be thou rul'd
by me.
Chief master-gunner am I of this town;
Something I must do to procure me grace.
The Prince's espials have informed me
How the English, in the suburbs close intrench'd,
Wont, through a secret grate of iron bars
In yonder tower, to overpeer the city,
And thence discover how with most advantage
They may vex us with shot or with assault.
To intercept this inconvenience,
A piece of ordnance 'gainst it I have plac'd;
And even these three days have I watch'd
If I could see them. Now do thou watch,
For I can stay no longer.
If thou spy'st any, run and bring me word;
And thou shalt find me at the Governor's. Exit
BOY. Father, I warrant you; take you no care;
I'll never trouble you, if I may spy them. Exit
Enter SALISBURY and TALBOT on the turrets, with
SIR WILLIAM GLANSDALE, SIR THOMAS GARGRAVE,
and others
SALISBURY. Talbot, my life, my joy, again return'd!
How wert thou handled being prisoner?
Or by what means got'st thou to be releas'd?
Discourse, I prithee, on this turret's top.
TALBOT. The Earl of Bedford had a prisoner
Call'd the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles;
For him was I exchang'd and ransomed.
But with a baser man of arms by far
Once, in contempt, they would have barter'd me;
Which I disdaining scorn'd, and craved death
Rather than I would be so vile esteem'd.
In fine, redeem'd I was as I desir'd.
But, O! the treacherous Fastolfe wounds my heart
Whom with my bare fists I would execute,
If I now had him brought into my power.
SALISBURY. Yet tell'st thou not how thou wert entertain'd.
TALBOT. With scoffs, and scorns, and contumelious taunts,
In open market-place produc'd they me
To be a public spectacle to all;
Here, said they, is the terror of the French,
The scarecrow that affrights our children so.
Then broke I from the officers that led me,
And with my nails digg'd stones out of the ground
To hurl at the beholders of my shame;
My grisly countenance made others fly;
None durst come near for fear of sudden death.
In iron walls they deem'd me not secure;
So great fear of my name 'mongst them was spread
That they suppos'd I could rend bars of steel
And spurn in pieces posts of adamant;
Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had
That walk'd about me every minute-while;
And if I did but stir out of my bed,
Ready they were to shoot me to the heart.
Enter the BOY with a linstock
SALISBURY. I grieve to hear what torments you endur'd;
But we will be reveng'd sufficiently.
Now it is supper-time in Orleans:
Here, through this grate, I count each one
And view the Frenchmen how they fortify.
Let us look in; the sight will much delight thee.
Sir Thomas Gargrave and Sir William Glansdale,
Let me have your express opinions
Where is best place to make our batt'ry next.
GARGRAVE. I think at the North Gate; for there stand lords.
GLANSDALE. And I here, at the bulwark of the bridge.
TALBOT. For aught I see, this city must be famish'd,
Or with light skirmishes enfeebled.
[Here they shoot and SALISBURY and GARGRAVE
fall down]
SALISBURY. O Lord, have mercy on us, wretched sinners!
GARGRAVE. O Lord, have mercy on me, woeful man!
TALBOT. What chance is this that suddenly hath cross'd us?
Speak, Salisbury; at least, if thou canst speak.
How far'st thou, mirror of all martial men?
One of thy eyes and thy cheek's side struck off!
Accursed tower! accursed fatal hand
That hath contriv'd this woeful tragedy!
In thirteen battles Salisbury o'ercame;
Henry the Fifth he first train'd to the wars;
Whilst any trump did sound or drum struck up,
His sword did ne'er leave striking in the field.
Yet liv'st thou, Salisbury? Though thy speech doth fail,
One eye thou hast to look to heaven for grace;
The sun with one eye vieweth all the world.
Heaven, be thou gracious to none alive
If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands!
Bear hence his body; I will help to bury it.
Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life?
Speak unto Talbot; nay, look up to him.
Salisbury, cheer thy spirit with this comfort,
Thou shalt not die whiles
He beckons with his hand and smiles on me,
As who should say 'When I am dead and gone,
Remember to avenge me on the French.'
Plantagenet, I will; and like thee, Nero,
Play on the lute, beholding the towns burn.
Wretched shall France be only in my name.
[Here an alarum, and it thunders and lightens]
What stir is this? What tumult's in the heavens?
Whence cometh this alarum and the noise?
Enter a MESSENGER
MESSENGER. My lord, my lord, the French have gather'd
head
The Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle join'd,
A holy prophetess new risen up,
Is come with a great power to raise the siege.
[Here SALISBURY lifteth himself up and groans]
TALBOT. Hear, hear how dying Salisbury doth groan.
It irks his heart he cannot be reveng'd.
Frenchmen, I'll be a Salisbury to you.
Pucelle or puzzel, dolphin or dogfish,
Your hearts I'll stamp out with my horse's heels
And make a quagmire of your mingled brains.
Convey me Salisbury into his tent,
And then we'll try what these dastard Frenchmen dare.
Alarum. Exeunt | The action shifts to France. The French Master Gunner of Orleans tells his son that the English have occupied a tower, to which they gained entrance through a secret gate. From this tower they are planning their attack on Orleans. The Gunner has placed a cannon near the place to prevent any further incursions. He asks his son to keep watch and let him know if he sees any Englishmen there. The Boy agrees, but once his father is out of earshot, says he will avoid telling his father of any activity: he wants to claim any glory for himself |
Mrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his
coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.
Her joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder. He received
the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not
stand against such a reception. They had begun to fail him before he
entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating
manners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed a man could not very well be in love
with either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her; and
Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like
himself. His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his
interest in their welfare again became perceptible. He was not in
spirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was
attentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits. The whole family
perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of
liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all
selfish parents.
"What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?" said she,
when dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; "are you still
to be a great orator in spite of yourself?"
"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than
inclination for a public life!"
"But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to
satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no
affection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find
it a difficult matter."
"I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished; and have
every reason to hope I never shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced
into genius and eloquence."
"You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate."
"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish as
well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body
else it must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so."
"Strange that it would!" cried Marianne. "What have wealth or grandeur
to do with happiness?"
"Grandeur has but little," said Elinor, "but wealth has much to do with
it."
"Elinor, for shame!" said Marianne, "money can only give happiness
where there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence, it can
afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned."
"Perhaps," said Elinor, smiling, "we may come to the same point. YOUR
competence and MY wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without
them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of
external comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more noble than
mine. Come, what is your competence?"
"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than THAT."
Elinor laughed. "TWO thousand a year! ONE is my wealth! I guessed how
it would end."
"And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income," said Marianne.
"A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure I am not
extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of servants, a
carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less."
Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their
future expenses at Combe Magna.
"Hunters!" repeated Edward--"but why must you have hunters? Every body
does not hunt."
Marianne coloured as she replied, "But most people do."
"I wish," said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, "that somebody
would give us all a large fortune apiece!"
"Oh that they would!" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with
animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary
happiness.
"We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said Elinor, "in spite
of the insufficiency of wealth."
"Oh dear!" cried Margaret, "how happy I should be! I wonder what I
should do with it!"
Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.
"I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself," said Mrs.
Dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich without my help."
"You must begin your improvements on this house," observed Elinor, "and
your difficulties will soon vanish."
"What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London," said
Edward, "in such an event! What a happy day for booksellers,
music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a
general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you--and as
for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music
enough in London to content her. And books!--Thomson, Cowper,
Scott--she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up
every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands;
and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old
twisted tree. Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very
saucy. But I was willing to shew you that I had not forgot our old
disputes."
"I love to be reminded of the past, Edward--whether it be melancholy or
gay, I love to recall it--and you will never offend me by talking of
former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be
spent--some of it, at least--my loose cash would certainly be employed
in improving my collection of music and books."
"And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the
authors or their heirs."
"No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it."
"Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who
wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever
be in love more than once in their life--your opinion on that point is
unchanged, I presume?"
"Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is
not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them."
"Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not
at all altered."
"She is only grown a little more grave than she was."
"Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "you need not reproach me. You are not
very gay yourself."
"Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh. "But gaiety never
was a part of MY character."
"Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's," said Elinor; "I should hardly
call her a lively girl--she is very earnest, very eager in all she
does--sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation--but she
is not often really merry."
"I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her
down as a lively girl."
"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said
Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or
other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or
stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the
deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of
themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them,
without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge."
"But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided
wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were
given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has
always been your doctrine, I am sure."
"No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of
the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the
behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess,
of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with
greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their
sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"
"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of
general civility," said Edward to Elinor. "Do you gain no ground?"
"Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne.
"My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I
am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's. I never wish to
offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I
am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought
that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I
am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!"
"Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said
Elinor.
"She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward.
"Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or
other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy
and graceful, I should not be shy."
"But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse."
Edward started--"Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?"
"Yes, very."
"I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved!--how, in
what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?"
Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the
subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to
understand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one
reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as
rapturously as herself?"
Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him
in their fullest extent--and he sat for some time silent and dull. | Mrs. Dashwood is pleasantly surprised by Edward's appearance - but not too surprised, since she takes it for granted that he's in love with Elinor. Under her affectionate gaze, he can't help but become more like his previous self, and Elinor is relieved that he's back to normal. Mrs. Dashwood asks a rather sensitive question - what are Mrs. Ferrars's plans for her eldest son? Are her expectations still too high? Edward tells them that he still doesn't have any ambition, except to live moderately and happily. Elinor and Marianne have another spat, this time about how much money one requires to live well - Elinor's estimated sum is about half of what her sister requires. Marianne describes her reasons for needing two thousand pounds a year, including horses for hunting - and they match up exactly with what she and Willoughby would require at his home, Combe Magna. Margaret comes up with a great solution - someone should come along and give them all a huge fortune each. Margaret and Mrs. Dashwood wonder what they would spend all the money on. Marianne looks as though she already knows. Edward guesses that Elinor would spend all of hers on fine art, and Marianne would buy tons of music and books. He teases the sisters easily, and Marianne seems to cheer up a bit. Elinor and Edward affectionately analyze Marianne's character . Marianne steps in to criticize how much stock Elinor puts in other people's opinions. Edward admits that he himself is perhaps a little too shy - Marianne comes out and says that he's too reserved. He's thrown off and is embarrassed by this claim. |
The morning light was in no hurry to climb the prison wall and look in
at the Snuggery windows; and when it did come, it would have been more
welcome if it had come alone, instead of bringing a rush of rain with
it. But the equinoctial gales were blowing out at sea, and the impartial
south-west wind, in its flight, would not neglect even the narrow
Marshalsea. While it roared through the steeple of St George's Church,
and twirled all the cowls in the neighbourhood, it made a swoop to beat
the Southwark smoke into the jail; and, plunging down the chimneys
of the few early collegians who were yet lighting their fires, half
suffocated them.
Arthur Clennam would have been little disposed to linger in bed, though
his bed had been in a more private situation, and less affected by the
raking out of yesterday's fire, the kindling of to-day's under the
collegiate boiler, the filling of that Spartan vessel at the pump, the
sweeping and sawdusting of the common room, and other such preparations.
Heartily glad to see the morning, though little rested by the night, he
turned out as soon as he could distinguish objects about him, and paced
the yard for two heavy hours before the gate was opened.
The walls were so near to one another, and the wild clouds hurried
over them so fast, that it gave him a sensation like the beginning of
sea-sickness to look up at the gusty sky. The rain, carried aslant by
flaws of wind, blackened that side of the central building which he had
visited last night, but left a narrow dry trough under the lee of the
wall, where he walked up and down among the waits of straw and dust
and paper, the waste droppings of the pump, and the stray leaves of
yesterday's greens. It was as haggard a view of life as a man need look
upon.
Nor was it relieved by any glimpse of the little creature who had
brought him there. Perhaps she glided out of her doorway and in at that
where her father lived, while his face was turned from both; but he saw
nothing of her. It was too early for her brother; to have seen him once,
was to have seen enough of him to know that he would be sluggish to
leave whatever frowsy bed he occupied at night; so, as Arthur Clennam
walked up and down, waiting for the gate to open, he cast about in
his mind for future rather than for present means of pursuing his
discoveries.
At last the lodge-gate turned, and the turnkey, standing on the step,
taking an early comb at his hair, was ready to let him out. With a
joyful sense of release he passed through the lodge, and found himself
again in the little outer court-yard where he had spoken to the brother
last night.
There was a string of people already straggling in, whom it was not
difficult to identify as the nondescript messengers, go-betweens, and
errand-bearers of the place. Some of them had been lounging in the rain
until the gate should open; others, who had timed their arrival
with greater nicety, were coming up now, and passing in with damp
whitey-brown paper bags from the grocers, loaves of bread, lumps of
butter, eggs, milk, and the like. The shabbiness of these attendants
upon shabbiness, the poverty of these insolvent waiters upon insolvency,
was a sight to see. Such threadbare coats and trousers, such fusty gowns
and shawls, such squashed hats and bonnets, such boots and shoes, such
umbrellas and walking-sticks, never were seen in Rag Fair. All of
them wore the cast-off clothes of other men and women, were made up of
patches and pieces of other people's individuality, and had no sartorial
existence of their own proper. Their walk was the walk of a race apart.
They had a peculiar way of doggedly slinking round the corner, as if
they were eternally going to the pawnbroker's. When they coughed, they
coughed like people accustomed to be forgotten on doorsteps and in
draughty passages, waiting for answers to letters in faded ink, which
gave the recipients of those manuscripts great mental disturbance and no
satisfaction. As they eyed the stranger in passing, they eyed him with
borrowing eyes--hungry, sharp, speculative as to his softness if they
were accredited to him, and the likelihood of his standing something
handsome. Mendicity on commission stooped in their high shoulders,
shambled in their unsteady legs, buttoned and pinned and darned and
dragged their clothes, frayed their button-holes, leaked out of their
figures in dirty little ends of tape, and issued from their mouths in
alcoholic breathings.
As these people passed him standing still in the court-yard, and one of
them turned back to inquire if he could assist him with his services,
it came into Arthur Clennam's mind that he would speak to Little Dorrit
again before he went away. She would have recovered her first surprise,
and might feel easier with him. He asked this member of the fraternity
(who had two red herrings in his hand, and a loaf and a blacking brush
under his arm), where was the nearest place to get a cup of coffee
at. The nondescript replied in encouraging terms, and brought him to a
coffee-shop in the street within a stone's throw.
'Do you know Miss Dorrit?' asked the new client.
The nondescript knew two Miss Dorrits; one who was born inside--That was
the one! That was the one? The nondescript had known her many years.
In regard of the other Miss Dorrit, the nondescript lodged in the same
house with herself and uncle.
This changed the client's half-formed design of remaining at the
coffee-shop until the nondescript should bring him word that Dorrit
had issued forth into the street. He entrusted the nondescript with a
confidential message to her, importing that the visitor who had waited
on her father last night, begged the favour of a few words with her at
her uncle's lodging; he obtained from the same source full directions to
the house, which was very near; dismissed the nondescript gratified with
half-a-crown; and having hastily refreshed himself at the coffee-shop,
repaired with all speed to the clarionet-player's dwelling.
There were so many lodgers in this house that the doorpost seemed to be
as full of bell-handles as a cathedral organ is of stops. Doubtful
which might be the clarionet-stop, he was considering the point, when a
shuttlecock flew out of the parlour window, and alighted on his hat.
He then observed that in the parlour window was a blind with the
inscription, MR CRIPPLES's ACADEMY; also in another line, EVENING
TUITION; and behind the blind was a little white-faced boy, with a slice
of bread-and-butter and a battledore. The window being accessible from
the footway, he looked in over the blind, returned the shuttlecock, and
put his question.
'Dorrit?' said the little white-faced boy (Master Cripples in fact).
'_Mr_ Dorrit? Third bell and one knock.'
The pupils of Mr Cripples appeared to have been making a copy-book of
the street-door, it was so extensively scribbled over in pencil. The
frequency of the inscriptions, 'Old Dorrit,' and 'Dirty Dick,' in
combination, suggested intentions of personality on the part Of Mr
Cripples's pupils. There was ample time to make these observations
before the door was opened by the poor old man himself.
'Ha!' said he, very slowly remembering Arthur, 'you were shut in last
night?'
'Yes, Mr Dorrit. I hope to meet your niece here presently.'
'Oh!' said he, pondering. 'Out of my brother's way? True. Would you come
up-stairs and wait for her?'
'Thank you.'
Turning himself as slowly as he turned in his mind whatever he heard or
said, he led the way up the narrow stairs. The house was very close, and
had an unwholesome smell. The little staircase windows looked in at the
back windows of other houses as unwholesome as itself, with poles and
lines thrust out of them, on which unsightly linen hung; as if the
inhabitants were angling for clothes, and had had some wretched bites
not worth attending to. In the back garret--a sickly room, with a
turn-up bedstead in it, so hastily and recently turned up that the
blankets were boiling over, as it were, and keeping the lid open--a
half-finished breakfast of coffee and toast for two persons was jumbled
down anyhow on a rickety table.
There was no one there. The old man mumbling to himself, after some
consideration, that Fanny had run away, went to the next room to fetch
her back. The visitor, observing that she held the door on the inside,
and that, when the uncle tried to open it, there was a sharp adjuration
of 'Don't, stupid!' and an appearance of loose stocking and flannel,
concluded that the young lady was in an undress. The uncle, without
appearing to come to any conclusion, shuffled in again, sat down in his
chair, and began warming his hands at the fire; not that it was cold, or
that he had any waking idea whether it was or not.
'What did you think of my brother, sir?' he asked, when he by-and-by
discovered what he was doing, left off, reached over to the
chimney-piece, and took his clarionet case down.
'I was glad,' said Arthur, very much at a loss, for his thoughts were
on the brother before him; 'to find him so well and cheerful.'
'Ha!' muttered the old man, 'yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!'
Arthur wondered what he could possibly want with the clarionet case. He
did not want it at all. He discovered, in due time, that it was not the
little paper of snuff (which was also on the chimney-piece), put it back
again, took down the snuff instead, and solaced himself with a pinch. He
was as feeble, spare, and slow in his pinches as in everything else, but
a certain little trickling of enjoyment of them played in the poor worn
nerves about the corners of his eyes and mouth.
'Amy, Mr Clennam. What do you think of her?'
'I am much impressed, Mr Dorrit, by all that I have seen of her and
thought of her.'
'My brother would have been quite lost without Amy,' he returned. 'We
should all have been lost without Amy. She is a very good girl, Amy. She
does her duty.'
Arthur fancied that he heard in these praises a certain tone of custom,
which he had heard from the father last night with an inward protest and
feeling of antagonism. It was not that they stinted her praises, or
were insensible to what she did for them; but that they were lazily
habituated to her, as they were to all the rest of their condition.
He fancied that although they had before them, every day, the means of
comparison between her and one another and themselves, they regarded her
as being in her necessary place; as holding a position towards them all
which belonged to her, like her name or her age. He fancied that they
viewed her, not as having risen away from the prison atmosphere, but as
appertaining to it; as being vaguely what they had a right to expect,
and nothing more.
Her uncle resumed his breakfast, and was munching toast sopped in
coffee, oblivious of his guest, when the third bell rang. That was Amy,
he said, and went down to let her in; leaving the visitor with as vivid
a picture on his mind of his begrimed hands, dirt-worn face, and decayed
figure, as if he were still drooping in his chair.
She came up after him, in the usual plain dress, and with the usual
timid manner. Her lips were a little parted, as if her heart beat faster
than usual.
'Mr Clennam, Amy,' said her uncle, 'has been expecting you some time.'
'I took the liberty of sending you a message.'
'I received the message, sir.'
'Are you going to my mother's this morning? I think not, for it is past
your usual hour.'
'Not to-day, sir. I am not wanted to-day.'
'Will you allow Me to walk a little way in whatever direction you may
be going? I can then speak to you as we walk, both without detaining you
here, and without intruding longer here myself.'
She looked embarrassed, but said, if he pleased. He made a pretence of
having mislaid his walking-stick, to give her time to set the bedstead
right, to answer her sister's impatient knock at the wall, and to say a
word softly to her uncle. Then he found it, and they went down-stairs;
she first, he following; the uncle standing at the stair-head, and
probably forgetting them before they had reached the ground floor.
Mr Cripples's pupils, who were by this time coming to school, desisted
from their morning recreation of cuffing one another with bags and
books, to stare with all the eyes they had at a stranger who had been
to see Dirty Dick. They bore the trying spectacle in silence, until the
mysterious visitor was at a safe distance; when they burst into pebbles
and yells, and likewise into reviling dances, and in all respects buried
the pipe of peace with so many savage ceremonies, that, if Mr Cripples
had been the chief of the Cripplewayboo tribe with his war-paint on,
they could scarcely have done greater justice to their education.
In the midst of this homage, Mr Arthur Clennam offered his arm to Little
Dorrit, and Little Dorrit took it. 'Will you go by the Iron Bridge,'
said he, 'where there is an escape from the noise of the street?' Little
Dorrit answered, if he pleased, and presently ventured to hope that he
would 'not mind' Mr Cripples's boys, for she had herself received
her education, such as it was, in Mr Cripples's evening academy. He
returned, with the best will in the world, that Mr Cripples's boys were
forgiven out of the bottom of his soul. Thus did Cripples unconsciously
become a master of the ceremonies between them, and bring them more
naturally together than Beau Nash might have done if they had lived
in his golden days, and he had alighted from his coach and six for the
purpose.
The morning remained squally, and the streets were miserably muddy, but
no rain fell as they walked towards the Iron Bridge. The little creature
seemed so young in his eyes, that there were moments when he found
himself thinking of her, if not speaking to her, as if she were a child.
Perhaps he seemed as old in her eyes as she seemed young in his.
'I am sorry to hear you were so inconvenienced last night, sir, as to be
locked in. It was very unfortunate.'
It was nothing, he returned. He had had a very good bed.
'Oh yes!' she said quickly; 'she believed there were excellent beds at
the coffee-house.' He noticed that the coffee-house was quite a majestic
hotel to her, and that she treasured its reputation.
'I believe it is very expensive,' said Little Dorrit, 'but my father has
told me that quite beautiful dinners may be got there. And wine,' she
added timidly.
'Were you ever there?'
'Oh no! Only into the kitchen to fetch hot water.'
To think of growing up with a kind of awe upon one as to the luxuries of
that superb establishment, the Marshalsea Hotel!
'I asked you last night,' said Clennam, 'how you had become acquainted
with my mother. Did you ever hear her name before she sent for you?'
'No, sir.'
'Do you think your father ever did?'
'No, sir.'
He met her eyes raised to his with so much wonder in them (she was
scared when the encounter took place, and shrunk away again), that he
felt it necessary to say:
'I have a reason for asking, which I cannot very well explain; but you
must, on no account, suppose it to be of a nature to cause you the least
alarm or anxiety. Quite the reverse. And you think that at no time of
your father's life was my name of Clennam ever familiar to him?'
'No, sir.'
He felt, from the tone in which she spoke, that she was glancing up at
him with those parted lips; therefore he looked before him, rather than
make her heart beat quicker still by embarrassing her afresh.
Thus they emerged upon the Iron Bridge, which was as quiet after the
roaring streets as though it had been open country. The wind blew
roughly, the wet squalls came rattling past them, skimming the pools on
the road and pavement, and raining them down into the river. The clouds
raced on furiously in the lead-coloured sky, the smoke and mist raced
after them, the dark tide ran fierce and strong in the same direction.
Little Dorrit seemed the least, the quietest, and weakest of Heaven's
creatures.
'Let me put you in a coach,' said Clennam, very nearly adding 'my poor
child.'
She hurriedly declined, saying that wet or dry made little difference to
her; she was used to go about in all weathers. He knew it to be so, and
was touched with more pity; thinking of the slight figure at his side,
making its nightly way through the damp dark boisterous streets to such
a place of rest.
'You spoke so feelingly to me last night, sir, and I found afterwards
that you had been so generous to my father, that I could not resist your
message, if it was only to thank you; especially as I wished very much
to say to you--' she hesitated and trembled, and tears rose in her eyes,
but did not fall.
'To say to me--?'
'That I hope you will not misunderstand my father. Don't judge him, sir,
as you would judge others outside the gates. He has been there so long!
I never saw him outside, but I can understand that he must have grown
different in some things since.'
'My thoughts will never be unjust or harsh towards him, believe me.'
'Not,' she said, with a prouder air, as the misgiving evidently crept
upon her that she might seem to be abandoning him, 'not that he has
anything to be ashamed of for himself, or that I have anything to be
ashamed of for him. He only requires to be understood. I only ask for
him that his life may be fairly remembered. All that he said was quite
true. It all happened just as he related it. He is very much respected.
Everybody who comes in, is glad to know him. He is more courted than
anyone else. He is far more thought of than the Marshal is.'
If ever pride were innocent, it was innocent in Little Dorrit when she
grew boastful of her father.
'It is often said that his manners are a true gentleman's, and quite
a study. I see none like them in that place, but he is admitted to
be superior to all the rest. This is quite as much why they make him
presents, as because they know him to be needy. He is not to be blamed
for being in need, poor love. Who could be in prison a quarter of a
century, and be prosperous!'
What affection in her words, what compassion in her repressed tears,
what a great soul of fidelity within her, how true the light that shed
false brightness round him!
'If I have found it best to conceal where my home is, it is not because
I am ashamed of him. God forbid! Nor am I so much ashamed of the place
itself as might be supposed. People are not bad because they come there.
I have known numbers of good, persevering, honest people come there
through misfortune. They are almost all kind-hearted to one another.
And it would be ungrateful indeed in me, to forget that I have had many
quiet, comfortable hours there; that I had an excellent friend there
when I was quite a baby, who was very very fond of me; that I have been
taught there, and have worked there, and have slept soundly there. I
think it would be almost cowardly and cruel not to have some little
attachment for it, after all this.'
She had relieved the faithful fulness of her heart, and modestly said,
raising her eyes appealingly to her new friend's, 'I did not mean to say
so much, nor have I ever but once spoken about this before. But it seems
to set it more right than it was last night. I said I wished you had
not followed me, sir. I don't wish it so much now, unless you should
think--indeed I don't wish it at all, unless I should have spoken so
confusedly, that--that you can scarcely understand me, which I am afraid
may be the case.'
He told her with perfect truth that it was not the case; and putting
himself between her and the sharp wind and rain, sheltered her as well
as he could.
'I feel permitted now,' he said, 'to ask you a little more concerning
your father. Has he many creditors?'
'Oh! a great number.'
'I mean detaining creditors, who keep him where he is?'
'Oh yes! a great number.'
'Can you tell me--I can get the information, no doubt, elsewhere, if you
cannot--who is the most influential of them?'
Little Dorrit said, after considering a little, that she used to
hear long ago of Mr Tite Barnacle as a man of great power. He was a
commissioner, or a board, or a trustee, 'or something.' He lived
in Grosvenor Square, she thought, or very near it. He was under
Government--high in the Circumlocution Office. She appeared to have
acquired, in her infancy, some awful impression of the might of this
formidable Mr Tite Barnacle of Grosvenor Square, or very near it, and
the Circumlocution Office, which quite crushed her when she mentioned
him.
'It can do no harm,' thought Arthur, 'if I see this Mr Tite Barnacle.'
The thought did not present itself so quietly but that her quickness
intercepted it. 'Ah!' said Little Dorrit, shaking her head with the mild
despair of a lifetime. 'Many people used to think once of getting my
poor father out, but you don't know how hopeless it is.'
She forgot to be shy at the moment, in honestly warning him away from
the sunken wreck he had a dream of raising; and looked at him with
eyes which assuredly, in association with her patient face, her fragile
figure, her spare dress, and the wind and rain, did not turn him from
his purpose of helping her.
'Even if it could be done,' said she--'and it never can be done
now--where could father live, or how could he live? I have often thought
that if such a change could come, it might be anything but a service to
him now. People might not think so well of him outside as they do there.
He might not be so gently dealt with outside as he is there. He might
not be so fit himself for the life outside as he is for that.'
Here for the first time she could not restrain her tears from falling;
and the little thin hands he had watched when they were so busy,
trembled as they clasped each other.
'It would be a new distress to him even to know that I earn a little
money, and that Fanny earns a little money. He is so anxious about us,
you see, feeling helplessly shut up there. Such a good, good father!'
He let the little burst of feeling go by before he spoke. It was soon
gone. She was not accustomed to think of herself, or to trouble any one
with her emotions. He had but glanced away at the piles of city roofs
and chimneys among which the smoke was rolling heavily, and at the
wilderness of masts on the river, and the wilderness of steeples on
the shore, indistinctly mixed together in the stormy haze, when she
was again as quiet as if she had been plying her needle in his mother's
room.
'You would be glad to have your brother set at liberty?'
'Oh very, very glad, sir!'
'Well, we will hope for him at least. You told me last night of a friend
you had?'
His name was Plornish, Little Dorrit said.
And where did Plornish live? Plornish lived in Bleeding Heart Yard. He
was 'only a plasterer,' Little Dorrit said, as a caution to him not to
form high social expectations of Plornish. He lived at the last house in
Bleeding Heart Yard, and his name was over a little gateway.
Arthur took down the address and gave her his. He had now done all he
sought to do for the present, except that he wished to leave her with a
reliance upon him, and to have something like a promise from her that
she would cherish it.
'There is one friend!' he said, putting up his pocketbook. 'As I take
you back--you are going back?'
'Oh yes! going straight home.'
'--As I take you back,' the word home jarred upon him, 'let me ask you to
persuade yourself that you have another friend. I make no professions,
and say no more.'
'You are truly kind to me, sir. I am sure I need no more.'
They walked back through the miserable muddy streets, and among the
poor, mean shops, and were jostled by the crowds of dirty hucksters
usual to a poor neighbourhood. There was nothing, by the short way, that
was pleasant to any of the five senses. Yet it was not a common passage
through common rain, and mire, and noise, to Clennam, having this
little, slender, careful creature on his arm. How young she seemed to
him, or how old he to her; or what a secret either to the other, in that
beginning of the destined interweaving of their stories, matters not
here. He thought of her having been born and bred among these scenes,
and shrinking through them now, familiar yet misplaced; he thought
of her long acquaintance with the squalid needs of life, and of her
innocence; of her solicitude for others, and her few years, and her
childish aspect.
They were come into the High Street, where the prison stood, when a
voice cried, 'Little mother, little mother!' Little Dorrit stopping and
looking back, an excited figure of a strange kind bounced against them
(still crying 'little mother'), fell down, and scattered the contents of
a large basket, filled with potatoes, in the mud.
'Oh, Maggy,' said Little Dorrit, 'what a clumsy child you are!'
Maggy was not hurt, but picked herself up immediately, and then began
to pick up the potatoes, in which both Little Dorrit and Arthur Clennam
helped. Maggy picked up very few potatoes and a great quantity of mud;
but they were all recovered, and deposited in the basket. Maggy then
smeared her muddy face with her shawl, and presenting it to Mr Clennam
as a type of purity, enabled him to see what she was like.
She was about eight-and-twenty, with large bones, large features, large
feet and hands, large eyes and no hair. Her large eyes were limpid and
almost colourless; they seemed to be very little affected by light,
and to stand unnaturally still. There was also that attentive listening
expression in her face, which is seen in the faces of the blind; but she
was not blind, having one tolerably serviceable eye. Her face was not
exceedingly ugly, though it was only redeemed from being so by a smile;
a good-humoured smile, and pleasant in itself, but rendered pitiable
by being constantly there. A great white cap, with a quantity of
opaque frilling that was always flapping about, apologised for Maggy's
baldness, and made it so very difficult for her old black bonnet to
retain its place upon her head, that it held on round her neck like a
gipsy's baby. A commission of haberdashers could alone have reported
what the rest of her poor dress was made of, but it had a strong general
resemblance to seaweed, with here and there a gigantic tea-leaf. Her
shawl looked particularly like a tea-leaf after long infusion.
Arthur Clennam looked at Little Dorrit with the expression of one
saying, 'May I ask who this is?' Little Dorrit, whose hand this Maggy,
still calling her little mother, had begun to fondle, answered in words
(they were under a gateway into which the majority of the potatoes had
rolled).
'This is Maggy, sir.'
'Maggy, sir,' echoed the personage presented. 'Little mother!'
'She is the grand-daughter--' said Little Dorrit.
'Grand-daughter,' echoed Maggy.
'Of my old nurse, who has been dead a long time. Maggy, how old are
you?'
'Ten, mother,' said Maggy.
'You can't think how good she is, sir,' said Little Dorrit, with
infinite tenderness.
'Good _she_ is,' echoed Maggy, transferring the pronoun in a most
expressive way from herself to her little mother.
'Or how clever,' said Little Dorrit. 'She goes on errands as well as
any one.' Maggy laughed. 'And is as trustworthy as the Bank of England.'
Maggy laughed. 'She earns her own living entirely. Entirely, sir!' said
Little Dorrit, in a lower and triumphant tone. 'Really does!'
'What is her history?' asked Clennam.
'Think of that, Maggy?' said Little Dorrit, taking her two large hands
and clapping them together. 'A gentleman from thousands of miles away,
wanting to know your history!'
'_My_ history?' cried Maggy. 'Little mother.'
'She means me,' said Little Dorrit, rather confused; 'she is very much
attached to me. Her old grandmother was not so kind to her as she should
have been; was she, Maggy?'
Maggy shook her head, made a drinking vessel of her clenched left hand,
drank out of it, and said, 'Gin.' Then beat an imaginary child, and said,
'Broom-handles and pokers.'
'When Maggy was ten years old,' said Little Dorrit, watching her face
while she spoke, 'she had a bad fever, sir, and she has never grown any
older ever since.'
'Ten years old,' said Maggy, nodding her head. 'But what a nice
hospital! So comfortable, wasn't it? Oh so nice it was. Such a Ev'nly
place!'
'She had never been at peace before, sir,' said Little Dorrit, turning
towards Arthur for an instant and speaking low, 'and she always runs off
upon that.'
'Such beds there is there!' cried Maggy. 'Such lemonades! Such oranges!
Such d'licious broth and wine! Such Chicking! Oh, AIN'T it a delightful
place to go and stop at!'
'So Maggy stopped there as long as she could,' said Little Dorrit,
in her former tone of telling a child's story; the tone designed for
Maggy's ear, 'and at last, when she could stop there no longer, she came
out. Then, because she was never to be more than ten years old, however
long she lived--'
'However long she lived,' echoed Maggy.
'--And because she was very weak; indeed was so weak that when she began
to laugh she couldn't stop herself--which was a great pity--'
(Maggy mighty grave of a sudden.)
'--Her grandmother did not know what to do with her, and for some years
was very unkind to her indeed. At length, in course of time, Maggy began
to take pains to improve herself, and to be very attentive and very
industrious; and by degrees was allowed to come in and out as often as
she liked, and got enough to do to support herself, and does support
herself. And that,' said Little Dorrit, clapping the two great hands
together again, 'is Maggy's history, as Maggy knows!'
Ah! But Arthur would have known what was wanting to its completeness,
though he had never heard of the words Little mother; though he had
never seen the fondling of the small spare hand; though he had had no
sight for the tears now standing in the colourless eyes; though he had
had no hearing for the sob that checked the clumsy laugh. The dirty
gateway with the wind and rain whistling through it, and the basket of
muddy potatoes waiting to be spilt again or taken up, never seemed the
common hole it really was, when he looked back to it by these lights.
Never, never!
They were very near the end of their walk, and they now came out of the
gateway to finish it. Nothing would serve Maggy but that they must stop
at a grocer's window, short of their destination, for her to show her
learning. She could read after a sort; and picked out the fat figures in
the tickets of prices, for the most part correctly. She also stumbled,
with a large balance of success against her failures, through various
philanthropic recommendations to Try our Mixture, Try our Family Black,
Try our Orange-flavoured Pekoe, challenging competition at the head
of Flowery Teas; and various cautions to the public against spurious
establishments and adulterated articles. When he saw how pleasure
brought a rosy tint into Little Dorrit's face when Maggy made a hit,
he felt that he could have stood there making a library of the grocer's
window until the rain and wind were tired.
The court-yard received them at last, and there he said goodbye to
Little Dorrit. Little as she had always looked, she looked less than
ever when he saw her going into the Marshalsea lodge passage, the little
mother attended by her big child.
The cage door opened, and when the small bird, reared in captivity, had
tamely fluttered in, he saw it shut again; and then he came away. | Arthur sleeps badly, wakes up early, and gets the heck out of Dodge - um, Marshalsea - as soon as possible. Then he decides to speak to Little Dorrit again and leaves her a message saying to meet him at her uncle Frederick's house. He waits in Frederick Dorrit's disgusting little room just outside the prison and realizes that the family takes Little Dorrit and all her various services totally for granted. Finally she arrives, and they go out for a walk. First Arthur tries to get some more info about his mom, but Little Dorrit had never heard of her before going to work at the Clennam house. Little Dorrit also tells him about Plornish, a plasterer she met while he was in Marshalsea and who is now her friend. Then Arthur starts to get fatherly type feelings about her, trying to protect her. Little Dorrit is onto him, though, and busts out with a speech about not feeling sorry for her and not judging her dad too harshly for how he has turned out because "He has been there so long! I never saw him outside, but I can understand that he must have grown different in some things since" . So basically there's a whole lot of denial, enabling, and general awfulness going on. Get these people into family therapy, pronto! Arthur wonders if there's a way to get Dorrit out of prison, and Little Dorrit says she remembers some high-up government official named Tite Barnacle. But then she immediately freaks out at the idea that Arthur is going to try to fix things and tells him not to even bother trying. Odd, no? Almost like she likes the situation the way it is. In any case, they run into Maggie. Maggie is a 28-year-old mentally disabled lady who calls Little Dorrit her "little mother." Little Dorrit has taken her under her wing and taught her to read and write a bit, and Maggie is now able to earn her own living as an errand-runner. Arthur loves how proud Little Dorrit is of Maggie's accomplishments. Eventually he walks them back to the prison. |
The Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not
disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to
Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the
negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement,
met Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were
duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held
responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the
new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as
soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse's equipment that she
permitted Mr. Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head,
to be forgotten, and to die.
Lucy--to descend from bright heaven to earth, whereon there are shadows
because there are hills--Lucy was at first plunged into despair, but
settled after a little thought that it did not matter the very least.
Now that she was engaged, the Emersons would scarcely insult her and
were welcome into the neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring whom
he would into the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to bring
the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a little
thinking, and--so illogical are girls--the event remained rather greater
and rather more dreadful than it should have done. She was glad that
a visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villa
while she was safe in the London flat.
"Cecil--Cecil darling," she whispered the evening she arrived, and crept
into his arms.
Cecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire had been
kindled in Lucy. At last she longed for attention, as a woman should,
and looked up to him because he was a man.
"So you do love me, little thing?" he murmured.
"Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don't know what I should do without you."
Several days passed. Then she had a letter from Miss Bartlett. A
coolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had not
corresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated from what
Charlotte would call "the flight to Rome," and in Rome it had increased
amazingly. For the companion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaeval
world becomes exasperating in the classical. Charlotte, unselfish in the
Forum, would have tried a sweeter temper than Lucy's, and once, in the
Baths of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could continue
their tour. Lucy had said she would join the Vyses--Mrs. Vyse was an
acquaintance of her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan and
Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandoned
suddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for
Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as follows.
It had been forwarded from Windy Corner.
"Tunbridge Wells,
"September.
"Dearest Lucia,
"I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your
parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing
her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very
woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door
open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father
had just taken the house. He SAID he did not know that you lived in the
neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear
Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his
past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him
to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune, and I dare say you
have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used
to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should
not feel easy unless I warned you.
"Believe me,
"Your anxious and loving cousin,
"Charlotte."
Lucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:
"Beauchamp Mansions, S.W.
"Dear Charlotte,
"Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the
mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she
would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise,
and cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil
that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable
people--which I do think--and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no
tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the
Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that
it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them,
they would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they
are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again.
As for the son, I am sorry for him when we meet, rather than for myself.
They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other
day. We expect to be married in January.
"Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at Windy
Corner at all, but here. Please do not put 'Private' outside your
envelope again. No one opens my letters.
"Yours affectionately,
"L. M. Honeychurch."
Secrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; we
cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and her
cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil's life if
he discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? Miss
Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become a
great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her mother
and her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing.
"Emerson, not Harris"; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried to
tell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautiful
lady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so
ridiculously that she stopped.
She and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted Metropolis
visiting the scenes they were to know so well later on. It did her no
harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while society
itself was absent on the golf-links or the moors. The weather was cool,
and it did her no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to
scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren
of famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness
that impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One
launched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself
up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertolini
and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London
career would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in the
past.
The grandchildren asked her to play the piano.
She played Schumann. "Now some Beethoven" called Cecil, when the
querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played
Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it
was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The
sadness of the incomplete--the sadness that is often Life, but should
never be Art--throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of
the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano
at the Bertolini, and "Too much Schumann" was not the remark that Mr.
Beebe had passed to himself when she returned.
When the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced
up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party with her son.
Mrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like many another's,
had been swamped by London, for it needs a strong head to live among
many people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she had
seen too many seasons, too many cities, too many men, for her abilities,
and even with Cecil she was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one
son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd.
"Make Lucy one of us," she said, looking round intelligently at the end
of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she spoke again.
"Lucy is becoming wonderful--wonderful."
"Her music always was wonderful."
"Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent
Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting
servants, or asking one how the pudding is made."
"Italy has done it."
"Perhaps," she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy
to her. "It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January.
She is one of us already."
"But her music!" he exclaimed. "The style of her! How she kept to
Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for
this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have
our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country
folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then--not
till then--let them come to London. I don't believe in these London
educations--" He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and
concluded, "At all events, not for women."
"Make her one of us," repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed.
As she was dozing off, a cry--the cry of nightmare--rang from Lucy's
room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it
kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on
her cheek.
"I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse--it is these dreams."
"Bad dreams?"
"Just dreams."
The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: "You
should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than
ever. Dream of that."
Lucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.
Vyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.
Darkness enveloped the flat. | Chapter 11 is set in London at the apartment of Cecil's mother, Mrs. Vyse, where Lucy and Cecil have gone for a visit. While there, Lucy receives a letter from Charlotte expressing alarm about the arrival of George to Lucy's neighborhood and advising her to tell her mother and Cecil everything. The letter annoys Lucy, who does not intend to say anything about the incident in Italy. Mrs. Vyse holds a dinner party, inviting all the descendants of famous people, and Lucy plays the piano, choosing a sad and broken melody by Schumann rather than her triumphant Beethoven. Cecil and his mother discuss Lucy afterwards, both impressed by her style and her playing, Cecil commenting that the Schumann had been perfect for the occasion. Mrs. Vyse is shown as a good person whose true character has been stifled and crushed by London society, making her snobbish and weary. That night in Mrs. Vyse's home, Lucy has a nightmare and is comforted by Mrs. Vyse, who reassures her that Cecil cares for her |
From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the
most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly my sole occupation.
I read with ardour those works, so full of genius and discrimination,
which modern inquirers have written on these subjects. I attended the
lectures, and cultivated the acquaintance, of the men of science of the
university; and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense
and real information, combined, it is true, with a repulsive physiognomy
and manners, but not on that account the less valuable. In M. Waldman I
found a true friend. His gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism; and
his instructions were given with an air of frankness and good nature,
that banished every idea of pedantry. It was, perhaps, the amiable
character of this man that inclined me more to that branch of natural
philosophy which he professed, than an intrinsic love for the science
itself. But this state of mind had place only in the first steps towards
knowledge: the more fully I entered into the science, the more
exclusively I pursued it for its own sake. That application, which at
first had been a matter of duty and resolution, now became so ardent and
eager, that the stars often disappeared in the light of morning whilst
I was yet engaged in my laboratory.
As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that I improved
rapidly. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students; and my
proficiency, that of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me, with
a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on? whilst M. Waldman expressed
the most heart-felt exultation in my progress. Two years passed in this
manner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart
and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries, which I hoped to make.
None but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements
of science. In other studies you go as far as others have gone before
you, and there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit
there is continual food for discovery and wonder. A mind of moderate
capacity, which closely pursues one study, must infallibly arrive at
great proficiency in that study; and I, who continually sought the
attainment of one object of pursuit, and was solely wrapt up in this,
improved so rapidly, that, at the end of two years, I made some
discoveries in the improvement of some chemical instruments, which
procured me great esteem and admiration at the university. When I had
arrived at this point, and had become as well acquainted with the theory
and practice of natural philosophy as depended on the lessons of any of
the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence there being no longer
conducive to my improvements, I thought of returning to my friends and
my native town, when an incident happened that protracted my stay.
One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention was the
structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with life.
Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was
a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery;
yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted,
if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries. I revolved
these circumstances in my mind, and determined thenceforth to apply
myself more particularly to those branches of natural philosophy which
relate to physiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost
supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been
irksome, and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life, we must
first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the science of
anatomy: but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the natural
decay and corruption of the human body. In my education my father had
taken the greatest precautions that my mind should be impressed with no
supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember to have trembled at a tale
of superstition, or to have feared the apparition of a spirit. Darkness
had no effect upon my fancy; and a church-yard was to me merely the
receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which, from being the seat of
beauty and strength, had become food for the worm. Now I was led to
examine the cause and progress of this decay, and forced to spend days
and nights in vaults and charnel houses. My attention was fixed upon
every object the most insupportable to the delicacy of the human
feelings. I saw how the fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I
beheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I
saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused,
examining and analysing all the minutiae of causation, as exemplified in
the change from life to death, and death to life, until from the midst
of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me--a light so brilliant
and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the
immensity of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that
among so many men of genius, who had directed their inquiries towards
the same science, that I alone should be reserved to discover so
astonishing a secret.
Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not
more certainly shine in the heavens, than that which I now affirm is
true. Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the
discovery were distinct and probable. After days and nights of
incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of
generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing
animation upon lifeless matter.
The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery soon
gave place to delight and rapture. After so much time spent in painful
labour, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires, was the most
gratifying consummation of my toils. But this discovery was so great
and overwhelming, that all the steps by which I had been progressively
led to it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result. What had been
the study and desire of the wisest men since the creation of the world,
was now within my grasp. Not that, like a magic scene, it all opened
upon me at once: the information I had obtained was of a nature rather
to direct my endeavours so soon as I should point them towards the
object of my search, than to exhibit that object already accomplished. I
was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead, and found a
passage to life aided only by one glimmering, and seemingly ineffectual
light.
I see by your eagerness, and the wonder and hope which your eyes
express, my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with
which I am acquainted; that cannot be: listen patiently until the end of
my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that
subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to
your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from me, if not by my
precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of
knowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his native town
to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature
will allow.
When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated
a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it. Although
I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to prepare a frame
for the reception of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles,
and veins, still remained a work of inconceivable difficulty and labour.
I doubted at first whether I should attempt the creation of a being like
myself or one of simpler organization; but my imagination was too much
exalted by my first success to permit me to doubt of my ability to give
life to an animal as complex and wonderful as man. The materials at
present within my command hardly appeared adequate to so arduous an
undertaking; but I doubted not that I should ultimately succeed. I
prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my operations might be
incessantly baffled, and at last my work be imperfect: yet, when I
considered the improvement which every day takes place in science and
mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present attempts would at least
lay the foundations of future success. Nor could I consider the
magnitude and complexity of my plan as any argument of its
impracticability. It was with these feelings that I began the creation
of a human being. As the minuteness of the parts formed a great
hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to
make the being of a gigantic stature; that is to say, about eight feet
in height, and proportionably large. After having formed this
determination, and having spent some months in successfully collecting
and arranging my materials, I began.
No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like
a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life and death appeared
to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a
torrent of light into our dark world. A new species would bless me as
its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their
being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so
completely as I should deserve their's. Pursuing these reflections, I
thought, that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I might
in process of time (although I now found it impossible) renew life where
death had apparently devoted the body to corruption.
These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking with
unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study, and my person
had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of
certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the next day or
the next hour might realize. One secret which I alone possessed was the
hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight
labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued
nature to her hiding places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret
toil, as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave, or tortured
the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble,
and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but then a resistless, and almost
frantic impulse, urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul or
sensation but for this one pursuit. It was indeed but a passing trance,
that only made me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as, the unnatural
stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits. I
collected bones from charnel houses; and disturbed, with profane
fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary
chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated from all
the other apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of
filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from their sockets in
attending to the details of my employment. The dissecting room and the
slaughter-house furnished many of my materials; and often did my human
nature turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by
an eagerness which perpetually increased, I brought my work near to a
conclusion.
The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in
one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields bestow
a more plentiful harvest, or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage:
but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And the same
feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also to
forget those friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had not
seen for so long a time. I knew my silence disquieted them; and I well
remembered the words of my father: "I know that while you are pleased
with yourself, you will think of us with affection, and we shall hear
regularly from you. You must pardon me, if I regard any interruption in
your correspondence as a proof that your other duties are equally
neglected."
I knew well therefore what would be my father's feelings; but I could
not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself, but which
had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination. I wished, as it were,
to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection until the
great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature, should be
completed.
I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect
to vice, or faultiness on my part; but I am now convinced that he was
justified in conceiving that I should not be altogether free from blame.
A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful
mind, and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb his
tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge is an
exception to this rule. If the study to which you apply yourself has a
tendency to weaken your affections, and to destroy your taste for those
simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is
certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human mind. If
this rule were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit
whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic
affections, Greece had not been enslaved; Caesar would have spared his
country; America would have been discovered more gradually; and the
empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed.
But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part of my
tale; and your looks remind me to proceed.
My father made no reproach in his letters; and only took notice of my
silence by inquiring into my occupations more particularly than before.
Winter, spring, and summer, passed away during my labours; but I did not
watch the blossom or the expanding leaves--sights which before always
yielded me supreme delight, so deeply was I engrossed in my occupation.
The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew near to a
close; and now every day shewed me more plainly how well I had
succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared
rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other
unwholesome trade, than an artist occupied by his favourite employment.
Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a
most painful degree; a disease that I regretted the more because I had
hitherto enjoyed most excellent health, and had always boasted of the
firmness of my nerves. But I believed that exercise and amusement would
soon drive away such symptoms; and I promised myself both of these, when
my creation should be complete. | Victor has now started enthusiastically working on his studies. He reads a great deal, attends all lectures and meets the influential people at the university. He gets to know his professors a little better, so much so that he finds a true friend in Waldman. Waldman is the one who always encourages him in his experiments. Victor spends two years in the university without once visiting his family in Geneva. He has made progress. He is so engrossed in his experiments that he begins to venture into new fields. He searches for the origin of life. He studies the relevant branches of the sciences and finally succeeds in giving life to lifeless matter. He now begins to think in terms of creating an actual human being whom he could bring to life. He decides to "create" a human being of about eight feet in height and proportionately large. He starts working on it. At times, he does feel appalled at his own audacity but burning ambition gets the better of him as he continues working, regardless of all else, including letters from the family. |
INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW
IT chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk
with Mr. Enfield, that their way lay once again through the
by-street; and that when they came in front of the door, both
stopped to gaze on it.
"Well," said Enfield, "that story's at an end at least. We shall
never see more of Mr. Hyde."
"I hope not," said Utterson. "Did I ever tell you that I once saw
him, and shared your feeling of repulsion?"
"It was impossible to do the one without the other," returned
Enfield. "And by the way, what an ass you must have thought me,
not to know that this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll's! It was
partly your own fault that I found it out, even when I did."
"So you found it out, did you?" said Utterson. "But if that be
so, we may step into the court and take a look at the windows. To
tell you the truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even
outside, I feel as if the presence of a friend might do him
good."
49)
The court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature
twilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was still bright
with sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half-way
open; and sitting close beside it, taking the air with an
infinite sadness of mien, like some disconsolate prisoner,
Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll.
"What! Jekyll!" he cried. "I trust you are better."
"I am very low, Utterson," replied the doctor, drearily, "very
low. It will not last long, thank God."
"You stay too much indoors," said the lawyer. "You should be out,
whipping up the circulation like Mr. Enfield and me. (This is my
cousin--Mr. Enfield--Dr. Jekyll.) Come, now; get your hat and
take a quick turn with us."
"You are very good," sighed the other. "I should like to very
much; but no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I dare not. But
indeed, Utterson, I am very glad to see you; this is really a
great pleasure; I would ask you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place
is really not fit."
"Why then," said the lawyer, good-naturedly, "the best thing we
can do is to stay down here and speak with you from where we
are."
"That is just what I was about to venture to propose," returned
the doctor with a smile. But the words were hardly uttered,
before the smile was struck out of his face and succeeded
50)
by an expression of such abject terror and despair, as froze the
very blood of the two gentlemen below. They saw it but for a
glimpse, for the window was instantly thrust down; but that
glimpse had been sufficient, and they turned and left the court
without a word. In silence, too, they traversed the by-street;
and it was not until they had come into a neighbouring
thoroughfare, where even upon a Sunday there were still some
stirrings of life, that Mr. Utterson at last turned and looked at
his companion. They were both pale; and there was an answering
horror in their eyes.
"God forgive us, God forgive us," said Mr. Utterson.
But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously and walked on
once more in silence.
51) | One Sunday, Enfield and Utterson are walking again when they come to the strange door at which the story began. Enfield, who has by now, of course, like the rest of London, heard all about Mr. Hyde, says that the story is at least at and end, and Utterson expresses the hope that it is. He tells him that he once saw Mr. Hyde and felt the same sense of revulsion as did Enfield, but does not say anything more of what he knows. Enfield reveals that he has learned that the door is, indeed, the back entrance of Jekyll's house, and he chastises Utterson for withholding the information. Utterson says that he is concerned about Dr. Jekyll and feels that the presence of a friend might help him. As they step into the courtyard, they look up and see Dr. Jekyll sitting at one of the windows, looking like "some disconsolate prisoner." Utterson tells him that he should not stay inside so much. Jekyll seems pleased to see his friends, but says that he cannot admit them up. He is happy, however, to talk to them from the window. Suddenly, his face changes, becoming so horrible and miserable that they are terrified. They have only a brief glimpse of it, however, before the window is shut. They both walk on, too terrified to talk. Only when they come to a busy part of the street does Utterson dares to look at his companion. "God forgive us," he says. Enfield nods his head seriously and they walk on in silence. |
A Vanishing Gleam
Mr. Tulliver, even between the fits of spasmodic rigidity which had
recurred at intervals ever since he had been found fallen from his
horse, was usually in so apathetic a condition that the exits and
entrances into his room were not felt to be of great importance. He
had lain so still, with his eyes closed, all this morning, that Maggie
told her aunt Moss she must not expect her father to take any notice
of them.
They entered very quietly, and Mrs. Moss took her seat near the head
of the bed, while Maggie sat in her old place on the bed, and put her
hand on her father's without causing any change in his face.
Mr. Glegg and Tom had also entered, treading softly, and were busy
selecting the key of the old oak chest from the bunch which Tom had
brought from his father's bureau. They succeeded in opening the
chest,--which stood opposite the foot of Mr. Tulliver's bed,--and
propping the lid with the iron holder, without much noise.
"There's a tin box," whispered Mr. Glegg; "he'd most like put a small
thing like a note in there. Lift it out, Tom; but I'll just lift up
these deeds,--they're the deeds o' the house and mill, I suppose,--and
see what there is under 'em."
Mr. Glegg had lifted out the parchments, and had fortunately drawn
back a little, when the iron holder gave way, and the heavy lid fell
with a loud bang that resounded over the house.
Perhaps there was something in that sound more than the mere fact of
the strong vibration that produced the instantaneous effect on the
frame of the prostrate man, and for the time completely shook off the
obstruction of paralysis. The chest had belonged to his father and his
father's father, and it had always been rather a solemn business to
visit it. All long-known objects, even a mere window fastening or a
particular door-latch, have sounds which are a sort of recognized
voice to us,--a voice that will thrill and awaken, when it has been
used to touch deep-lying fibres. In the same moment, when all the eyes
in the room were turned upon him, he started up and looked at the
chest, the parchments in Mr. Glegg's hand, and Tom holding the tin
box, with a glance of perfect consciousness and recognition.
"What are you going to do with those deeds?" he said, in his ordinary
tone of sharp questioning whenever he was irritated. "Come here, Tom.
What do you do, going to my chest?"
Tom obeyed, with some trembling; it was the first time his father had
recognized him. But instead of saying anything more to him, his father
continued to look with a growing distinctness of suspicion at Mr.
Glegg and the deeds.
"What's been happening, then?" he said sharply. "What are you meddling
with my deeds for? Is Wakem laying hold of everything? Why don't you
tell me what you've been a-doing?" he added impatiently, as Mr. Glegg
advanced to the foot of the bed before speaking.
"No, no, friend Tulliver," said Mr. Glegg, in a soothing tone.
"Nobody's getting hold of anything as yet. We only came to look and
see what was in the chest. You've been ill, you know, and we've had to
look after things a bit. But let's hope you'll soon be well enough to
attend to everything yourself."
Mr. Tulliver looked around him meditatively, at Tom, at Mr. Glegg, and
at Maggie; then suddenly appearing aware that some one was seated by
his side at the head of the bed he turned sharply round and saw his
sister.
"Eh, Gritty!" he said, in the half-sad, affectionate tone in which he
had been wont to speak to her. "What! you're there, are you? How could
you manage to leave the children?"
"Oh, brother!" said good Mrs. Moss, too impulsive to be prudent, "I'm
thankful I'm come now to see you yourself again; I thought you'd never
know us any more."
"What! have I had a stroke?" said Mr. Tulliver, anxiously, looking at
Mr. Glegg.
"A fall from your horse--shook you a bit,--that's all, I think," said
Mr. Glegg. "But you'll soon get over it, let's hope."
Mr. Tulliver fixed his eyes on the bed-clothes, and remained silent
for two or three minutes. A new shadow came over his face. He looked
up at Maggie first, and said in a lower tone, "You got the letter,
then, my wench?"
"Yes, father," she said, kissing him with a full heart. She felt as if
her father were come back to her from the dead, and her yearning to
show him how she had always loved him could be fulfilled.
"Where's your mother?" he said, so preoccupied that he received the
kiss as passively as some quiet animal might have received it.
"She's downstairs with my aunts, father. Shall I fetch her?"
"Ay, ay; poor Bessy!" and his eyes turned toward Tom as Maggie left
the room.
"You'll have to take care of 'em both if I die, you know, Tom. You'll
be badly off, I doubt. But you must see and pay everybody. And
mind,--there's fifty pound o' Luke's as I put into the business,--he
gave me a bit at a time, and he's got nothing to show for it. You must
pay him first thing."
Uncle Glegg involuntarily shook his head, and looked more concerned
than ever, but Tom said firmly:
"Yes, father. And haven't you a note from my uncle Moss for three
hundred pounds? We came to look for that. What do you wish to be done
about it, father?"
"Ah! I'm glad you thought o' that, my lad," said Mr. Tulliver. "I
allays meant to be easy about that money, because o' your aunt. You
mustn't mind losing the money, if they can't pay it,--and it's like
enough they can't. The note's in that box, mind! I allays meant to be
good to you, Gritty," said Mr. Tulliver, turning to his sister; "but
you know you aggravated me when you would have Moss."
At this moment Maggie re-entered with her mother, who came in much
agitated by the news that her husband was quite himself again.
"Well, Bessy," he said, as she kissed him, "you must forgive me if
you're worse off than you ever expected to be. But it's the fault o'
the law,--it's none o' mine," he added angrily. "It's the fault o'
raskills. Tom, you mind this: if ever you've got the chance, you make
Wakem smart. If you don't, you're a good-for-nothing son. You might
horse-whip him, but he'd set the law on you,--the law's made to take
care o' raskills."
Mr. Tulliver was getting excited, and an alarming flush was on his
face. Mr. Glegg wanted to say something soothing, but he was prevented
by Mr. Tulliver's speaking again to his wife. "They'll make a shift to
pay everything, Bessy," he said, "and yet leave you your furniture;
and your sisters'll do something for you--and Tom'll grow up--though
what he's to be I don't know--I've done what I could--I've given him a
eddication--and there's the little wench, she'll get married--but it's
a poor tale----"
The sanative effect of the strong vibration was exhausted, and with
the last words the poor man fell again, rigid and insensible. Though
this was only a recurrence of what had happened before, it struck all
present as if it had been death, not only from its contrast with the
completeness of the revival, but because his words had all had
reference to the possibility that his death was near. But with poor
Tulliver death was not to be a leap; it was to be a long descent under
thickening shadows.
Mr. Turnbull was sent for; but when he heard what had passed, he said
this complete restoration, though only temporary, was a hopeful sign,
proving that there was no permanent lesion to prevent ultimate
recovery.
Among the threads of the past which the stricken man had gathered up,
he had omitted the bill of sale; the flash of memory had only lit up
prominent ideas, and he sank into forgetfulness again with half his
humiliation unlearned.
But Tom was clear upon two points,--that his uncle Moss's note must be
destroyed; and that Luke's money must be paid, if in no other way, out
of his own and Maggie's money now in the savings bank. There were
subjects, you perceive, on which Tom was much quicker than on the
niceties of classical construction, or the relations of a mathematical
demonstration. | Mr. Glegg, Tom, and Maggie head upstairs to destroy the note saying that Mr. Moss owes Mr. Tulliver money. The note is in a chest in Mr. Tulliver's room. Mr. Glegg accidentally drops the chest, which wakes up Mr. Tulliver. Mr. Tulliver is aware of what's going on for the first time in days and begins questioning everyone. Mrs. Moss comes upstairs to check on her brother. Mr. Tulliver tells them to get his wife. Mr. Tulliver doesn't seem to realize the severity of his financial situation. He tells Tom to destroy the note and he also tells Tom to pay back the money owed to Luke, their mill employee. Mrs. Tulliver arrives and Mr. Tulliver apologizes to her and worries about his children's future. He starts drifting off again. The narrator hints that Mr. Tulliver's death will be a slow, long decline. Tom is determined to do what his father wishes. |
'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. . . . | After the world's worst vacation, Marlow splits from Patusan. Jim accompanies Marlow to the shore to see him off and starts to give Marlow a message to take back home to his family. But at the last moment he stops himself and opts to just say good-bye. As he describes how he watched Jim waving from shore, Marlow tells us that this is the last time he ever saw Jim. So ends the storytelling session on the verandah. |
Mr. Beebe was right. Lucy never knew her desires so clearly as after
music. She had not really appreciated the clergyman's wit, nor the
suggestive twitterings of Miss Alan. Conversation was tedious; she
wanted something big, and she believed that it would have come to her on
the wind-swept platform of an electric tram. This she might not attempt.
It was unladylike. Why? Why were most big things unladylike? Charlotte
had once explained to her why. It was not that ladies were inferior
to men; it was that they were different. Their mission was to inspire
others to achievement rather than to achieve themselves. Indirectly, by
means of tact and a spotless name, a lady could accomplish much. But
if she rushed into the fray herself she would be first censured, then
despised, and finally ignored. Poems had been written to illustrate this
point.
There is much that is immortal in this medieval lady. The dragons have
gone, and so have the knights, but still she lingers in our midst. She
reigned in many an early Victorian castle, and was Queen of much early
Victorian song. It is sweet to protect her in the intervals of business,
sweet to pay her honour when she has cooked our dinner well. But alas!
the creature grows degenerate. In her heart also there are springing
up strange desires. She too is enamoured of heavy winds, and vast
panoramas, and green expanses of the sea. She has marked the kingdom
of this world, how full it is of wealth, and beauty, and war--a radiant
crust, built around the central fires, spinning towards the receding
heavens. Men, declaring that she inspires them to it, move joyfully over
the surface, having the most delightful meetings with other men, happy,
not because they are masculine, but because they are alive. Before the
show breaks up she would like to drop the august title of the Eternal
Woman, and go there as her transitory self.
Lucy does not stand for the medieval lady, who was rather an ideal to
which she was bidden to lift her eyes when feeling serious. Nor has
she any system of revolt. Here and there a restriction annoyed her
particularly, and she would transgress it, and perhaps be sorry that she
had done so. This afternoon she was peculiarly restive. She would really
like to do something of which her well-wishers disapproved. As she might
not go on the electric tram, she went to Alinari's shop.
There she bought a photograph of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." Venus,
being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss
Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course
signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of
the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt
a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's
"Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido
Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical
approval to every well-known name.
But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed
still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her
to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full
of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not
surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it
always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy.
"Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza
Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to
her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to
strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god,
half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who
idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of
a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth
upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of
unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older
person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient
was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more.
She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose
out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed
no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable
treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her,
still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and
started towards home.
Then something did happen.
Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque
lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and
one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards
Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her.
He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between
them and trickled down his unshaven chin.
That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary
man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson
happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where
the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught
sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her,
fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it.
She thought: "Oh, what have I done?"
"Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes.
George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had
complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held
her in his arms.
They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have
carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She
repeated:
"Oh, what have I done?"
"You fainted."
"I--I am very sorry."
"How are you now?"
"Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile.
"Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping."
He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The
cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole
world seemed pale and void of its original meaning.
"How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now
I am well. I can go alone, thank you."
His hand was still extended.
"Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly.
"What photographs?"
"I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out
there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to
your kindness by fetching them?"
He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose
with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.
"Miss Honeychurch!"
She stopped with her hand on her heart.
"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."
"Yes, I am, thank you so very much."
"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were."
"But I had rather--"
"Then I don't fetch your photographs."
"I had rather be alone."
He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit
down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And
don't move till I come back."
In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in
dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day,
and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he
returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,
"Oh, what have I done?"--the thought that she, as well as the dying man,
had crossed some spiritual boundary.
He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy
topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous
over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being
strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose
without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her,
she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to
them; they refused him.
"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians
are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that
Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my
cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?"
He had thrown something into the stream.
"What did you throw in?"
"Things I didn't want," he said crossly.
"Mr. Emerson!"
"Well?"
"Where are the photographs?"
He was silent.
"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."
"I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that
of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time.
"They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all
the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with
them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under
the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better
that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that
they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something
tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It
isn't exactly that a man has died."
Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.
"It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is."
"Mr. Emerson--"
He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some
abstract quest.
"I want to ask you something before we go in."
They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows
against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at
times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have
suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:
"I have behaved ridiculously."
He was following his own thoughts.
"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what
came over me."
"I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude
repelled him.
"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."
"Oh, all right."
"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are
gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"
"I'm afraid I don't."
"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"
"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."
"Thank you so much. And would you--"
She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below
them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs
into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was
hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by
idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might
even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts,
like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say
to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence
for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in
that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it,
just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought
in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something
had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character
tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.
"Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do
happen, and then one returns to the old life!"
"I don't."
Anxiety moved her to question him.
His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live."
"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"
"I shall want to live, I say."
Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,
whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. | Lucy goes out longing for adventure, hoping for something great. She buys some photographs of great artworks at a junk shop, but remains unsatisfied. She wanders into the Piazza Signoria; it is nearing twilight, and the world takes on an aura of unreality. Nearby, she sees two Italians arguing. One of them is struck lightly on the chest; he wanders toward Lucy, trying to say something, and blood trickles from his lips. The light strike was actually a stabbing. A crowd surrounds them and carries the man away. She sees George Emerson, and then the world seems to fall on top of Lucy; suddenly, she is with George Emerson, sitting on some steps some distance away. She fainted, and George has carried her here. She thanks George and asks him to fetch her photographs, which she dropped in the square; when he leaves to get them, she tries to sneak away. George calls to her and persuades her to sit down. The man who approached her is dead or dying. A crowd surrounds the man, down by the fountain, and George goes to investigate. George returns, and they talk of the murder. They walk back to the pension along the river, and George suddenly tosses something into the water. Lucy angrily demands to know what he threw away, suspecting that they might be her photographs. After some hesitation, George admits that they were. He threw them away because they were covered with blood. At George's request, they stop for a moment. He feels something incredible has happened, and he wants to figure it out. Leaning over a parapet, Lucy apologizes for her fainting and asks that he not tell anyone at the pension what happened. She realizes that he is not a chivalrous man, meaning he is a stranger to old-fashioned ideas of courtesy and propriety, but she also realizes that George is intelligent, trustworthy, and kind. She says that events like the murder happen, and that the witnesses go on living life as usual. George replies that he does not go on living life as usual. Now, he will want to live. |
Chapter LVI. The Old Age of Athos.
While these affairs were separating forever the four musketeers,
formerly bound together in a manner that seemed indissoluble, Athos,
left alone after the departure of Raoul, began to pay his tribute to
that foretaste of death which is called the absence of those we love.
Back in his house at Blois, no longer having even Grimaud to receive
a poor smile as he passed through the parterre, Athos daily felt
the decline of vigor of a nature which for so long a time had seemed
impregnable. Age, which had been kept back by the presence of the
beloved object, arrived with that _cortege_ of pains and inconveniences,
which grows by geometrical accretion. Athos had no longer his son to
induce him to walk firmly, with head erect, as a good example; he had no
longer, in those brilliant eyes of the young man, an ever-ardent focus
at which to kindle anew the fire of his looks. And then, must it be
said, that nature, exquisite in tenderness and reserve, no longer
finding anything to understand its feelings, gave itself up to grief
with all the warmth of common natures when they yield to joy. The Comte
de la Fere, who had remained a young man to his sixty-second year;
the warrior who had preserved his strength in spite of fatigue; his
freshness of mind in spite of misfortune, his mild serenity of soul and
body in spite of Milady, in spite of Mazarin, in spite of La Valliere;
Athos had become an old man in a week, from the moment at which he lost
the comfort of his later youth. Still handsome, though bent, noble, but
sad, he sought, since his solitude, the deeper glades where sunshine
scarcely penetrated. He discontinued all the mighty exercises he had
enjoyed through life, when Raoul was no longer with him. The servants,
accustomed to see him stirring with the dawn at all seasons, were
astonished to hear seven o'clock strike before their master quitted his
bed. Athos remained in bed with a book under his pillow--but he did not
sleep, neither did he read. Remaining in bed that he might no longer
have to carry his body, he allowed his soul and spirit to wander from
their envelope and return to his son, or to God. [6]
His people were sometimes terrified to see him, for hours together,
absorbed in silent reverie, mute and insensible; he no longer heard the
timid step of the servant who came to the door of his chamber to watch
the sleeping or waking of his master. It often occurred that he forgot
the day had half passed away, that the hours for the two first meals
were gone by. Then he was awakened. He rose, descended to his shady
walk, then came out a little into the sun, as though to partake of its
warmth for a minute in memory of his absent child. And then the dismal
monotonous walk recommenced, until, exhausted, he regained the chamber
and his bed, his domicile by choice. For several days the comte did not
speak a single word. He refused to receive the visits that were paid
him, and during the night he was seen to relight his lamp and pass long
hours in writing, or examining parchments.
Athos wrote one of these letters to Vannes, another to Fontainebleau;
they remained without answers. We know why: Aramis had quitted France,
and D'Artagnan was traveling from Nantes to Paris, from Paris to
Pierrefonds. His _valet de chambre_ observed that he shortened his walk
every day by several turns. The great alley of limes soon became too
long for feet that used to traverse it formerly a hundred times a day.
The comte walked feebly as far as the middle trees, seated himself upon
a mossy bank that sloped towards a sidewalk, and there waited the return
of his strength, or rather the return of night. Very shortly a hundred
steps exhausted him. At length Athos refused to rise at all; he declined
all nourishment, and his terrified people, although he did not complain,
although he wore a smile upon his lips, although he continued to speak
with his sweet voice--his people went to Blois in search of the ancient
physician of the late Monsieur, and brought him to the Comte de la Fere
in such a fashion that he could see the comte without being himself
seen. For this purpose, they placed him in a closet adjoining the
chamber of the patient, and implored him not to show himself, for fear
of displeasing their master, who had not asked for a physician. The
doctor obeyed. Athos was a sort of model for the gentlemen of the
country; the Blaisois boasted of possessing this sacred relic of French
glory. Athos was a great seigneur compared with such nobles as the king
improvised by touching with his artificial scepter the patched-up trunks
of the heraldic trees of the province.
People respected Athos, we say, and they loved him. The physician could
not bear to see his people weep, to see flock round him the poor of the
canton, to whom Athos had so often given life and consolation by his
kind words and his charities. He examined, therefore, from the depths
of his hiding-place, the nature of that mysterious malady which bent
and aged more mortally every day a man but lately so full of life and a
desire to live. He remarked upon the cheeks of Athos the hectic hue of
fever, which feeds upon itself; slow fever, pitiless, born in a fold
of the heart, sheltering itself behind that rampart, growing from
the suffering it engenders, at once cause and effect of a perilous
situation. The comte spoke to nobody; he did not even talk to
himself. His thought feared noise; it approached to that degree of
over-excitement which borders upon ecstasy. Man thus absorbed, though he
does not yet belong to God, already appertains no longer to the earth.
The doctor remained for several hours studying this painful struggle of
the will against superior power; he was terrified at seeing those eyes
always fixed, ever directed on some invisible object; was terrified at
the monotonous beating of that heart from which never a sigh arose
to vary the melancholy state; for often pain becomes the hope of the
physician. Half a day passed away thus. The doctor formed his resolution
like a brave man; he issued suddenly from his place of retreat, and went
straight up to Athos, who beheld him without evincing more surprise than
if he had understood nothing of the apparition.
"Monsieur le comte, I crave your pardon," said the doctor, coming up
to the patient with open arms; "but I have a reproach to make you--you
shall hear me." And he seated himself by the pillow of Athos, who had
great trouble in rousing himself from his preoccupation.
"What is the matter, doctor?" asked the comte, after a silence.
"The matter is, you are ill, monsieur, and have had no advice."
"I! ill!" said Athos, smiling.
"Fever, consumption, weakness, decay, monsieur le comte!"
"Weakness!" replied Athos; "is it possible? I do not get up."
"Come, come! monsieur le comte, no subterfuges; you are a good
Christian?"
"I hope so," said Athos.
"Is it your wish to kill yourself?"
"Never, doctor."
"Well! monsieur, you are in a fair way of doing so. Thus to remain is
suicide. Get well! monsieur le comte, get well!"
"Of what? Find the disease first. For my part, I never knew myself
better; never did the sky appear more blue to me; never did I take more
care of my flowers."
"You have a hidden grief."
"Concealed!--not at all; the absence of my son, doctor; that is my
malady, and I do not conceal it."
"Monsieur le comte, your son lives, he is strong, he has all the future
before him--the future of men of merit, of his race; live for him--"
"But I do live, doctor; oh! be satisfied of that," added he, with a
melancholy smile; "for as long as Raoul lives, it will be plainly known,
for as long as he lives, I shall live."
"What do you say?"
"A very simple thing. At this moment, doctor, I leave life suspended
within me. A forgetful, dissipated, indifferent life would be beyond my
strength, now I have no longer Raoul with me. You do not ask the lamp
to burn when the match has not illumed the flame; do not ask me to live
amidst noise and merriment. I vegetate, I prepare myself, I wait. Look,
doctor; remember those soldiers we have so often seen together at the
ports, where they were waiting to embark; lying down, indifferent, half
on one element, half on the other; they were neither at the place where
the sea was going to carry them, nor at the place the earth was going
to lose them; baggage prepared, minds on the stretch, arms stacked--they
waited. I repeat it, the word is the one which paints my present life.
Lying down like the soldiers, my ear on the stretch for the report that
may reach me, I wish to be ready to set out at the first summons. Who
will make me that summons? life or death? God or Raoul? My baggage
is packed, my soul is prepared, I await the signal--I wait, doctor, I
wait!"
The doctor knew the temper of that mind; he appreciated the strength
of that body; he reflected for the moment, told himself that words
were useless, remedies absurd, and left the chateau, exhorting Athos's
servants not to quit him for a moment.
The doctor being gone, Athos evinced neither anger nor vexation at
having been disturbed. He did not even desire that all letters that
came should be brought to him directly. He knew very well that every
distraction which should arise would be a joy, a hope, which his
servants would have paid with their blood to procure him. Sleep had
become rare. By intense thinking, Athos forgot himself, for a few hours
at most, in a reverie most profound, more obscure than other people
would have called a dream. The momentary repose which this forgetfulness
thus gave the body, still further fatigued the soul, for Athos lived a
double life during these wanderings of his understanding. One night,
he dreamt that Raoul was dressing himself in a tent, to go upon an
expedition commanded by M. de Beaufort in person. The young man was sad;
he clasped his cuirass slowly, and slowly he girded on his sword.
"What is the matter?" asked his father, tenderly.
"What afflicts me is the death of Porthos, ever so dear a friend,"
replied Raoul. "I suffer here the grief you soon will feel at home."
And the vision disappeared with the slumber of Athos. At daybreak one of
his servants entered his master's apartment, and gave him a letter which
came from Spain.
"The writing of Aramis," thought the comte; and he read.
"Porthos is dead!" cried he, after the first lines. "Oh! Raoul, Raoul!
thanks! thou keepest thy promise, thou warnest me!"
And Athos, seized with a mortal sweat, fainted in his bed, without any
other cause than weakness. | Back on his own estate, Athos has been preparing for his death. Since his son is gone, Athos has no incentive to lead a good example. He slowly begins sleeping in and cutting back on all his exercises. He stops speaking. He tries writing to his friends, but his letters go unanswered. Finally, his servants get so worried they go behind his back and get his old doctor to examine him. The doctor hides and observes Athos. At one point, he can bear it no longer and goes directly up to Athos and begs him to get well. The physician sees that Athos is slowly killing himself. Athos tells the doctor not to worry - he will remain alive as long as Raoul is alive. He tells the doctor that his soul is prepared; he is waiting for the signal that Raoul is dead. The doctor reflects, deciding there is nothing he can do to change Athos's mind. As he leaves he tells the servants to always keep an eye on him. Athos stops sleeping. Instead, he lets his mind wander in dreams. One night he communicates with Raoul, who is sad to hear of Porthos's death. The vision disappears and servants come running in with a letter from Aramis relating Porthos's death. Athos faints from weakness. |
The Torn Nest Is Pierced by the Thorns
There is something sustaining in the very agitation that accompanies
the first shocks of trouble, just as an acute pain is often a
stimulus, and produces an excitement which is transient strength. It
is in the slow, changed life that follows; in the time when sorrow has
become stale, and has no longer an emotive intensity that counteracts
its pain; in the time when day follows day in dull, unexpectant
sameness, and trial is a dreary routine,--it is then that despair
threatens; it is then that the peremptory hunger of the soul is felt,
and eye and ear are strained after some unlearned secret of our
existence, which shall give to endurance the nature of satisfaction.
This time of utmost need was come to Maggie, with her short span of
thirteen years. To the usual precocity of the girl, she added that
early experience of struggle, of conflict between the inward impulse
and outward fact, which is the lot of every imaginative and passionate
nature; and the years since she hammered the nails into her wooden
Fetish among the worm-eaten shelves of the attic had been filled with
so eager a life in the triple world of Reality, Books, and Waking
Dreams, that Maggie was strangely old for her years in everything
except in her entire want of that prudence and self-command which were
the qualities that made Tom manly in the midst of his intellectual
boyishness. And now her lot was beginning to have a still, sad
monotony, which threw her more than ever on her inward self. Her
father was able to attend to business again, his affairs were settled,
and he was acting as Wakem's manager on the old spot. Tom went to and
fro every morning and evening, and became more and more silent in the
short intervals at home; what was there to say? One day was like
another; and Tom's interest in life, driven back and crushed on every
other side, was concentrating itself into the one channel of ambitious
resistance to misfortune. The peculiarities of his father and mother
were very irksome to him, now they were laid bare of all the softening
accompaniments of an easy, prosperous home; for Tom had very clear,
prosaic eyes, not apt to be dimmed by mists of feeling or imagination.
Poor Mrs. Tulliver, it seemed, would never recover her old self, her
placid household activity; how could she? The objects among which her
mind had moved complacently were all gone,--all the little hopes and
schemes and speculations, all the pleasant little cares about her
treasures which had made the world quite comprehensible to her for a
quarter of a century, since she had made her first purchase of the
sugar-tongs, had been suddenly snatched away from her, and she
remained bewildered in this empty life. Why that should have happened
to her which had not happened to other women remained an insoluble
question by which she expressed her perpetual ruminating comparison of
the past with the present. It was piteous to see the comely woman
getting thinner and more worn under a bodily as well as mental
restlessness, which made her often wander about the empty house after
her work was done, until Maggie, becoming alarmed about her, would
seek her, and bring her down by telling her how it vexed Tom that she
was injuring her health by never sitting down and resting herself. Yet
amidst this helpless imbecility there was a touching trait of humble,
self-devoting maternity, which made Maggie feel tenderly toward her
poor mother amidst all the little wearing griefs caused by her mental
feebleness. She would let Maggie do none of the work that was heaviest
and most soiling to the hands, and was quite peevish when Maggie
attempted to relieve her from her grate-brushing and scouring: "Let it
alone, my dear; your hands 'ull get as hard as hard," she would say;
"it's your mother's place to do that. I can't do the sewing--my eyes
fail me." And she would still brush and carefully tend Maggie's hair,
which she had become reconciled to, in spite of its refusal to curl,
now it was so long and massy. Maggie was not her pet child, and, in
general, would have been much better if she had been quite different;
yet the womanly heart, so bruised in its small personal desires, found
a future to rest on in the life of this young thing, and the mother
pleased herself with wearing out her own hands to save the hands that
had so much more life in them.
But the constant presence of her mother's regretful bewilderment was
less painful to Maggie than that of her father's sullen,
incommunicative depression. As long as the paralysis was upon him, and
it seemed as if he might always be in a childlike condition of
dependence,--as long as he was still only half awakened to his
trouble,--Maggie had felt the strong tide of pitying love almost as an
inspiration, a new power, that would make the most difficult life easy
for his sake; but now, instead of childlike dependence, there had come
a taciturn, hard concentration of purpose, in strange contrast with
his old vehement communicativeness and high spirit; and this lasted
from day to day, and from week to week, the dull eye never brightening
with any eagerness or any joy. It is something cruelly incomprehensible
to youthful natures, this sombre sameness in middle-aged and elderly
people, whose life has resulted in disappointment and discontent, to
whose faces a smile becomes so strange that the sad lines all about
the lips and brow seem to take no notice of it, and it hurries away
again for want of a welcome. "Why will they not kindle up and be
glad sometimes?" thinks young elasticity. "It would be so easy if they
only liked to do it." And these leaden clouds that never part are apt
to create impatience even in the filial affection that streams forth in
nothing but tenderness and pity in the time of more obvious affliction.
Mr. Tulliver lingered nowhere away from home; he hurried away from
market, he refused all invitations to stay and chat, as in old times,
in the houses where he called on business. He could not be reconciled
with his lot. There was no attitude in which his pride did not feel
its bruises; and in all behavior toward him, whether kind or cold, he
detected an allusion to the change in his circumstances. Even the days
on which Wakem came to ride round the land and inquire into the
business were not so black to him as those market-days on which he had
met several creditors who had accepted a composition from him. To save
something toward the repayment of those creditors was the object
toward which he was now bending all his thoughts and efforts; and
under the influence of this all-compelling demand of his nature, the
somewhat profuse man, who hated to be stinted or to stint any one else
in his own house, was gradually metamorphosed into the keen-eyed
grudger of morsels. Mrs. Tulliver could not economize enough to
satisfy him, in their food and firing; and he would eat nothing
himself but what was of the coarsest quality. Tom, though depressed
and strongly repelled by his father's sullenness, and the dreariness
of home, entered thoroughly into his father's feelings about paying
the creditors; and the poor lad brought his first quarter's money,
with a delicious sense of achievement, and gave it to his father to
put into the tin box which held the savings. The little store of
sovereigns in the tin box seemed to be the only sight that brought a
faint beam of pleasure into the miller's eyes,--faint and transient,
for it was soon dispelled by the thought that the time would be
long--perhaps longer than his life,--before the narrow savings could
remove the hateful incubus of debt. A deficit of more than five
hundred pounds, with the accumulating interest, seemed a deep pit to
fill with the savings from thirty shillings a-week, even when Tom's
probable savings were to be added. On this one point there was entire
community of feeling in the four widely differing beings who sat round
the dying fire of sticks, which made a cheap warmth for them on the
verge of bedtime. Mrs. Tulliver carried the proud integrity of the
Dodsons in her blood, and had been brought up to think that to wrong
people of their money, which was another phrase for debt, was a sort
of moral pillory; it would have been wickedness, to her mind, to have
run counter to her husband's desire to "do the right thing," and
retrieve his name. She had a confused, dreamy notion that, if the
creditors were all paid, her plate and linen ought to come back to
her; but she had an inbred perception that while people owed money
they were unable to pay, they couldn't rightly call anything their
own. She murmured a little that Mr. Tulliver so peremptorily refused
to receive anything in repayment from Mr. and Mrs. Moss; but to all
his requirements of household economy she was submissive to the point
of denying herself the cheapest indulgences of mere flavor; her only
rebellion was to smuggle into the kitchen something that would make
rather a better supper than usual for Tom.
These narrow notions about debt, held by the old fashioned Tullivers,
may perhaps excite a smile on the faces of many readers in these days
of wide commercial views and wide philosophy, according to which
everything rights itself without any trouble of ours. The fact that my
tradesman is out of pocket by me is to be looked at through the serene
certainty that somebody else's tradesman is in pocket by somebody
else; and since there must be bad debts in the world, why, it is mere
egoism not to like that we in particular should make them instead of
our fellow-citizens. I am telling the history of very simple people,
who had never had any illuminating doubts as to personal integrity and
honor.
Under all this grim melancholy and narrowing concentration of desire,
Mr. Tulliver retained the feeling toward his "little wench" which made
her presence a need to him, though it would not suffice to cheer him.
She was still the desire of his eyes; but the sweet spring of fatherly
love was now mingled with bitterness, like everything else. When
Maggie laid down her work at night, it was her habit to get a low
stool and sit by her father's knee, leaning her cheek against it. How
she wished he would stroke her head, or give some sign that he was
soothed by the sense that he had a daughter who loved him! But now she
got no answer to her little caresses, either from her father or from
Tom,--the two idols of her life. Tom was weary and abstracted in the
short intervals when he was at home, and her father was bitterly
preoccupied with the thought that the girl was growing up, was
shooting up into a woman; and how was she to do well in life? She had
a poor chance for marrying, down in the world as they were. And he
hated the thought of her marrying poorly, as her aunt Gritty had done;
_that_ would be a thing to make him turn in his grave,--the little
wench so pulled down by children and toil, as her aunt Moss was. When
uncultured minds, confined to a narrow range of personal experience,
are under the pressure of continued misfortune, their inward life is
apt to become a perpetually repeated round of sad and bitter thoughts;
the same words, the same scenes, are revolved over and over again, the
same mood accompanies them; the end of the year finds them as much
what they were at the beginning as if they were machines set to a
recurrent series of movements.
The sameness of the days was broken by few visitors. Uncles and aunts
paid only short visits now; of course, they could not stay to meals,
and the constraint caused by Mr. Tulliver's savage silence, which
seemed to add to the hollow resonance of the bare, uncarpeted room
when the aunts were talking, heightened the unpleasantness of these
family visits on all sides, and tended to make them rare. As for other
acquaintances, there is a chill air surrounding those who are down in
the world, and people are glad to get away from them, as from a cold
room; human beings, mere men and women, without furniture, without
anything to offer you, who have ceased to count as anybody, present an
embarrassing negation of reasons for wishing to see them, or of
subjects on which to converse with them. At that distant day, there
was a dreary isolation in the civilized Christian society of these
realms for families that had dropped below their original level,
unless they belonged to a sectarian church, which gets some warmth of
brotherhood by walling in the sacred fire. | We meet up with Maggie once again, who is in the middle of a major life crisis. She has a lot of inner turmoil and is torn between her own internal longings and the outward realities that limit her life. Mr. Tulliver is recovered and is back at work as the Mill's manager. Mr. Wakem is now his boss. Tom is working for Mr. Deane still and is exhausted. Mrs. Tulliver is depressed and bewildered and throws herself into mothering Maggie and Tom since she doesn't know what else to do. Maggie is most upset by her father's depression, though. The only thing her father takes a real interest in is counting the money that he keeps in a lock-box. Tom contributes most of his wages to the family fund. The Tullivers have a very strict view of debt and they live on the smallest budge possible in order to save up the money to pay off their debts quickly. Maggie is depressed because both her father and Tom ignore her and the whole household is chronically in a bad mood. The family has very few visitors and each day passes like the one before. It's a very bleak existence for the Tullivers. |
For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat
Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with
an oily tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort of
pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the top
of his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever. He felt as if
he had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord
Henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared he
did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand and assuring him that he
was proud to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone
bankrupt over a poet. Hallward amused himself with watching the faces
in the pit. The heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight
flamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire. The youths
in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them
over the side. They talked to each other across the theatre and shared
their oranges with the tawdry girls who sat beside them. Some women
were laughing in the pit. Their voices were horribly shrill and
discordant. The sound of the popping of corks came from the bar.
"What a place to find one's divinity in!" said Lord Henry.
"Yes!" answered Dorian Gray. "It was here I found her, and she is
divine beyond all living things. When she acts, you will forget
everything. These common rough people, with their coarse faces and
brutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage. They
sit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she wills them to
do. She makes them as responsive as a violin. She spiritualizes them,
and one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one's self."
"The same flesh and blood as one's self! Oh, I hope not!" exclaimed
Lord Henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his
opera-glass.
"Don't pay any attention to him, Dorian," said the painter. "I
understand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Any one you love
must be marvellous, and any girl who has the effect you describe must
be fine and noble. To spiritualize one's age--that is something worth
doing. If this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without
one, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have
been sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and
lend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of
all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. This
marriage is quite right. I did not think so at first, but I admit it
now. The gods made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her you would have
been incomplete."
"Thanks, Basil," answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. "I knew that
you would understand me. Harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. But
here is the orchestra. It is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for
about five minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl
to whom I am going to give all my life, to whom I have given everything
that is good in me."
A quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of
applause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes, she was certainly
lovely to look at--one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought,
that he had ever seen. There was something of the fawn in her shy
grace and startled eyes. A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a
mirror of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded
enthusiastic house. She stepped back a few paces and her lips seemed
to tremble. Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud.
Motionless, and as one in a dream, sat Dorian Gray, gazing at her.
Lord Henry peered through his glasses, murmuring, "Charming! charming!"
The scene was the hall of Capulet's house, and Romeo in his pilgrim's
dress had entered with Mercutio and his other friends. The band, such
as it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. Through
the crowd of ungainly, shabbily dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a
creature from a finer world. Her body swayed, while she danced, as a
plant sways in the water. The curves of her throat were the curves of
a white lily. Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory.
Yet she was curiously listless. She showed no sign of joy when her
eyes rested on Romeo. The few words she had to speak--
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss--
with the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughly
artificial manner. The voice was exquisite, but from the point of view
of tone it was absolutely false. It was wrong in colour. It took away
all the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal.
Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. He was puzzled and anxious.
Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed to
them to be absolutely incompetent. They were horribly disappointed.
Yet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of
the second act. They waited for that. If she failed there, there was
nothing in her.
She looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could not
be denied. But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew
worse as she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She
overemphasized everything that she had to say. The beautiful passage--
Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face,
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night--
was declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been
taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. When she
leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines--
Although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to-night:
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say, "It lightens." Sweet, good-night!
This bud of love by summer's ripening breath
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet--
she spoke the words as though they conveyed no meaning to her. It was
not nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutely
self-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure.
Even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their
interest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly and
to whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the
dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was
the girl herself.
When the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and Lord
Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. "She is quite
beautiful, Dorian," he said, "but she can't act. Let us go."
"I am going to see the play through," answered the lad, in a hard
bitter voice. "I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an
evening, Harry. I apologize to you both."
"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill," interrupted
Hallward. "We will come some other night."
"I wish she were ill," he rejoined. "But she seems to me to be simply
callous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a
great artist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre
actress."
"Don't talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a more
wonderful thing than art."
"They are both simply forms of imitation," remarked Lord Henry. "But
do let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not
good for one's morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don't suppose you
will want your wife to act, so what does it matter if she plays Juliet
like a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little
about life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful
experience. There are only two kinds of people who are really
fascinating--people who know absolutely everything, and people who know
absolutely nothing. Good heavens, my dear boy, don't look so tragic!
The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is
unbecoming. Come to the club with Basil and myself. We will smoke
cigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful.
What more can you want?"
"Go away, Harry," cried the lad. "I want to be alone. Basil, you must
go. Ah! can't you see that my heart is breaking?" The hot tears came
to his eyes. His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, he
leaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands.
"Let us go, Basil," said Lord Henry with a strange tenderness in his
voice, and the two young men passed out together.
A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose
on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale,
and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed
interminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots
and laughing. The whole thing was a _fiasco_. The last act was played
to almost empty benches. The curtain went down on a titter and some
groans.
As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the
greenroom. The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph
on her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a
radiance about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of
their own.
When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy
came over her. "How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!" she cried.
"Horribly!" he answered, gazing at her in amazement. "Horribly! It
was dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no
idea what I suffered."
The girl smiled. "Dorian," she answered, lingering over his name with
long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to
the red petals of her mouth. "Dorian, you should have understood. But
you understand now, don't you?"
"Understand what?" he asked, angrily.
"Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad. Why I shall
never act well again."
He shrugged his shoulders. "You are ill, I suppose. When you are ill
you shouldn't act. You make yourself ridiculous. My friends were
bored. I was bored."
She seemed not to listen to him. She was transfigured with joy. An
ecstasy of happiness dominated her.
"Dorian, Dorian," she cried, "before I knew you, acting was the one
reality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I
thought that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia the
other. The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia
were mine also. I believed in everything. The common people who acted
with me seemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world.
I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came--oh, my
beautiful love!--and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what
reality really is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw
through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in
which I had always played. To-night, for the first time, I became
conscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the
moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and
that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not
what I wanted to say. You had brought me something higher, something
of which all art is but a reflection. You had made me understand what
love really is. My love! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life!
I have grown sick of shadows. You are more to me than all art can ever
be. What have I to do with the puppets of a play? When I came on
to-night, I could not understand how it was that everything had gone
from me. I thought that I was going to be wonderful. I found that I
could do nothing. Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant.
The knowledge was exquisite to me. I heard them hissing, and I smiled.
What could they know of love such as ours? Take me away, Dorian--take
me away with you, where we can be quite alone. I hate the stage. I
might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one that
burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, you understand now what it
signifies? Even if I could do it, it would be profanation for me to
play at being in love. You have made me see that."
He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face. "You have
killed my love," he muttered.
She looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer. She came
across to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. She knelt
down and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a
shudder ran through him.
Then he leaped up and went to the door. "Yes," he cried, "you have
killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don't even
stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because
you were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you
realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the
shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and
stupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been!
You are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never
think of you. I will never mention your name. You don't know what you
were to me, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can't bear to think of it! I
wish I had never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of
my life. How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art!
Without your art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous,
splendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you
would have borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with
a pretty face."
The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together,
and her voice seemed to catch in her throat. "You are not serious,
Dorian?" she murmured. "You are acting."
"Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well," he answered
bitterly.
She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her
face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and
looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. "Don't touch me!" he cried.
A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay
there like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don't leave me!" she
whispered. "I am so sorry I didn't act well. I was thinking of you
all the time. But I will try--indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly
across me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if
you had not kissed me--if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again,
my love. Don't go away from me. I couldn't bear it. Oh! don't go
away from me. My brother ... No; never mind. He didn't mean it. He
was in jest.... But you, oh! can't you forgive me for to-night? I will
work so hard and try to improve. Don't be cruel to me, because I love
you better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that
I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should
have shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I
couldn't help it. Oh, don't leave me, don't leave me." A fit of
passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a
wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at
her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is
always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has
ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic.
Her tears and sobs annoyed him.
"I am going," he said at last in his calm clear voice. "I don't wish
to be unkind, but I can't see you again. You have disappointed me."
She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little
hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He
turned on his heel and left the room. In a few moments he was out of
the theatre.
Where he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly
lit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-looking
houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after
him. Drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to themselves
like monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon
door-steps, and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts.
As the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden.
The darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed
itself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies
rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with
the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an
anodyne for his pain. He followed into the market and watched the men
unloading their waggons. A white-smocked carter offered him some
cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money
for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at
midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long
line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red
roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge,
jade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its grey,
sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls,
waiting for the auction to be over. Others crowded round the swinging
doors of the coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped
and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings.
Some of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-necked
and pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds.
After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. For a few
moments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent
square, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds.
The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like
silver against it. From some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke
was rising. It curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air.
In the huge gilt Venetian lantern, spoil of some Doge's barge, that
hung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance,
lights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals
of flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. He turned them out and,
having thrown his hat and cape on the table, passed through the library
towards the door of his bedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the
ground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had
decorated for himself and hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries
that had been discovered stored in a disused attic at Selby Royal. As
he was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait
Basil Hallward had painted of him. He started back as if in surprise.
Then he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. After he
had taken the button-hole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate.
Finally, he came back, went over to the picture, and examined it. In
the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-coloured silk
blinds, the face appeared to him to be a little changed. The
expression looked different. One would have said that there was a
touch of cruelty in the mouth. It was certainly strange.
He turned round and, walking to the window, drew up the blind. The
bright dawn flooded the room and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky
corners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he
had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be
more intensified even. The quivering ardent sunlight showed him the
lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking
into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing.
He winced and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory
Cupids, one of Lord Henry's many presents to him, glanced hurriedly
into its polished depths. No line like that warped his red lips. What
did it mean?
He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it
again. There were no signs of any change when he looked into the
actual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression
had altered. It was not a mere fancy of his own. The thing was
horribly apparent.
He threw himself into a chair and began to think. Suddenly there
flashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward's studio the
day the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly.
He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the
portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the
face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that
the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and
thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness
of his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been
fulfilled? Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to
think of them. And, yet, there was the picture before him, with the
touch of cruelty in the mouth.
Cruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl's fault, not his. He had
dreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he
had thought her great. Then she had disappointed him. She had been
shallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over
him, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little
child. He remembered with what callousness he had watched her. Why
had he been made like that? Why had such a soul been given to him?
But he had suffered also. During the three terrible hours that the
play had lasted, he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of
torture. His life was well worth hers. She had marred him for a
moment, if he had wounded her for an age. Besides, women were better
suited to bear sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They
only thought of their emotions. When they took lovers, it was merely
to have some one with whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry had told
him that, and Lord Henry knew what women were. Why should he trouble
about Sibyl Vane? She was nothing to him now.
But the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret of
his life, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own
beauty. Would it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would he ever look
at it again?
No; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. The
horrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it.
Suddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that
makes men mad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so.
Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel
smile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes
met his own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the
painted image of himself, came over him. It had altered already, and
would alter more. Its gold would wither into grey. Its red and white
roses would die. For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck
and wreck its fairness. But he would not sin. The picture, changed or
unchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience. He would
resist temptation. He would not see Lord Henry any more--would not, at
any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil
Hallward's garden had first stirred within him the passion for
impossible things. He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends,
marry her, try to love her again. Yes, it was his duty to do so. She
must have suffered more than he had. Poor child! He had been selfish
and cruel to her. The fascination that she had exercised over him
would return. They would be happy together. His life with her would
be beautiful and pure.
He got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front of the
portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. "How horrible!" he murmured
to himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When he
stepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning
air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only of
Sibyl. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her
name over and over again. The birds that were singing in the
dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her. | The theater is crowded when the men arrive. Dorian continues to wax eloquent about Sibyl's beauty, and Basil assures Dorian that he will support the marriage wholeheartedly since Dorian is so obviously in love. When the play begins, however, Sibyl is terrible, and her acting only worsens as the evening wears on. Unable to understand the change that has come over his beloved, Dorian is heartbroken. Basil and Lord Henry leave him, and he makes his way backstage to find Sibyl, who is quite happy despite her dreadful performance. She explains that before she met Dorian and experienced true love, she was able to inhabit other characters and feel their emotions easily, which made possible her success as an actress. Now, however, these pretend emotions no longer interest her, since they pale in relation to her real feelings for Dorian. She realizes that "the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to say. As a result, she declares that her career on the stage is over. Dorian, horrified by this decision, realizes that he was in love not with her but with her acting. He spurns her cruelly and tells her that he wishes never to see her again. After a night spent wandering the streets of London, Dorian returns to his home. There, he looks at Basil's portrait of him and notices the painting has changed--a faint sneer has appeared at the corner of his likeness's mouth. He is astonished. Remembering his wish that the painting would bear the burden and marks of age and lifestyle for him, Dorian is suddenly overcome with shame about his behavior toward Sibyl. He pulls a screen in front of the portrait and goes to bed, resolving to make amends with Sibyl in the morning |
SCENE 4.
A room in DOCTOR CAIUS'S house.
[Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY, and SIMPLE.]
QUICKLY.
What, John Rugby!
[Enter RUGBY.]
I pray thee go to the casement, and see if you can see my master,
Master Doctor Caius, coming: if he do, i' faith, and find anybody
in the house, here will be an old abusing of God's patience and the
King's English.
RUGBY.
I'll go watch.
QUICKLY.
Go; and we'll have a posset for't soon at night, in faith, at the
latter end of a sea-coal fire.
[Exit RUGBY.]
An honest, willing, kind fellow, as ever servant shall come in house
withal; and, I warrant you, no tell-tale nor no breed-bate; his worst
fault is that he is given to prayer; he is something peevish that
way; but nobody but has his fault; but let that pass. Peter Simple
you say your name is?
SIMPLE.
Ay, for fault of a better.
QUICKLY.
And Master Slender's your master?
SIMPLE.
Ay, forsooth.
QUICKLY.
Does he not wear a great round beard, like a glover's paring-knife?
SIMPLE.
No, forsooth; he hath but a little whey face, with a little yellow
beard--a cane-coloured beard.
QUICKLY.
A softly-sprighted man, is he not?
SIMPLE.
Ay, forsooth; but he is as tall a man of his hands as any is between
this and his head; he hath fought with a warrener.
QUICKLY.
How say you?--O! I should remember him. Does he not hold up his head,
as it were, and strut in his gait?
SIMPLE.
Yes, indeed, does he.
QUICKLY.
Well, heaven send Anne Page no worse fortune! Tell Master Parson
Evans I will do what I can for your master: Anne is a good girl,
and I wish--
[Re-enter RUGBY.]
RUGBY.
Out, alas! here comes my master.
QUICKLY.
We shall all be shent. Run in here, good young man; go into this
closet. [Shuts SIMPLE in the closet.] He will not stay long. What,
John Rugby! John! what, John, I say! Go, John, go inquire for my
master; I doubt he be not well that he comes not home.
[Exit Rugby.]
[Sings.] And down, down, adown-a, &c.
[Enter DOCTOR CAIUS.]
CAIUS.
Vat is you sing? I do not like des toys. Pray you, go and vetch me
in my closet une boitine verde--a box, a green-a box: do intend vat
I speak? a green-a box.
QUICKLY.
Ay, forsooth, I'll fetch it you. [Aside] I am glad he went not in
himself: if he had found the young man, he would have been horn-mad.
CAIUS.
Fe, fe, fe fe! ma foi, il fait fort chaud. Je m'en vais a la cour--
la grande affaire.
QUICKLY.
Is it this, sir?
CAIUS.
Oui; mettez le au mon pocket: depechez, quickly--Vere is dat knave,
Rugby?
QUICKLY.
What, John Rugby? John!
[Re-enter Rugby.]
RUGBY.
Here, sir.
CAIUS.
You are John Rugby, and you are Jack Rugby: come, take-a your rapier,
and come after my heel to de court.
RUGBY.
'Tis ready, sir, here in the porch.
CAIUS.
By my trot, I tarry too long--Od's me! Qu'ay j'oublie? Dere is some
simples in my closet dat I vill not for the varld I shall leave behind.
QUICKLY.
[Aside.] Ay me, he'll find the young man there, and be mad!
CAIUS.
O diable, diable! vat is in my closet?--Villainy! larron!
[Pulling SIMPLE out.] Rugby, my rapier!
QUICKLY.
Good master, be content.
CAIUS.
Verefore shall I be content-a?
QUICKLY.
The young man is an honest man.
CAIUS.
What shall de honest man do in my closet? dere is no honest man dat
shall come in my closet.
QUICKLY.
I beseech you, be not so phlegmatic. Hear the truth of it: he came of
an errand to me from Parson Hugh.
CAIUS.
Vell.
SIMPLE.
Ay, forsooth, to desire her to--
QUICKLY.
Peace, I pray you.
CAIUS.
Peace-a your tongue!--Speak-a your tale.
SIMPLE.
To desire this honest gentlewoman, your maid, to speak a good word to
Mistress Anne Page for my master, in the way of marriage.
QUICKLY.
This is all, indeed, la! but I'll ne'er put my finger in the fire,
and need not.
CAIUS.
Sir Hugh send-a you?--Rugby, baillez me some paper: tarry you a
little-a while. [Writes.]
QUICKLY.
I am glad he is so quiet: if he had been throughly moved, you should
have heard him so loud and so melancholy. But notwithstanding, man,
I'll do you your master what good I can; and the very yea and the no
is, the French doctor, my master--I may call him my master, look you,
for I keep his house; and I wash, wring, brew, bake, scour, dress
meat and drink, make the beds, and do all myself--
SIMPLE.
'Tis a great charge to come under one body's hand.
QUICKLY.
Are you avis'd o' that? You shall find it a great charge; and to be
up early and down late; but notwithstanding,--to tell you in your
ear,--I would have no words of it--my master himself is in love with
Mistress Anne Page; but notwithstanding that, I know Anne's mind,
that's neither here nor there.
CAIUS.
You jack'nape; give-a dis letter to Sir Hugh; by gar, it is a
shallenge: I will cut his troat in de Park; and I will teach a scurvy
jack-a-nape priest to meddle or make. You may be gone; it is not good
you tarry here: by gar, I will cut all his two stones; by gar, he
shall not have a stone to throw at his dog.
[Exit SIMPLE.]
QUICKLY.
Alas, he speaks but for his friend.
CAIUS.
It is no matter-a ver dat:--do not you tell-a me dat I shall have
Anne Page for myself? By gar, I vill kill de Jack priest; and I have
appointed mine host of de Jartiere to measure our weapon. By gar, I
vill myself have Anne Page.
QUICKLY.
Sir, the maid loves you, and all shall be well. We must give folks
leave to prate: what, the good-jer!
CAIUS.
Rugby, come to the court vit me. By gar, if I have not Anne Page,
I shall turn your head out of my door. Follow my heels, Rugby.
[Exeunt CAIUS and RUGBY.]
QUICKLY.
You shall have An fool's-head of your own. No, I know Anne's mind for
that: never a woman in Windsor knows more of Anne's mind than I do;
nor can do more than I do with her, I thank heaven.
FENTON.
[Within.] Who's within there? ho!
QUICKLY.
Who's there, I trow? Come near the house, I pray you.
[Enter FENTON.]
FENTON.
How now, good woman! how dost thou?
QUICKLY.
The better, that it pleases your good worship to ask.
FENTON.
What news? how does pretty Mistress Anne?
QUICKLY.
In truth, sir, and she is pretty, and honest, and gentle; and one that
is your friend, I can tell you that by the way; I praise heaven for it.
FENTON.
Shall I do any good, thinkest thou? Shall I not lose my suit?
QUICKLY.
Troth, sir, all is in His hands above; but notwithstanding, Master
Fenton, I'll be sworn on a book she loves you. Have not your worship
a wart above your eye?
FENTON.
Yes, marry, have I; what of that?
QUICKLY.
Well, thereby hangs a tale; good faith, it is such another Nan; but,
I detest, an honest maid as ever broke bread. We had an hour's talk
of that wart; I shall never laugh but in that maid's company;--but,
indeed, she is given too much to allicholy and musing. But for you
--well, go to.
FENTON.
Well, I shall see her to-day. Hold, there's money for thee; let me
have thy voice in my behalf: if thou seest her before me, commend me.
QUICKLY.
Will I? i' faith, that we will; and I will tell your worship more of
the wart the next time we have confidence; and of other wooers.
FENTON.
Well, farewell; I am in great haste now.
QUICKLY.
Farewell to your worship.--[Exit FENTON.] Truly, an honest gentleman;
but Anne loves him not; for I know Anne's mind as well as another
does. Out upon 't, what have I forgot?
[Exit.] | Over at Doctor Caius's house, the servant Peter Simple has arrived with a letter for Mistress Quickly. Mistress Quickly asks a servant to go to the window and be on the lookout for Doctor Caius, since Caius will be crazy angry if he comes home and finds another guy in his house. After some discussion about how Slender is the kind of guy who "struts" around with his nose up in the air, Mistress Quickly Rugby runs into the room and is all "Look out! Doctor Caius is home!" Mistress Quickly stashes Peter Simple in the closet. Caius enters the room and asks Mistress Quickly to fetch his green box. From the closet. Quickly manages to grab the box without Doctor Caius seeing Peter Simple. Then Caius remembers that, hey, he also needs some medicine from the same closet. Before Mistress Quickly can stop him, he runs over, flings open the doors, and spots Peter Simple hiding in the closet. Before Caius can stab Peter Simple in the guts with his sword, Mistress Quickly intervenes and Simple explains that he was delivering a letter asking Mistress Quickly to put in a good word for Slender with Anne Page. Unfortunately, Simple's explanation doesn't help. It turns out that Caius also wants to marry Anne and Mistress Quickly has already promised to help him. Caius whips out a piece of paper and writes a note to Evans, in which he calls him a "scurvy jackanape priest" and threatens to cut out his '"two stones." Yeah, that probably means what you think it means. Mistress Quickly points out that Evans was asking on behalf of a friend, but Caius doesn't care. He'll kill the priest anyway. Caius threatens to throw Mistress Quickly out of his house if she doesn't get Anne Page to marry him. Then he storms out while Mistress Quickly mutters under her breath about Caius being an "ass-head." Hey, we didn't write it. Before we know it, a guy named Master Fenton shows up and we find out that, you guessed it, Mistress Quickly has also agreed to help him pursue Anne Page. Mistress Quickly may have a little too much on her plate, don't you think? Quickly tells Fenton what he wants to hear: that Anne is in love with him. Seriously, Fenton? Just the other day, you guys spent an hour talking about that sexy wart above your eye. Fenton gives Mistress Quickly a bunch of money for helping him and she promises to talk him up the next time she sees Anne. Fenton leaves. Alone on stage, Quickly confesses to the audience that Fenton's a nice guy but she knows for a fact that "Anne loves him not." |
Anne had not wanted this visit to Uppercross, to learn that a removal
from one set of people to another, though at a distance of only three
miles, will often include a total change of conversation, opinion, and
idea. She had never been staying there before, without being struck by
it, or without wishing that other Elliots could have her advantage in
seeing how unknown, or unconsidered there, were the affairs which at
Kellynch Hall were treated as of such general publicity and pervading
interest; yet, with all this experience, she believed she must now
submit to feel that another lesson, in the art of knowing our own
nothingness beyond our own circle, was become necessary for her; for
certainly, coming as she did, with a heart full of the subject which
had been completely occupying both houses in Kellynch for many weeks,
she had expected rather more curiosity and sympathy than she found in
the separate but very similar remark of Mr and Mrs Musgrove: "So, Miss
Anne, Sir Walter and your sister are gone; and what part of Bath do you
think they will settle in?" and this, without much waiting for an
answer; or in the young ladies' addition of, "I hope we shall be in
Bath in the winter; but remember, papa, if we do go, we must be in a
good situation: none of your Queen Squares for us!" or in the anxious
supplement from Mary, of--"Upon my word, I shall be pretty well off,
when you are all gone away to be happy at Bath!"
She could only resolve to avoid such self-delusion in future, and think
with heightened gratitude of the extraordinary blessing of having one
such truly sympathising friend as Lady Russell.
The Mr Musgroves had their own game to guard, and to destroy, their own
horses, dogs, and newspapers to engage them, and the females were fully
occupied in all the other common subjects of housekeeping, neighbours,
dress, dancing, and music. She acknowledged it to be very fitting,
that every little social commonwealth should dictate its own matters of
discourse; and hoped, ere long, to become a not unworthy member of the
one she was now transplanted into. With the prospect of spending at
least two months at Uppercross, it was highly incumbent on her to
clothe her imagination, her memory, and all her ideas in as much of
Uppercross as possible.
She had no dread of these two months. Mary was not so repulsive and
unsisterly as Elizabeth, nor so inaccessible to all influence of hers;
neither was there anything among the other component parts of the
cottage inimical to comfort. She was always on friendly terms with her
brother-in-law; and in the children, who loved her nearly as well, and
respected her a great deal more than their mother, she had an object of
interest, amusement, and wholesome exertion.
Charles Musgrove was civil and agreeable; in sense and temper he was
undoubtedly superior to his wife, but not of powers, or conversation,
or grace, to make the past, as they were connected together, at all a
dangerous contemplation; though, at the same time, Anne could believe,
with Lady Russell, that a more equal match might have greatly improved
him; and that a woman of real understanding might have given more
consequence to his character, and more usefulness, rationality, and
elegance to his habits and pursuits. As it was, he did nothing with
much zeal, but sport; and his time was otherwise trifled away, without
benefit from books or anything else. He had very good spirits, which
never seemed much affected by his wife's occasional lowness, bore with
her unreasonableness sometimes to Anne's admiration, and upon the
whole, though there was very often a little disagreement (in which she
had sometimes more share than she wished, being appealed to by both
parties), they might pass for a happy couple. They were always
perfectly agreed in the want of more money, and a strong inclination
for a handsome present from his father; but here, as on most topics, he
had the superiority, for while Mary thought it a great shame that such
a present was not made, he always contended for his father's having
many other uses for his money, and a right to spend it as he liked.
As to the management of their children, his theory was much better than
his wife's, and his practice not so bad. "I could manage them very
well, if it were not for Mary's interference," was what Anne often
heard him say, and had a good deal of faith in; but when listening in
turn to Mary's reproach of "Charles spoils the children so that I
cannot get them into any order," she never had the smallest temptation
to say, "Very true."
One of the least agreeable circumstances of her residence there was her
being treated with too much confidence by all parties, and being too
much in the secret of the complaints of each house. Known to have some
influence with her sister, she was continually requested, or at least
receiving hints to exert it, beyond what was practicable. "I wish you
could persuade Mary not to be always fancying herself ill," was
Charles's language; and, in an unhappy mood, thus spoke Mary: "I do
believe if Charles were to see me dying, he would not think there was
anything the matter with me. I am sure, Anne, if you would, you might
persuade him that I really am very ill--a great deal worse than I ever
own."
Mary's declaration was, "I hate sending the children to the Great
House, though their grandmamma is always wanting to see them, for she
humours and indulges them to such a degree, and gives them so much
trash and sweet things, that they are sure to come back sick and cross
for the rest of the day." And Mrs Musgrove took the first opportunity
of being alone with Anne, to say, "Oh! Miss Anne, I cannot help wishing
Mrs Charles had a little of your method with those children. They are
quite different creatures with you! But to be sure, in general they
are so spoilt! It is a pity you cannot put your sister in the way of
managing them. They are as fine healthy children as ever were seen,
poor little dears! without partiality; but Mrs Charles knows no more
how they should be treated--! Bless me! how troublesome they are
sometimes. I assure you, Miss Anne, it prevents my wishing to see them
at our house so often as I otherwise should. I believe Mrs Charles is
not quite pleased with my not inviting them oftener; but you know it is
very bad to have children with one that one is obligated to be checking
every moment; "don't do this," and "don't do that;" or that one can
only keep in tolerable order by more cake than is good for them."
She had this communication, moreover, from Mary. "Mrs Musgrove thinks
all her servants so steady, that it would be high treason to call it in
question; but I am sure, without exaggeration, that her upper
house-maid and laundry-maid, instead of being in their business, are
gadding about the village, all day long. I meet them wherever I go;
and I declare, I never go twice into my nursery without seeing
something of them. If Jemima were not the trustiest, steadiest
creature in the world, it would be enough to spoil her; for she tells
me, they are always tempting her to take a walk with them." And on Mrs
Musgrove's side, it was, "I make a rule of never interfering in any of
my daughter-in-law's concerns, for I know it would not do; but I shall
tell you, Miss Anne, because you may be able to set things to rights,
that I have no very good opinion of Mrs Charles's nursery-maid: I hear
strange stories of her; she is always upon the gad; and from my own
knowledge, I can declare, she is such a fine-dressing lady, that she is
enough to ruin any servants she comes near. Mrs Charles quite swears
by her, I know; but I just give you this hint, that you may be upon the
watch; because, if you see anything amiss, you need not be afraid of
mentioning it."
Again, it was Mary's complaint, that Mrs Musgrove was very apt not to
give her the precedence that was her due, when they dined at the Great
House with other families; and she did not see any reason why she was
to be considered so much at home as to lose her place. And one day
when Anne was walking with only the Musgroves, one of them after
talking of rank, people of rank, and jealousy of rank, said, "I have no
scruple of observing to you, how nonsensical some persons are about
their place, because all the world knows how easy and indifferent you
are about it; but I wish anybody could give Mary a hint that it would
be a great deal better if she were not so very tenacious, especially if
she would not be always putting herself forward to take place of mamma.
Nobody doubts her right to have precedence of mamma, but it would be
more becoming in her not to be always insisting on it. It is not that
mamma cares about it the least in the world, but I know it is taken
notice of by many persons."
How was Anne to set all these matters to rights? She could do little
more than listen patiently, soften every grievance, and excuse each to
the other; give them all hints of the forbearance necessary between
such near neighbours, and make those hints broadest which were meant
for her sister's benefit.
In all other respects, her visit began and proceeded very well. Her
own spirits improved by change of place and subject, by being removed
three miles from Kellynch; Mary's ailments lessened by having a
constant companion, and their daily intercourse with the other family,
since there was neither superior affection, confidence, nor employment
in the cottage, to be interrupted by it, was rather an advantage. It
was certainly carried nearly as far as possible, for they met every
morning, and hardly ever spent an evening asunder; but she believed
they should not have done so well without the sight of Mr and Mrs
Musgrove's respectable forms in the usual places, or without the
talking, laughing, and singing of their daughters.
She played a great deal better than either of the Miss Musgroves, but
having no voice, no knowledge of the harp, and no fond parents, to sit
by and fancy themselves delighted, her performance was little thought
of, only out of civility, or to refresh the others, as she was well
aware. She knew that when she played she was giving pleasure only to
herself; but this was no new sensation. Excepting one short period of
her life, she had never, since the age of fourteen, never since the
loss of her dear mother, known the happiness of being listened to, or
encouraged by any just appreciation or real taste. In music she had
been always used to feel alone in the world; and Mr and Mrs Musgrove's
fond partiality for their own daughters' performance, and total
indifference to any other person's, gave her much more pleasure for
their sakes, than mortification for her own.
The party at the Great House was sometimes increased by other company.
The neighbourhood was not large, but the Musgroves were visited by
everybody, and had more dinner-parties, and more callers, more visitors
by invitation and by chance, than any other family. They were more
completely popular.
The girls were wild for dancing; and the evenings ended, occasionally,
in an unpremeditated little ball. There was a family of cousins within
a walk of Uppercross, in less affluent circumstances, who depended on
the Musgroves for all their pleasures: they would come at any time,
and help play at anything, or dance anywhere; and Anne, very much
preferring the office of musician to a more active post, played country
dances to them by the hour together; a kindness which always
recommended her musical powers to the notice of Mr and Mrs Musgrove
more than anything else, and often drew this compliment;--"Well done,
Miss Anne! very well done indeed! Lord bless me! how those little
fingers of yours fly about!"
So passed the first three weeks. Michaelmas came; and now Anne's heart
must be in Kellynch again. A beloved home made over to others; all the
precious rooms and furniture, groves, and prospects, beginning to own
other eyes and other limbs! She could not think of much else on the
29th of September; and she had this sympathetic touch in the evening
from Mary, who, on having occasion to note down the day of the month,
exclaimed, "Dear me, is not this the day the Crofts were to come to
Kellynch? I am glad I did not think of it before. How low it makes
me!"
The Crofts took possession with true naval alertness, and were to be
visited. Mary deplored the necessity for herself. "Nobody knew how
much she should suffer. She should put it off as long as she could;"
but was not easy till she had talked Charles into driving her over on
an early day, and was in a very animated, comfortable state of
imaginary agitation, when she came back. Anne had very sincerely
rejoiced in there being no means of her going. She wished, however to
see the Crofts, and was glad to be within when the visit was returned.
They came: the master of the house was not at home, but the two
sisters were together; and as it chanced that Mrs Croft fell to the
share of Anne, while the Admiral sat by Mary, and made himself very
agreeable by his good-humoured notice of her little boys, she was well
able to watch for a likeness, and if it failed her in the features, to
catch it in the voice, or in the turn of sentiment and expression.
Mrs Croft, though neither tall nor fat, had a squareness, uprightness,
and vigour of form, which gave importance to her person. She had
bright dark eyes, good teeth, and altogether an agreeable face; though
her reddened and weather-beaten complexion, the consequence of her
having been almost as much at sea as her husband, made her seem to have
lived some years longer in the world than her real eight-and-thirty.
Her manners were open, easy, and decided, like one who had no distrust
of herself, and no doubts of what to do; without any approach to
coarseness, however, or any want of good humour. Anne gave her credit,
indeed, for feelings of great consideration towards herself, in all
that related to Kellynch, and it pleased her: especially, as she had
satisfied herself in the very first half minute, in the instant even of
introduction, that there was not the smallest symptom of any knowledge
or suspicion on Mrs Croft's side, to give a bias of any sort. She was
quite easy on that head, and consequently full of strength and courage,
till for a moment electrified by Mrs Croft's suddenly saying,--
"It was you, and not your sister, I find, that my brother had the
pleasure of being acquainted with, when he was in this country."
Anne hoped she had outlived the age of blushing; but the age of emotion
she certainly had not.
"Perhaps you may not have heard that he is married?" added Mrs Croft.
She could now answer as she ought; and was happy to feel, when Mrs
Croft's next words explained it to be Mr Wentworth of whom she spoke,
that she had said nothing which might not do for either brother. She
immediately felt how reasonable it was, that Mrs Croft should be
thinking and speaking of Edward, and not of Frederick; and with shame
at her own forgetfulness applied herself to the knowledge of their
former neighbour's present state with proper interest.
The rest was all tranquillity; till, just as they were moving, she
heard the Admiral say to Mary--
"We are expecting a brother of Mrs Croft's here soon; I dare say you
know him by name."
He was cut short by the eager attacks of the little boys, clinging to
him like an old friend, and declaring he should not go; and being too
much engrossed by proposals of carrying them away in his coat pockets,
&c., to have another moment for finishing or recollecting what he had
begun, Anne was left to persuade herself, as well as she could, that
the same brother must still be in question. She could not, however,
reach such a degree of certainty, as not to be anxious to hear whether
anything had been said on the subject at the other house, where the
Crofts had previously been calling.
The folks of the Great House were to spend the evening of this day at
the Cottage; and it being now too late in the year for such visits to
be made on foot, the coach was beginning to be listened for, when the
youngest Miss Musgrove walked in. That she was coming to apologize,
and that they should have to spend the evening by themselves, was the
first black idea; and Mary was quite ready to be affronted, when Louisa
made all right by saying, that she only came on foot, to leave more
room for the harp, which was bringing in the carriage.
"And I will tell you our reason," she added, "and all about it. I am
come on to give you notice, that papa and mamma are out of spirits this
evening, especially mamma; she is thinking so much of poor Richard!
And we agreed it would be best to have the harp, for it seems to amuse
her more than the piano-forte. I will tell you why she is out of
spirits. When the Crofts called this morning, (they called here
afterwards, did not they?), they happened to say, that her brother,
Captain Wentworth, is just returned to England, or paid off, or
something, and is coming to see them almost directly; and most
unluckily it came into mamma's head, when they were gone, that
Wentworth, or something very like it, was the name of poor Richard's
captain at one time; I do not know when or where, but a great while
before he died, poor fellow! And upon looking over his letters and
things, she found it was so, and is perfectly sure that this must be
the very man, and her head is quite full of it, and of poor Richard!
So we must be as merry as we can, that she may not be dwelling upon
such gloomy things."
The real circumstances of this pathetic piece of family history were,
that the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome,
hopeless son; and the good fortune to lose him before he reached his
twentieth year; that he had been sent to sea because he was stupid and
unmanageable on shore; that he had been very little cared for at any
time by his family, though quite as much as he deserved; seldom heard
of, and scarcely at all regretted, when the intelligence of his death
abroad had worked its way to Uppercross, two years before.
He had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for
him, by calling him "poor Richard," been nothing better than a
thick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done
anything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name,
living or dead.
He had been several years at sea, and had, in the course of those
removals to which all midshipmen are liable, and especially such
midshipmen as every captain wishes to get rid of, been six months on
board Captain Frederick Wentworth's frigate, the Laconia; and from the
Laconia he had, under the influence of his captain, written the only
two letters which his father and mother had ever received from him
during the whole of his absence; that is to say, the only two
disinterested letters; all the rest had been mere applications for
money.
In each letter he had spoken well of his captain; but yet, so little
were they in the habit of attending to such matters, so unobservant and
incurious were they as to the names of men or ships, that it had made
scarcely any impression at the time; and that Mrs Musgrove should have
been suddenly struck, this very day, with a recollection of the name of
Wentworth, as connected with her son, seemed one of those extraordinary
bursts of mind which do sometimes occur.
She had gone to her letters, and found it all as she supposed; and the
re-perusal of these letters, after so long an interval, her poor son
gone for ever, and all the strength of his faults forgotten, had
affected her spirits exceedingly, and thrown her into greater grief for
him than she had known on first hearing of his death. Mr Musgrove was,
in a lesser degree, affected likewise; and when they reached the
cottage, they were evidently in want, first, of being listened to anew
on this subject, and afterwards, of all the relief which cheerful
companions could give them.
To hear them talking so much of Captain Wentworth, repeating his name
so often, puzzling over past years, and at last ascertaining that it
might, that it probably would, turn out to be the very same Captain
Wentworth whom they recollected meeting, once or twice, after their
coming back from Clifton--a very fine young man--but they could not say
whether it was seven or eight years ago, was a new sort of trial to
Anne's nerves. She found, however, that it was one to which she must
inure herself. Since he actually was expected in the country, she must
teach herself to be insensible on such points. And not only did it
appear that he was expected, and speedily, but the Musgroves, in their
warm gratitude for the kindness he had shewn poor Dick, and very high
respect for his character, stamped as it was by poor Dick's having been
six months under his care, and mentioning him in strong, though not
perfectly well-spelt praise, as "a fine dashing felow, only two
perticular about the schoolmaster," were bent on introducing
themselves, and seeking his acquaintance, as soon as they could hear of
his arrival.
The resolution of doing so helped to form the comfort of their evening. | Chapter VI, pages 43-53 Anne and Mary are joined by Charles' sisters, Louisa and Henrietta, on a walk. Anne, whose heart is full of missing Kellynch, finds that Mary and the Musgroves are only interested in the fact that the Elliots are residing in Bath, which they find quite glamorous. They speak of going there themselves. Anne, who has no one to talk of her sadness with, is struck with "the art of knowing our own nothingness beyond our own circle. She realizes she will have to mourn Kellynch alone. Anne settles into Uppercross and finds herself the unwilling confidante of everyone in the place. Charles complains to her of Mary's lowness and her indulgence with their unruly children. Mary complains that Charles does not take her health seriously and that he spoils the children. She complains about that Mrs. Musgrove tries to take precedence over her titled daughter-in-law, while the Miss Musgroves complain to Anne that Mary gives herself airs and is being rude to her mother-in-law. Anne simply listens patiently. Anne finds her spirits improved by being among such a lively family as the Musgroves. She enjoys their entertainments and listens politely as the Musgrove girls play the pianoforte, which she can play far better than either of them. However, her talent is barely noticed by anyone; Anne does not take offence because "she had never, since the age of fourteen, never since the loss of her dear mother, known the happiness of being listened to, or encouraged by any just appreciation or real taste. In music she had been always used to feel alone in the world. Anne plays country dances while the others dance with some cousins who visit from nearby. After three weeks, Anne knows that the Crofts have moved into Kellynch-hall. When the Crofts come to pay their respects to the Musgroves, Anne gets to know Mrs. Croft, who happens to mention that she believes Anne once knew her brother. Anne tries not to blush to hear Mrs. Croft speak of Captain Wentworth. However, she soon discovers that Mrs. Croft means the clergyman, Mr. Edward Wentworth, the Elliot's former neighbor. As the Crofts prepare to end their visit, Anne hears Admiral Croft say that Mrs. Croft's brother is soon to visit them at Kellynch-hall. Anne wonders which brother he means and tries to persuade herself that he means Edward, not Frederick. That evening, Henrietta comes to Uppercross before the other Musgroves, who are to follow in a carriage, to say that Mrs. Musgrove has been low since the Crofts' visit that morning. Seeing Admiral Croft and hearing of the return of Frederick Wentworth from the war has reminded her of her own son, Richard, whose captain, she recalls, was named Wentworth. Richard, however, died two years before and will not be returning from the war. Although Mrs. Musgrove and the rest of the family remember Richard fondly, he was in fact "thick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done any thing to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name, living or dead. Only under Captain Wentworth's influence did he write his family two actual letters; otherwise, he merely wrote to ask for money. When Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove arrive at Uppercross for the evening, they talk of having met Captain Wentworth once or twice. Anne realizes that she must steel herself to hear him discussed--and to probably see him in company--during her stay at Uppercross |
Chapter V. A Sudden Catastrophe
I may note that he had been called before Alyosha. But the usher of the
court announced to the President that, owing to an attack of illness or
some sort of fit, the witness could not appear at the moment, but was
ready to give his evidence as soon as he recovered. But no one seemed to
have heard it and it only came out later.
His entrance was for the first moment almost unnoticed. The principal
witnesses, especially the two rival ladies, had already been questioned.
Curiosity was satisfied for the time; the public was feeling almost
fatigued. Several more witnesses were still to be heard, who probably had
little information to give after all that had been given. Time was
passing. Ivan walked up with extraordinary slowness, looking at no one,
and with his head bowed, as though plunged in gloomy thought. He was
irreproachably dressed, but his face made a painful impression, on me at
least: there was an earthy look in it, a look like a dying man's. His eyes
were lusterless; he raised them and looked slowly round the court. Alyosha
jumped up from his seat and moaned "Ah!" I remember that, but it was
hardly noticed.
The President began by informing him that he was a witness not on oath,
that he might answer or refuse to answer, but that, of course, he must
bear witness according to his conscience, and so on, and so on. Ivan
listened and looked at him blankly, but his face gradually relaxed into a
smile, and as soon as the President, looking at him in astonishment,
finished, he laughed outright.
"Well, and what else?" he asked in a loud voice.
There was a hush in the court; there was a feeling of something strange.
The President showed signs of uneasiness.
"You ... are perhaps still unwell?" he began, looking everywhere for the
usher.
"Don't trouble yourself, your excellency, I am well enough and can tell
you something interesting," Ivan answered with sudden calmness and
respectfulness.
"You have some special communication to make?" the President went on,
still mistrustfully.
Ivan looked down, waited a few seconds and, raising his head, answered,
almost stammering:
"No ... I haven't. I have nothing particular."
They began asking him questions. He answered, as it were, reluctantly,
with extreme brevity, with a sort of disgust which grew more and more
marked, though he answered rationally. To many questions he answered that
he did not know. He knew nothing of his father's money relations with
Dmitri. "I wasn't interested in the subject," he added. Threats to murder
his father he had heard from the prisoner. Of the money in the envelope he
had heard from Smerdyakov.
"The same thing over and over again," he interrupted suddenly, with a look
of weariness. "I have nothing particular to tell the court."
"I see you are unwell and understand your feelings," the President began.
He turned to the prosecutor and the counsel for the defense to invite them
to examine the witness, if necessary, when Ivan suddenly asked in an
exhausted voice:
"Let me go, your excellency, I feel very ill."
And with these words, without waiting for permission, he turned to walk
out of the court. But after taking four steps he stood still, as though he
had reached a decision, smiled slowly, and went back.
"I am like the peasant girl, your excellency ... you know. How does it go?
'I'll stand up if I like, and I won't if I don't.' They were trying to put
on her sarafan to take her to church to be married, and she said, 'I'll
stand up if I like, and I won't if I don't.'... It's in some book about
the peasantry."
"What do you mean by that?" the President asked severely.
"Why, this," Ivan suddenly pulled out a roll of notes. "Here's the money
... the notes that lay in that envelope" (he nodded towards the table on
which lay the material evidence), "for the sake of which our father was
murdered. Where shall I put them? Mr. Superintendent, take them."
The usher of the court took the whole roll and handed it to the President.
"How could this money have come into your possession if it is the same
money?" the President asked wonderingly.
"I got them from Smerdyakov, from the murderer, yesterday.... I was with
him just before he hanged himself. It was he, not my brother, killed our
father. He murdered him and I incited him to do it ... Who doesn't desire
his father's death?"
"Are you in your right mind?" broke involuntarily from the President.
"I should think I am in my right mind ... in the same nasty mind as all of
you ... as all these ... ugly faces." He turned suddenly to the audience.
"My father has been murdered and they pretend they are horrified," he
snarled, with furious contempt. "They keep up the sham with one another.
Liars! They all desire the death of their fathers. One reptile devours
another.... If there hadn't been a murder, they'd have been angry and gone
home ill-humored. It's a spectacle they want! _Panem et circenses_. Though
I am one to talk! Have you any water? Give me a drink for Christ's sake!"
He suddenly clutched his head.
The usher at once approached him. Alyosha jumped up and cried, "He is ill.
Don't believe him: he has brain fever." Katerina Ivanovna rose impulsively
from her seat and, rigid with horror, gazed at Ivan. Mitya stood up and
greedily looked at his brother and listened to him with a wild, strange
smile.
"Don't disturb yourselves. I am not mad, I am only a murderer," Ivan began
again. "You can't expect eloquence from a murderer," he added suddenly for
some reason and laughed a queer laugh.
The prosecutor bent over to the President in obvious dismay. The two other
judges communicated in agitated whispers. Fetyukovitch pricked up his ears
as he listened: the hall was hushed in expectation. The President seemed
suddenly to recollect himself.
"Witness, your words are incomprehensible and impossible here. Calm
yourself, if you can, and tell your story ... if you really have something
to tell. How can you confirm your statement ... if indeed you are not
delirious?"
"That's just it. I have no proof. That cur Smerdyakov won't send you
proofs from the other world ... in an envelope. You think of nothing but
envelopes--one is enough. I've no witnesses ... except one, perhaps," he
smiled thoughtfully.
"Who is your witness?"
"He has a tail, your excellency, and that would be irregular! _Le diable
n'existe point!_ Don't pay attention: he is a paltry, pitiful devil," he
added suddenly. He ceased laughing and spoke as it were, confidentially.
"He is here somewhere, no doubt--under that table with the material
evidence on it, perhaps. Where should he sit if not there? You see, listen
to me. I told him I don't want to keep quiet, and he talked about the
geological cataclysm ... idiocy! Come, release the monster ... he's been
singing a hymn. That's because his heart is light! It's like a drunken man
in the street bawling how 'Vanka went to Petersburg,' and I would give a
quadrillion quadrillions for two seconds of joy. You don't know me! Oh,
how stupid all this business is! Come, take me instead of him! I didn't
come for nothing.... Why, why is everything so stupid?..."
And he began slowly, and as it were reflectively, looking round him again.
But the court was all excitement by now. Alyosha rushed towards him, but
the court usher had already seized Ivan by the arm.
"What are you about?" he cried, staring into the man's face, and suddenly
seizing him by the shoulders, he flung him violently to the floor. But the
police were on the spot and he was seized. He screamed furiously. And all
the time he was being removed, he yelled and screamed something
incoherent.
The whole court was thrown into confusion. I don't remember everything as
it happened. I was excited myself and could not follow. I only know that
afterwards, when everything was quiet again and every one understood what
had happened, the court usher came in for a reprimand, though he very
reasonably explained that the witness had been quite well, that the doctor
had seen him an hour ago, when he had a slight attack of giddiness, but
that, until he had come into the court, he had talked quite consecutively,
so that nothing could have been foreseen--that he had, in fact, insisted on
giving evidence. But before every one had completely regained their
composure and recovered from this scene, it was followed by another.
Katerina Ivanovna had an attack of hysterics. She sobbed, shrieking
loudly, but refused to leave the court, struggled, and besought them not
to remove her. Suddenly she cried to the President:
"There is more evidence I must give at once ... at once! Here is a
document, a letter ... take it, read it quickly, quickly! It's a letter
from that monster ... that man there, there!" she pointed to Mitya. "It
was he killed his father, you will see that directly. He wrote to me how
he would kill his father! But the other one is ill, he is ill, he is
delirious!" she kept crying out, beside herself.
The court usher took the document she held out to the President, and she,
dropping into her chair, hiding her face in her hands, began convulsively
and noiselessly sobbing, shaking all over, and stifling every sound for
fear she should be ejected from the court. The document she had handed up
was that letter Mitya had written at the "Metropolis" tavern, which Ivan
had spoken of as a "mathematical proof." Alas! its mathematical
conclusiveness was recognized, and had it not been for that letter, Mitya
might have escaped his doom or, at least, that doom would have been less
terrible. It was, I repeat, difficult to notice every detail. What
followed is still confused to my mind. The President must, I suppose, have
at once passed on the document to the judges, the jury, and the lawyers on
both sides. I only remember how they began examining the witness. On being
gently asked by the President whether she had recovered sufficiently,
Katerina Ivanovna exclaimed impetuously:
"I am ready, I am ready! I am quite equal to answering you," she added,
evidently still afraid that she would somehow be prevented from giving
evidence. She was asked to explain in detail what this letter was and
under what circumstances she received it.
"I received it the day before the crime was committed, but he wrote it the
day before that, at the tavern--that is, two days before he committed the
crime. Look, it is written on some sort of bill!" she cried breathlessly.
"He hated me at that time, because he had behaved contemptibly and was
running after that creature ... and because he owed me that three
thousand.... Oh! he was humiliated by that three thousand on account of
his own meanness! This is how it happened about that three thousand. I beg
you, I beseech you, to hear me. Three weeks before he murdered his father,
he came to me one morning. I knew he was in want of money, and what he
wanted it for. Yes, yes--to win that creature and carry her off. I knew
then that he had been false to me and meant to abandon me, and it was I,
I, who gave him that money, who offered it to him on the pretext of his
sending it to my sister in Moscow. And as I gave it him, I looked him in
the face and said that he could send it when he liked, 'in a month's time
would do.' How, how could he have failed to understand that I was
practically telling him to his face, 'You want money to be false to me
with your creature, so here's the money for you. I give it to you myself.
Take it, if you have so little honor as to take it!' I wanted to prove
what he was, and what happened? He took it, he took it, and squandered it
with that creature in one night.... But he knew, he knew that I knew all
about it. I assure you he understood, too, that I gave him that money to
test him, to see whether he was so lost to all sense of honor as to take
it from me. I looked into his eyes and he looked into mine, and he
understood it all and he took it--he carried off my money!"
"That's true, Katya," Mitya roared suddenly, "I looked into your eyes and
I knew that you were dishonoring me, and yet I took your money. Despise me
as a scoundrel, despise me, all of you! I've deserved it!"
"Prisoner," cried the President, "another word and I will order you to be
removed."
"That money was a torment to him," Katya went on with impulsive haste. "He
wanted to repay it me. He wanted to, that's true; but he needed money for
that creature, too. So he murdered his father, but he didn't repay me, and
went off with her to that village where he was arrested. There, again, he
squandered the money he had stolen after the murder of his father. And a
day before the murder he wrote me this letter. He was drunk when he wrote
it. I saw it at once, at the time. He wrote it from spite, and feeling
certain, positively certain, that I should never show it to any one, even
if he did kill him, or else he wouldn't have written it. For he knew I
shouldn't want to revenge myself and ruin him! But read it, read it
attentively--more attentively, please--and you will see that he had
described it all in his letter, all beforehand, how he would kill his
father and where his money was kept. Look, please, don't overlook that,
there's one phrase there, 'I shall kill him as soon as Ivan has gone
away.' So he thought it all out beforehand how he would kill him,"
Katerina Ivanovna pointed out to the court with venomous and malignant
triumph. Oh! it was clear she had studied every line of that letter and
detected every meaning underlining it. "If he hadn't been drunk, he
wouldn't have written to me; but, look, everything is written there
beforehand, just as he committed the murder after. A complete program of
it!" she exclaimed frantically.
She was reckless now of all consequences to herself, though, no doubt, she
had foreseen them even a month ago, for even then, perhaps, shaking with
anger, she had pondered whether to show it at the trial or not. Now she
had taken the fatal plunge. I remember that the letter was read aloud by
the clerk, directly afterwards, I believe. It made an overwhelming
impression. They asked Mitya whether he admitted having written the
letter.
"It's mine, mine!" cried Mitya. "I shouldn't have written it, if I hadn't
been drunk!... We've hated each other for many things, Katya, but I swear,
I swear I loved you even while I hated you, and you didn't love me!"
He sank back on his seat, wringing his hands in despair. The prosecutor
and counsel for the defense began cross-examining her, chiefly to
ascertain what had induced her to conceal such a document and to give her
evidence in quite a different tone and spirit just before.
"Yes, yes. I was telling lies just now. I was lying against my honor and
my conscience, but I wanted to save him, for he has hated and despised me
so!" Katya cried madly. "Oh, he has despised me horribly, he has always
despised me, and do you know, he has despised me from the very moment that
I bowed down to him for that money. I saw that.... I felt it at once at
the time, but for a long time I wouldn't believe it. How often I have read
it in his eyes, 'You came of yourself, though.' Oh, he didn't understand,
he had no idea why I ran to him, he can suspect nothing but baseness, he
judged me by himself, he thought every one was like himself!" Katya hissed
furiously, in a perfect frenzy. "And he only wanted to marry me, because
I'd inherited a fortune, because of that, because of that! I always
suspected it was because of that! Oh, he is a brute! He was always
convinced that I should be trembling with shame all my life before him,
because I went to him then, and that he had a right to despise me for ever
for it, and so to be superior to me--that's why he wanted to marry me!
That's so, that's all so! I tried to conquer him by my love--a love that
knew no bounds. I even tried to forgive his faithlessness; but he
understood nothing, nothing! How could he understand indeed? He is a
monster! I only received that letter the next evening: it was brought me
from the tavern--and only that morning, only that morning I wanted to
forgive him everything, everything--even his treachery!"
The President and the prosecutor, of course, tried to calm her. I can't
help thinking that they felt ashamed of taking advantage of her hysteria
and of listening to such avowals. I remember hearing them say to her, "We
understand how hard it is for you; be sure we are able to feel for you,"
and so on, and so on. And yet they dragged the evidence out of the raving,
hysterical woman. She described at last with extraordinary clearness,
which is so often seen, though only for a moment, in such over-wrought
states, how Ivan had been nearly driven out of his mind during the last
two months trying to save "the monster and murderer," his brother.
"He tortured himself," she exclaimed, "he was always trying to minimize
his brother's guilt and confessing to me that he, too, had never loved his
father, and perhaps desired his death himself. Oh, he has a tender, over-
tender conscience! He tormented himself with his conscience! He told me
everything, everything! He came every day and talked to me as his only
friend. I have the honor to be his only friend!" she cried suddenly with a
sort of defiance, and her eyes flashed. "He had been twice to see
Smerdyakov. One day he came to me and said, 'If it was not my brother, but
Smerdyakov committed the murder' (for the legend was circulating
everywhere that Smerdyakov had done it), 'perhaps I too am guilty, for
Smerdyakov knew I didn't like my father and perhaps believed that I
desired my father's death.' Then I brought out that letter and showed it
him. He was entirely convinced that his brother had done it, and he was
overwhelmed by it. He couldn't endure the thought that his own brother was
a parricide! Only a week ago I saw that it was making him ill. During the
last few days he has talked incoherently in my presence. I saw his mind
was giving way. He walked about, raving; he was seen muttering in the
streets. The doctor from Moscow, at my request, examined him the day
before yesterday and told me that he was on the eve of brain fever--and all
on his account, on account of this monster! And last night he learnt that
Smerdyakov was dead! It was such a shock that it drove him out of his mind
... and all through this monster, all for the sake of saving the monster!"
Oh, of course, such an outpouring, such an avowal is only possible once in
a lifetime--at the hour of death, for instance, on the way to the scaffold!
But it was in Katya's character, and it was such a moment in her life. It
was the same impetuous Katya who had thrown herself on the mercy of a
young profligate to save her father; the same Katya who had just before,
in her pride and chastity, sacrificed herself and her maidenly modesty
before all these people, telling of Mitya's generous conduct, in the hope
of softening his fate a little. And now, again, she sacrificed herself;
but this time it was for another, and perhaps only now--perhaps only at
this moment--she felt and knew how dear that other was to her! She had
sacrificed herself in terror for him, conceiving all of a sudden that he
had ruined himself by his confession that it was he who had committed the
murder, not his brother, she had sacrificed herself to save him, to save
his good name, his reputation!
And yet one terrible doubt occurred to one--was she lying in her
description of her former relations with Mitya?--that was the question. No,
she had not intentionally slandered him when she cried that Mitya despised
her for her bowing down to him! She believed it herself. She had been
firmly convinced, perhaps ever since that bow, that the simple-hearted
Mitya, who even then adored her, was laughing at her and despising her.
She had loved him with an hysterical, "lacerated" love only from pride,
from wounded pride, and that love was not like love, but more like
revenge. Oh! perhaps that lacerated love would have grown into real love,
perhaps Katya longed for nothing more than that, but Mitya's faithlessness
had wounded her to the bottom of her heart, and her heart could not
forgive him. The moment of revenge had come upon her suddenly, and all
that had been accumulating so long and so painfully in the offended
woman's breast burst out all at once and unexpectedly. She betrayed Mitya,
but she betrayed herself, too. And no sooner had she given full expression
to her feelings than the tension of course was over and she was
overwhelmed with shame. Hysterics began again: she fell on the floor,
sobbing and screaming. She was carried out. At that moment Grushenka, with
a wail, rushed towards Mitya before they had time to prevent her.
"Mitya," she wailed, "your serpent has destroyed you! There, she has shown
you what she is!" she shouted to the judges, shaking with anger. At a
signal from the President they seized her and tried to remove her from the
court. She wouldn't allow it. She fought and struggled to get back to
Mitya. Mitya uttered a cry and struggled to get to her. He was
overpowered.
Yes, I think the ladies who came to see the spectacle must have been
satisfied--the show had been a varied one. Then I remember the Moscow
doctor appeared on the scene. I believe the President had previously sent
the court usher to arrange for medical aid for Ivan. The doctor announced
to the court that the sick man was suffering from a dangerous attack of
brain fever, and that he must be at once removed. In answer to questions
from the prosecutor and the counsel for the defense he said that the
patient had come to him of his own accord the day before yesterday and
that he had warned him that he had such an attack coming on, but he had
not consented to be looked after. "He was certainly not in a normal state
of mind: he told me himself that he saw visions when he was awake, that he
met several persons in the street, who were dead, and that Satan visited
him every evening," said the doctor, in conclusion. Having given his
evidence, the celebrated doctor withdrew. The letter produced by Katerina
Ivanovna was added to the material proofs. After some deliberation, the
judges decided to proceed with the trial and to enter both the unexpected
pieces of evidence (given by Ivan and Katerina Ivanovna) on the protocol.
But I will not detail the evidence of the other witnesses, who only
repeated and confirmed what had been said before, though all with their
characteristic peculiarities. I repeat, all was brought together in the
prosecutor's speech, which I shall quote immediately. Every one was
excited, every one was electrified by the late catastrophe, and all were
awaiting the speeches for the prosecution and the defense with intense
impatience. Fetyukovitch was obviously shaken by Katerina Ivanovna's
evidence. But the prosecutor was triumphant. When all the evidence had
been taken, the court was adjourned for almost an hour. I believe it was
just eight o'clock when the President returned to his seat and our
prosecutor, Ippolit Kirillovitch, began his speech. | The narrator tells us that Ivan was originally supposed to testify before Alyosha, but his testimony was delayed because of his illness. Ivan doesn't seem much better now as he walks to the stand, and for some reason, Alyosha jumps up at this point and says, "Aaah, I remember it." No one notices Alyosha. Ivan answers a couple of questions vaguely, and the judge says that it's OK for him to go home if he's sick. He steps off the stand, then returns. Suddenly he pulls out a wad of bills and announces that Smerdyakov is the murderer. Katerina interrupts his testimony and tells everyone to ignore him. But Ivan keeps raving and has to be hauled away by the marshal. Hysterical, Katerina rushes to the stand and waves around the incriminating letter Dmitri had written her. Like Ivan, she seems to be on the brink of a nervous breakdown as she furiously explains the story behind the document. She is whisked away to be attended by the famous doctor from Moscow, who's also treating Ivan. Grushenka denounces Katerina's actions and has to be taken out of the courtroom as well. Dmitri has to be restrained, and his defense lawyer isn't too thrilled about the new evidence. At 8 o'clock in the evening, Kirillovich begins the closing statement for the prosecution. |
From the foregoing events of the winter-time let us press on to
an October day, more than eight months subsequent to the parting
of Clare and Tess. We discover the latter in changed conditions;
instead of a bride with boxes and trunks which others bore, we see
her a lonely woman with a basket and a bundle in her own porterage,
as at an earlier time when she was no bride; instead of the ample
means that were projected by her husband for her comfort through
this probationary period, she can produce only a flattened purse.
After again leaving Marlott, her home, she had got through the
spring and summer without any great stress upon her physical powers,
the time being mainly spent in rendering light irregular service
at dairy-work near Port-Bredy to the west of the Blackmoor Valley,
equally remote from her native place and from Talbothays. She
preferred this to living on his allowance. Mentally she remained in
utter stagnation, a condition which the mechanical occupation rather
fostered than checked. Her consciousness was at that other dairy,
at that other season, in the presence of the tender lover who had
confronted her there--he who, the moment she had grasped him to keep
for her own, had disappeared like a shape in a vision.
The dairy-work lasted only till the milk began to lessen, for she
had not met with a second regular engagement as at Talbothays, but
had done duty as a supernumerary only. However, as harvest was now
beginning, she had simply to remove from the pasture to the stubble
to find plenty of further occupation, and this continued till harvest
was done.
Of the five-and-twenty pounds which had remained to her of Clare's
allowance, after deducting the other half of the fifty as a
contribution to her parents for the trouble and expense to which
she had put them, she had as yet spent but little. But there now
followed an unfortunate interval of wet weather, during which she was
obliged to fall back upon her sovereigns.
She could not bear to let them go. Angel had put them into her hand,
had obtained them bright and new from his bank for her; his touch had
consecrated them to souvenirs of himself--they appeared to have had
as yet no other history than such as was created by his and her own
experiences--and to disperse them was like giving away relics. But
she had to do it, and one by one they left her hands.
She had been compelled to send her mother her address from time to
time, but she concealed her circumstances. When her money had almost
gone a letter from her mother reached her. Joan stated that they
were in dreadful difficulty; the autumn rains had gone through the
thatch of the house, which required entire renewal; but this could
not be done because the previous thatching had never been paid for.
New rafters and a new ceiling upstairs also were required, which,
with the previous bill, would amount to a sum of twenty pounds. As
her husband was a man of means, and had doubtless returned by this
time, could she not send them the money?
Tess had thirty pounds coming to her almost immediately from Angel's
bankers, and, the case being so deplorable, as soon as the sum was
received she sent the twenty as requested. Part of the remainder
she was obliged to expend in winter clothing, leaving only a nominal
sum for the whole inclement season at hand. When the last pound
had gone, a remark of Angel's that whenever she required further
resources she was to apply to his father, remained to be considered.
But the more Tess thought of the step, the more reluctant was she to
take it. The same delicacy, pride, false shame, whatever it may be
called, on Clare's account, which had led her to hide from her own
parents the prolongation of the estrangement, hindered her owning to
his that she was in want after the fair allowance he had left her.
They probably despised her already; how much more they would despise
her in the character of a mendicant! The consequence was that by no
effort could the parson's daughter-in-law bring herself to let him
know her state.
Her reluctance to communicate with her husband's parents might,
she thought, lessen with the lapse of time; but with her own the
reverse obtained. On her leaving their house after the short visit
subsequent to her marriage they were under the impression that she
was ultimately going to join her husband; and from that time to the
present she had done nothing to disturb their belief that she was
awaiting his return in comfort, hoping against hope that his journey
to Brazil would result in a short stay only, after which he would
come to fetch her, or that he would write for her to join him; in any
case that they would soon present a united front to their families
and the world. This hope she still fostered. To let her parents
know that she was a deserted wife, dependent, now that she had
relieved their necessities, on her own hands for a living, after the
_eclat_ of a marriage which was to nullify the collapse of the first
attempt, would be too much indeed.
The set of brilliants returned to her mind. Where Clare had
deposited them she did not know, and it mattered little, if it were
true that she could only use and not sell them. Even were they
absolutely hers it would be passing mean to enrich herself by a legal
title to them which was not essentially hers at all.
Meanwhile her husband's days had been by no means free from trial.
At this moment he was lying ill of fever in the clay lands near
Curitiba in Brazil, having been drenched with thunder-storms and
persecuted by other hardships, in common with all the English farmers
and farm-labourers who, just at this time, were deluded into going
thither by the promises of the Brazilian Government, and by the
baseless assumption that those frames which, ploughing and sowing on
English uplands, had resisted all the weathers to whose moods they
had been born, could resist equally well all the weathers by which
they were surprised on Brazilian plains.
To return. Thus it happened that when the last of Tess's sovereigns
had been spent she was unprovided with others to take their place,
while on account of the season she found it increasingly difficult
to get employment. Not being aware of the rarity of intelligence,
energy, health, and willingness in any sphere of life, she refrained
from seeking an indoor occupation; fearing towns, large houses,
people of means and social sophistication, and of manners other
than rural. From that direction of gentility Black Care had come.
Society might be better than she supposed from her slight experience
of it. But she had no proof of this, and her instinct in the
circumstances was to avoid its purlieus.
The small dairies to the west, beyond Port-Bredy, in which she
had served as supernumerary milkmaid during the spring and summer
required no further aid. Room would probably have been made for her
at Talbothays, if only out of sheer compassion; but comfortable as
her life had been there, she could not go back. The anti-climax
would be too intolerable; and her return might bring reproach upon
her idolized husband. She could not have borne their pity, and their
whispered remarks to one another upon her strange situation; though
she would almost have faced a knowledge of her circumstances by every
individual there, so long as her story had remained isolated in the
mind of each. It was the interchange of ideas about her that made
her sensitiveness wince. Tess could not account for this
distinction; she simply knew that she felt it.
She was now on her way to an upland farm in the centre of the county,
to which she had been recommended by a wandering letter which had
reached her from Marian. Marian had somehow heard that Tess was
separated from her husband--probably through Izz Huett--and the
good-natured and now tippling girl, deeming Tess in trouble, had
hastened to notify to her former friend that she herself had gone to
this upland spot after leaving the dairy, and would like to see her
there, where there was room for other hands, if it was really true
that she worked again as of old.
With the shortening of the days all hope of obtaining her husband's
forgiveness began to leave her; and there was something of the
habitude of the wild animal in the unreflecting instinct with which
she rambled on--disconnecting herself by littles from her eventful
past at every step, obliterating her identity, giving no thought to
accidents or contingencies which might make a quick discovery of her
whereabouts by others of importance to her own happiness, if not to
theirs.
Among the difficulties of her lonely position not the least was
the attention she excited by her appearance, a certain bearing of
distinction, which she had caught from Clare, being superadded to her
natural attractiveness. Whilst the clothes lasted which had been
prepared for her marriage, these casual glances of interest caused
her no inconvenience, but as soon as she was compelled to don the
wrapper of a fieldwoman, rude words were addressed to her more than
once; but nothing occurred to cause her bodily fear till a particular
November afternoon.
She had preferred the country west of the River Brit to the upland
farm for which she was now bound, because, for one thing, it was
nearer to the home of her husband's father; and to hover about that
region unrecognized, with the notion that she might decide to call at
the Vicarage some day, gave her pleasure. But having once decided to
try the higher and drier levels, she pressed back eastward, marching
afoot towards the village of Chalk-Newton, where she meant to pass
the night.
The lane was long and unvaried, and, owing to the rapid shortening of
the days, dusk came upon her before she was aware. She had reached
the top of a hill down which the lane stretched its serpentine length
in glimpses, when she heard footsteps behind her back, and in a few
moments she was overtaken by a man. He stepped up alongside Tess and
said--
"Good night, my pretty maid": to which she civilly replied.
The light still remaining in the sky lit up her face, though the
landscape was nearly dark. The man turned and stared hard at her.
"Why, surely, it is the young wench who was at Trantridge awhile--
young Squire d'Urberville's friend? I was there at that time, though
I don't live there now."
She recognized in him the well-to-do boor whom Angel had knocked down
at the inn for addressing her coarsely. A spasm of anguish shot
through her, and she returned him no answer.
"Be honest enough to own it, and that what I said in the town was
true, though your fancy-man was so up about it--hey, my sly one? You
ought to beg my pardon for that blow of his, considering."
Still no answer came from Tess. There seemed only one escape for her
hunted soul. She suddenly took to her heels with the speed of the
wind, and, without looking behind her, ran along the road till she
came to a gate which opened directly into a plantation. Into this
she plunged, and did not pause till she was deep enough in its shade
to be safe against any possibility of discovery.
Under foot the leaves were dry, and the foliage of some holly bushes
which grew among the deciduous trees was dense enough to keep off
draughts. She scraped together the dead leaves till she had formed
them into a large heap, making a sort of nest in the middle. Into
this Tess crept.
Such sleep as she got was naturally fitful; she fancied she heard
strange noises, but persuaded herself that they were caused by the
breeze. She thought of her husband in some vague warm clime on the
other side of the globe, while she was here in the cold. Was there
another such a wretched being as she in the world? Tess asked
herself; and, thinking of her wasted life, said, "All is vanity."
She repeated the words mechanically, till she reflected that this
was a most inadequate thought for modern days. Solomon had thought
as far as that more than two thousand years ago; she herself,
though not in the van of thinkers, had got much further. If all
were only vanity, who would mind it? All was, alas, worse than
vanity--injustice, punishment, exaction, death. The wife of Angel
Clare put her hand to her brow, and felt its curve, and the edges of
her eye-sockets perceptible under the soft skin, and thought as she
did so that a time would come when that bone would be bare. "I wish
it were now," she said.
In the midst of these whimsical fancies she heard a new strange sound
among the leaves. It might be the wind; yet there was scarcely any
wind. Sometimes it was a palpitation, sometimes a flutter; sometimes
it was a sort of gasp or gurgle. Soon she was certain that the
noises came from wild creatures of some kind, the more so when,
originating in the boughs overhead, they were followed by the fall
of a heavy body upon the ground. Had she been ensconced here under
other and more pleasant conditions she would have become alarmed;
but, outside humanity, she had at present no fear.
Day at length broke in the sky. When it had been day aloft for some
little while it became day in the wood.
Directly the assuring and prosaic light of the world's active hours
had grown strong, she crept from under her hillock of leaves, and
looked around boldly. Then she perceived what had been going on to
disturb her. The plantation wherein she had taken shelter ran down
at this spot into a peak, which ended it hitherward, outside the
hedge being arable ground. Under the trees several pheasants lay
about, their rich plumage dabbled with blood; some were dead, some
feebly twitching a wing, some staring up at the sky, some pulsating
quickly, some contorted, some stretched out--all of them writhing in
agony, except the fortunate ones whose tortures had ended during the
night by the inability of nature to bear more.
Tess guessed at once the meaning of this. The birds had been driven
down into this corner the day before by some shooting-party; and
while those that had dropped dead under the shot, or had died before
nightfall, had been searched for and carried off, many badly wounded
birds had escaped and hidden themselves away, or risen among the
thick boughs, where they had maintained their position till they grew
weaker with loss of blood in the night-time, when they had fallen one
by one as she had heard them.
She had occasionally caught glimpses of these men in girlhood,
looking over hedges, or peeping through bushes, and pointing their
guns, strangely accoutred, a bloodthirsty light in their eyes. She
had been told that, rough and brutal as they seemed just then, they
were not like this all the year round, but were, in fact, quite civil
persons save during certain weeks of autumn and winter, when, like
the inhabitants of the Malay Peninsula, they ran amuck, and made
it their purpose to destroy life--in this case harmless feathered
creatures, brought into being by artificial means solely to gratify
these propensities--at once so unmannerly and so unchivalrous towards
their weaker fellows in Nature's teeming family.
With the impulse of a soul who could feel for kindred sufferers as
much as for herself, Tess's first thought was to put the still living
birds out of their torture, and to this end with her own hands she
broke the necks of as many as she could find, leaving them to lie
where she had found them till the game-keepers should come--as they
probably would come--to look for them a second time.
"Poor darlings--to suppose myself the most miserable being on earth
in the sight o' such misery as yours!" she exclaimed, her tears
running down as she killed the birds tenderly. "And not a twinge of
bodily pain about me! I be not mangled, and I be not bleeding, and
I have two hands to feed and clothe me." She was ashamed of herself
for her gloom of the night, based on nothing more tangible than a
sense of condemnation under an arbitrary law of society which had no
foundation in Nature. | Eight months later--it's now October. Tess has spent the summer working at a dairy on the far side of Blackmoor Vale, and since the busy time at the dairy is over, working at the harvest. She prefers to keep busy, rather than to live on the money Angel gave her, because she hates the idea of giving to strangers the money he handed her. And working keeps her mind occupied. But, after the harvest, there's a long run of wet weather, so Tess has trouble finding fieldwork. She starts spending the twenty-five pounds that her husband had left her . That money is almost gone when she gets a letter from her mother asking for twenty pounds to pay for a new roof. Tess has just received the additional thirty pounds from Angel, so she sends the twenty pounds to her mother immediately. Tess is too proud to write to Angel's father for help, and she doesn't let her own parents know that Angel hasn't returned to her. She doesn't even want to go back to her friends at the Talbothays Dairy, because she doesn't want them to talk about her, or to think badly of Angel for deserting her. So she works and lives alone. Things aren't going great for Angel, either--at this moment, he's sick with a bad fever in Brazil. But to return to Tess: Tess is on her way to a farm to the north, where Marian is working. Marian had sent her a letter, saying that it wasn't a bad place to work--if it were really true that Tess was separated from Angel, and was working for a living like she used to. Being a pretty young woman on her own was never a problem while she was wearing the fancier clothes that she'd gotten just before the marriage, but once she starts wearing common field clothes again, her prettiness attracts unwanted attention. One night it's particularly bad. She's on a lonely stretch of road, and a man catches sight of her, recognizing her from Trantridge. In fact, it's the same man who had recognized her in town the week before the wedding, when Angel punched him in the face. Tess panics and runs through the fields. She makes a nest for herself under a hedge, and tries to sleep there. She thinks she's the most miserable being in the world as she lies there shivering. During the night, she's awoken by gasping sounds and the noise of small thumps. When she wakes, she realizes what it was--there must have been a hunting party the day before, and some of the birds that were only wounded hid themselves in the trees overhead. But during the night, they fell one by one from the loss of blood. Some of the birds are still lying on the ground, half-alive. Tess pities them, and puts them out of their misery. She's ashamed of her despair the night before--at least she's better off than those poor birds. |
Candide, driven from terrestrial paradise, walked a long while without
knowing where, weeping, raising his eyes to heaven, turning them often
towards the most magnificent of castles which imprisoned the purest of
noble young ladies. He lay down to sleep without supper, in the middle
of a field between two furrows. The snow fell in large flakes. Next day
Candide, all benumbed, dragged himself towards the neighbouring town
which was called Waldberghofftrarbk-dikdorff, having no money, dying of
hunger and fatigue, he stopped sorrowfully at the door of an inn. Two
men dressed in blue observed him.
"Comrade," said one, "here is a well-built young fellow, and of proper
height."
They went up to Candide and very civilly invited him to dinner.
"Gentlemen," replied Candide, with a most engaging modesty, "you do me
great honour, but I have not wherewithal to pay my share."
"Oh, sir," said one of the blues to him, "people of your appearance and
of your merit never pay anything: are you not five feet five inches
high?"
"Yes, sir, that is my height," answered he, making a low bow.
"Come, sir, seat yourself; not only will we pay your reckoning, but we
will never suffer such a man as you to want money; men are only born to
assist one another."
"You are right," said Candide; "this is what I was always taught by Mr.
Pangloss, and I see plainly that all is for the best."
They begged of him to accept a few crowns. He took them, and wished to
give them his note; they refused; they seated themselves at table.
"Love you not deeply?"
"Oh yes," answered he; "I deeply love Miss Cunegonde."
"No," said one of the gentlemen, "we ask you if you do not deeply love
the King of the Bulgarians?"
"Not at all," said he; "for I have never seen him."
"What! he is the best of kings, and we must drink his health."
"Oh! very willingly, gentlemen," and he drank.
"That is enough," they tell him. "Now you are the help, the support,
the defender, the hero of the Bulgarians. Your fortune is made, and your
glory is assured."
Instantly they fettered him, and carried him away to the regiment. There
he was made to wheel about to the right, and to the left, to draw his
rammer, to return his rammer, to present, to fire, to march, and they
gave him thirty blows with a cudgel. The next day he did his exercise a
little less badly, and he received but twenty blows. The day following
they gave him only ten, and he was regarded by his comrades as a
prodigy.
Candide, all stupefied, could not yet very well realise how he was a
hero. He resolved one fine day in spring to go for a walk, marching
straight before him, believing that it was a privilege of the human as
well as of the animal species to make use of their legs as they pleased.
He had advanced two leagues when he was overtaken by four others, heroes
of six feet, who bound him and carried him to a dungeon. He was asked
which he would like the best, to be whipped six-and-thirty times through
all the regiment, or to receive at once twelve balls of lead in his
brain. He vainly said that human will is free, and that he chose neither
the one nor the other. He was forced to make a choice; he determined, in
virtue of that gift of God called liberty, to run the gauntlet
six-and-thirty times. He bore this twice. The regiment was composed of
two thousand men; that composed for him four thousand strokes, which
laid bare all his muscles and nerves, from the nape of his neck quite
down to his rump. As they were going to proceed to a third whipping,
Candide, able to bear no more, begged as a favour that they would be so
good as to shoot him. He obtained this favour; they bandaged his eyes,
and bade him kneel down. The King of the Bulgarians passed at this
moment and ascertained the nature of the crime. As he had great talent,
he understood from all that he learnt of Candide that he was a young
metaphysician, extremely ignorant of the things of this world, and he
accorded him his pardon with a clemency which will bring him praise in
all the journals, and throughout all ages.
An able surgeon cured Candide in three weeks by means of emollients
taught by Dioscorides. He had already a little skin, and was able to
march when the King of the Bulgarians gave battle to the King of the
Abares. | In the second chapter, Candide finds himself "ejected from the earthly paradise" to which he had grown accustomed. Drifting to a neighboring village, and now very cold and hungry, he stumbles across two recruiting officers of Frederick the Great standing outside a tavern. The two men seem enamored by Candide's height of five feet, five inches, and offer to buy him a meal. Trusting their kindness, Candide is reminded of Pangloss' philosophy, that all is for the best; he thinks that perhaps being exiled from the castle , may ultimately lead him to a better end after all. Soon, however, these newfound "friends" bind Candide with chains, and force him into the army, where he is beaten daily. At one point, Candide is at the point of being killed when the King of the Bulgars passes and grants his pardon |
There was some hauling to be done at the lower end of the wood-lot, and
Ethan was out early the next day.
The winter morning was as clear as crystal. The sunrise burned red in a
pure sky, the shadows on the rim of the wood-lot were darkly blue, and
beyond the white and scintillating fields patches of far-off forest hung
like smoke.
It was in the early morning stillness, when his muscles were swinging
to their familiar task and his lungs expanding with long draughts of
mountain air, that Ethan did his clearest thinking. He and Zeena had not
exchanged a word after the door of their room had closed on them. She
had measured out some drops from a medicine-bottle on a chair by the bed
and, after swallowing them, and wrapping her head in a piece of yellow
flannel, had lain down with her face turned away. Ethan undressed
hurriedly and blew out the light so that he should not see her when he
took his place at her side. As he lay there he could hear Mattie moving
about in her room, and her candle, sending its small ray across the
landing, drew a scarcely perceptible line of light under his door. He
kept his eyes fixed on the light till it vanished. Then the room grew
perfectly black, and not a sound was audible but Zeena's asthmatic
breathing. Ethan felt confusedly that there were many things he ought
to think about, but through his tingling veins and tired brain only one
sensation throbbed: the warmth of Mattie's shoulder against his. Why had
he not kissed her when he held her there? A few hours earlier he would
not have asked himself the question. Even a few minutes earlier, when
they had stood alone outside the house, he would not have dared to think
of kissing her. But since he had seen her lips in the lamplight he felt
that they were his.
Now, in the bright morning air, her face was still before him. It was
part of the sun's red and of the pure glitter on the snow. How the
girl had changed since she had come to Starkfield! He remembered what a
colourless slip of a thing she had looked the day he had met her at the
station. And all the first winter, how she had shivered with cold when
the northerly gales shook the thin clapboards and the snow beat like
hail against the loose-hung windows!
He had been afraid that she would hate the hard life, the cold and
loneliness; but not a sign of discontent escaped her. Zeena took the
view that Mattie was bound to make the best of Starkfield since she
hadn't any other place to go to; but this did not strike Ethan as
conclusive. Zeena, at any rate, did not apply the principle in her own
case.
He felt all the more sorry for the girl because misfortune had, in
a sense, indentured her to them. Mattie Silver was the daughter of
a cousin of Zenobia Frome's, who had inflamed his clan with mingled
sentiments of envy and admiration by descending from the hills to
Connecticut, where he had married a Stamford girl and succeeded to
her father's thriving "drug" business. Unhappily Orin Silver, a man of
far-reaching aims, had died too soon to prove that the end justifies the
means. His accounts revealed merely what the means had been; and these
were such that it was fortunate for his wife and daughter that his books
were examined only after his impressive funeral. His wife died of the
disclosure, and Mattie, at twenty, was left alone to make her way on the
fifty dollars obtained from the sale of her piano. For this purpose her
equipment, though varied, was inadequate. She could trim a hat, make
molasses candy, recite "Curfew shall not ring to-night," and play "The
Lost Chord" and a pot-pourri from "Carmen." When she tried to extend the
field of her activities in the direction of stenography and book-keeping
her health broke down, and six months on her feet behind the counter of
a department store did not tend to restore it. Her nearest relations had
been induced to place their savings in her father's hands, and though,
after his death, they ungrudgingly acquitted themselves of the Christian
duty of returning good for evil by giving his daughter all the advice
at their disposal, they could hardly be expected to supplement it by
material aid. But when Zenobia's doctor recommended her looking about
for some one to help her with the house-work the clan instantly saw the
chance of exacting a compensation from Mattie. Zenobia, though doubtful
of the girl's efficiency, was tempted by the freedom to find fault
without much risk of losing her; and so Mattie came to Starkfield.
Zenobia's fault-finding was of the silent kind, but not the less
penetrating for that. During the first months Ethan alternately burned
with the desire to see Mattie defy her and trembled with fear of the
result. Then the situation grew less strained. The pure air, and the
long summer hours in the open, gave back life and elasticity to Mattie,
and Zeena, with more leisure to devote to her complex ailments, grew
less watchful of the girl's omissions; so that Ethan, struggling on
under the burden of his barren farm and failing saw-mill, could at least
imagine that peace reigned in his house.
There was really, even now, no tangible evidence to the contrary; but
since the previous night a vague dread had hung on his sky-line. It was
formed of Zeena's obstinate silence, of Mattie's sudden look of warning,
of the memory of just such fleeting imperceptible signs as those which
told him, on certain stainless mornings, that before night there would
be rain.
His dread was so strong that, man-like, he sought to postpone certainty.
The hauling was not over till mid-day, and as the lumber was to be
delivered to Andrew Hale, the Starkfield builder, it was really easier
for Ethan to send Jotham Powell, the hired man, back to the farm on
foot, and drive the load down to the village himself. He had scrambled
up on the logs, and was sitting astride of them, close over his shaggy
grays, when, coming between him and their streaming necks, he had a
vision of the warning look that Mattie had given him the night before.
"If there's going to be any trouble I want to be there," was his vague
reflection, as he threw to Jotham the unexpected order to unhitch the
team and lead them back to the barn.
It was a slow trudge home through the heavy fields, and when the two
men entered the kitchen Mattie was lifting the coffee from the stove and
Zeena was already at the table. Her husband stopped short at sight of
her. Instead of her usual calico wrapper and knitted shawl she wore her
best dress of brown merino, and above her thin strands of hair, which
still preserved the tight undulations of the crimping-pins, rose a hard
perpendicular bonnet, as to which Ethan's clearest notion was that he
had to pay five dollars for it at the Bettsbridge Emporium. On the floor
beside her stood his old valise and a bandbox wrapped in newspapers.
"Why, where are you going, Zeena?" he exclaimed.
"I've got my shooting pains so bad that I'm going over to Bettsbridge
to spend the night with Aunt Martha Pierce and see that new doctor," she
answered in a matter-of-fact tone, as if she had said she was going into
the store-room to take a look at the preserves, or up to the attic to go
over the blankets.
In spite of her sedentary habits such abrupt decisions were not without
precedent in Zeena's history. Twice or thrice before she had suddenly
packed Ethan's valise and started off to Bettsbridge, or even
Springfield, to seek the advice of some new doctor, and her husband had
grown to dread these expeditions because of their cost. Zeena always
came back laden with expensive remedies, and her last visit to
Springfield had been commemorated by her paying twenty dollars for an
electric battery of which she had never been able to learn the use. But
for the moment his sense of relief was so great as to preclude all other
feelings. He had now no doubt that Zeena had spoken the truth in saying,
the night before, that she had sat up because she felt "too mean" to
sleep: her abrupt resolve to seek medical advice showed that, as usual,
she was wholly absorbed in her health.
As if expecting a protest, she continued plaintively; "If you're too
busy with the hauling I presume you can let Jotham Powell drive me over
with the sorrel in time to ketch the train at the Flats."
Her husband hardly heard what she was saying. During the winter months
there was no stage between Starkfield and Bettsbridge, and the trains
which stopped at Corbury Flats were slow and infrequent. A rapid
calculation showed Ethan that Zeena could not be back at the farm before
the following evening....
"If I'd supposed you'd 'a' made any objection to Jotham Powell's driving
me over--" she began again, as though his silence had implied refusal. On
the brink of departure she was always seized with a flux of words. "All
I know is," she continued, "I can't go on the way I am much longer.
The pains are clear away down to my ankles now, or I'd 'a' walked in to
Starkfield on my own feet, sooner'n put you out, and asked Michael Eady
to let me ride over on his wagon to the Flats, when he sends to meet the
train that brings his groceries. I'd 'a' had two hours to wait in the
station, but I'd sooner 'a' done it, even with this cold, than to have
you say--"
"Of course Jotham'll drive you over," Ethan roused himself to answer.
He became suddenly conscious that he was looking at Mattie while Zeena
talked to him, and with an effort he turned his eyes to his wife. She
sat opposite the window, and the pale light reflected from the banks of
snow made her face look more than usually drawn and bloodless, sharpened
the three parallel creases between ear and cheek, and drew querulous
lines from her thin nose to the corners of her mouth. Though she was but
seven years her husband's senior, and he was only twenty-eight, she was
already an old woman.
Ethan tried to say something befitting the occasion, but there was only
one thought in his mind: the fact that, for the first time since
Mattie had come to live with them, Zeena was to be away for a night. He
wondered if the girl were thinking of it too....
He knew that Zeena must be wondering why he did not offer to drive her
to the Flats and let Jotham Powell take the lumber to Starkfield, and
at first he could not think of a pretext for not doing so; then he said:
"I'd take you over myself, only I've got to collect the cash for the
lumber."
As soon as the words were spoken he regretted them, not only because
they were untrue--there being no prospect of his receiving cash payment
from Hale--but also because he knew from experience the imprudence of
letting Zeena think he was in funds on the eve of one of her therapeutic
excursions. At the moment, however, his one desire was to avoid the long
drive with her behind the ancient sorrel who never went out of a walk.
Zeena made no reply: she did not seem to hear what he had said. She had
already pushed her plate aside, and was measuring out a draught from a
large bottle at her elbow.
"It ain't done me a speck of good, but I guess I might as well use it
up," she remarked; adding, as she pushed the empty bottle toward Mattie:
"If you can get the taste out it'll do for pickles." | While hauling lumber early the next morning, Ethan reflects on the events of the previous night and circumstances that brought Mattie to Starkfield. Ethan went to bed, blowing out the candle before he crawled in so as to avoid looking at his wife. Under the door, he could see just a flicker of the light from Mattie's candle, all the way on the other side of the landing. He watched the light until it went out. He wished that he had kissed Mattie while they had been out on their walk. Mattie's father was Zeena's cousin. He had left the hills and traveled to Connecticut, but he died too young to make his fortune. His wife died soon after, leaving Mattie to fend for herself. She had no real skills, and the difficulties of working for a living disagreed with her health. When Zeena's doctor recommended that Zeena find a housekeeper, the family arranged to have Mattie stay at the Frome farm. Although life there has been harder than her old life in Conneticut, Mattie has been cheerful and happy. However, she has little talent for housekeeping, and her ineffectiveness vexes Zeena. When he finishes hauling the lumber, Ethan thinks about the tension in his house. He worries that trouble will come up between Mattie and Zeena, so he decides to return home rather than deliver the lumber. He arrives home to find his wife dressed for travel: she has decided to go to Bettsbridge to see a new doctor. She will spend the night with her aunt; for the first time since Mattie arrived, Mattie and Ethan are going to be in the house overnight without Zeena. Ethan, anxious to avoid a long ride with Zeena, decides to have Jotham Powell, the hired man, use the sorrel to drive Zeena to the station. Ethan will use the other horses to haul lumber. |
SCENE III. Another part of the field.
[Alarum. Enter Cassius and Titinius.]
CASSIUS.
O, look, Titinius, look, the villains fly!
Myself have to mine own turn'd enemy:
This ensign here of mine was turning back;
I slew the coward, and did take it from him.
TITINIUS.
O Cassius, Brutus gave the word too early;
Who, having some advantage on Octavius,
Took it too eagerly: his soldiers fell to spoil,
Whilst we by Antony are all enclosed.
[Enter Pindarus.]
PINDARUS.
Fly further off, my lord, fly further off;
Mark Antony is in your tents, my lord:
Fly, therefore, noble Cassius, fly far' off.
CASSIUS.
This hill is far enough.--Look, look, Titinius;
Are those my tents where I perceive the fire?
TITINIUS.
They are, my lord.
CASSIUS.
Titinius, if thou lovest me,
Mount thou my horse and hide thy spurs in him,
Till he have brought thee up to yonder troops
And here again; that I may rest assured
Whether yond troops are friend or enemy.
TITINIUS.
I will be here again, even with a thought.
[Exit.]
CASSIUS.
Go, Pindarus, get higher on that hill:
My sight was ever thick: regard Titinius,
And tell me what thou notest about the field.--
[Pindarus goes up.]
This day I breathed first: time is come round,
And where I did begin, there shall I end;
My life is run his compass.--Sirrah, what news?
PINDARUS.
[Above.] O my lord!
CASSIUS.
What news?
PINDARUS.
[Above.] Titinius is enclosed round about
With horsemen, that make to him on the spur:
Yet he spurs on. Now they are almost on him.--
Now, Titinius!--Now some 'light. O, he 'lights too:
He's ta'en; [Shout.] and, hark! they shout for joy.
CASSIUS.
Come down; behold no more.--
O, coward that I am, to live so long,
To see my best friend ta'en before my face!
[Pindarus descends.]
Come hither, sirrah:
In Parthia did I take thee prisoner;
And then I swore thee, saving of thy life,
That whatsoever I did bid thee do,
Thou shouldst attempt it. Come now, keep thine oath;
Now be a freeman; and with this good sword,
That ran through Caesar's bowels, search this bosom.
Stand not to answer: here, take thou the hilts;
And when my face is cover'd, as 'tis now,
Guide thou the sword.--Caesar, thou art revenged,
Even with the sword that kill'd thee.
[Dies.]
PINDARUS.
So, I am free, yet would not so have been,
Durst I have done my will.--O Cassius!
Far from this country Pindarus shall run,
Where never Roman shall take note of him.
[Exit.]
[Re-enter Titinius with Messala.]
MESSALA.
It is but change, Titinius; for Octavius
Is overthrown by noble Brutus' power,
As Cassius' legions are by Antony.
TITINIUS.
These tidings would well comfort Cassius.
MESSALA.
Where did you leave him?
TITINIUS.
All disconsolate,
With Pindarus his bondman, on this hill.
MESSALA.
Is not that he that lies upon the ground?
TITINIUS.
He lies not like the living. O my heart!
MESSALA.
Is not that he?
TITINIUS.
No, this was he, Messala,
But Cassius is no more.--O setting Sun,
As in thy red rays thou dost sink to night,
So in his red blood Cassius' day is set,
The sun of Rome is set! Our day is gone;
Clouds, dews, and dangers come; our deeds are done!
Mistrust of my success hath done this deed.
MESSALA.
Mistrust of good success hath done this deed.
O hateful Error, Melancholy's child!
Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men
The things that are not? O Error, soon conceived,
Thou never comest unto a happy birth,
But kill'st the mother that engender'd thee!
TITINIUS.
What, Pindarus! where art thou, Pindarus?
MESSALA.
Seek him, Titinius, whilst I go to meet
The noble Brutus, thrusting this report
Into his ears: I may say, thrusting it;
For piercing steel and darts envenomed
Shall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus
As tidings of this sight.
TITINIUS.
Hie you, Messala,
And I will seek for Pindarus the while.--
[Exit Messala.]
Why didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius?
Did I not meet thy friends? And did not they
Put on my brows this wreath of victory,
And bid me give it thee? Didst thou not hear their shouts?
Alas, thou hast misconstrued every thing!
But, hold thee, take this garland on thy brow;
Thy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I
Will do his bidding.--Brutus, come apace,
And see how I regarded Caius Cassius.--
By your leave, gods: this is a Roman's part:
Come, Cassius' sword, and find Titinius' heart.
[Dies.]
[Alarum. Re-enter Messala, with Brutus, young Cato,
Strato, Volumnius, and Lucilius.]
BRUTUS.
Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie?
MESSALA.
Lo, yonder, and Titinius mourning it.
BRUTUS.
Titinius' face is upward.
CATO.
He is slain.
BRUTUS.
O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet!
Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords
In our own proper entrails.
[Low alarums.]
CATO.
Brave Titinius!
Look whether he have not crown'd dead Cassius!
BRUTUS.
Are yet two Romans living such as these?--
The last of all the Romans, fare thee well!
It is impossible that ever Rome
Should breed thy fellow.--Friends, I owe more tears
To this dead man than you shall see me pay.--
I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time.--
Come therefore, and to Thassos send his body:
His funerals shall not be in our camp,
Lest it discomfort us.--Lucilius, come;--
And come, young Cato;--let us to the field.--
Labeo and Flavius, set our battles on:--
'Tis three o'clock; and Romans, yet ere night
We shall try fortune in a second fight.
[Exeunt.] | Cassius and Titinius watch the battle from another part of the field. When Cassius' standard-bearer tried to run away, Cassius killed him and took up the flag himself. This guy is merciless! Titinius doesn't comment on this behavior but points out that Brutus came down on Octavius's army too early. Though they were initially weaker, Octavius's men now appear to be overtaking Brutus's, and Antony is enclosing Cassius's. The situation is looking pretty dire for Cassius and Brutus. Pindarus comes to Cassius and Titinius with the news that Antony has invaded Cassius's tents. He tries to get Cassius to run away, but Cassius is distracted by a set of fire in the distance. Cassius sends Titinius off on horseback to see whether the troops are friends or enemies. He also sends Pindarus higher up the hill to watch and report on Titinius' progress. Cassius notes to himself that his birthday is a good day to die, his life having come full circle. Cassius is resigned to his fate, but he still fights on. Pindarus reports on Titinius play by play. A horde of horsemen has surrounded Titinius. Now they've overtaken him. And now they're shouting with joy. It looks like the worst has happened. Cassius calls for Pindarus to stop watching. He laments that he's such a coward to have sent his best friend Titinius to his death. Pindarus returns to Cassius' side, and Cassius speaks to him. Cassius reminds Pindarus how he took him prisoner at Parthia and spared his life on the condition that he do whatever Cassius asked him to. Cassius then tells Pindarus how to make himself a free man: he should kill him with the very blade he used to kill Caesar. Pindarus stabs Cassius, who dies declaring that Caesar is avenged by the same sword that killed him. Pindarus, now hovering around Cassius' body, claims that this wasn't the way he wanted to gain his freedom, and that if he had his own will , he wouldn't have done it. He declares that he'll run far away so no Roman will ever see him again. Messala then enters the scene with Titinius , announcing the new state of the battle: they're basically even on both sides. Brutus has overtaken Octavius' forces, while Antony's forces have beaten Cassius' men. The men are stoked to tell Cassius that all isn't lost, but then they see his dead body, which is in no condition to accept good news. Messala is more Action Jackson than super-sleuth; he goes off unhappily to inform Brutus of Cassius' death. Meanwhile, Titinius is left to find Pindarus. While he looks around, Titinius realizes that Cassius must have misunderstood what had happened on the hilltop. It doesn't matter where Pindarus is, and Titinius doesn't even look for him. Instead, Titinius explains what actually happened in the scene that Cassius killed himself over. Titinius was indeed overtaken, but by friends of Brutus and Cassius on horseback. The shouts Pindarus heard were shouts of joy for Cassius' side. They overtook Titinius to put a wreath of victory on his head, which Brutus then wanted the rider to give to Cassius. Titinius still has the doomed crown, which, in a dramatic moment, he places on dead Cassius' head. Titinius then cries, "By your leave, gods! - this is a Roman's part," and proceeds to stab himself with Cassius' sword. Titinius dies beside his friend. Messala and Brutus arrive just in time to find that Titinius has played Ultimate Mourning and killed himself. Brutus cries out, "Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet!" Brutus laments that two of Rome's bravest men should lie here this way. He prophetically calls Cassius "the last of all the Romans," meaning the last of the old school Romans that prefer death to subjugation. Brutus says he knows he ought to cry over Cassius, but now is not the time for crying. In the meantime, they decide not to hold the funerals in the camp, as funerals are no way to boost troop morale. Still, it's only 3 o'clock, which means there's time to try their luck against the enemy again, in the hopes something might be accomplished before dinnertime. Brutus gathers his remaining friends for the fight. |
Though Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of
the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without
a settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her husband, who
had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had
resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman
Square. Towards this home, she began on the approach of January to
turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very
unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to accompany her.
Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the
animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave
a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself
to be speaking their united inclinations. The reason alleged was their
determined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the
year. Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and
repeated her invitation immediately.
"Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I DO beg
you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart upon
it. Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't
put myself at all out of my way for you. It will only be sending Betty
by the coach, and I hope I can afford THAT. We three shall be able to
go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do not like
to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with one of my
daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to it; for I have had
such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that she will
think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I don't
get one of you at least well married before I have done with you, it
shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good word for you to all the
young men, you may depend upon it."
"I have a notion," said Sir John, "that Miss Marianne would not object
to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. It is very
hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss
Dashwood does not wish it. So I would advise you two, to set off for
town, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss
Dashwood about it."
"Nay," cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of
Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only the
more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable for
them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk
to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back. But one or
the other, if not both of them, I must have. Lord bless me! how do you
think I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used till
this winter to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss Marianne, let us
strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her
mind by and bye, why so much the better."
"I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Marianne, with warmth:
"your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give
me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of,
to be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,--I
feel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made
less happy, less comfortable by our absence--Oh! no, nothing should
tempt me to leave her. It should not, must not be a struggle."
Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare
them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw
to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her
eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct
opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's
decision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any
support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not
approve of for Marianne, and which on her own account she had
particular reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her
mother would be eager to promote--she could not expect to influence the
latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which she had
never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain
the motive of her own disinclination for going to London. That
Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs.
Jennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook
every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be
most wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object,
was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object
to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to
witness.
On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that such
an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her
daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to
herself, how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of
their declining the offer upon HER account; insisted on their both
accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual
cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all,
from this separation.
"I am delighted with the plan," she cried, "it is exactly what I could
wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves.
When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and
happily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret
so improved when you come back again! I have a little plan of
alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without
any inconvenience to any one. It is very right that you SHOULD go to
town; I would have every young woman of your condition in life
acquainted with the manners and amusements of London. You will be
under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to
you I can have no doubt. And in all probability you will see your
brother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife,
when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly
estranged from each other."
"Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness," said Elinor, "you
have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which
occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion,
cannot be so easily removed."
Marianne's countenance sunk.
"And what," said Mrs. Dashwood, "is my dear prudent Elinor going to
suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do let
me hear a word about the expense of it."
"My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's
heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or
whose protection will give us consequence."
"That is very true," replied her mother, "but of her society,
separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing
at all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady
Middleton."
"If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings," said
Marianne, "at least it need not prevent MY accepting her invitation. I
have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every
unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort."
Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards
the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in
persuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved
within herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go
likewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left
to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should
be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her
domestic hours. To this determination she was the more easily
reconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account, was
not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any
unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.
"I will have you BOTH go," said Mrs. Dashwood; "these objections are
nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and
especially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to
anticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of
sources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her
acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family."
Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her
mother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the
shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this
attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin
her design by saying, as calmly as she could, "I like Edward Ferrars
very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of
the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether I am
ever known to them or not."
Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes in
astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held
her tongue.
After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the
invitation should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the
information with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness
and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. Sir John was
delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of
being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in
London, was something. Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being
delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for
the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in
their lives as this intelligence made them.
Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with
less reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself,
it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and
when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her
sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all
her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she
could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow
herself to distrust the consequence.
Marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the
perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. Her
unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness;
and at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive.
Her mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of
the three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of
eternal.
Their departure took place in the first week in January. The
Middletons were to follow in about a week. The Miss Steeles kept their
station at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the
family.
Elinor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and
beginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest,
without wondering at her own situation, so short had their acquaintance
with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and
disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a measure
only a few days before! But these objections had all, with that happy
ardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally shared, been
overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt
of Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful
expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of
Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless
her own state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would
engage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation to have the same
animating object in view, the same possibility of hope. A short, a
very short time however must now decide what Willoughby's intentions
were; in all probability he was already in town. Marianne's eagerness
to be gone declared her dependence on finding him there; and Elinor was
resolved not only upon gaining every new light as to his character
which her own observation or the intelligence of others could give her,
but likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sister with such
zealous attention, as to ascertain what he was and what he meant,
before many meetings had taken place. Should the result of her
observations be unfavourable, she was determined at all events to open
the eyes of her sister; should it be otherwise, her exertions would be
of a different nature--she must then learn to avoid every selfish
comparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her satisfaction
in the happiness of Marianne.
They were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as they
travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and
companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in
silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely
ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty
within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively
addressed to her sister. To atone for this conduct therefore, Elinor
took immediate possession of the post of civility which she had
assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs. Jennings,
talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she
could; and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both with all
possible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and
enjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them choose their
own dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring
salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets. They reached town by
three o'clock the third day, glad to be released, after such a journey,
from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury
of a good fire.
The house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young ladies
were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment. It
had formerly been Charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece still hung a
landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having
spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect.
As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their
arrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her
mother, and sat down for that purpose. In a few moments Marianne did
the same. "I am writing home, Marianne," said Elinor; "had not you
better defer your letter for a day or two?"
"I am NOT going to write to my mother," replied Marianne, hastily, and
as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. Elinor said no more; it
immediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby; and
the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however
mysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be
engaged. This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her
pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity.
Marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be no
more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with
eager rapidity. Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W in the
direction; and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing the
bell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed
for her to the two-penny post. This decided the matter at once.
Her spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them
which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this
agitation increased as the evening drew on. She could scarcely eat any
dinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed
anxiously listening to the sound of every carriage.
It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being much
engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing. The tea
things were brought in, and already had Marianne been disappointed more
than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly
heard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house, Elinor
felt secure of its announcing Willoughby's approach, and Marianne,
starting up, moved towards the door. Every thing was silent; this
could not be borne many seconds; she opened the door, advanced a few
steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned
into the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard
him would naturally produce; in the ecstasy of her feelings at that
instant she could not help exclaiming, "Oh, Elinor, it is Willoughby,
indeed it is!" and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms,
when Colonel Brandon appeared.
It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she immediately
left the room. Elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her
regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she felt
particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive
that she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing
him. She instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even
observed Marianne as she quitted the room, with such astonishment and
concern, as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded
towards herself.
"Is your sister ill?" said he.
Elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of
head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to which
she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour.
He heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect
himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of
his pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries about
their journey, and the friends they had left behind.
In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side,
they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts
of both engaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whether
Willoughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by
any enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying something,
she asked if he had been in London ever since she had seen him last.
"Yes," he replied, with some embarrassment, "almost ever since; I have
been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it has never been in
my power to return to Barton."
This, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to
her remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with
the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and she
was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on the
subject than she had ever felt.
Mrs. Jennings soon came in. "Oh! Colonel," said she, with her usual
noisy cheerfulness, "I am monstrous glad to see you--sorry I could not
come before--beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me a
little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have been
at home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do
after one has been away for any time; and then I have had Cartwright to
settle with-- Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner!
But pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I should be in town
today?"
"I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer's, where I have been
dining."
"Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? How does
Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time."
"Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you,
that you will certainly see her to-morrow."
"Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought two
young ladies with me, you see--that is, you see but one of them now,
but there is another somewhere. Your friend, Miss Marianne, too--which
you will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr.
Willoughby will do between you about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be
young and handsome. Well! I was young once, but I never was very
handsome--worse luck for me. However, I got a very good husband, and I
don't know what the greatest beauty can do more. Ah! poor man! he has
been dead these eight years and better. But Colonel, where have you
been to since we parted? And how does your business go on? Come,
come, let's have no secrets among friends."
He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but
without satisfying her in any. Elinor now began to make the tea, and
Marianne was obliged to appear again.
After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and silent
than he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to
stay long. No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were
unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.
Marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks.
The disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the
expectation of what was to happen that day. They had not long finished
their breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and
in a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see
them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure
from meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again. So surprised at
their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all
along; so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having
declined her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven
them if they had not come!
"Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you," said she; "What do you think
he said when he heard of your coming with Mama? I forget what it was
now, but it was something so droll!"
After an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat,
or in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their
acquaintance on Mrs. Jennings's side, and in laughter without cause on
Mrs. Palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all
accompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to
which Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as having likewise
some purchases to make themselves; and Marianne, though declining it at
first was induced to go likewise.
Wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch. In Bond
Street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in
constant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind
was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them, from all
that interested and occupied the others. Restless and dissatisfied
every where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of any article
of purchase, however it might equally concern them both: she received
no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at home again, and
could with difficulty govern her vexation at the tediousness of Mrs.
Palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing pretty, expensive, or new;
who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her
time in rapture and indecision.
It was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner had
they entered the house than Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and when
Elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a sorrowful
countenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been there.
"Has no letter been left here for me since we went out?" said she to
the footman who then entered with the parcels. She was answered in the
negative. "Are you quite sure of it?" she replied. "Are you certain
that no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?"
The man replied that none had.
"How very odd!" said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she
turned away to the window.
"How odd, indeed!" repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her sister
with uneasiness. "If she had not known him to be in town she would not
have written to him, as she did; she would have written to Combe Magna;
and if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write!
Oh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement
between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be carried on in
so doubtful, so mysterious a manner! I long to inquire; and how will
MY interference be borne."
She determined, after some consideration, that if appearances continued
many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would represent in
the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some serious
enquiry into the affair.
Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings's intimate
acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with
them. The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening
engagements; and Elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table
for the others. Marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she
would never learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her
own disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure
to her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of
expectation and the pain of disappointment. She sometimes endeavoured
for a few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she
returned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and
forwards across the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to the
window, in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap. | When Mrs. Jennings invited Elinor and Marianne to stay with her in London, Elinor at first refused, but Marianne was so eager to go, hoping to see Willoughby, that Elinor finally assented. Their departure took place in the first week of January. During the three-day journey, Marianne "sat in silence . . . wrapt in her own meditations." However, Elinor made up for this rudeness by treating Mrs. Jennings with much solicitude, and the woman was kind and attentive to them in turn. As soon as they arrived, Elinor found Marianne writing to someone, and when she saw a large "W" on the envelope, she was sure it was to Willoughby. Elinor concluded from this that they must be engaged. When a visitor arrived, Marianne jumped up, certain it was her love. But it turned out to be Colonel Brandon, who had heard of their arrival through the Palmers. For Marianne, this "was too much of a shock to be borne with calmness," and she ran out of the room in tears, much to the Colonel's surprise. On the next day, Marianne was in high spirits again, obviously expecting a visit from Willoughby. Charlotte Palmer called and they all went out shopping. When they returned, Marianne was greatly upset to find that Willoughby had neither called nor written to her. "How very odd," she murmured. Elinor, observing her sister's behavior, was very uneasy. She determined that "if appearances continued many days longer as unpleasant as they now were she would represent in the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some serious inquiry into the affair." |
A touch on the lawyer's wrinkled hand as he stands in the dark room,
irresolute, makes him start and say, "What's that?"
"It's me," returns the old man of the house, whose breath is in his
ear. "Can't you wake him?"
"No."
"What have you done with your candle?"
"It's gone out. Here it is."
Krook takes it, goes to the fire, stoops over the red embers, and
tries to get a light. The dying ashes have no light to spare, and his
endeavours are vain. Muttering, after an ineffectual call to his
lodger, that he will go downstairs and bring a lighted candle from
the shop, the old man departs. Mr. Tulkinghorn, for some new reason
that he has, does not await his return in the room, but on the stairs
outside.
The welcome light soon shines upon the wall, as Krook comes slowly up
with his green-eyed cat following at his heels. "Does the man
generally sleep like this?" inquired the lawyer in a low voice. "Hi!
I don't know," says Krook, shaking his head and lifting his eyebrows.
"I know next to nothing of his habits except that he keeps himself
very close."
Thus whispering, they both go in together. As the light goes in, the
great eyes in the shutters, darkening, seem to close. Not so the eyes
upon the bed.
"God save us!" exclaims Mr. Tulkinghorn. "He is dead!" Krook drops
the heavy hand he has taken up so suddenly that the arm swings over
the bedside.
They look at one another for a moment.
"Send for some doctor! Call for Miss Flite up the stairs, sir. Here's
poison by the bed! Call out for Flite, will you?" says Krook, with
his lean hands spread out above the body like a vampire's wings.
Mr. Tulkinghorn hurries to the landing and calls, "Miss Flite! Flite!
Make haste, here, whoever you are! Flite!" Krook follows him with his
eyes, and while he is calling, finds opportunity to steal to the old
portmanteau and steal back again.
"Run, Flite, run! The nearest doctor! Run!" So Mr. Krook addresses a
crazy little woman who is his female lodger, who appears and vanishes
in a breath, who soon returns accompanied by a testy medical man
brought from his dinner, with a broad, snuffy upper lip and a broad
Scotch tongue.
"Ey! Bless the hearts o' ye," says the medical man, looking up at
them after a moment's examination. "He's just as dead as Phairy!"
Mr. Tulkinghorn (standing by the old portmanteau) inquires if he has
been dead any time.
"Any time, sir?" says the medical gentleman. "It's probable he wull
have been dead aboot three hours."
"About that time, I should say," observes a dark young man on the
other side of the bed.
"Air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, sir?" inquires the
first.
The dark young man says yes.
"Then I'll just tak' my depairture," replies the other, "for I'm nae
gude here!" With which remark he finishes his brief attendance and
returns to finish his dinner.
The dark young surgeon passes the candle across and across the face
and carefully examines the law-writer, who has established his
pretensions to his name by becoming indeed No one.
"I knew this person by sight very well," says he. "He has purchased
opium of me for the last year and a half. Was anybody present related
to him?" glancing round upon the three bystanders.
"I was his landlord," grimly answers Krook, taking the candle from
the surgeon's outstretched hand. "He told me once I was the nearest
relation he had."
"He has died," says the surgeon, "of an over-dose of opium, there is
no doubt. The room is strongly flavoured with it. There is enough
here now," taking an old tea-pot from Mr. Krook, "to kill a dozen
people."
"Do you think he did it on purpose?" asks Krook.
"Took the over-dose?"
"Yes!" Krook almost smacks his lips with the unction of a horrible
interest.
"I can't say. I should think it unlikely, as he has been in the habit
of taking so much. But nobody can tell. He was very poor, I suppose?"
"I suppose he was. His room--don't look rich," says Krook, who might
have changed eyes with his cat, as he casts his sharp glance around.
"But I have never been in it since he had it, and he was too close to
name his circumstances to me."
"Did he owe you any rent?"
"Six weeks."
"He will never pay it!" says the young man, resuming his examination.
"It is beyond a doubt that he is indeed as dead as Pharaoh; and to
judge from his appearance and condition, I should think it a happy
release. Yet he must have been a good figure when a youth, and I dare
say, good-looking." He says this, not unfeelingly, while sitting on
the bedstead's edge with his face towards that other face and his
hand upon the region of the heart. "I recollect once thinking there
was something in his manner, uncouth as it was, that denoted a fall
in life. Was that so?" he continues, looking round.
Krook replies, "You might as well ask me to describe the ladies whose
heads of hair I have got in sacks downstairs. Than that he was my
lodger for a year and a half and lived--or didn't live--by
law-writing, I know no more of him."
During this dialogue Mr. Tulkinghorn has stood aloof by the old
portmanteau, with his hands behind him, equally removed, to all
appearance, from all three kinds of interest exhibited near the
bed--from the young surgeon's professional interest in death,
noticeable as being quite apart from his remarks on the deceased as
an individual; from the old man's unction; and the little crazy
woman's awe. His imperturbable face has been as inexpressive as his
rusty clothes. One could not even say he has been thinking all this
while. He has shown neither patience nor impatience, nor attention
nor abstraction. He has shown nothing but his shell. As easily might
the tone of a delicate musical instrument be inferred from its case,
as the tone of Mr. Tulkinghorn from his case.
He now interposes, addressing the young surgeon in his unmoved,
professional way.
"I looked in here," he observes, "just before you, with the
intention of giving this deceased man, whom I never saw alive, some
employment at his trade of copying. I had heard of him from my
stationer--Snagsby of Cook's Court. Since no one here knows anything
about him, it might be as well to send for Snagsby. Ah!" to the
little crazy woman, who has often seen him in court, and whom he has
often seen, and who proposes, in frightened dumb-show, to go for the
law-stationer. "Suppose you do!"
While she is gone, the surgeon abandons his hopeless investigation
and covers its subject with the patchwork counterpane. Mr. Krook and
he interchange a word or two. Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing, but
stands, ever, near the old portmanteau.
Mr. Snagsby arrives hastily in his grey coat and his black sleeves.
"Dear me, dear me," he says; "and it has come to this, has it! Bless
my soul!"
"Can you give the person of the house any information about this
unfortunate creature, Snagsby?" inquires Mr. Tulkinghorn. "He was in
arrears with his rent, it seems. And he must be buried, you know."
"Well, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, coughing his apologetic cough behind
his hand, "I really don't know what advice I could offer, except
sending for the beadle."
"I don't speak of advice," returns Mr. Tulkinghorn. "I could
advise--"
"No one better, sir, I am sure," says Mr. Snagsby, with his
deferential cough.
"I speak of affording some clue to his connexions, or to where he
came from, or to anything concerning him."
"I assure you, sir," says Mr. Snagsby after prefacing his reply with
his cough of general propitiation, "that I no more know where he came
from than I know--"
"Where he has gone to, perhaps," suggests the surgeon to help him
out.
A pause. Mr. Tulkinghorn looking at the law-stationer. Mr. Krook,
with his mouth open, looking for somebody to speak next.
"As to his connexions, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, "if a person was to
say to me, 'Snagsby, here's twenty thousand pound down, ready for you
in the Bank of England if you'll only name one of 'em,' I couldn't do
it, sir! About a year and a half ago--to the best of my belief, at
the time when he first came to lodge at the present rag and bottle
shop--"
"That was the time!" says Krook with a nod.
"About a year and a half ago," says Mr. Snagsby, strengthened, "he
came into our place one morning after breakfast, and finding my
little woman (which I name Mrs. Snagsby when I use that appellation)
in our shop, produced a specimen of his handwriting and gave her to
understand that he was in want of copying work to do and was, not to
put too fine a point upon it," a favourite apology for plain speaking
with Mr. Snagsby, which he always offers with a sort of argumentative
frankness, "hard up! My little woman is not in general partial to
strangers, particular--not to put too fine a point upon it--when they
want anything. But she was rather took by something about this
person, whether by his being unshaved, or by his hair being in want
of attention, or by what other ladies' reasons, I leave you to judge;
and she accepted of the specimen, and likewise of the address. My
little woman hasn't a good ear for names," proceeds Mr. Snagsby after
consulting his cough of consideration behind his hand, "and she
considered Nemo equally the same as Nimrod. In consequence of which,
she got into a habit of saying to me at meals, 'Mr. Snagsby, you
haven't found Nimrod any work yet!' or 'Mr. Snagsby, why didn't you
give that eight and thirty Chancery folio in Jarndyce to Nimrod?' or
such like. And that is the way he gradually fell into job-work at our
place; and that is the most I know of him except that he was a quick
hand, and a hand not sparing of night-work, and that if you gave him
out, say, five and forty folio on the Wednesday night, you would have
it brought in on the Thursday morning. All of which--" Mr. Snagsby
concludes by politely motioning with his hat towards the bed, as much
as to add, "I have no doubt my honourable friend would confirm if he
were in a condition to do it."
"Hadn't you better see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn to Krook, "whether he
had any papers that may enlighten you? There will be an inquest, and
you will be asked the question. You can read?"
"No, I can't," returns the old man with a sudden grin.
"Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "look over the room for him. He will
get into some trouble or difficulty otherwise. Being here, I'll wait
if you make haste, and then I can testify on his behalf, if it should
ever be necessary, that all was fair and right. If you will hold the
candle for Mr. Snagsby, my friend, he'll soon see whether there is
anything to help you."
"In the first place, here's an old portmanteau, sir," says Snagsby.
Ah, to be sure, so there is! Mr. Tulkinghorn does not appear to have
seen it before, though he is standing so close to it, and though
there is very little else, heaven knows.
The marine-store merchant holds the light, and the law-stationer
conducts the search. The surgeon leans against the corner of the
chimney-piece; Miss Flite peeps and trembles just within the door.
The apt old scholar of the old school, with his dull black breeches
tied with ribbons at the knees, his large black waistcoat, his
long-sleeved black coat, and his wisp of limp white neckerchief tied
in the bow the peerage knows so well, stands in exactly the same
place and attitude.
There are some worthless articles of clothing in the old portmanteau;
there is a bundle of pawnbrokers' duplicates, those turnpike tickets
on the road of poverty; there is a crumpled paper, smelling of opium,
on which are scrawled rough memoranda--as, took, such a day, so many
grains; took, such another day, so many more--begun some time ago, as
if with the intention of being regularly continued, but soon left
off. There are a few dirty scraps of newspapers, all referring to
coroners' inquests; there is nothing else. They search the cupboard
and the drawer of the ink-splashed table. There is not a morsel of an
old letter or of any other writing in either. The young surgeon
examines the dress on the law-writer. A knife and some odd halfpence
are all he finds. Mr. Snagsby's suggestion is the practical
suggestion after all, and the beadle must be called in.
So the little crazy lodger goes for the beadle, and the rest come out
of the room. "Don't leave the cat there!" says the surgeon; "that
won't do!" Mr. Krook therefore drives her out before him, and she
goes furtively downstairs, winding her lithe tail and licking her
lips.
"Good night!" says Mr. Tulkinghorn, and goes home to Allegory and
meditation.
By this time the news has got into the court. Groups of its
inhabitants assemble to discuss the thing, and the outposts of the
army of observation (principally boys) are pushed forward to Mr.
Krook's window, which they closely invest. A policeman has already
walked up to the room, and walked down again to the door, where he
stands like a tower, only condescending to see the boys at his base
occasionally; but whenever he does see them, they quail and fall
back. Mrs. Perkins, who has not been for some weeks on speaking terms
with Mrs. Piper in consequence for an unpleasantness originating in
young Perkins' having "fetched" young Piper "a crack," renews her
friendly intercourse on this auspicious occasion. The potboy at the
corner, who is a privileged amateur, as possessing official knowledge
of life and having to deal with drunken men occasionally, exchanges
confidential communications with the policeman and has the appearance
of an impregnable youth, unassailable by truncheons and unconfinable
in station-houses. People talk across the court out of window, and
bare-headed scouts come hurrying in from Chancery Lane to know what's
the matter. The general feeling seems to be that it's a blessing Mr.
Krook warn't made away with first, mingled with a little natural
disappointment that he was not. In the midst of this sensation, the
beadle arrives.
The beadle, though generally understood in the neighbourhood to be a
ridiculous institution, is not without a certain popularity for the
moment, if it were only as a man who is going to see the body. The
policeman considers him an imbecile civilian, a remnant of the
barbarous watchmen times, but gives him admission as something that
must be borne with until government shall abolish him. The sensation
is heightened as the tidings spread from mouth to mouth that the
beadle is on the ground and has gone in.
By and by the beadle comes out, once more intensifying the sensation,
which has rather languished in the interval. He is understood to be
in want of witnesses for the inquest to-morrow who can tell the
coroner and jury anything whatever respecting the deceased. Is
immediately referred to innumerable people who can tell nothing
whatever. Is made more imbecile by being constantly informed that
Mrs. Green's son "was a law-writer his-self and knowed him better
than anybody," which son of Mrs. Green's appears, on inquiry, to be
at the present time aboard a vessel bound for China, three months
out, but considered accessible by telegraph on application to the
Lords of the Admiralty. Beadle goes into various shops and parlours,
examining the inhabitants, always shutting the door first, and by
exclusion, delay, and general idiotcy exasperating the public.
Policeman seen to smile to potboy. Public loses interest and
undergoes reaction. Taunts the beadle in shrill youthful voices with
having boiled a boy, choruses fragments of a popular song to that
effect and importing that the boy was made into soup for the
workhouse. Policeman at last finds it necessary to support the law
and seize a vocalist, who is released upon the flight of the rest on
condition of his getting out of this then, come, and cutting it--a
condition he immediately observes. So the sensation dies off for the
time; and the unmoved policeman (to whom a little opium, more or
less, is nothing), with his shining hat, stiff stock, inflexible
great-coat, stout belt and bracelet, and all things fitting, pursues
his lounging way with a heavy tread, beating the palms of his white
gloves one against the other and stopping now and then at a
street-corner to look casually about for anything between a lost
child and a murder.
Under cover of the night, the feeble-minded beadle comes flitting
about Chancery Lane with his summonses, in which every juror's name
is wrongly spelt, and nothing rightly spelt but the beadle's own
name, which nobody can read or wants to know. The summonses served
and his witnesses forewarned, the beadle goes to Mr. Krook's to keep
a small appointment he has made with certain paupers, who, presently
arriving, are conducted upstairs, where they leave the great eyes in
the shutter something new to stare at, in that last shape which
earthly lodgings take for No one--and for Every one.
And all that night the coffin stands ready by the old portmanteau;
and the lonely figure on the bed, whose path in life has lain through
five and forty years, lies there with no more track behind him that
any one can trace than a deserted infant.
Next day the court is all alive--is like a fair, as Mrs. Perkins,
more than reconciled to Mrs. Piper, says in amicable conversation
with that excellent woman. The coroner is to sit in the first-floor
room at the Sol's Arms, where the Harmonic Meetings take place twice
a week and where the chair is filled by a gentleman of professional
celebrity, faced by Little Swills, the comic vocalist, who hopes
(according to the bill in the window) that his friends will rally
round him and support first-rate talent. The Sol's Arms does a brisk
stroke of business all the morning. Even children so require
sustaining under the general excitement that a pieman who has
established himself for the occasion at the corner of the court says
his brandy-balls go off like smoke. What time the beadle, hovering
between the door of Mr. Krook's establishment and the door of the
Sol's Arms, shows the curiosity in his keeping to a few discreet
spirits and accepts the compliment of a glass of ale or so in return.
At the appointed hour arrives the coroner, for whom the jurymen are
waiting and who is received with a salute of skittles from the good
dry skittle-ground attached to the Sol's Arms. The coroner frequents
more public-houses than any man alive. The smell of sawdust, beer,
tobacco-smoke, and spirits is inseparable in his vocation from death
in its most awful shapes. He is conducted by the beadle and the
landlord to the Harmonic Meeting Room, where he puts his hat on the
piano and takes a Windsor-chair at the head of a long table formed of
several short tables put together and ornamented with glutinous rings
in endless involutions, made by pots and glasses. As many of the jury
as can crowd together at the table sit there. The rest get among the
spittoons and pipes or lean against the piano. Over the coroner's
head is a small iron garland, the pendant handle of a bell, which
rather gives the majesty of the court the appearance of going to be
hanged presently.
Call over and swear the jury! While the ceremony is in progress,
sensation is created by the entrance of a chubby little man in a
large shirt-collar, with a moist eye and an inflamed nose, who
modestly takes a position near the door as one of the general public,
but seems familiar with the room too. A whisper circulates that this
is Little Swills. It is considered not unlikely that he will get up
an imitation of the coroner and make it the principal feature of the
Harmonic Meeting in the evening.
"Well, gentlemen--" the coroner begins.
"Silence there, will you!" says the beadle. Not to the coroner,
though it might appear so.
"Well, gentlemen," resumes the coroner. "You are impanelled here to
inquire into the death of a certain man. Evidence will be given
before you as to the circumstances attending that death, and you will
give your verdict according to the--skittles; they must be stopped,
you know, beadle!--evidence, and not according to anything else. The
first thing to be done is to view the body."
"Make way there!" cries the beadle.
So they go out in a loose procession, something after the manner of a
straggling funeral, and make their inspection in Mr. Krook's back
second floor, from which a few of the jurymen retire pale and
precipitately. The beadle is very careful that two gentlemen not very
neat about the cuffs and buttons (for whose accommodation he has
provided a special little table near the coroner in the Harmonic
Meeting Room) should see all that is to be seen. For they are the
public chroniclers of such inquiries by the line; and he is not
superior to the universal human infirmity, but hopes to read in print
what "Mooney, the active and intelligent beadle of the district,"
said and did and even aspires to see the name of Mooney as familiarly
and patronizingly mentioned as the name of the hangman is, according
to the latest examples.
Little Swills is waiting for the coroner and jury on their return.
Mr. Tulkinghorn, also. Mr. Tulkinghorn is received with distinction
and seated near the coroner between that high judicial officer, a
bagatelle-board, and the coal-box. The inquiry proceeds. The jury
learn how the subject of their inquiry died, and learn no more about
him. "A very eminent solicitor is in attendance, gentlemen," says the
coroner, "who, I am informed, was accidentally present when discovery
of the death was made, but he could only repeat the evidence you have
already heard from the surgeon, the landlord, the lodger, and the
law-stationer, and it is not necessary to trouble him. Is anybody in
attendance who knows anything more?"
Mrs. Piper pushed forward by Mrs. Perkins. Mrs. Piper sworn.
Anastasia Piper, gentlemen. Married woman. Now, Mrs. Piper, what have
you got to say about this?
Why, Mrs. Piper has a good deal to say, chiefly in parentheses and
without punctuation, but not much to tell. Mrs. Piper lives in the
court (which her husband is a cabinet-maker), and it has long been
well beknown among the neighbours (counting from the day next but one
before the half-baptizing of Alexander James Piper aged eighteen
months and four days old on accounts of not being expected to live
such was the sufferings gentlemen of that child in his gums) as the
plaintive--so Mrs. Piper insists on calling the deceased--was
reported to have sold himself. Thinks it was the plaintive's air in
which that report originatinin. See the plaintive often and
considered as his air was feariocious and not to be allowed to go
about some children being timid (and if doubted hoping Mrs. Perkins
may be brought forard for she is here and will do credit to her
husband and herself and family). Has seen the plaintive wexed and
worrited by the children (for children they will ever be and you
cannot expect them specially if of playful dispositions to be
Methoozellers which you was not yourself). On accounts of this and
his dark looks has often dreamed as she see him take a pick-axe from
his pocket and split Johnny's head (which the child knows not fear
and has repeatually called after him close at his eels). Never
however see the plaintive take a pick-axe or any other wepping far
from it. Has seen him hurry away when run and called after as if not
partial to children and never see him speak to neither child nor
grown person at any time (excepting the boy that sweeps the crossing
down the lane over the way round the corner which if he was here
would tell you that he has been seen a-speaking to him frequent).
Says the coroner, is that boy here? Says the beadle, no, sir, he is
not here. Says the coroner, go and fetch him then. In the absence of
the active and intelligent, the coroner converses with Mr.
Tulkinghorn.
Oh! Here's the boy, gentlemen!
Here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged. Now, boy! But stop
a minute. Caution. This boy must be put through a few preliminary
paces.
Name, Jo. Nothing else that he knows on. Don't know that everybody
has two names. Never heerd of sich a think. Don't know that Jo is
short for a longer name. Thinks it long enough for HIM. HE don't find
no fault with it. Spell it? No. HE can't spell it. No father, no
mother, no friends. Never been to school. What's home? Knows a
broom's a broom, and knows it's wicked to tell a lie. Don't recollect
who told him about the broom or about the lie, but knows both. Can't
exactly say what'll be done to him arter he's dead if he tells a lie
to the gentlemen here, but believes it'll be something wery bad to
punish him, and serve him right--and so he'll tell the truth.
"This won't do, gentlemen!" says the coroner with a melancholy shake
of the head.
"Don't you think you can receive his evidence, sir?" asks an
attentive juryman.
"Out of the question," says the coroner. "You have heard the boy.
'Can't exactly say' won't do, you know. We can't take THAT in a court
of justice, gentlemen. It's terrible depravity. Put the boy aside."
Boy put aside, to the great edification of the audience, especially
of Little Swills, the comic vocalist.
Now. Is there any other witness? No other witness.
Very well, gentlemen! Here's a man unknown, proved to have been in
the habit of taking opium in large quantities for a year and a half,
found dead of too much opium. If you think you have any evidence to
lead you to the conclusion that he committed suicide, you will come
to that conclusion. If you think it is a case of accidental death,
you will find a verdict accordingly.
Verdict accordingly. Accidental death. No doubt. Gentlemen, you are
discharged. Good afternoon.
While the coroner buttons his great-coat, Mr. Tulkinghorn and he give
private audience to the rejected witness in a corner.
That graceless creature only knows that the dead man (whom he
recognized just now by his yellow face and black hair) was sometimes
hooted and pursued about the streets. That one cold winter night when
he, the boy, was shivering in a doorway near his crossing, the man
turned to look at him, and came back, and having questioned him and
found that he had not a friend in the world, said, "Neither have I.
Not one!" and gave him the price of a supper and a night's lodging.
That the man had often spoken to him since and asked him whether he
slept sound at night, and how he bore cold and hunger, and whether he
ever wished to die, and similar strange questions. That when the man
had no money, he would say in passing, "I am as poor as you to-day,
Jo," but that when he had any, he had always (as the boy most
heartily believes) been glad to give him some.
"He was wery good to me," says the boy, wiping his eyes with his
wretched sleeve. "Wen I see him a-layin' so stritched out just now, I
wished he could have heerd me tell him so. He wos wery good to me, he
wos!"
As he shuffles downstairs, Mr. Snagsby, lying in wait for him, puts a
half-crown in his hand. "If you ever see me coming past your crossing
with my little woman--I mean a lady--" says Mr. Snagsby with his
finger on his nose, "don't allude to it!"
For some little time the jurymen hang about the Sol's Arms
colloquially. In the sequel, half-a-dozen are caught up in a cloud of
pipe-smoke that pervades the parlour of the Sol's Arms; two stroll to
Hampstead; and four engage to go half-price to the play at night, and
top up with oysters. Little Swills is treated on several hands. Being
asked what he thinks of the proceedings, characterizes them (his
strength lying in a slangular direction) as "a rummy start." The
landlord of the Sol's Arms, finding Little Swills so popular,
commends him highly to the jurymen and public, observing that for a
song in character he don't know his equal and that that man's
character-wardrobe would fill a cart.
Thus, gradually the Sol's Arms melts into the shadowy night and then
flares out of it strong in gas. The Harmonic Meeting hour arriving,
the gentleman of professional celebrity takes the chair, is faced
(red-faced) by Little Swills; their friends rally round them and
support first-rate talent. In the zenith of the evening, Little
Swills says, "Gentlemen, if you'll permit me, I'll attempt a short
description of a scene of real life that came off here to-day." Is
much applauded and encouraged; goes out of the room as Swills; comes
in as the coroner (not the least in the world like him); describes
the inquest, with recreative intervals of piano-forte accompaniment,
to the refrain: With his (the coroner's) tippy tol li doll, tippy tol
lo doll, tippy tol li doll, Dee!
The jingling piano at last is silent, and the Harmonic friends rally
round their pillows. Then there is rest around the lonely figure, now
laid in its last earthly habitation; and it is watched by the gaunt
eyes in the shutters through some quiet hours of night. If this
forlorn man could have been prophetically seen lying here by the
mother at whose breast he nestled, a little child, with eyes upraised
to her loving face, and soft hand scarcely knowing how to close upon
the neck to which it crept, what an impossibility the vision would
have seemed! Oh, if in brighter days the now-extinguished fire within
him ever burned for one woman who held him in her heart, where is
she, while these ashes are above the ground!
It is anything but a night of rest at Mr. Snagsby's, in Cook's Court,
where Guster murders sleep by going, as Mr. Snagsby himself
allows--not to put too fine a point upon it--out of one fit into
twenty. The occasion of this seizure is that Guster has a tender
heart and a susceptible something that possibly might have been
imagination, but for Tooting and her patron saint. Be it what it may,
now, it was so direfully impressed at tea-time by Mr. Snagsby's
account of the inquiry at which he had assisted that at supper-time
she projected herself into the kitchen, preceded by a flying Dutch
cheese, and fell into a fit of unusual duration, which she only came
out of to go into another, and another, and so on through a chain of
fits, with short intervals between, of which she has pathetically
availed herself by consuming them in entreaties to Mrs. Snagsby not
to give her warning "when she quite comes to," and also in appeals to
the whole establishment to lay her down on the stones and go to bed.
Hence, Mr. Snagsby, at last hearing the cock at the little dairy in
Cursitor Street go into that disinterested ecstasy of his on the
subject of daylight, says, drawing a long breath, though the most
patient of men, "I thought you was dead, I am sure!"
What question this enthusiastic fowl supposes he settles when he
strains himself to such an extent, or why he should thus crow (so men
crow on various triumphant public occasions, however) about what
cannot be of any moment to him, is his affair. It is enough that
daylight comes, morning comes, noon comes.
Then the active and intelligent, who has got into the morning papers
as such, comes with his pauper company to Mr. Krook's and bears off
the body of our dear brother here departed to a hemmed-in churchyard,
pestiferous and obscene, whence malignant diseases are communicated
to the bodies of our dear brothers and sisters who have not departed,
while our dear brothers and sisters who hang about official
back-stairs--would to heaven they HAD departed!--are very complacent
and agreeable. Into a beastly scrap of ground which a Turk would
reject as a savage abomination and a Caffre would shudder at, they
bring our dear brother here departed to receive Christian burial.
With houses looking on, on every side, save where a reeking little
tunnel of a court gives access to the iron gate--with every villainy
of life in action close on death, and every poisonous element of
death in action close on life--here they lower our dear brother down
a foot or two, here sow him in corruption, to be raised in
corruption: an avenging ghost at many a sick-bedside, a shameful
testimony to future ages how civilization and barbarism walked this
boastful island together.
Come night, come darkness, for you cannot come too soon or stay too
long by such a place as this! Come, straggling lights into the
windows of the ugly houses; and you who do iniquity therein, do it at
least with this dread scene shut out! Come, flame of gas, burning so
sullenly above the iron gate, on which the poisoned air deposits its
witch-ointment slimy to the touch! It is well that you should call to
every passerby, "Look here!"
With the night comes a slouching figure through the tunnel-court to
the outside of the iron gate. It holds the gate with its hands and
looks in between the bars, stands looking in for a little while.
It then, with an old broom it carries, softly sweeps the step and
makes the archway clean. It does so very busily and trimly, looks in
again a little while, and so departs.
Jo, is it thou? Well, well! Though a rejected witness, who "can't
exactly say" what will be done to him in greater hands than men's,
thou art not quite in outer darkness. There is something like a
distant ray of light in thy muttered reason for this: "He wos wery
good to me, he wos!" | OK, we'll stop beating around the bus - the dude is dead. An old woman named Miss Flite goes to fetch a doctor, and comes back with two. One takes a quick look, declares Nemo dead, and goes back to his dinner. The other, a surgeon, recognizes Nemo as a guy who's been buying opium from him for a year and a half now. Calm down, guys, he's not a drug dealer. Opium was a perfectly legal medication back then. The surgeon does a quick exam of the body and figures out that Nemo overdosed. Tulkinghorn goes out of his way to make sure everyone understands how marginally involved he is in this whole situation. He and Krook hover around the only piece of property in the room - a giant overcoat slung across a chair. Snagsby comes over and doesn't know anything about Nemo. Neither does Krook or Miss Flite. He's been living a totally isolated life. The gang decides to call the policeman and the beadle, so that the regular process of found-dead-body inquest can get started. Basically, at an inquest, a jury listens to some witnesses testifying about what they know about the dead guy, then decides how the death occurred. The whole neighborhood is watching the show. The beadle comes and goes. The policeman comes and goes. The policeman doesn't think too highly of the beadle, because the police are the community law enforcement of the future while beadles are a remnant of the days of night watchmen. The next day, the inquest happens. It's a circus of morons, mostly because no one who testifies knows anything about Nemo. The only person who did know him is a boy named Jo, a crossing sweeper. Jo is basically the old-timey version of one of those homeless kids who cleans car windshields in the hopes of getting some charity. Jo cleans horse crap and whatever else off the street and lives on whatever money passers-by give him. The beadle and the coroner try to swear Jo in, but he doesn't qualify as a witness. The reason? He can't give a thorough description of heaven and hell, and so - the argument goes - he doesn't understand enough why he can only tell the truth at the inquest. OK, everyone, all together now - UGH. The jury decides the death was accidental. Meanwhile Tulkinghorn has a private conversation with Jo. Jo tells him that Nemo was the only person who's ever been kind to him, always giving him money whenever he had some and talking to him about his life. Jo's refrain is "He wos wery good to me, he wos!" . The body is given a pauper's burial in the most disgusting and foul cemetery on earth. The night after the funeral, Jo comes to the gates of the cemetery and sweeps the stairs. So, so sad. |
Gradually Rodolphe's fears took possession of her. At first, love had
intoxicated her; and she had thought of nothing beyond. But now that he
was indispensable to her life, she feared to lose anything of this, or
even that it should be disturbed. When she came back from his house she
looked all about her, anxiously watching every form that passed in the
horizon, and every village window from which she could be seen. She
listened for steps, cries, the noise of the ploughs, and she stopped
short, white, and trembling more than the aspen leaves swaying overhead.
One morning as she was thus returning, she suddenly thought she saw the
long barrel of a carbine that seemed to be aimed at her. It stuck out
sideways from the end of a small tub half-buried in the grass on the
edge of a ditch. Emma, half-fainting with terror, nevertheless walked
on, and a man stepped out of the tub like a Jack-in-the-box. He had
gaiters buckled up to the knees, his cap pulled down over his eyes,
trembling lips, and a red nose. It was Captain Binet lying in ambush for
wild ducks.
"You ought to have called out long ago!" he exclaimed; "When one sees a
gun, one should always give warning."
The tax-collector was thus trying to hide the fright he had had, for
a prefectorial order having prohibited duckhunting except in boats,
Monsieur Binet, despite his respect for the laws, was infringing them,
and so he every moment expected to see the rural guard turn up. But
this anxiety whetted his pleasure, and, all alone in his tub, he
congratulated himself on his luck and on his cuteness. At sight of
Emma he seemed relieved from a great weight, and at once entered upon a
conversation.
"It isn't warm; it's nipping."
Emma answered nothing. He went on--
"And you're out so early?"
"Yes," she said stammering; "I am just coming from the nurse where my
child is."
"Ah! very good! very good! For myself, I am here, just as you see me,
since break of day; but the weather is so muggy, that unless one had the
bird at the mouth of the gun--"
"Good evening, Monsieur Binet," she interrupted him, turning on her
heel.
"Your servant, madame," he replied drily; and he went back into his tub.
Emma regretted having left the tax-collector so abruptly. No doubt he
would form unfavourable conjectures. The story about the nurse was the
worst possible excuse, everyone at Yonville knowing that the little
Bovary had been at home with her parents for a year. Besides, no one
was living in this direction; this path led only to La Huchette. Binet,
then, would guess whence she came, and he would not keep silence; he
would talk, that was certain. She remained until evening racking her
brain with every conceivable lying project, and had constantly before
her eyes that imbecile with the game-bag.
Charles after dinner, seeing her gloomy, proposed, by way of
distraction, to take her to the chemist's, and the first person she
caught sight of in the shop was the taxcollector again. He was standing
in front of the counter, lit up by the gleams of the red bottle, and was
saying--
"Please give me half an ounce of vitriol."
"Justin," cried the druggist, "bring us the sulphuric acid." Then to
Emma, who was going up to Madame Homais' room, "No, stay here; it isn't
worth while going up; she is just coming down. Warm yourself at the
stove in the meantime. Excuse me. Good-day, doctor," (for the chemist
much enjoyed pronouncing the word "doctor," as if addressing another by
it reflected on himself some of the grandeur that he found in it). "Now,
take care not to upset the mortars! You'd better fetch some chairs from
the little room; you know very well that the arm-chairs are not to be
taken out of the drawing-room."
And to put his arm-chair back in its place he was darting away from the
counter, when Binet asked him for half an ounce of sugar acid.
"Sugar acid!" said the chemist contemptuously, "don't know it; I'm
ignorant of it! But perhaps you want oxalic acid. It is oxalic acid,
isn't it?"
Binet explained that he wanted a corrosive to make himself some
copperwater with which to remove rust from his hunting things.
Emma shuddered. The chemist began saying--
"Indeed the weather is not propitious on account of the damp."
"Nevertheless," replied the tax-collector, with a sly look, "there are
people who like it."
She was stifling.
"And give me--"
"Will he never go?" thought she.
"Half an ounce of resin and turpentine, four ounces of yellow wax,
and three half ounces of animal charcoal, if you please, to clean the
varnished leather of my togs."
The druggist was beginning to cut the wax when Madame Homais appeared,
Irma in her arms, Napoleon by her side, and Athalie following. She sat
down on the velvet seat by the window, and the lad squatted down on a
footstool, while his eldest sister hovered round the jujube box near
her papa. The latter was filling funnels and corking phials, sticking on
labels, making up parcels. Around him all were silent; only from time
to time, were heard the weights jingling in the balance, and a few low
words from the chemist giving directions to his pupil.
"And how's the little woman?" suddenly asked Madame Homais.
"Silence!" exclaimed her husband, who was writing down some figures in
his waste-book.
"Why didn't you bring her?" she went on in a low voice.
"Hush! hush!" said Emma, pointing with her finger to the druggist.
But Binet, quite absorbed in looking over his bill, had probably heard
nothing. At last he went out. Then Emma, relieved, uttered a deep sigh.
"How hard you are breathing!" said Madame Homais.
"Well, you see, it's rather warm," she replied.
So the next day they talked over how to arrange their rendezvous. Emma
wanted to bribe her servant with a present, but it would be better to
find some safe house at Yonville. Rodolphe promised to look for one.
All through the winter, three or four times a week, in the dead of night
he came to the garden. Emma had on purpose taken away the key of the
gate, which Charles thought lost.
To call her, Rodolphe threw a sprinkle of sand at the shutters. She
jumped up with a start; but sometimes he had to wait, for Charles had a
mania for chatting by the fireside, and he would not stop. She was wild
with impatience; if her eyes could have done it, she would have hurled
him out at the window. At last she would begin to undress, then take up
a book, and go on reading very quietly as if the book amused her. But
Charles, who was in bed, called to her to come too.
"Come, now, Emma," he said, "it is time."
"Yes, I am coming," she answered.
Then, as the candles dazzled him; he turned to the wall and fell asleep.
She escaped, smiling, palpitating, undressed. Rodolphe had a large
cloak; he wrapped her in it, and putting his arm round her waist, he
drew her without a word to the end of the garden.
It was in the arbour, on the same seat of old sticks where formerly Leon
had looked at her so amorously on the summer evenings. She never thought
of him now.
The stars shone through the leafless jasmine branches. Behind them they
heard the river flowing, and now and again on the bank the rustling
of the dry reeds. Masses of shadow here and there loomed out in the
darkness, and sometimes, vibrating with one movement, they rose up and
swayed like immense black waves pressing forward to engulf them. The
cold of the nights made them clasp closer; the sighs of their lips
seemed to them deeper; their eyes that they could hardly see, larger;
and in the midst of the silence low words were spoken that fell on
their souls sonorous, crystalline, and that reverberated in multiplied
vibrations.
When the night was rainy, they took refuge in the consulting-room
between the cart-shed and the stable. She lighted one of the kitchen
candles that she had hidden behind the books. Rodolphe settled down
there as if at home. The sight of the library, of the bureau, of the
whole apartment, in fine, excited his merriment, and he could not
refrain from making jokes about Charles, which rather embarrassed Emma.
She would have liked to see him more serious, and even on occasions
more dramatic; as, for example, when she thought she heard a noise of
approaching steps in the alley.
"Someone is coming!" she said.
He blew out the light.
"Have you your pistols?"
"Why?"
"Why, to defend yourself," replied Emma.
"From your husband? Oh, poor devil!" And Rodolphe finished his sentence
with a gesture that said, "I could crush him with a flip of my finger."
She was wonder-stricken at his bravery, although she felt in it a sort
of indecency and a naive coarseness that scandalised her.
Rodolphe reflected a good deal on the affair of the pistols. If she had
spoken seriously, it was very ridiculous, he thought, even odious; for
he had no reason to hate the good Charles, not being what is called
devoured by jealousy; and on this subject Emma had taken a great vow
that he did not think in the best of taste.
Besides, she was growing very sentimental. She had insisted on
exchanging miniatures; they had cut off handfuls of hair, and now she
was asking for a ring--a real wedding-ring, in sign of an eternal union.
She often spoke to him of the evening chimes, of the voices of nature.
Then she talked to him of her mother--hers! and of his mother--his!
Rodolphe had lost his twenty years ago. Emma none the less consoled
him with caressing words as one would have done a lost child, and she
sometimes even said to him, gazing at the moon--
"I am sure that above there together they approve of our love."
But she was so pretty. He had possessed so few women of such
ingenuousness. This love without debauchery was a new experience for
him, and, drawing him out of his lazy habits, caressed at once his pride
and his sensuality. Emma's enthusiasm, which his bourgeois good sense
disdained, seemed to him in his heart of hearts charming, since it
was lavished on him. Then, sure of being loved, he no longer kept up
appearances, and insensibly his ways changed.
He had no longer, as formerly, words so gentle that they made her cry,
nor passionate caresses that made her mad, so that their great love,
which engrossed her life, seemed to lessen beneath her like the water of
a stream absorbed into its channel, and she could see the bed of it.
She would not believe it; she redoubled in tenderness, and Rodolphe
concealed his indifference less and less.
She did not know if she regretted having yielded to him, or whether she
did not wish, on the contrary, to enjoy him the more. The humiliation
of feeling herself weak was turning to rancour, tempered by their
voluptuous pleasures. It was not affection; it was like a continual
seduction. He subjugated her; she almost feared him.
Appearances, nevertheless, were calmer than ever, Rodolphe having
succeeded in carrying out the adultery after his own fancy; and at the
end of six months, when the spring-time came, they were to one another
like a married couple, tranquilly keeping up a domestic flame.
It was the time of year when old Rouault sent his turkey in remembrance
of the setting of his leg. The present always arrived with a letter.
Emma cut the string that tied it to the basket, and read the following
lines:--
"My Dear Children--I hope this will find you well, and that this one
will be as good as the others. For it seems to me a little more tender,
if I may venture to say so, and heavier. But next time, for a change,
I'll give you a turkeycock, unless you have a preference for some dabs;
and send me back the hamper, if you please, with the two old ones. I
have had an accident with my cart-sheds, whose covering flew off one
windy night among the trees. The harvest has not been overgood either.
Finally, I don't know when I shall come to see you. It is so difficult
now to leave the house since I am alone, my poor Emma."
Here there was a break in the lines, as if the old fellow had dropped
his pen to dream a little while.
"For myself, I am very well, except for a cold I caught the other day at
the fair at Yvetot, where I had gone to hire a shepherd, having turned
away mine because he was too dainty. How we are to be pitied with such
a lot of thieves! Besides, he was also rude. I heard from a pedlar, who,
travelling through your part of the country this winter, had a tooth
drawn, that Bovary was as usual working hard. That doesn't surprise me;
and he showed me his tooth; we had some coffee together. I asked him if
he had seen you, and he said not, but that he had seen two horses in the
stables, from which I conclude that business is looking up. So much
the better, my dear children, and may God send you every imaginable
happiness! It grieves me not yet to have seen my dear little
grand-daughter, Berthe Bovary. I have planted an Orleans plum-tree for
her in the garden under your room, and I won't have it touched unless it
is to have jam made for her by and bye, that I will keep in the cupboard
for her when she comes.
"Good-bye, my dear children. I kiss you, my girl, you too, my
son-in-law, and the little one on both cheeks. I am, with best
compliments, your loving father.
"Theodore Rouault."
She held the coarse paper in her fingers for some minutes. The spelling
mistakes were interwoven one with the other, and Emma followed the
kindly thought that cackled right through it like a hen half hidden
in the hedge of thorns. The writing had been dried with ashes from
the hearth, for a little grey powder slipped from the letter on to her
dress, and she almost thought she saw her father bending over the hearth
to take up the tongs. How long since she had been with him, sitting on
the footstool in the chimney-corner, where she used to burn the end of
a bit of wood in the great flame of the sea-sedges! She remembered the
summer evenings all full of sunshine. The colts neighed when anyone
passed by, and galloped, galloped. Under her window there was a beehive,
and sometimes the bees wheeling round in the light struck against her
window like rebounding balls of gold. What happiness there had been
at that time, what freedom, what hope! What an abundance of illusions!
Nothing was left of them now. She had got rid of them all in her soul's
life, in all her successive conditions of life, maidenhood, her marriage,
and her love--thus constantly losing them all her life through, like
a traveller who leaves something of his wealth at every inn along his
road.
But what then, made her so unhappy? What was the extraordinary
catastrophe that had transformed her? And she raised her head, looking
round as if to seek the cause of that which made her suffer.
An April ray was dancing on the china of the whatnot; the fire burned;
beneath her slippers she felt the softness of the carpet; the day was
bright, the air warm, and she heard her child shouting with laughter.
In fact, the little girl was just then rolling on the lawn in the midst
of the grass that was being turned. She was lying flat on her stomach
at the top of a rick. The servant was holding her by her skirt.
Lestiboudois was raking by her side, and every time he came near she
lent forward, beating the air with both her arms.
"Bring her to me," said her mother, rushing to embrace her. "How I love
you, my poor child! How I love you!"
Then noticing that the tips of her ears were rather dirty, she rang at
once for warm water, and washed her, changed her linen, her stockings,
her shoes, asked a thousand questions about her health, as if on the
return from a long journey, and finally, kissing her again and crying
a little, she gave her back to the servant, who stood quite
thunderstricken at this excess of tenderness.
That evening Rodolphe found her more serious than usual.
"That will pass over," he concluded; "it's a whim:"
And he missed three rendezvous running. When he did come, she showed
herself cold and almost contemptuous.
"Ah! you're losing your time, my lady!"
And he pretended not to notice her melancholy sighs, nor the
handkerchief she took out.
Then Emma repented. She even asked herself why she detested Charles; if
it had not been better to have been able to love him? But he gave her
no opportunities for such a revival of sentiment, so that she was much
embarrassed by her desire for sacrifice, when the druggist came just in
time to provide her with an opportunity. | Though Emma practices greater caution in her trips to La Huchette one morning she inadvertently surprises Monsieur Binet duck hunting. Although Emma does not know it Binet is hunting illegally so he is content to let the encounter be forgotten but Emma is nervous that he will see through her weak lies. That evening she and Charles go to the pharmacy and Emma is horrified to see Binet at the counter. After the close call Emma and Rodolphe change their meeting place to the arbor in the garden behind the Bovary's house. Over time Rodolphe begins to be annoyed by the intensity of Emma's devotion to him and her constant demands to reaffirm his love. One night, as they lay concealed in the small consulting room they hear someone approaching and Emma asks, in all seriousness, if Rodolphe has his pistols with which to defend her. Afterward he muses that he has nothing against the physician and observes that he is certainly not jealous or frightened of the man. Eventually, certain of her love, he stops making an effort to win her and she gleans that his passion is fading. Nevertheless she realizes that he holds complete power over her. After six months of liaisons their relationship becomes cold and formalized. When Emma's father sends a letter to the Bovary's with his annual turkey Emma is reminded of her lost youth and the romantic illusions that used to be dear to her. She reflects that she no longer has any illusions. She runs to her daughter and smothers her with affection. In her subsequent meetings with Rodolphe she is sullen and distant. Touched with remorse she begins to wonder why she doesn't love Charles. She is at a loss, however, to find something noble in her husband until one day the pharmacist provides an opportunity. |
It had occurred to Ralph that, in the conditions, Isabel's parting with
her friend might be of a slightly embarrassed nature, and he went down
to the door of the hotel in advance of his cousin, who, after a slight
delay, followed with the traces of an unaccepted remonstrance, as he
thought, in her eyes. The two made the journey to Gardencourt in almost
unbroken silence, and the servant who met them at the station had no
better news to give them of Mr. Touchett--a fact which caused Ralph to
congratulate himself afresh on Sir Matthew Hope's having promised to
come down in the five o'clock train and spend the night. Mrs. Touchett,
he learned, on reaching home, had been constantly with the old man and
was with him at that moment; and this fact made Ralph say to himself
that, after all, what his mother wanted was just easy occasion. The
finer natures were those that shone at the larger times. Isabel went to
her own room, noting throughout the house that perceptible hush which
precedes a crisis. At the end of an hour, however, she came downstairs
in search of her aunt, whom she wished to ask about Mr. Touchett. She
went into the library, but Mrs. Touchett was not there, and as the
weather, which had been damp and chill, was now altogether spoiled, it
was not probable she had gone for her usual walk in the grounds. Isabel
was on the point of ringing to send a question to her room, when this
purpose quickly yielded to an unexpected sound--the sound of low music
proceeding apparently from the saloon. She knew her aunt never touched
the piano, and the musician was therefore probably Ralph, who played for
his own amusement. That he should have resorted to this recreation at
the present time indicated apparently that his anxiety about his father
had been relieved; so that the girl took her way, almost with restored
cheer, toward the source of the harmony. The drawing-room at Gardencourt
was an apartment of great distances, and, as the piano was placed at
the end of it furthest removed from the door at which she entered, her
arrival was not noticed by the person seated before the instrument.
This person was neither Ralph nor his mother; it was a lady whom
Isabel immediately saw to be a stranger to herself, though her back was
presented to the door. This back--an ample and well-dressed one--Isabel
viewed for some moments with surprise. The lady was of course a visitor
who had arrived during her absence and who had not been mentioned by
either of the servants--one of them her aunt's maid--of whom she had had
speech since her return. Isabel had already learned, however, with
what treasures of reserve the function of receiving orders may be
accompanied, and she was particularly conscious of having been treated
with dryness by her aunt's maid, through whose hands she had slipped
perhaps a little too mistrustfully and with an effect of plumage but
the more lustrous. The advent of a guest was in itself far from
disconcerting; she had not yet divested herself of a young faith that
each new acquaintance would exert some momentous influence on her life.
By the time she had made these reflexions she became aware that the
lady at the piano played remarkably well. She was playing something
of Schubert's--Isabel knew not what, but recognised Schubert--and she
touched the piano with a discretion of her own. It showed skill, it
showed feeling; Isabel sat down noiselessly on the nearest chair and
waited till the end of the piece. When it was finished she felt a strong
desire to thank the player, and rose from her seat to do so, while at
the same time the stranger turned quickly round, as if but just aware of
her presence.
"That's very beautiful, and your playing makes it more beautiful still,"
said Isabel with all the young radiance with which she usually uttered a
truthful rapture.
"You don't think I disturbed Mr. Touchett then?" the musician answered
as sweetly as this compliment deserved. "The house is so large and his
room so far away that I thought I might venture, especially as I played
just--just du bout des doigts."
"She's a Frenchwoman," Isabel said to herself; "she says that as if she
were French." And this supposition made the visitor more interesting to
our speculative heroine. "I hope my uncle's doing well," Isabel added.
"I should think that to hear such lovely music as that would really make
him feel better."
The lady smiled and discriminated. "I'm afraid there are moments in life
when even Schubert has nothing to say to us. We must admit, however,
that they are our worst."
"I'm not in that state now then," said Isabel. "On the contrary I should
be so glad if you would play something more."
"If it will give you pleasure--delighted." And this obliging person took
her place again and struck a few chords, while Isabel sat down nearer
the instrument. Suddenly the new-comer stopped with her hands on the
keys, half-turning and looking over her shoulder. She was forty years
old and not pretty, though her expression charmed. "Pardon me," she
said; "but are you the niece--the young American?"
"I'm my aunt's niece," Isabel replied with simplicity.
The lady at the piano sat still a moment longer, casting her air of
interest over her shoulder. "That's very well; we're compatriots." And
then she began to play.
"Ah then she's not French," Isabel murmured; and as the opposite
supposition had made her romantic it might have seemed that this
revelation would have marked a drop. But such was not the fact; rarer
even than to be French seemed it to be American on such interesting
terms.
The lady played in the same manner as before, softly and solemnly, and
while she played the shadows deepened in the room. The autumn twilight
gathered in, and from her place Isabel could see the rain, which had now
begun in earnest, washing the cold-looking lawn and the wind shaking the
great trees. At last, when the music had ceased, her companion got up
and, coming nearer with a smile, before Isabel had time to thank her
again, said: "I'm very glad you've come back; I've heard a great deal
about you."
Isabel thought her a very attractive person, but nevertheless spoke with
a certain abruptness in reply to this speech. "From whom have you heard
about me?"
The stranger hesitated a single moment and then, "From your uncle," she
answered. "I've been here three days, and the first day he let me come
and pay him a visit in his room. Then he talked constantly of you."
"As you didn't know me that must rather have bored you."
"It made me want to know you. All the more that since then--your aunt
being so much with Mr. Touchett--I've been quite alone and have got
rather tired of my own society. I've not chosen a good moment for my
visit."
A servant had come in with lamps and was presently followed by another
bearing the tea-tray. On the appearance of this repast Mrs. Touchett had
apparently been notified, for she now arrived and addressed herself to
the tea-pot. Her greeting to her niece did not differ materially from
her manner of raising the lid of this receptacle in order to glance at
the contents: in neither act was it becoming to make a show of avidity.
Questioned about her husband she was unable to say he was better; but
the local doctor was with him, and much light was expected from this
gentleman's consultation with Sir Matthew Hope.
"I suppose you two ladies have made acquaintance," she pursued. "If you
haven't I recommend you to do so; for so long as we continue--Ralph and
I--to cluster about Mr. Touchett's bed you're not likely to have much
society but each other."
"I know nothing about you but that you're a great musician," Isabel said
to the visitor.
"There's a good deal more than that to know," Mrs. Touchett affirmed in
her little dry tone.
"A very little of it, I am sure, will content Miss Archer!" the lady
exclaimed with a light laugh. "I'm an old friend of your aunt's.
I've lived much in Florence. I'm Madame Merle." She made this last
announcement as if she were referring to a person of tolerably distinct
identity. For Isabel, however, it represented little; she could only
continue to feel that Madame Merle had as charming a manner as any she
had ever encountered.
"She's not a foreigner in spite of her name," said Mrs. Touchett.
"She was born--I always forget where you were born."
"It's hardly worth while then I should tell you."
"On the contrary," said Mrs. Touchett, who rarely missed a logical
point; "if I remembered your telling me would be quite superfluous."
Madame Merle glanced at Isabel with a sort of world-wide smile, a
thing that over-reached frontiers. "I was born under the shadow of the
national banner."
"She's too fond of mystery," said Mrs. Touchett; "that's her great
fault."
"Ah," exclaimed Madame Merle, "I've great faults, but I don't think
that's one of then; it certainly isn't the greatest. I came into the
world in the Brooklyn navy-yard. My father was a high officer in the
United States Navy, and had a post--a post of responsibility--in that
establishment at the time. I suppose I ought to love the sea, but I hate
it. That's why I don't return to America. I love the land; the great
thing is to love something."
Isabel, as a dispassionate witness, had not been struck with the
force of Mrs. Touchett's characterisation of her visitor, who had an
expressive, communicative, responsive face, by no means of the sort
which, to Isabel's mind, suggested a secretive disposition. It was a
face that told of an amplitude of nature and of quick and free motions
and, though it had no regular beauty, was in the highest degree engaging
and attaching. Madame Merle was a tall, fair, smooth woman; everything
in her person was round and replete, though without those accumulations
which suggest heaviness. Her features were thick but in perfect
proportion and harmony, and her complexion had a healthy clearness.
Her grey eyes were small but full of light and incapable of
stupidity--incapable, according to some people, even of tears; she had
a liberal, full-rimmed mouth which when she smiled drew itself upward to
the left side in a manner that most people thought very odd, some very
affected and a few very graceful. Isabel inclined to range herself in
the last category. Madame Merle had thick, fair hair, arranged somehow
"classically" and as if she were a Bust, Isabel judged--a Juno or a
Niobe; and large white hands, of a perfect shape, a shape so perfect
that their possessor, preferring to leave them unadorned, wore no
jewelled rings. Isabel had taken her at first, as we have seen, for
a Frenchwoman; but extended observation might have ranked her as a
German--a German of high degree, perhaps an Austrian, a baroness, a
countess, a princess. It would never have been supposed she had come
into the world in Brooklyn--though one could doubtless not have carried
through any argument that the air of distinction marking her in so
eminent a degree was inconsistent with such a birth. It was true that
the national banner had floated immediately over her cradle, and the
breezy freedom of the stars and stripes might have shed an influence
upon the attitude she there took towards life. And yet she had evidently
nothing of the fluttered, flapping quality of a morsel of bunting in the
wind; her manner expressed the repose and confidence which come from a
large experience. Experience, however, had not quenched her youth; it
had simply made her sympathetic and supple. She was in a word a woman of
strong impulses kept in admirable order. This commended itself to Isabel
as an ideal combination.
The girl made these reflexions while the three ladies sat at their tea,
but that ceremony was interrupted before long by the arrival of the
great doctor from London, who had been immediately ushered into the
drawing-room. Mrs. Touchett took him off to the library for a private
talk; and then Madame Merle and Isabel parted, to meet again at dinner.
The idea of seeing more of this interesting woman did much to mitigate
Isabel's sense of the sadness now settling on Gardencourt.
When she came into the drawing-room before dinner she found the place
empty; but in the course of a moment Ralph arrived. His anxiety about
his father had been lightened; Sir Matthew Hope's view of his condition
was less depressed than his own had been. The doctor recommended that
the nurse alone should remain with the old man for the next three or
four hours; so that Ralph, his mother and the great physician himself
were free to dine at table. Mrs. Touchett and Sir Matthew appeared;
Madame Merle was the last.
Before she came Isabel spoke of her to Ralph, who was standing before
the fireplace. "Pray who is this Madame Merle?"
"The cleverest woman I know, not excepting yourself," said Ralph.
"I thought she seemed very pleasant."
"I was sure you'd think her very pleasant."
"Is that why you invited her?"
"I didn't invite her, and when we came back from London I didn't know
she was here. No one invited her. She's a friend of my mother's, and
just after you and I went to town my mother got a note from her. She had
arrived in England (she usually lives abroad, though she has first and
last spent a good deal of time here), and asked leave to come down for
a few days. She's a woman who can make such proposals with perfect
confidence; she's so welcome wherever she goes. And with my mother there
could be no question of hesitating; she's the one person in the world
whom my mother very much admires. If she were not herself (which she
after all much prefers), she would like to be Madame Merle. It would
indeed be a great change."
"Well, she's very charming," said Isabel. "And she plays beautifully."
"She does everything beautifully. She's complete."
Isabel looked at her cousin a moment. "You don't like her."
"On the contrary, I was once in love with her."
"And she didn't care for you, and that's why you don't like her."
"How can we have discussed such things? Monsieur Merle was then living."
"Is he dead now?"
"So she says."
"Don't you believe her?"
"Yes, because the statement agrees with the probabilities. The husband
of Madame Merle would be likely to pass away."
Isabel gazed at her cousin again. "I don't know what you mean. You mean
something--that you don't mean. What was Monsieur Merle?"
"The husband of Madame."
"You're very odious. Has she any children?"
"Not the least little child--fortunately."
"Fortunately?"
"I mean fortunately for the child. She'd be sure to spoil it."
Isabel was apparently on the point of assuring her cousin for the third
time that he was odious; but the discussion was interrupted by the
arrival of the lady who was the topic of it. She came rustling in
quickly, apologising for being late, fastening a bracelet, dressed in
dark blue satin, which exposed a white bosom that was ineffectually
covered by a curious silver necklace. Ralph offered her his arm with the
exaggerated alertness of a man who was no longer a lover.
Even if this had still been his condition, however, Ralph had other
things to think about. The great doctor spent the night at Gardencourt
and, returning to London on the morrow, after another consultation with
Mr. Touchett's own medical adviser, concurred in Ralph's desire that he
should see the patient again on the day following. On the day following
Sir Matthew Hope reappeared at Gardencourt, and now took a less
encouraging view of the old man, who had grown worse in the twenty-four
hours. His feebleness was extreme, and to his son, who constantly sat
by his bedside, it often seemed that his end must be at hand. The local
doctor, a very sagacious man, in whom Ralph had secretly more confidence
than in his distinguished colleague, was constantly in attendance, and
Sir Matthew Hope came back several times. Mr. Touchett was much of the
time unconscious; he slept a great deal; he rarely spoke. Isabel had a
great desire to be useful to him and was allowed to watch with him at
hours when his other attendants (of whom Mrs. Touchett was not the least
regular) went to take rest. He never seemed to know her, and she always
said to herself "Suppose he should die while I'm sitting here;" an idea
which excited her and kept her awake. Once he opened his eyes for a
while and fixed them upon her intelligently, but when she went to him,
hoping he would recognise her, he closed them and relapsed into stupor.
The day after this, however, he revived for a longer time; but on this
occasion Ralph only was with him. The old man began to talk, much to his
son's satisfaction, who assured him that they should presently have him
sitting up.
"No, my boy," said Mr. Touchett, "not unless you bury me in a sitting
posture, as some of the ancients--was it the ancients?--used to do."
"Ah, daddy, don't talk about that," Ralph murmured. "You mustn't deny
that you're getting better."
"There will be no need of my denying it if you don't say it," the old
man answered. "Why should we prevaricate just at the last? We never
prevaricated before. I've got to die some time, and it's better to die
when one's sick than when one's well. I'm very sick--as sick as I shall
ever be. I hope you don't want to prove that I shall ever be worse than
this? That would be too bad. You don't? Well then."
Having made this excellent point he became quiet; but the next time that
Ralph was with him he again addressed himself to conversation. The
nurse had gone to her supper and Ralph was alone in charge, having just
relieved Mrs. Touchett, who had been on guard since dinner. The room was
lighted only by the flickering fire, which of late had become necessary,
and Ralph's tall shadow was projected over wall and ceiling with an
outline constantly varying but always grotesque.
"Who's that with me--is it my son?" the old man asked.
"Yes, it's your son, daddy."
"And is there no one else?"
"No one else."
Mr. Touchett said nothing for a while; and then, "I want to talk a
little," he went on.
"Won't it tire you?" Ralph demurred.
"It won't matter if it does. I shall have a long rest. I want to talk
about YOU."
Ralph had drawn nearer to the bed; he sat leaning forward with his hand
on his father's. "You had better select a brighter topic."
"You were always bright; I used to be proud of your brightness. I should
like so much to think you'd do something."
"If you leave us," said Ralph, "I shall do nothing but miss you."
"That's just what I don't want; it's what I want to talk about. You must
get a new interest."
"I don't want a new interest, daddy. I have more old ones than I know
what to do with."
The old man lay there looking at his son; his face was the face of the
dying, but his eyes were the eyes of Daniel Touchett. He seemed to be
reckoning over Ralph's interests. "Of course you have your mother," he
said at last. "You'll take care of her."
"My mother will always take care of herself," Ralph returned.
"Well," said his father, "perhaps as she grows older she'll need a
little help."
"I shall not see that. She'll outlive me."
"Very likely she will; but that's no reason--!" Mr. Touchett let his
phrase die away in a helpless but not quite querulous sigh and remained
silent again.
"Don't trouble yourself about us," said his son, "My mother and I get on
very well together, you know."
"You get on by always being apart; that's not natural."
"If you leave us we shall probably see more of each other."
"Well," the old man observed with wandering irrelevance, "it can't be
said that my death will make much difference in your mother's life."
"It will probably make more than you think."
"Well, she'll have more money," said Mr. Touchett. "I've left her a good
wife's portion, just as if she had been a good wife."
"She has been one, daddy, according to her own theory. She has never
troubled you."
"Ah, some troubles are pleasant," Mr. Touchett murmured. "Those you've
given me for instance. But your mother has been less--less--what shall
I call it? less out of the way since I've been ill. I presume she knows
I've noticed it."
"I shall certainly tell her so; I'm so glad you mention it."
"It won't make any difference to her; she doesn't do it to please me.
She does it to please--to please--" And he lay a while trying to think
why she did it. "She does it because it suits her. But that's not what
I want to talk about," he added. "It's about you. You'll be very well
off."
"Yes," said Ralph, "I know that. But I hope you've not forgotten the
talk we had a year ago--when I told you exactly what money I should need
and begged you to make some good use of the rest."
"Yes, yes, I remember. I made a new will--in a few days. I suppose it
was the first time such a thing had happened--a young man trying to get
a will made against him."
"It is not against me," said Ralph. "It would be against me to have a
large property to take care of. It's impossible for a man in my state of
health to spend much money, and enough is as good as a feast."
"Well, you'll have enough--and something over. There will be more than
enough for one--there will be enough for two."
"That's too much," said Ralph.
"Ah, don't say that. The best thing you can do; when I'm gone, will be
to marry."
Ralph had foreseen what his father was coming to, and this suggestion
was by no means fresh. It had long been Mr. Touchett's most ingenious
way of taking the cheerful view of his son's possible duration. Ralph
had usually treated it facetiously; but present circumstances proscribed
the facetious. He simply fell back in his chair and returned his
father's appealing gaze.
"If I, with a wife who hasn't been very fond of me, have had a very
happy life," said the old man, carrying his ingenuity further still,
"what a life mightn't you have if you should marry a person different
from Mrs. Touchett. There are more different from her than there are
like her." Ralph still said nothing; and after a pause his father
resumed softly: "What do you think of your cousin?"
At this Ralph started, meeting the question with a strained smile. "Do I
understand you to propose that I should marry Isabel?"
"Well, that's what it comes to in the end. Don't you like Isabel?"
"Yes, very much." And Ralph got up from his chair and wandered over to
the fire. He stood before it an instant and then he stooped and stirred
it mechanically. "I like Isabel very much," he repeated.
"Well," said his father, "I know she likes you. She has told me how much
she likes you."
"Did she remark that she would like to marry me?"
"No, but she can't have anything against you. And she's the most
charming young lady I've ever seen. And she would be good to you. I have
thought a great deal about it."
"So have I," said Ralph, coming back to the bedside again. "I don't mind
telling you that."
"You ARE in love with her then? I should think you would be. It's as if
she came over on purpose."
"No, I'm not in love with her; but I should be if--if certain things
were different."
"Ah, things are always different from what they might be," said the old
man. "If you wait for them to change you'll never do anything. I don't
know whether you know," he went on; "but I suppose there's no harm in
my alluding to it at such an hour as this: there was some one wanted to
marry Isabel the other day, and she wouldn't have him."
"I know she refused Warburton: he told me himself."
"Well, that proves there's a chance for somebody else."
"Somebody else took his chance the other day in London--and got nothing
by it."
"Was it you?" Mr. Touchett eagerly asked.
"No, it was an older friend; a poor gentleman who came over from America
to see about it."
"Well, I'm sorry for him, whoever he was. But it only proves what I
say--that the way's open to you."
"If it is, dear father, it's all the greater pity that I'm unable to
tread it. I haven't many convictions; but I have three or four that I
hold strongly. One is that people, on the whole, had better not marry
their cousins. Another is that people in an advanced stage of pulmonary
disorder had better not marry at all."
The old man raised his weak hand and moved it to and fro before his
face. "What do you mean by that? You look at things in a way that would
make everything wrong. What sort of a cousin is a cousin that you
had never seen for more than twenty years of her life? We're all each
other's cousins, and if we stopped at that the human race would die out.
It's just the same with your bad lung. You're a great deal better than
you used to be. All you want is to lead a natural life. It is a great
deal more natural to marry a pretty young lady that you're in love with
than it is to remain single on false principles."
"I'm not in love with Isabel," said Ralph.
"You said just now that you would be if you didn't think it wrong. I
want to prove to you that it isn't wrong."
"It will only tire you, dear daddy," said Ralph, who marvelled at his
father's tenacity and at his finding strength to insist. "Then where
shall we all be?"
"Where shall you be if I don't provide for you? You won't have anything
to do with the bank, and you won't have me to take care of. You say
you've so many interests; but I can't make them out."
Ralph leaned back in his chair with folded arms; his eyes were fixed for
some time in meditation. At last, with the air of a man fairly mustering
courage, "I take a great interest in my cousin," he said, "but not the
sort of interest you desire. I shall not live many years; but I hope I
shall live long enough to see what she does with herself. She's entirely
independent of me; I can exercise very little influence upon her life.
But I should like to do something for her."
"What should you like to do?"
"I should like to put a little wind in her sails."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I should like to put it into her power to do some of the things she
wants. She wants to see the world for instance. I should like to put
money in her purse."
"Ah, I'm glad you've thought of that," said the old man. "But I've
thought of it too. I've left her a legacy--five thousand pounds."
"That's capital; it's very kind of you. But I should like to do a little
more."
Something of that veiled acuteness with which it had been on Daniel
Touchett's part the habit of a lifetime to listen to a financial
proposition still lingered in the face in which the invalid had not
obliterated the man of business. "I shall be happy to consider it," he
said softly.
"Isabel's poor then. My mother tells me that she has but a few hundred
dollars a year. I should like to make her rich."
"What do you mean by rich?"
"I call people rich when they're able to meet the requirements of their
imagination. Isabel has a great deal of imagination."
"So have you, my son," said Mr. Touchett, listening very attentively but
a little confusedly.
"You tell me I shall have money enough for two. What I want is that you
should kindly relieve me of my superfluity and make it over to Isabel.
Divide my inheritance into two equal halves and give her the second."
"To do what she likes with?"
"Absolutely what she likes."
"And without an equivalent?"
"What equivalent could there be?"
"The one I've already mentioned."
"Her marrying--some one or other? It's just to do away with anything of
that sort that I make my suggestion. If she has an easy income she'll
never have to marry for a support. That's what I want cannily to
prevent. She wishes to be free, and your bequest will make her free."
"Well, you seem to have thought it out," said Mr. Touchett. "But I don't
see why you appeal to me. The money will be yours, and you can easily
give it to her yourself."
Ralph openly stared. "Ah, dear father, I can't offer Isabel money!"
The old man gave a groan. "Don't tell me you're not in love with her! Do
you want me to have the credit of it?"
"Entirely. I should like it simply to be a clause in your will, without
the slightest reference to me."
"Do you want me to make a new will then?"
"A few words will do it; you can attend to it the next time you feel a
little lively."
"You must telegraph to Mr. Hilary then. I'll do nothing without my
solicitor."
"You shall see Mr. Hilary to-morrow."
"He'll think we've quarrelled, you and I," said the old man.
"Very probably; I shall like him to think it," said Ralph, smiling;
"and, to carry out the idea, I give you notice that I shall be very
sharp, quite horrid and strange, with you."
The humour of this appeared to touch his father, who lay a little while
taking it in. "I'll do anything you like," Mr. Touchett said at last;
"but I'm not sure it's right. You say you want to put wind in her sails;
but aren't you afraid of putting too much?"
"I should like to see her going before the breeze!" Ralph answered.
"You speak as if it were for your mere amusement."
"So it is, a good deal."
"Well, I don't think I understand," said Mr. Touchett with a sigh.
"Young men are very different from what I was. When I cared for a
girl--when I was young--I wanted to do more than look at her."
"You've scruples that I shouldn't have had, and you've ideas that I
shouldn't have had either. You say Isabel wants to be free, and that
her being rich will keep her from marrying for money. Do you think that
she's a girl to do that?"
"By no means. But she has less money than she has ever had before. Her
father then gave her everything, because he used to spend his capital.
She has nothing but the crumbs of that feast to live on, and she doesn't
really know how meagre they are--she has yet to learn it. My mother has
told me all about it. Isabel will learn it when she's really thrown upon
the world, and it would be very painful to me to think of her coming to
the consciousness of a lot of wants she should be unable to satisfy."
"I've left her five thousand pounds. She can satisfy a good many wants
with that."
"She can indeed. But she would probably spend it in two or three years."
"You think she'd be extravagant then?"
"Most certainly," said Ralph, smiling serenely.
Poor Mr. Touchett's acuteness was rapidly giving place to pure
confusion. "It would merely be a question of time then, her spending the
larger sum?"
"No--though at first I think she'd plunge into that pretty freely: she'd
probably make over a part of it to each of her sisters. But after that
she'd come to her senses, remember she has still a lifetime before her,
and live within her means."
"Well, you HAVE worked it out," said the old man helplessly. "You do
take an interest in her, certainly."
"You can't consistently say I go too far. You wished me to go further."
"Well, I don't know," Mr. Touchett answered. "I don't think I enter into
your spirit. It seems to me immoral."
"Immoral, dear daddy?"
"Well, I don't know that it's right to make everything so easy for a
person."
"It surely depends upon the person. When the person's good, your making
things easy is all to the credit of virtue. To facilitate the execution
of good impulses, what can be a nobler act?"
This was a little difficult to follow, and Mr. Touchett considered it
for a while. At last he said: "Isabel's a sweet young thing; but do you
think she's so good as that?"
"She's as good as her best opportunities," Ralph returned.
"Well," Mr. Touchett declared, "she ought to get a great many
opportunities for sixty thousand pounds."
"I've no doubt she will."
"Of course I'll do what you want," said the old man. "I only want to
understand it a little."
"Well, dear daddy, don't you understand it now?" his son caressingly
asked. "If you don't we won't take any more trouble about it. We'll
leave it alone."
Mr. Touchett lay a long time still. Ralph supposed he had given up the
attempt to follow. But at last, quite lucidly, he began again. "Tell
me this first. Doesn't it occur to you that a young lady with sixty
thousand pounds may fall a victim to the fortune-hunters?"
"She'll hardly fall a victim to more than one."
"Well, one's too many."
"Decidedly. That's a risk, and it has entered into my calculation. I
think it's appreciable, but I think it's small, and I'm prepared to take
it."
Poor Mr. Touchett's acuteness had passed into perplexity, and his
perplexity now passed into admiration. "Well, you have gone into it!" he
repeated. "But I don't see what good you're to get of it."
Ralph leaned over his father's pillows and gently smoothed them; he was
aware their talk had been unduly prolonged. "I shall get just the good
I said a few moments ago I wished to put into Isabel's reach--that of
having met the requirements of my imagination. But it's scandalous, the
way I've taken advantage of you!" | Ralph and Isabel return to Gardencourt. Isabel, concerned about her uncle, seeks out her aunt. Isabel hears music playing and assumes it is Ralph playing the piano. To her surprise, she finds a lovely stranger playing Schubert on the piano. The stranger is Madame Merle, Mrs. Touchett's good friend. She is American, but rather elusive about her origins. She originally met Mrs. Touchett in Florence. Isabel asks Ralph about Madame Merle. Ralph says that she is complete in her perfection, and admits that he used to be in love with her. We're not sure just how serious he is, as usual. Although Mr. Touchett's health seemed to get better after Dr. Hope's arrival, it once again takes a turn for the worse. Mr. Touchett seems prepared to die, despite Ralph's pleas for him to think optimistically. Mr. Touchett insists that he and Ralph have a private talk. Mr. Touchett wants to make sure that Ralph will take care of himself and his mother after he dies. Mr. Touchett wants Ralph to marry Isabel, and hopes for a good life for his son, despite Ralph's own poor health. Ralph admits that he thinks very fondly of Isabel, but is not in love with her. Ralph instead asks his father to split his inheritance money in two and give one half to Isabel. The sum would be 60,000 pounds . Ralph wishes to give Isabel freedom from worrying about money. He knows she has a big imagination and wants to enable her to do whatever she'd like, without depending on a man. Mr. Touchett worries that this would give her too much freedom, and that gold diggers would pursue her. Ralph says he's not too worried about that happening. Mr. Touchett consents to Ralph's wishes, asking for his solicitor, Mr. Hilary, to be brought to Gardencourt the next day. |
Mrs. Tulliver's Teraphim, or Household Gods
When the coach set down Tom and Maggie, it was five hours since she
had started from home, and she was thinking with some trembling that
her father had perhaps missed her, and asked for "the little wench" in
vain. She thought of no other change that might have happened.
She hurried along the gravel-walk and entered the house before Tom;
but in the entrance she was startled by a strong smell of tobacco. The
parlor door was ajar; that was where the smell came from. It was very
strange; could any visitor be smoking at a time like this? Was her
mother there? If so, she must be told that Tom was come. Maggie, after
this pause of surprise, was only in the act of opening the door when
Tom came up, and they both looked into the parlor together.
There was a coarse, dingy man, of whose face Tom had some vague
recollection, sitting in his father's chair, smoking, with a jug and
glass beside him.
The truth flashed on Tom's mind in an instant. To "have the bailiff in
the house," and "to be sold up," were phrases which he had been used
to, even as a little boy; they were part of the disgrace and misery of
"failing," of losing all one's money, and being ruined,--sinking into
the condition of poor working people. It seemed only natural this
should happen, since his father had lost all his property, and he
thought of no more special cause for this particular form of
misfortune than the loss of the lawsuit. But the immediate presence of
this disgrace was so much keener an experience to Tom than the worst
form of apprehension, that he felt at this moment as if his real
trouble had only just begin; it was a touch on the irritated nerve
compared with its spontaneous dull aching.
"How do you do, sir?" said the man, taking the pipe out of his mouth,
with rough, embarrassed civility. The two young startled faces made
him a little uncomfortable.
But Tom turned away hastily without speaking; the sight was too
hateful. Maggie had not understood the appearance of this stranger, as
Tom had. She followed him, whispering: "Who can it be, Tom? What is
the matter?" Then, with a sudden undefined dread lest this stranger
might have something to do with a change in her father, she rushed
upstairs, checking herself at the bedroom door to throw off her
bonnet, and enter on tiptoe. All was silent there; her father was
lying, heedless of everything around him, with his eyes closed as when
she had left him. A servant was there, but not her mother.
"Where's my mother?" she whispered. The servant did not know.
Maggie hastened out, and said to Tom; "Father is lying quiet; let us
go and look for my mother. I wonder where she is."
Mrs. Tulliver was not downstairs, not in any of the bedrooms. There
was but one room below the attic which Maggie had left unsearched; it
was the storeroom, where her mother kept all her linen and all the
precious "best things" that were only unwrapped and brought out on
special occasions.
Tom, preceding Maggie, as they returned along the passage, opened the
door of this room, and immediately said, "Mother!"
Mrs. Tulliver was seated there with all her laid-up treasures. One of
the linen chests was open; the silver teapot was unwrapped from its
many folds of paper, and the best china was laid out on the top of the
closed linen-chest; spoons and skewers and ladles were spread in rows
on the shelves; and the poor woman was shaking her head and weeping,
with a bitter tension of the mouth, over the mark, "Elizabeth Dodson,"
on the corner of some tablecloths she held in her lap.
She dropped them, and started up as Tom spoke.
"Oh, my boy, my boy!" she said, clasping him round the neck. "To think
as I should live to see this day! We're ruined--everything's going to
be sold up--to think as your father should ha' married me to bring me
to this! We've got nothing--we shall be beggars--we must go to the
workhouse----"
She kissed him, then seated herself again, and took another tablecloth
on her lap, unfolding it a little way to look at the pattern, while
the children stood by in mute wretchedness, their minds quite filled
for the moment with the words "beggars" and "workhouse."
"To think o' these cloths as I spun myself," she went on, lifting
things out and turning them over with an excitement all the more
strange and piteous because the stout blond woman was usually so
passive,--if she had been ruffled before, it was at the surface
merely,--"and Job Haxey wove 'em, and brought the piece home on his
back, as I remember standing at the door and seeing him come, before I
ever thought o' marrying your father! And the pattern as I chose
myself, and bleached so beautiful, and I marked 'em so as nobody ever
saw such marking,--they must cut the cloth to get it out, for it's a
particular stitch. And they're all to be sold, and go into strange
people's houses, and perhaps be cut with the knives, and wore out
before I'm dead. You'll never have one of 'em, my boy," she said,
looking up at Tom with her eyes full of tears, "and I meant 'em for
you. I wanted you to have all o' this pattern. Maggie could have had
the large check--it never shows so well when the dishes are on it."
Tom was touched to the quick, but there was an angry reaction
immediately. His face flushed as he said:
"But will my aunts let them be sold, mother? Do they know about it?
They'll never let your linen go, will they? Haven't you sent to them?"
"Yes, I sent Luke directly they'd put the bailies in, and your aunt
Pullet's been--and, oh dear, oh dear, she cries so and says your
father's disgraced my family and made it the talk o' the country; and
she'll buy the spotted cloths for herself, because she's never had so
many as she wanted o' that pattern, and they sha'n't go to strangers,
but she's got more checks a'ready nor she can do with." (Here Mrs.
Tulliver began to lay back the tablecloths in the chest, folding and
stroking them automatically.) "And your uncle Glegg's been too, and he
says things must be bought in for us to lie down on, but he must talk
to your aunt; and they're all coming to consult. But I know they'll
none of 'em take my chany," she added, turning toward the cups and
saucers, "for they all found fault with 'em when I bought 'em, 'cause
o' the small gold sprig all over 'em, between the flowers. But there's
none of 'em got better chany, not even your aunt Pullet herself; and I
bought it wi' my own money as I'd saved ever since I was turned
fifteen; and the silver teapot, too,--your father never paid for 'em.
And to think as he should ha' married me, and brought me to this."
Mrs. Tulliver burst out crying afresh, and she sobbed with her
handkerchief at her eyes a few moments, but then removing it, she said
in a deprecating way, still half sobbing, as if she were called upon
to speak before she could command her voice,--
"And I _did_ say to him times and times, 'Whativer you do, don't go to
law,' and what more could I do? I've had to sit by while my own
fortin's been spent, and what should ha' been my children's, too.
You'll have niver a penny, my boy--but it isn't your poor mother's
fault."
She put out one arm toward Tom, looking up at him piteously with her
helpless, childish blue eyes. The poor lad went to her and kissed her,
and she clung to him. For the first time Tom thought of his father
with some reproach. His natural inclination to blame, hitherto kept
entirely in abeyance toward his father by the predisposition to think
him always right, simply on the ground that he was Tom Tulliver's
father, was turned into this new channel by his mother's plaints; and
with his indignation against Wakem there began to mingle some
indignation of another sort. Perhaps his father might have helped
bringing them all down in the world, and making people talk of them
with contempt, but no one should talk long of Tom Tulliver with
contempt.
The natural strength and firmness of his nature was beginning to
assert itself, urged by the double stimulus of resentment against his
aunts, and the sense that he must behave like a man and take care of
his mother.
"Don't fret, mother," he said tenderly. "I shall soon be able to get
money; I'll get a situation of some sort."
"Bless you, my boy!" said Mrs. Tulliver, a little soothed. Then,
looking round sadly, "But I shouldn't ha' minded so much if we could
ha' kept the things wi' my name on 'em."
Maggie had witnessed this scene with gathering anger. The implied
reproaches against her father--her father, who was lying there in a
sort of living death--neutralized all her pity for griefs about
tablecloths and china; and her anger on her father's account was
heightened by some egoistic resentment at Tom's silent concurrence
with her mother in shutting her out from the common calamity. She had
become almost indifferent to her mother's habitual depreciation of
her, but she was keenly alive to any sanction of it, however passive,
that she might suspect in Tom. Poor Maggie was by no means made up of
unalloyed devotedness, but put forth large claims for herself where
she loved strongly. She burst out at last in an agitated, almost
violent tone: "Mother, how can you talk so; as if you cared only for
things with _your_ name on, and not for what has my father's name too;
and to care about anything but dear father himself!--when he's lying
there, and may never speak to us again. Tom, you ought to say so too;
you ought not to let any one find fault with my father."
Maggie, almost choked with mingled grief and anger, left the room, and
took her old place on her father's bed. Her heart went out to him with
a stronger movement than ever, at the thought that people would blame
him. Maggie hated blame; she had been blamed all her life, and nothing
had come of it but evil tempers.
Her father had always defended and excused her, and her loving
remembrance of his tenderness was a force within her that would enable
her to do or bear anything for his sake.
Tom was a little shocked at Maggie's outburst,--telling _him_ as well
as his mother what it was right to do! She ought to have learned
better than have those hectoring, assuming manners, by this time. But
he presently went into his father's room, and the sight there touched
him in a way that effaced the slighter impressions of the previous
hour. When Maggie saw how he was moved, she went to him and put her
arm round his neck as he sat by the bed, and the two children forgot
everything else in the sense that they had one father and one sorrow. | When Tom and Maggie arrive home they find "a coarse, dingy man" in the parlor. Tom immediately realizes that this is the bailiff who has come to "sell them up." Maggie does not recognize him, but is afraid "lest this stranger might have something to do with a change in her father." She finds that Mr. Tulliver is quiet, so she and Tom go to look for their mother. They find her in the storeroom with her "best things." She is crying over her mark, "Elizabeth Dodson," on her tablecloths. Tom says his aunts would not let the things be sold, but Mrs. Tulliver says she has sent for them and they will buy for themselves only the things they want. She tells Tom he'll never have a penny, but it's not his "poor mother's fault." Tom says he will find "a situation" and get money for them. Mrs. Tulliver says she wouldn't mind so much "if we could ha' kept the things wi' my name on 'em." Maggie reproaches her mother for talking so and for caring about anything but Mr. Tulliver. She goes to her place by her father's bed. |
Another Discovery
I had not the courage to see any one that night. I had not even the
courage to see myself, for I was afraid that my tears might a little
reproach me. I went up to my room in the dark, and prayed in the
dark, and lay down in the dark to sleep. I had no need of any light
to read my guardian's letter by, for I knew it by heart. I took it
from the place where I kept it, and repeated its contents by its own
clear light of integrity and love, and went to sleep with it on my
pillow.
I was up very early in the morning and called Charley to come for a
walk. We bought flowers for the breakfast-table, and came back and
arranged them, and were as busy as possible. We were so early that I
had a good time still for Charley's lesson before breakfast; Charley
(who was not in the least improved in the old defective article of
grammar) came through it with great applause; and we were altogether
very notable. When my guardian appeared he said, "Why, little woman,
you look fresher than your flowers!" And Mrs. Woodcourt repeated and
translated a passage from the Mewlinnwillinwodd expressive of my
being like a mountain with the sun upon it.
This was all so pleasant that I hope it made me still more like the
mountain than I had been before. After breakfast I waited my
opportunity and peeped about a little until I saw my guardian in his
own room--the room of last night--by himself. Then I made an excuse
to go in with my housekeeping keys, shutting the door after me.
"Well, Dame Durden?" said my guardian; the post had brought him
several letters, and he was writing. "You want money?"
"No, indeed, I have plenty in hand."
"There never was such a Dame Durden," said my guardian, "for making
money last."
He had laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair looking at me.
I have often spoken of his bright face, but I thought I had never
seen it look so bright and good. There was a high happiness upon it
which made me think, "He has been doing some great kindness this
morning."
"There never was," said my guardian, musing as he smiled upon me,
"such a Dame Durden for making money last."
He had never yet altered his old manner. I loved it and him so much
that when I now went up to him and took my usual chair, which was
always put at his side--for sometimes I read to him, and sometimes I
talked to him, and sometimes I silently worked by him--I hardly liked
to disturb it by laying my hand on his breast. But I found I did not
disturb it at all.
"Dear guardian," said I, "I want to speak to you. Have I been remiss
in anything?"
"Remiss in anything, my dear!"
"Have I not been what I have meant to be since--I brought the answer
to your letter, guardian?"
"You have been everything I could desire, my love."
"I am very glad indeed to hear that," I returned. "You know, you said
to me, was this the mistress of Bleak House. And I said, yes."
"Yes," said my guardian, nodding his head. He had put his arm about
me as if there were something to protect me from and looked in my
face, smiling.
"Since then," said I, "we have never spoken on the subject except
once."
"And then I said Bleak House was thinning fast; and so it was, my
dear."
"And I said," I timidly reminded him, "but its mistress remained."
He still held me in the same protecting manner and with the same
bright goodness in his face.
"Dear guardian," said I, "I know how you have felt all that has
happened, and how considerate you have been. As so much time has
passed, and as you spoke only this morning of my being so well again,
perhaps you expect me to renew the subject. Perhaps I ought to do so.
I will be the mistress of Bleak House when you please."
"See," he returned gaily, "what a sympathy there must be between us!
I have had nothing else, poor Rick excepted--it's a large
exception--in my mind. When you came in, I was full of it. When shall
we give Bleak House its mistress, little woman?"
"When you please."
"Next month?"
"Next month, dear guardian."
"The day on which I take the happiest and best step of my life--the
day on which I shall be a man more exulting and more enviable than
any other man in the world--the day on which I give Bleak House its
little mistress--shall be next month then," said my guardian.
I put my arms round his neck and kissed him just as I had done on the
day when I brought my answer.
A servant came to the door to announce Mr. Bucket, which was quite
unnecessary, for Mr. Bucket was already looking in over the servant's
shoulder. "Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson," said he, rather out of
breath, "with all apologies for intruding, WILL you allow me to order
up a person that's on the stairs and that objects to being left there
in case of becoming the subject of observations in his absence? Thank
you. Be so good as chair that there member in this direction, will
you?" said Mr. Bucket, beckoning over the banisters.
This singular request produced an old man in a black skull-cap,
unable to walk, who was carried up by a couple of bearers and
deposited in the room near the door. Mr. Bucket immediately got rid
of the bearers, mysteriously shut the door, and bolted it.
"Now you see, Mr. Jarndyce," he then began, putting down his hat and
opening his subject with a flourish of his well-remembered finger,
"you know me, and Miss Summerson knows me. This gentleman likewise
knows me, and his name is Smallweed. The discounting line is his line
principally, and he's what you may call a dealer in bills. That's
about what YOU are, you know, ain't you?" said Mr. Bucket, stopping a
little to address the gentleman in question, who was exceedingly
suspicious of him.
He seemed about to dispute this designation of himself when he was
seized with a violent fit of coughing.
"Now, moral, you know!" said Mr. Bucket, improving the accident.
"Don't you contradict when there ain't no occasion, and you won't be
took in that way. Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I address myself to you. I've
been negotiating with this gentleman on behalf of Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet, and one way and another I've been in and out and
about his premises a deal. His premises are the premises formerly
occupied by Krook, marine store dealer--a relation of this
gentleman's that you saw in his lifetime if I don't mistake?"
My guardian replied, "Yes."
"Well! You are to understand," said Mr. Bucket, "that this gentleman
he come into Krook's property, and a good deal of magpie property
there was. Vast lots of waste-paper among the rest. Lord bless you,
of no use to nobody!"
The cunning of Mr. Bucket's eye and the masterly manner in which he
contrived, without a look or a word against which his watchful
auditor could protest, to let us know that he stated the case
according to previous agreement and could say much more of Mr.
Smallweed if he thought it advisable, deprived us of any merit in
quite understanding him. His difficulty was increased by Mr.
Smallweed's being deaf as well as suspicious and watching his face
with the closest attention.
"Among them odd heaps of old papers, this gentleman, when he comes
into the property, naturally begins to rummage, don't you see?" said
Mr. Bucket.
"To which? Say that again," cried Mr. Smallweed in a shrill, sharp
voice.
"To rummage," repeated Mr. Bucket. "Being a prudent man and
accustomed to take care of your own affairs, you begin to rummage
among the papers as you have come into; don't you?"
"Of course I do," cried Mr. Smallweed.
"Of course you do," said Mr. Bucket conversationally, "and much to
blame you would be if you didn't. And so you chance to find, you
know," Mr. Bucket went on, stooping over him with an air of cheerful
raillery which Mr. Smallweed by no means reciprocated, "and so you
chance to find, you know, a paper with the signature of Jarndyce to
it. Don't you?"
Mr. Smallweed glanced with a troubled eye at us and grudgingly nodded
assent.
"And coming to look at that paper at your full leisure and
convenience--all in good time, for you're not curious to read it, and
why should you be?--what do you find it to be but a will, you see.
That's the drollery of it," said Mr. Bucket with the same lively air
of recalling a joke for the enjoyment of Mr. Smallweed, who still had
the same crest-fallen appearance of not enjoying it at all; "what do
you find it to be but a will?"
"I don't know that it's good as a will or as anything else," snarled
Mr. Smallweed.
Mr. Bucket eyed the old man for a moment--he had slipped and shrunk
down in his chair into a mere bundle--as if he were much disposed to
pounce upon him; nevertheless, he continued to bend over him with the
same agreeable air, keeping the corner of one of his eyes upon us.
"Notwithstanding which," said Mr. Bucket, "you get a little doubtful
and uncomfortable in your mind about it, having a very tender mind of
your own."
"Eh? What do you say I have got of my own?" asked Mr. Smallweed with
his hand to his ear.
"A very tender mind."
"Ho! Well, go on," said Mr. Smallweed.
"And as you've heard a good deal mentioned regarding a celebrated
Chancery will case of the same name, and as you know what a card
Krook was for buying all manner of old pieces of furniter, and books,
and papers, and what not, and never liking to part with 'em, and
always a-going to teach himself to read, you begin to think--and you
never was more correct in your born days--'Ecod, if I don't look
about me, I may get into trouble regarding this will.'"
"Now, mind how you put it, Bucket," cried the old man anxiously with
his hand at his ear. "Speak up; none of your brimstone tricks. Pick
me up; I want to hear better. Oh, Lord, I am shaken to bits!"
Mr. Bucket had certainly picked him up at a dart. However, as soon as
he could be heard through Mr. Smallweed's coughing and his vicious
ejaculations of "Oh, my bones! Oh, dear! I've no breath in my body!
I'm worse than the chattering, clattering, brimstone pig at home!"
Mr. Bucket proceeded in the same convivial manner as before.
"So, as I happen to be in the habit of coming about your premises,
you take me into your confidence, don't you?"
I think it would be impossible to make an admission with more ill
will and a worse grace than Mr. Smallweed displayed when he admitted
this, rendering it perfectly evident that Mr. Bucket was the very
last person he would have thought of taking into his confidence if he
could by any possibility have kept him out of it.
"And I go into the business with you--very pleasant we are over it;
and I confirm you in your well-founded fears that you will get
yourself into a most precious line if you don't come out with that
there will," said Mr. Bucket emphatically; "and accordingly you
arrange with me that it shall be delivered up to this present Mr.
Jarndyce, on no conditions. If it should prove to be valuable, you
trusting yourself to him for your reward; that's about where it is,
ain't it?"
"That's what was agreed," Mr. Smallweed assented with the same bad
grace.
"In consequence of which," said Mr. Bucket, dismissing his agreeable
manner all at once and becoming strictly business-like, "you've got
that will upon your person at the present time, and the only thing
that remains for you to do is just to out with it!"
Having given us one glance out of the watching corner of his eye, and
having given his nose one triumphant rub with his forefinger, Mr.
Bucket stood with his eyes fastened on his confidential friend and
his hand stretched forth ready to take the paper and present it to my
guardian. It was not produced without much reluctance and many
declarations on the part of Mr. Smallweed that he was a poor
industrious man and that he left it to Mr. Jarndyce's honour not to
let him lose by his honesty. Little by little he very slowly took
from a breast-pocket a stained, discoloured paper which was much
singed upon the outside and a little burnt at the edges, as if it had
long ago been thrown upon a fire and hastily snatched off again. Mr.
Bucket lost no time in transferring this paper, with the dexterity of
a conjuror, from Mr. Smallweed to Mr. Jarndyce. As he gave it to my
guardian, he whispered behind his fingers, "Hadn't settled how to
make their market of it. Quarrelled and hinted about it. I laid out
twenty pound upon it. First the avaricious grandchildren split upon
him on account of their objections to his living so unreasonably
long, and then they split on one another. Lord! There ain't one of
the family that wouldn't sell the other for a pound or two, except
the old lady--and she's only out of it because she's too weak in her
mind to drive a bargain."
"Mr Bucket," said my guardian aloud, "whatever the worth of this
paper may be to any one, my obligations are great to you; and if it
be of any worth, I hold myself bound to see Mr. Smallweed remunerated
accordingly."
"Not according to your merits, you know," said Mr. Bucket in friendly
explanation to Mr. Smallweed. "Don't you be afraid of that. According
to its value."
"That is what I mean," said my guardian. "You may observe, Mr.
Bucket, that I abstain from examining this paper myself. The plain
truth is, I have forsworn and abjured the whole business these many
years, and my soul is sick of it. But Miss Summerson and I will
immediately place the paper in the hands of my solicitor in the
cause, and its existence shall be made known without delay to all
other parties interested."
"Mr. Jarndyce can't say fairer than that, you understand," observed
Mr. Bucket to his fellow-visitor. "And it being now made clear to you
that nobody's a-going to be wronged--which must be a great relief to
YOUR mind--we may proceed with the ceremony of chairing you home
again."
He unbolted the door, called in the bearers, wished us good morning,
and with a look full of meaning and a crook of his finger at parting
went his way.
We went our way too, which was to Lincoln's Inn, as quickly as
possible. Mr. Kenge was disengaged, and we found him at his table in
his dusty room with the inexpressive-looking books and the piles of
papers. Chairs having been placed for us by Mr. Guppy, Mr. Kenge
expressed the surprise and gratification he felt at the unusual sight
of Mr. Jarndyce in his office. He turned over his double eye-glass as
he spoke and was more Conversation Kenge than ever.
"I hope," said Mr. Kenge, "that the genial influence of Miss
Summerson," he bowed to me, "may have induced Mr. Jarndyce," he bowed
to him, "to forego some little of his animosity towards a cause and
towards a court which are--shall I say, which take their place in the
stately vista of the pillars of our profession?"
"I am inclined to think," returned my guardian, "that Miss Summerson
has seen too much of the effects of the court and the cause to exert
any influence in their favour. Nevertheless, they are a part of the
occasion of my being here. Mr. Kenge, before I lay this paper on your
desk and have done with it, let me tell you how it has come into my
hands."
He did so shortly and distinctly.
"It could not, sir," said Mr. Kenge, "have been stated more plainly
and to the purpose if it had been a case at law."
"Did you ever know English law, or equity either, plain and to the
purpose?" said my guardian.
"Oh, fie!" said Mr. Kenge.
At first he had not seemed to attach much importance to the paper,
but when he saw it he appeared more interested, and when he had
opened and read a little of it through his eye-glass, he became
amazed. "Mr. Jarndyce," he said, looking off it, "you have perused
this?"
"Not I!" returned my guardian.
"But, my dear sir," said Mr. Kenge, "it is a will of later date than
any in the suit. It appears to be all in the testator's handwriting.
It is duly executed and attested. And even if intended to be
cancelled, as might possibly be supposed to be denoted by these marks
of fire, it is NOT cancelled. Here it is, a perfect instrument!"
"Well!" said my guardian. "What is that to me?"
"Mr. Guppy!" cried Mr. Kenge, raising his voice. "I beg your pardon,
Mr. Jarndyce."
"Sir."
"Mr. Vholes of Symond's Inn. My compliments. Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
Glad to speak with him."
Mr. Guppy disappeared.
"You ask me what is this to you, Mr. Jarndyce. If you had perused
this document, you would have seen that it reduces your interest
considerably, though still leaving it a very handsome one, still
leaving it a very handsome one," said Mr. Kenge, waving his hand
persuasively and blandly. "You would further have seen that the
interests of Mr. Richard Carstone and of Miss Ada Clare, now Mrs.
Richard Carstone, are very materially advanced by it."
"Kenge," said my guardian, "if all the flourishing wealth that the
suit brought into this vile court of Chancery could fall to my two
young cousins, I should be well contented. But do you ask ME to
believe that any good is to come of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?"
"Oh, really, Mr. Jarndyce! Prejudice, prejudice. My dear sir, this is
a very great country, a very great country. Its system of equity is a
very great system, a very great system. Really, really!"
My guardian said no more, and Mr. Vholes arrived. He was modestly
impressed by Mr. Kenge's professional eminence.
"How do you do, Mr. Vholes? Will you be so good as to take a chair
here by me and look over this paper?"
Mr. Vholes did as he was asked and seemed to read it every word. He
was not excited by it, but he was not excited by anything. When he
had well examined it, he retired with Mr. Kenge into a window, and
shading his mouth with his black glove, spoke to him at some length.
I was not surprised to observe Mr. Kenge inclined to dispute what
he said before he had said much, for I knew that no two people ever
did agree about anything in Jarndyce and Jarndyce. But he seemed
to get the better of Mr. Kenge too in a conversation that sounded
as if it were almost composed of the words "Receiver-General,"
"Accountant-General," "report," "estate," and "costs." When they had
finished, they came back to Mr. Kenge's table and spoke aloud.
"Well! But this is a very remarkable document, Mr. Vholes," said Mr.
Kenge.
Mr. Vholes said, "Very much so."
"And a very important document, Mr. Vholes," said Mr. Kenge.
Again Mr. Vholes said, "Very much so."
"And as you say, Mr. Vholes, when the cause is in the paper next
term, this document will be an unexpected and interesting feature in
it," said Mr. Kenge, looking loftily at my guardian.
Mr. Vholes was gratified, as a smaller practitioner striving to keep
respectable, to be confirmed in any opinion of his own by such an
authority.
"And when," asked my guardian, rising after a pause, during which Mr.
Kenge had rattled his money and Mr. Vholes had picked his pimples,
"when is next term?"
"Next term, Mr. Jarndyce, will be next month," said Mr. Kenge. "Of
course we shall at once proceed to do what is necessary with this
document and to collect the necessary evidence concerning it; and of
course you will receive our usual notification of the cause being in
the paper."
"To which I shall pay, of course, my usual attention."
"Still bent, my dear sir," said Mr. Kenge, showing us through the
outer office to the door, "still bent, even with your enlarged mind,
on echoing a popular prejudice? We are a prosperous community, Mr.
Jarndyce, a very prosperous community. We are a great country, Mr.
Jarndyce, we are a very great country. This is a great system, Mr.
Jarndyce, and would you wish a great country to have a little system?
Now, really, really!"
He said this at the stair-head, gently moving his right hand as if it
were a silver trowel with which to spread the cement of his words on
the structure of the system and consolidate it for a thousand ages. | Esther, Jarndyce, Bucket, Smallweed, Kenge, Vholes The next morning Esther feels guilty about the whole Woodcourt-love business and makes extra nice with Jarndyce. They even set a date for the wedding - next month. Except they never call it a wedding - they only ever call it Esther becoming mistress of Bleak House. It's pretty bizarre, actually. Then Bucket suddenly barges in the door, with Smallweed behind him. Bucket explains that he couldn't keep Smallweed from coming. It turns out that while rummaging through Krook's things, Smallweed has found yet another Jarndyce will. It's a good thing Bucket's been hanging around that shop, because otherwise the will would have gone to the highest bidder. As it is, Bucket got the whole Smallweed family to turn on each other and bought it for twenty pounds. Jarndyce tells Smallweed that he'll reward him for the find. They take the thing to Kenge to check it out and it turns out to be dated after all the other wills in the case! Kenge gets excited and calls over Vholes, who also agrees that this is quite a remarkable find. They explain that next month, when Court is back in session, this new will is going to be very important. Jarndyce isn't buying any of this. |
The MAJOR, more blue-faced and staring--more over-ripe, as it were, than
ever--and giving vent, every now and then, to one of the horse's coughs,
not so much of necessity as in a spontaneous explosion of importance,
walked arm-in-arm with Mr Dombey up the sunny side of the way, with his
cheeks swelling over his tight stock, his legs majestically wide
apart, and his great head wagging from side to side, as if he were
remonstrating within himself for being such a captivating object. They
had not walked many yards, before the Major encountered somebody he
knew, nor many yards farther before the Major encountered somebody else
he knew, but he merely shook his fingers at them as he passed, and led
Mr Dombey on: pointing out the localities as they went, and enlivening
the walk with any current scandal suggested by them.
In this manner the Major and Mr Dombey were walking arm-in-arm, much
to their own satisfaction, when they beheld advancing towards them,
a wheeled chair, in which a lady was seated, indolently steering her
carriage by a kind of rudder in front, while it was propelled by some
unseen power in the rear. Although the lady was not young, she was
very blooming in the face--quite rosy--and her dress and attitude were
perfectly juvenile. Walking by the side of the chair, and carrying her
gossamer parasol with a proud and weary air, as if so great an effort
must be soon abandoned and the parasol dropped, sauntered a much younger
lady, very handsome, very haughty, very wilful, who tossed her head and
drooped her eyelids, as though, if there were anything in all the world
worth looking into, save a mirror, it certainly was not the earth or
sky.
'Why, what the devil have we here, Sir!' cried the Major, stopping as
this little cavalcade drew near.
'My dearest Edith!' drawled the lady in the chair, 'Major Bagstock!'
The Major no sooner heard the voice, than he relinquished Mr Dombey's
arm, darted forward, took the hand of the lady in the chair and pressed
it to his lips. With no less gallantry, the Major folded both his gloves
upon his heart, and bowed low to the other lady. And now, the chair
having stopped, the motive power became visible in the shape of a
flushed page pushing behind, who seemed to have in part outgrown and in
part out-pushed his strength, for when he stood upright he was tall, and
wan, and thin, and his plight appeared the more forlorn from his having
injured the shape of his hat, by butting at the carriage with his
head to urge it forward, as is sometimes done by elephants in Oriental
countries.
'Joe Bagstock,' said the Major to both ladies, 'is a proud and happy man
for the rest of his life.'
'You false creature!' said the old lady in the chair, insipidly. 'Where
do you come from? I can't bear you.'
'Then suffer old Joe to present a friend, Ma'am,' said the Major,
promptly, 'as a reason for being tolerated. Mr Dombey, Mrs Skewton.' The
lady in the chair was gracious. 'Mr Dombey, Mrs Granger.' The lady with
the parasol was faintly conscious of Mr Dombey's taking off his hat,
and bowing low. 'I am delighted, Sir,' said the Major, 'to have this
opportunity.'
The Major seemed in earnest, for he looked at all the three, and leered
in his ugliest manner.
'Mrs Skewton, Dombey,' said the Major, 'makes havoc in the heart of old
Josh.'
Mr Dombey signified that he didn't wonder at it.
'You perfidious goblin,' said the lady in the chair, 'have done! How
long have you been here, bad man?'
'One day,' replied the Major.
'And can you be a day, or even a minute,' returned the lady, slightly
settling her false curls and false eyebrows with her fan, and showing
her false teeth, set off by her false complexion, 'in the garden of
what's-its-name.'
'Eden, I suppose, Mama,' interrupted the younger lady, scornfully.
'My dear Edith,' said the other, 'I cannot help it. I never can remember
those frightful names--without having your whole Soul and Being inspired
by the sight of Nature; by the perfume,' said Mrs Skewton, rustling a
handkerchief that was faint and sickly with essences, 'of her artless
breath, you creature!'
The discrepancy between Mrs Skewton's fresh enthusiasm of words, and
forlornly faded manner, was hardly less observable than that between
her age, which was about seventy, and her dress, which would have been
youthful for twenty-seven. Her attitude in the wheeled chair (which she
never varied) was one in which she had been taken in a barouche, some
fifty years before, by a then fashionable artist who had appended to his
published sketch the name of Cleopatra: in consequence of a discovery
made by the critics of the time, that it bore an exact resemblance to
that Princess as she reclined on board her galley. Mrs Skewton was a
beauty then, and bucks threw wine-glasses over their heads by dozens in
her honour. The beauty and the barouche had both passed away, but she
still preserved the attitude, and for this reason expressly, maintained
the wheeled chair and the butting page: there being nothing whatever,
except the attitude, to prevent her from walking.
'Mr Dombey is devoted to Nature, I trust?' said Mrs Skewton, settling
her diamond brooch. And by the way, she chiefly lived upon the
reputation of some diamonds, and her family connexions.
'My friend Dombey, Ma'am,' returned the Major, 'may be devoted to her
in secret, but a man who is paramount in the greatest city in the
universe--'
'No one can be a stranger,' said Mrs Skewton, 'to Mr Dombey's immense
influence.'
As Mr Dombey acknowledged the compliment with a bend of his head, the
younger lady glancing at him, met his eyes.
'You reside here, Madam?' said Mr Dombey, addressing her.
'No, we have been to a great many places. To Harrogate and Scarborough,
and into Devonshire. We have been visiting, and resting here and there.
Mama likes change.'
'Edith of course does not,' said Mrs Skewton, with a ghastly archness.
'I have not found that there is any change in such places,' was the
answer, delivered with supreme indifference.
'They libel me. There is only one change, Mr Dombey,' observed Mrs
Skewton, with a mincing sigh, 'for which I really care, and that I
fear I shall never be permitted to enjoy. People cannot spare one. But
seclusion and contemplation are my what-his-name--'
'If you mean Paradise, Mama, you had better say so, to render yourself
intelligible,' said the younger lady.
'My dearest Edith,' returned Mrs Skewton, 'you know that I am wholly
dependent upon you for those odious names. I assure you, Mr Dombey,
Nature intended me for an Arcadian. I am thrown away in society. Cows
are my passion. What I have ever sighed for, has been to retreat to a
Swiss farm, and live entirely surrounded by cows--and china.'
This curious association of objects, suggesting a remembrance of the
celebrated bull who got by mistake into a crockery shop, was received
with perfect gravity by Mr Dombey, who intimated his opinion that Nature
was, no doubt, a very respectable institution.
'What I want,' drawled Mrs Skewton, pinching her shrivelled throat, 'is
heart.' It was frightfully true in one sense, if not in that in which
she used the phrase. 'What I want, is frankness, confidence, less
conventionality, and freer play of soul. We are so dreadfully
artificial.'
We were, indeed.
'In short,' said Mrs Skewton, 'I want Nature everywhere. It would be so
extremely charming.'
'Nature is inviting us away now, Mama, if you are ready,' said the
younger lady, curling her handsome lip. At this hint, the wan page, who
had been surveying the party over the top of the chair, vanished behind
it, as if the ground had swallowed him up.
'Stop a moment, Withers!' said Mrs Skewton, as the chair began to move;
calling to the page with all the languid dignity with which she had
called in days of yore to a coachman with a wig, cauliflower nosegay,
and silk stockings. 'Where are you staying, abomination?'
The Major was staying at the Royal Hotel, with his friend Dombey.
'You may come and see us any evening when you are good,' lisped Mrs
Skewton. 'If Mr Dombey will honour us, we shall be happy. Withers, go
on!'
The Major again pressed to his blue lips the tips of the fingers
that were disposed on the ledge of the wheeled chair with careful
carelessness, after the Cleopatra model: and Mr Dombey bowed. The elder
lady honoured them both with a very gracious smile and a girlish wave
of her hand; the younger lady with the very slightest inclination of her
head that common courtesy allowed.
The last glimpse of the wrinkled face of the mother, with that patched
colour on it which the sun made infinitely more haggard and dismal
than any want of colour could have been, and of the proud beauty of the
daughter with her graceful figure and erect deportment, engendered such
an involuntary disposition on the part of both the Major and Mr Dombey
to look after them, that they both turned at the same moment. The Page,
nearly as much aslant as his own shadow, was toiling after the chair,
uphill, like a slow battering-ram; the top of Cleopatra's bonnet was
fluttering in exactly the same corner to the inch as before; and the
Beauty, loitering by herself a little in advance, expressed in all
her elegant form, from head to foot, the same supreme disregard of
everything and everybody.
'I tell you what, Sir,' said the Major, as they resumed their walk
again. 'If Joe Bagstock were a younger man, there's not a woman in the
world whom he'd prefer for Mrs Bagstock to that woman. By George, Sir!'
said the Major, 'she's superb!'
'Do you mean the daughter?' inquired Mr Dombey.
'Is Joey B. a turnip, Dombey,' said the Major, 'that he should mean the
mother?'
'You were complimentary to the mother,' returned Mr Dombey.
'An ancient flame, Sir,' chuckled Major Bagstock. 'Devilish ancient. I
humour her.'
'She impresses me as being perfectly genteel,' said Mr Dombey.
'Genteel, Sir,' said the Major, stopping short, and staring in his
companion's face. 'The Honourable Mrs Skewton, Sir, is sister to the
late Lord Feenix, and aunt to the present Lord. The family are not
wealthy--they're poor, indeed--and she lives upon a small jointure; but
if you come to blood, Sir!' The Major gave a flourish with his stick and
walked on again, in despair of being able to say what you came to, if
you came to that.
'You addressed the daughter, I observed,' said Mr Dombey, after a short
pause, 'as Mrs Granger.'
'Edith Skewton, Sir,' returned the Major, stopping short again, and
punching a mark in the ground with his cane, to represent her, 'married
(at eighteen) Granger of Ours;' whom the Major indicated by another
punch. 'Granger, Sir,' said the Major, tapping the last ideal portrait,
and rolling his head emphatically, 'was Colonel of Ours; a de-vilish
handsome fellow, Sir, of forty-one. He died, Sir, in the second year of
his marriage.' The Major ran the representative of the deceased Granger
through and through the body with his walking-stick, and went on again,
carrying his stick over his shoulder.
'How long is this ago?' asked Mr Dombey, making another halt.
'Edith Granger, Sir,' replied the Major, shutting one eye, putting his
head on one side, passing his cane into his left hand, and smoothing his
shirt-frill with his right, 'is, at this present time, not quite thirty.
And damme, Sir,' said the Major, shouldering his stick once more, and
walking on again, 'she's a peerless woman!'
'Was there any family?' asked Mr Dombey presently.
'Yes, Sir,' said the Major. 'There was a boy.'
Mr Dombey's eyes sought the ground, and a shade came over his face.
'Who was drowned, Sir,' pursued the Major. 'When a child of four or five
years old.'
'Indeed?' said Mr Dombey, raising his head.
'By the upsetting of a boat in which his nurse had no business to have
put him,' said the Major. 'That's his history. Edith Granger is Edith
Granger still; but if tough old Joey B., Sir, were a little younger and
a little richer, the name of that immortal paragon should be Bagstock.'
The Major heaved his shoulders, and his cheeks, and laughed more like an
over-fed Mephistopheles than ever, as he said the words.
'Provided the lady made no objection, I suppose?' said Mr Dombey coldly.
'By Gad, Sir,' said the Major, 'the Bagstock breed are not accustomed
to that sort of obstacle. Though it's true enough that Edith might have
married twenty times, but for being proud, Sir, proud.'
Mr Dombey seemed, by his face, to think no worse of her for that.
'It's a great quality after all,' said the Major. 'By the Lord, it's a
high quality! Dombey! You are proud yourself, and your friend, Old Joe,
respects you for it, Sir.'
With this tribute to the character of his ally, which seemed to be wrung
from him by the force of circumstances and the irresistible tendency
of their conversation, the Major closed the subject, and glided into a
general exposition of the extent to which he had been beloved and doted
on by splendid women and brilliant creatures.
On the next day but one, Mr Dombey and the Major encountered the
Honourable Mrs Skewton and her daughter in the Pump-room; on the day
after, they met them again very near the place where they had met them
first. After meeting them thus, three or four times in all, it became
a point of mere civility to old acquaintances that the Major should go
there one evening. Mr Dombey had not originally intended to pay visits,
but on the Major announcing this intention, he said he would have the
pleasure of accompanying him. So the Major told the Native to go round
before dinner, and say, with his and Mr Dombey's compliments, that they
would have the honour of visiting the ladies that same evening, if the
ladies were alone. In answer to which message, the Native brought back a
very small note with a very large quantity of scent about it, indited by
the Honourable Mrs Skewton to Major Bagstock, and briefly saying, 'You
are a shocking bear and I have a great mind not to forgive you, but
if you are very good indeed,' which was underlined, 'you may come.
Compliments (in which Edith unites) to Mr Dombey.'
The Honourable Mrs Skewton and her daughter, Mrs Granger, resided, while
at Leamington, in lodgings that were fashionable enough and dear enough,
but rather limited in point of space and conveniences; so that the
Honourable Mrs Skewton, being in bed, had her feet in the window and
her head in the fireplace, while the Honourable Mrs Skewton's maid was
quartered in a closet within the drawing-room, so extremely small, that,
to avoid developing the whole of its accommodations, she was obliged to
writhe in and out of the door like a beautiful serpent. Withers, the
wan page, slept out of the house immediately under the tiles at a
neighbouring milk-shop; and the wheeled chair, which was the stone of
that young Sisyphus, passed the night in a shed belonging to the same
dairy, where new-laid eggs were produced by the poultry connected with
the establishment, who roosted on a broken donkey-cart, persuaded, to
all appearance, that it grew there, and was a species of tree.
Mr Dombey and the Major found Mrs Skewton arranged, as Cleopatra,
among the cushions of a sofa: very airily dressed; and certainly not
resembling Shakespeare's Cleopatra, whom age could not wither. On their
way upstairs they had heard the sound of a harp, but it had ceased
on their being announced, and Edith now stood beside it handsomer and
haughtier than ever. It was a remarkable characteristic of this lady's
beauty that it appeared to vaunt and assert itself without her aid, and
against her will. She knew that she was beautiful: it was impossible
that it could be otherwise: but she seemed with her own pride to defy
her very self.
Whether she held cheap attractions that could only call forth admiration
that was worthless to her, or whether she designed to render them more
precious to admirers by this usage of them, those to whom they were
precious seldom paused to consider.
'I hope, Mrs Granger,' said Mr Dombey, advancing a step towards her, 'we
are not the cause of your ceasing to play?'
'You! oh no!'
'Why do you not go on then, my dearest Edith?' said Cleopatra.
'I left off as I began--of my own fancy.'
The exquisite indifference of her manner in saying this: an indifference
quite removed from dulness or insensibility, for it was pointed with
proud purpose: was well set off by the carelessness with which she drew
her hand across the strings, and came from that part of the room.
'Do you know, Mr Dombey,' said her languishing mother, playing with a
hand-screen, 'that occasionally my dearest Edith and myself actually
almost differ--'
'Not quite, sometimes, Mama?' said Edith.
'Oh never quite, my darling! Fie, fie, it would break my heart,'
returned her mother, making a faint attempt to pat her with the
screen, which Edith made no movement to meet, '--about these old
conventionalities of manner that are observed in little things? Why are
we not more natural? Dear me! With all those yearnings, and gushings,
and impulsive throbbings that we have implanted in our souls, and which
are so very charming, why are we not more natural?'
Mr Dombey said it was very true, very true.
'We could be more natural I suppose if we tried?' said Mrs Skewton.
Mr Dombey thought it possible.
'Devil a bit, Ma'am,' said the Major. 'We couldn't afford it. Unless the
world was peopled with J.B.'s--tough and blunt old Joes, Ma'am, plain
red herrings with hard roes, Sir--we couldn't afford it. It wouldn't
do.'
'You naughty Infidel,' said Mrs Skewton, 'be mute.'
'Cleopatra commands,' returned the Major, kissing his hand, 'and Antony
Bagstock obeys.'
'The man has no sensitiveness,' said Mrs Skewton, cruelly holding up the
hand-screen so as to shut the Major out. 'No sympathy. And what do we
live for but sympathy! What else is so extremely charming! Without that
gleam of sunshine on our cold cold earth,' said Mrs Skewton, arranging
her lace tucker, and complacently observing the effect of her bare lean
arm, looking upward from the wrist, 'how could we possibly bear it? In
short, obdurate man!' glancing at the Major, round the screen, 'I would
have my world all heart; and Faith is so excessively charming, that I
won't allow you to disturb it, do you hear?'
The Major replied that it was hard in Cleopatra to require the world to
be all heart, and yet to appropriate to herself the hearts of all
the world; which obliged Cleopatra to remind him that flattery was
insupportable to her, and that if he had the boldness to address her in
that strain any more, she would positively send him home.
Withers the Wan, at this period, handing round the tea, Mr Dombey again
addressed himself to Edith.
'There is not much company here, it would seem?' said Mr Dombey, in his
own portentous gentlemanly way.
'I believe not. We see none.'
'Why really,' observed Mrs Skewton from her couch, 'there are no people
here just now with whom we care to associate.'
'They have not enough heart,' said Edith, with a smile. The very
twilight of a smile: so singularly were its light and darkness blended.
'My dearest Edith rallies me, you see!' said her mother, shaking her
head: which shook a little of itself sometimes, as if the palsy twinkled
now and then in opposition to the diamonds. 'Wicked one!'
'You have been here before, if I am not mistaken?' said Mr Dombey. Still
to Edith.
'Oh, several times. I think we have been everywhere.'
'A beautiful country!'
'I suppose it is. Everybody says so.'
'Your cousin Feenix raves about it, Edith,' interposed her mother from
her couch.
The daughter slightly turned her graceful head, and raising her eyebrows
by a hair's-breadth, as if her cousin Feenix were of all the mortal
world the least to be regarded, turned her eyes again towards Mr Dombey.
'I hope, for the credit of my good taste, that I am tired of the
neighbourhood,' she said.
'You have almost reason to be, Madam,' he replied, glancing at a variety
of landscape drawings, of which he had already recognised several
as representing neighbouring points of view, and which were strewn
abundantly about the room, 'if these beautiful productions are from your
hand.'
She gave him no reply, but sat in a disdainful beauty, quite amazing.
'Have they that interest?' said Mr Dombey. 'Are they yours?'
'Yes.'
'And you play, I already know.'
'Yes.'
'And sing?'
'Yes.'
She answered all these questions with a strange reluctance; and with
that remarkable air of opposition to herself, already noticed as
belonging to her beauty. Yet she was not embarrassed, but wholly
self-possessed. Neither did she seem to wish to avoid the conversation,
for she addressed her face, and--so far as she could--her manner also,
to him; and continued to do so, when he was silent.
'You have many resources against weariness at least,' said Mr Dombey.
'Whatever their efficiency may be,' she returned, 'you know them all
now. I have no more.'
'May I hope to prove them all?' said Mr Dombey, with solemn gallantry,
laying down a drawing he had held, and motioning towards the harp.
'Oh certainly! If you desire it!'
She rose as she spoke, and crossing by her mother's couch, and directing
a stately look towards her, which was instantaneous in its duration, but
inclusive (if anyone had seen it) of a multitude of expressions, among
which that of the twilight smile, without the smile itself, overshadowed
all the rest, went out of the room.
The Major, who was quite forgiven by this time, had wheeled a little
table up to Cleopatra, and was sitting down to play picquet with her. Mr
Dombey, not knowing the game, sat down to watch them for his edification
until Edith should return.
'We are going to have some music, Mr Dombey, I hope?' said Cleopatra.
'Mrs Granger has been kind enough to promise so,' said Mr Dombey.
'Ah! That's very nice. Do you propose, Major?'
'No, Ma'am,' said the Major. 'Couldn't do it.'
'You're a barbarous being,' replied the lady, 'and my hand's destroyed.
You are fond of music, Mr Dombey?'
'Eminently so,' was Mr Dombey's answer.
'Yes. It's very nice,' said Cleopatra, looking at her cards. 'So
much heart in it--undeveloped recollections of a previous state of
existence--and all that--which is so truly charming. Do you know,'
simpered Cleopatra, reversing the knave of clubs, who had come into her
game with his heels uppermost, 'that if anything could tempt me to put
a period to my life, it would be curiosity to find out what it's all
about, and what it means; there are so many provoking mysteries, really,
that are hidden from us. Major, you to play!'
The Major played; and Mr Dombey, looking on for his instruction,
would soon have been in a state of dire confusion, but that he gave no
attention to the game whatever, and sat wondering instead when Edith
would come back.
She came at last, and sat down to her harp, and Mr Dombey rose and stood
beside her, listening. He had little taste for music, and no knowledge
of the strain she played, but he saw her bending over it, and perhaps
he heard among the sounding strings some distant music of his own, that
tamed the monster of the iron road, and made it less inexorable.
Cleopatra had a sharp eye, verily, at picquet. It glistened like a
bird's, and did not fix itself upon the game, but pierced the room from
end to end, and gleamed on harp, performer, listener, everything.
When the haughty beauty had concluded, she arose, and receiving Mr
Dombey's thanks and compliments in exactly the same manner as before,
went with scarcely any pause to the piano, and began there.
Edith Granger, any song but that! Edith Granger, you are very handsome,
and your touch upon the keys is brilliant, and your voice is deep and
rich; but not the air that his neglected daughter sang to his dead son!
Alas, he knows it not; and if he did, what air of hers would stir him,
rigid man! Sleep, lonely Florence, sleep! Peace in thy dreams, although
the night has turned dark, and the clouds are gathering, and threaten to
discharge themselves in hail! | Shortly after arriving, Bagstock and Dombey run into Mrs. Skewton, an acquaintance of Bagstock's, and her young widowed daughter Mrs. Edith Granger. Bagstock explains that Edith lost both her first husband, and a young son, and, while very beautiful, has rejected many offers of a second marriage. They are not wealthy, but come from a good family |
The Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not
disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to
Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the
negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement,
met Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were
duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held
responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the
new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as
soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse's equipment that she
permitted Mr. Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head,
to be forgotten, and to die.
Lucy--to descend from bright heaven to earth, whereon there are shadows
because there are hills--Lucy was at first plunged into despair, but
settled after a little thought that it did not matter the very least.
Now that she was engaged, the Emersons would scarcely insult her and
were welcome into the neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring whom
he would into the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to bring
the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a little
thinking, and--so illogical are girls--the event remained rather greater
and rather more dreadful than it should have done. She was glad that
a visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villa
while she was safe in the London flat.
"Cecil--Cecil darling," she whispered the evening she arrived, and crept
into his arms.
Cecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire had been
kindled in Lucy. At last she longed for attention, as a woman should,
and looked up to him because he was a man.
"So you do love me, little thing?" he murmured.
"Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don't know what I should do without you."
Several days passed. Then she had a letter from Miss Bartlett. A
coolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had not
corresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated from what
Charlotte would call "the flight to Rome," and in Rome it had increased
amazingly. For the companion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaeval
world becomes exasperating in the classical. Charlotte, unselfish in the
Forum, would have tried a sweeter temper than Lucy's, and once, in the
Baths of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could continue
their tour. Lucy had said she would join the Vyses--Mrs. Vyse was an
acquaintance of her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan and
Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandoned
suddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for
Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as follows.
It had been forwarded from Windy Corner.
"Tunbridge Wells,
"September.
"Dearest Lucia,
"I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your
parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing
her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very
woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door
open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father
had just taken the house. He SAID he did not know that you lived in the
neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear
Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his
past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him
to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune, and I dare say you
have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used
to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should
not feel easy unless I warned you.
"Believe me,
"Your anxious and loving cousin,
"Charlotte."
Lucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:
"Beauchamp Mansions, S.W.
"Dear Charlotte,
"Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the
mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she
would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise,
and cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil
that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable
people--which I do think--and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no
tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the
Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that
it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them,
they would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they
are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again.
As for the son, I am sorry for him when we meet, rather than for myself.
They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other
day. We expect to be married in January.
"Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at Windy
Corner at all, but here. Please do not put 'Private' outside your
envelope again. No one opens my letters.
"Yours affectionately,
"L. M. Honeychurch."
Secrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; we
cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and her
cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil's life if
he discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? Miss
Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become a
great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her mother
and her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing.
"Emerson, not Harris"; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried to
tell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautiful
lady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so
ridiculously that she stopped.
She and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted Metropolis
visiting the scenes they were to know so well later on. It did her no
harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while society
itself was absent on the golf-links or the moors. The weather was cool,
and it did her no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to
scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren
of famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness
that impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One
launched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself
up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertolini
and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London
career would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in the
past.
The grandchildren asked her to play the piano.
She played Schumann. "Now some Beethoven" called Cecil, when the
querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played
Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it
was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The
sadness of the incomplete--the sadness that is often Life, but should
never be Art--throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of
the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano
at the Bertolini, and "Too much Schumann" was not the remark that Mr.
Beebe had passed to himself when she returned.
When the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced
up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party with her son.
Mrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like many another's,
had been swamped by London, for it needs a strong head to live among
many people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she had
seen too many seasons, too many cities, too many men, for her abilities,
and even with Cecil she was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one
son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd.
"Make Lucy one of us," she said, looking round intelligently at the end
of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she spoke again.
"Lucy is becoming wonderful--wonderful."
"Her music always was wonderful."
"Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent
Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting
servants, or asking one how the pudding is made."
"Italy has done it."
"Perhaps," she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy
to her. "It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January.
She is one of us already."
"But her music!" he exclaimed. "The style of her! How she kept to
Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for
this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have
our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country
folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then--not
till then--let them come to London. I don't believe in these London
educations--" He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and
concluded, "At all events, not for women."
"Make her one of us," repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed.
As she was dozing off, a cry--the cry of nightmare--rang from Lucy's
room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it
kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on
her cheek.
"I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse--it is these dreams."
"Bad dreams?"
"Just dreams."
The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: "You
should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than
ever. Dream of that."
Lucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.
Vyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.
Darkness enveloped the flat.
It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains, and
the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn. All
that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer
Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon
dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or
of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life's amenities, leant over his
Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.
"Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little."
"M'm."
"They might amuse you."
Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new
people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just
moved in.
"I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are worth
it." Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to
Cissie Villa. "Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open door, through
which much squalor was visible.
A grave voice replied, "Hullo!"
"I've brought someone to see you."
"I'll be down in a minute."
The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed
to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The
sitting-room itself was blocked with books.
"Are these people great readers?" Freddy whispered. "Are they that
sort?"
"I fancy they know how to read--a rare accomplishment. What have they
got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of
All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German.
Um--um--Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your
generation knows its own business, Honeychurch."
"Mr. Beebe, look at that," said Freddy in awestruck tones.
On the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this
inscription: "Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes."
"I know. Isn't it jolly? I like that. I'm certain that's the old man's
doing."
"How very odd of him!"
"Surely you agree?"
But Freddy was his mother's son and felt that one ought not to go on
spoiling the furniture.
"Pictures!" the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room.
"Giotto--they got that at Florence, I'll be bound."
"The same as Lucy's got."
"Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?"
"She came back yesterday."
"I suppose she had a good time?"
"Yes, very," said Freddy, taking up a book. "She and Cecil are thicker
than ever."
"That's good hearing."
"I wish I wasn't such a fool, Mr. Beebe."
Mr. Beebe ignored the remark.
"Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it'll be very different
now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books."
"So will you."
"Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards. Cecil
is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful. There
are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says--"
"What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson--we think we'll
come another time."
George ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking.
"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour."
Then Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy,
perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George's face wanted
washing. At all events he greeted him with, "How d'ye do? Come and have
a bathe."
"Oh, all right," said George, impassive.
Mr. Beebe was highly entertained.
"'How d'ye do? how d'ye do? Come and have a bathe,'" he chuckled.
"That's the best conversational opening I've ever heard. But I'm afraid
it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been
introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with 'How
do you do? Come and have a bathe'? And yet you will tell me that the
sexes are equal."
"I tell you that they shall be," said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly
descending the stairs. "Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall
be comrades, and George thinks the same."
"We are to raise ladies to our level?" the clergyman inquired.
"The Garden of Eden," pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, "which you
place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no
longer despise our bodies."
Mr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere.
"In this--not in other things--we men are ahead. We despise the body
less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the
garden."
"I say, what about this bathe?" murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of
philosophy that was approaching him.
"I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to
Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must
discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is
our heritage."
"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at
Florence."
"How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for
a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry. Marriage
is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr. Vyse, too.
He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and
arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have
not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and
I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the
Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a
glorious country, Honeychurch!"
"Not a bit!" mumbled Freddy. "I must--that is to say, I have to--have
the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope."
"CALL, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your
grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious
country."
Mr. Beebe came to the rescue.
"Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return
our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized
about the ten days' interval. It does not count that I helped you with
the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe
this afternoon."
"Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back
to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good.
George has been working very hard at his office. I can't believe he's
well."
George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of
one who has handled furniture.
"Do you really want this bathe?" Freddy asked him. "It is only a pond,
don't you know. I dare say you are used to something better."
"Yes--I have said 'Yes' already."
Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out
of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little
time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes
and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the
bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not
bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like
a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of
Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight
but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the
tree-tops above their heads.
"And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize
that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?"
"I did not. Miss Lavish told me."
"When I was a young man, I always meant to write a 'History of
Coincidence.'"
No enthusiasm.
"Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we
suppose. For example, it isn't purely coincidentally that you are here
now, when one comes to reflect."
To his relief, George began to talk.
"It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung
together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate--flung together, drawn apart. The
twelve winds blow us--we settle nothing--"
"You have not reflected at all," rapped the clergyman. "Let me give you
a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don't say, 'I didn't
do this,' for you did it, ten to one. Now I'll cross-question you. Where
did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?"
"Italy."
"And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss
Honeychurch?"
"National Gallery."
"Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence
and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our
friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it."
"It is Fate that I am here," persisted George. "But you can call it
Italy if it makes you less unhappy."
Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was
infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George.
"And so for this and for other reasons my 'History of Coincidence' is
still to write."
Silence.
Wishing to round off the episode, he added; "We are all so glad that you
have come."
Silence.
"Here we are!" called Freddy.
"Oh, good!" exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow.
"In there's the pond. I wish it was bigger," he added apologetically.
They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond,
set in its little alp of green--only a pond, but large enough to contain
the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the
rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a
beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool.
"It's distinctly successful, as ponds go," said Mr. Beebe. "No apologies
are necessary for the pond."
George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his
boots.
"Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in
seed. What's the name of this aromatic plant?"
No one knew, or seemed to care.
"These abrupt changes of vegetation--this little spongeous tract of
water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or
brittle--heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming."
"Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?" called Freddy, as he stripped himself.
Mr. Beebe thought he was not.
"Water's wonderful!" cried Freddy, prancing in.
"Water's water," murmured George. Wetting his hair first--a sure sign of
apathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were
a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his
muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and
watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.
"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo," went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in
either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud.
"Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded
margin.
The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the
question properly.
"Hee-poof--I've swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water's wonderful,
water's simply ripping."
"Water's not so bad," said George, reappearing from his plunge, and
sputtering at the sun.
"Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do."
"Apooshoo, kouf."
Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, looked
around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees,
rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against
the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans
receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind--these things not
even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of
man?
"I may as well wash too"; and soon his garments made a third little pile
on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water.
It was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy
said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen
rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in
Gotterdammerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or
because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the
gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit--for some
reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and
Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each
other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they
feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out. He
smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them,
muddied them, and drove them out of the pool.
"Race you round it, then," cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine,
and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a
second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run--a memorable sight.
They ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being
Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get
clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the
sward, proclaiming:
"No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To us
shall all flesh turn in the end."
"A try! A try!" yelled Freddy, snatching up George's bundle and placing
it beside an imaginary goal-post.
"Socker rules," George retorted, scattering Freddy's bundle with a kick.
"Goal!"
"Goal!"
"Pass!"
"Take care my watch!" cried Mr. Beebe.
Clothes flew in all directions.
"Take care my hat! No, that's enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!"
But the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees,
Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake
hat on his dripping hair.
"That'll do!" shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in
his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural
Dean. "Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!"
Yells, and widening circles over the dappled earth.
"Hi! hi! LADIES!"
Neither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear
Mr. Beebe's last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch,
Cecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth.
Freddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some
bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down the
path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe's hat.
"Gracious alive!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch. "Whoever were those
unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too!
Whatever has happened?"
"Come this way immediately," commanded Cecil, who always felt that he
must lead women, though he knew not whither, and protect them, though he
knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy
sat concealed.
"Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil,
Mr. Beebe's waistcoat--"
"No business of ours," said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol
and evidently 'minded.'
"I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond."
"This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way."
They followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant
expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions.
"Well, I can't help it," said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a
freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. "I can't
be trodden on, can I?"
"Good gracious me, dear; so it's you! What miserable management! Why not
have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?"
"Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow's got to dry, and
if another fellow--"
"Dear, no doubt you're right as usual, but you are in no position to
argue. Come, Lucy." They turned. "Oh, look--don't look! Oh, poor Mr.
Beebe! How unfortunate again--"
For Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface
garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary
George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish.
"And me, I've swallowed one," answered he of the bracken. "I've
swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die--Emerson you
beast, you've got on my bags."
"Hush, dears," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain
shocked. "And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these
colds come of not drying thoroughly."
"Mother, do come away," said Lucy. "Oh for goodness' sake, do come."
"Hullo!" cried George, so that again the ladies stopped.
He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and
personable against the shadowy woods, he called:
"Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!"
"Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow."
Miss Honeychurch bowed.
That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the
pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a
call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose
influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for
youth.
How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had
always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which
surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George
would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats
and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had
imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent
or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these. But she had
never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of
the morning star.
Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she
reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree
of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the
scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the
stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too
much. "I will bow," she had thought. "I will not shake hands with him.
That will be just the proper thing." She had bowed--but to whom? To
gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across
the rubbish that cumbers the world.
So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It was
another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted
to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hear
about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He did
not want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, and
made long, clever answers where "Yes" or "No" would have done. Lucy
soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised well
for their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to
discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed, though
not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing
satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the
teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover.
"Lucy," said her mother, when they got home, "is anything the matter
with Cecil?"
The question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved with
charity and restraint.
"No, I don't think so, mother; Cecil's all right."
"Perhaps he's tired."
Lucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little tired.
"Because otherwise"--she pulled out her bonnet-pins with gathering
displeasure--"because otherwise I cannot account for him."
"I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, if you mean that."
"Cecil has told you to think so. You were devoted to her as a little
girl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you through the typhoid
fever. No--it is just the same thing everywhere."
"Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?"
"Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-hour?"
"Cecil has a very high standard for people," faltered Lucy, seeing
trouble ahead. "It's part of his ideals--it is really that that makes
him sometimes seem--"
"Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he gets
rid of them the better," said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bonnet.
"Now, mother! I've seen you cross with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!"
"Not in that way. At times I could wring her neck. But not in that way.
No. It is the same with Cecil all over."
"By-the-by--I never told you. I had a letter from Charlotte while I was
away in London."
This attempt to divert the conversation was too puerile, and Mrs.
Honeychurch resented it.
"Since Cecil came back from London, nothing appears to please him.
Whenever I speak he winces;--I see him, Lucy; it is useless to
contradict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor literary nor
intellectual nor musical, but I cannot help the drawing-room furniture;
your father bought it and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindly
remember."
"I--I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil oughtn't to. But he does
not mean to be uncivil--he once explained--it is the things that upset
him--he is easily upset by ugly things--he is not uncivil to PEOPLE."
"Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?"
"You can't expect a really musical person to enjoy comic songs as we
do."
"Then why didn't he leave the room? Why sit wriggling and sneering and
spoiling everyone's pleasure?"
"We mustn't be unjust to people," faltered Lucy. Something had enfeebled
her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so perfectly in
London, would not come forth in an effective form. The two civilizations
had clashed--Cecil hinted that they might--and she was dazzled and
bewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all civilization
had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords,
garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through
pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song.
She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changed
her frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and made
things no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meant
to be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy--she knew not
why--wished that the trouble could have come at any other time.
"Go and dress, dear; you'll be late."
"All right, mother--"
"Don't say 'All right' and stop. Go."
She obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It faced
north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the
winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landing
window with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighed
to herself, "Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?" It seemed to
her that everyone else was behaving very badly. And she ought not to
have mentioned Miss Bartlett's letter. She must be more careful; her
mother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about.
Oh, dear, what should she do?--and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and
joined the ranks of the ill-behaved.
"I say, those are topping people."
"My dear baby, how tiresome you've been! You have no business to take
them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it's much too public. It was all right for
you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget
the place is growing half suburban."
"I say, is anything on to-morrow week?"
"Not that I know of."
"Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis."
"Oh, I wouldn't do that, Freddy, I wouldn't do that with all this
muddle."
"What's wrong with the court? They won't mind a bump or two, and I've
ordered new balls."
"I meant it's better not. I really mean it."
He seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the
passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with
temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they
impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch
opened her door and said: "Lucy, what a noise you're making! I
have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from
Charlotte?" and Freddy ran away.
"Yes. I really can't stop. I must dress too."
"How's Charlotte?"
"All right."
"Lucy!"
The unfortunate girl returned.
"You've a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one's sentences.
Did Charlotte mention her boiler?"
"Her WHAT?"
"Don't you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and
her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?"
"I can't remember all Charlotte's worries," said Lucy bitterly. "I shall
have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil."
Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: "Come
here, old lady--thank you for putting away my bonnet--kiss me." And,
though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and
Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect.
So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner.
At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one
member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised
their methods--perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own.
Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew
up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry.
Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said:
"Lucy, what's Emerson like?"
"I saw him in Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a
reply.
"Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?"
"Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here."
"He is the clever sort, like myself," said Cecil.
Freddy looked at him doubtfully.
"How well did you know them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs. Honeychurch.
"Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did."
"Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in her
letter."
"One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would get
through the meal without a lie. "Among other things, that an awful
friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if
she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."
"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind."
"She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one,
for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands
of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women
who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety
by print. Her attitude was: "If books must be written, let them be
written by men"; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil
yawned and Freddy played at "This year, next year, now, never," with his
plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother's wrath. But
soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the
darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost--that
touch of lips on her cheek--had surely been laid long ago; it could be
nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once. But it
had begotten a spectral family--Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett's letter,
Mr. Beebe's memories of violets--and one or other of these was bound to
haunt her before Cecil's very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned
now, and with appalling vividness.
"I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte's. How is she?"
"I tore the thing up."
"Didn't she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?"
"Oh, yes I suppose so--no--not very cheerful, I suppose."
"Then, depend upon it, it IS the boiler. I know myself how water preys
upon one's mind. I would rather anything else--even a misfortune with
the meat."
Cecil laid his hand over his eyes.
"So would I," asserted Freddy, backing his mother up--backing up the
spirit of her remark rather than the substance.
"And I have been thinking," she added rather nervously, "surely we could
squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while
plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for
so long."
It was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest
violently after her mother's goodness to her upstairs.
"Mother, no!" she pleaded. "It's impossible. We can't have Charlotte on
the top of the other things; we're squeezed to death as it is. Freddy's
got a friend coming Tuesday, there's Cecil, and you've promised to take
in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can't be
done."
"Nonsense! It can."
"If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise."
"Minnie can sleep with you."
"I won't have her."
"Then, if you're so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy."
"Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett," moaned Cecil, again
laying his hand over his eyes.
"It's impossible," repeated Lucy. "I don't want to make difficulties,
but it really isn't fair on the maids to fill up the house so."
Alas!
"The truth is, dear, you don't like Charlotte."
"No, I don't. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You
haven't seen her lately, and don't realize how tiresome she can be,
though so good. So please, mother, don't worry us this last summer; but
spoil us by not asking her to come."
"Hear, hear!" said Cecil.
Mrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feeling
than she usually permitted herself, replied: "This isn't very kind of
you two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full of
beautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off and
plumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are, and
however many books they read, they will never guess what it feels like
to grow old."
Cecil crumbled his bread.
"I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called on
my bike," put in Freddy. "She thanked me for coming till I felt like
such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea
just right."
"I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes this
difficulty when we try to give her some little return."
But Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett.
She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up
treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss
Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: "I
can't help it, mother. I don't like Charlotte. I admit it's horrid of
me."
"From your own account, you told her as much."
"Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried--"
The ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping
the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the
same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy
Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible
world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real.
"I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,"
said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the
admirable cooking.
"I didn't mean the egg was WELL boiled," corrected Freddy, "because in
point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don't
care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed."
Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers, hydrangeas,
maids--of such were their lives compact. "May me and Lucy get down from
our chairs?" he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence. "We don't want no
dessert."
Of course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure
that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior
spare room--something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,
equally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday
week.
Lucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only
faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at
times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves.
When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her
nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might
upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to
George--they met again almost immediately at the Rectory--his voice
moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she
really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves,
which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered
from "things that came out of nothing and meant she didn't know what."
Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet afternoon, and all the
troubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed.
It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, "She loves young
Emerson." A reader in Lucy's place would not find it obvious. Life is
easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome "nerves"
or any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved
Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the
phrases should have been reversed?
But the external situation--she will face that bravely.
The meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between
Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy,
and George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy,
and was glad that he did not seem shy either.
"A nice fellow," said Mr. Beebe afterwards "He will work off his
crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life
gracefully."
Lucy said, "He seems in better spirits. He laughs more."
"Yes," replied the clergyman. "He is waking up."
That was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell,
and she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the
clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival.
She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs.
Honeychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton
station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy
and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for
a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o'clock, and these, with
little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper
lawn for tea.
"I shall never forgive myself," said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising
from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain.
"I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on
paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate."
"Our visitors never do such dreadful things," said Lucy, while her
brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial,
exclaimed in irritable tones: "Just what I've been trying to convince
Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour."
"I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor," said Miss Bartlett, and
looked at her frayed glove.
"All right, if you'd really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to
the driver."
Miss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could
any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four
half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: "But who
am I to give the sovereign to?"
"Let's leave it all till mother comes back," suggested Lucy.
"No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not
hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt
settling of accounts."
Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be
quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solution
seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking
his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned
round.
But this did not do, either.
"Please--please--I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me
wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost."
"Freddy owes me fifteen shillings," interposed Cecil. "So it will work
out right if you give the pound to me."
"Fifteen shillings," said Miss Bartlett dubiously. "How is that, Mr.
Vyse?"
"Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we
shall avoid this deplorable gambling."
Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered
up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For
a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers.
Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the
smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying
twaddle.
"But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched
the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the
quid."
"Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said solemnly.
"Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see."
"But I don't see--"
They tried to stifle her with cake.
"No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss
Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's
ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss
What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver."
"I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you,
dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change
for half a crown?"
"I'll get it," said the young hostess, rising with decision.
"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get
Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the
beginning."
"Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and
followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity.
When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said
quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?"
"No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue
for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a
sovereign's worth of silver."
She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were
too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke
or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had
been a ruse to surprise the soul.
"No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned.
"I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except
two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely
now."
Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St.
John ascending, which had been framed.
"How dreadful!" she murmured, "how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse
should come to hear of it from some other source."
"Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson
is all right, and what other source is there?"
Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking
through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth."
Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nerves
if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of
Cecil?"
"We must think of every possibility."
"Oh, it's all right."
"Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know."
"I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but
even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at
it."
"To contradict it?"
"No, to laugh at it." But she knew in her heart that she could not trust
him, for he desired her untouched.
"Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what
they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different."
"Now, Charlotte!" She struck at her playfully. "You kind, anxious thing.
What WOULD you have me do? First you say 'Don't tell'; and then you say,
'Tell'. Which is it to be? Quick!"
Miss Bartlett sighed "I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I
blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able
to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You
will never forgive me."
"Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don't."
For the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with
a teaspoon.
"Dear, one moment--we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have
you seen the young one yet?"
"Yes, I have."
"What happened?"
"We met at the Rectory."
"What line is he taking up?"
"No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all
right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly?
I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won't be any
nuisance, Charlotte."
"Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion."
Lucy paused. "Cecil said one day--and I thought it so profound--that
there are two kinds of cads--the conscious and the subconscious." She
paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil's profundity. Through
the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It
was a new one from Smith's library. Her mother must have returned from
the station.
"Once a cad, always a cad," droned Miss Bartlett.
"What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into
all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don't think we
ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a
person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;
it makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn't admire
me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him, and
has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has
improved; he doesn't always look as if he's going to burst into
tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager's office at one of the big
railways--not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa
was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There!
Now for the garden." She took hold of her guest by the arm. "Suppose we
don't talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to
have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting."
Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected
an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one
cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly
people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the
entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of
them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her
brain. | Lucy goes to stay with Cecil's family in London, where she receives a letter from Charlotte, forwarded from Windy Corner. Charlotte has found out that the Emersons are moving to Summer Street. Lucy and Charlotte had a falling-out in Rome and have not been on such good terms since then. Charlotte wants Lucy to tell her mother and Cecil about what happened with her and George Emerson in the violets, but Lucy writes back reminding Charlotte that she herself made Lucy promise not to tell her mother. Cecil and his mother introduce Lucy to the London society that they know, and Lucy realizes that in this urbane, sophisticated world where everyone seems a little bored with everything, she will need to become somewhat estranged from her own past. She plays the piano for her hosts, but refuses to play Beethoven, Cecil's request, and instead plays mournful Schumann. Mrs. Vyse is thrilled with her and asks Cecil to make Lucy "one of us." Lucy has a bad dream that night from which she awakes with a shriek. Back at Summer Street, Mr. Beebe takes Freddy to call on the Emersons, who are moving into their new house. Their rooms are full of books written by the latest novelists and philosophers, which impresses Freddy. George appears and Freddy invites him for a swim in the forest pool. Mr. Emerson also arrives, speaking philosophically about a return to Nature. Mr. Beebe accompanies the young men into the woods, awkwardly and unsuccessfully trying to make conversation on such topics as Nature and Italy. George and Mr. Beebe briefly debate whether their lives are ruled by coincidence, as Mr. Beebe suggests, or Fate, as George heavily believes. At the pool, Freddy excitedly strips and jumps in, and George apathetically follows. Mr. Beebe is convinced to join them. They tentatively start a water fight, which escalates until they are running naked around the pool and tossing clothes everywhere. Suddenly Mrs. Honeychurch, Lucy, and Cecil are seen making their way down the path on the way to visit old Mrs. Butterworth, a neighbor. Cecil tries to take command, but everything is chaotic, with Freddy hiding in the bracken and Mr. Beebe in the pond. George, with only his pants on, greets Lucy, who bows. Cecil, Lucy, and Mrs. Honeychurch have tea with Mrs. Butterworth, where Lucy reflects that it is impossible to plan ahead for situations. She had been planning to bow when she met George, but the situation and his "shout of the morning star" made her bow seem inappropriate, a meaningless gesture. Cecil is cross with Mrs. Butterworth, whom he despises, while Lucy, aware from Charlotte's teaching that everyone has faults, tries to smooth over her fiance's curtness. After tea, Mrs. Honeychurch is upset with Cecil, who behaved rather rudely toward Ms. Butterworth. She doesn't think that Cecil's sophistication and fine upbringing justify his arrogant attitude. Lucy finds that her worlds are beginning to clash as she tries to defend Cecil against her mother. In the process, she mentions Charlotte's letter, which Mrs. Honeychurch asks about again at dinner, inquiring whether Charlotte's boiler has been repaired yet. Despite Lucy and Cecil's objections that they find her tiresome, Mrs. Honeychurch decides to invite Charlotte to Windy Corner. Cecil is insolent and disgusted by the entire conversation. Lucy feels that the ghosts surrounding her trip to Italy are returning. Though tormented by internal doubts as to what she should do, Lucy handles the external situation with courage. When she meets George at the Rectory, they both put aside shyness and speak of Italy. George seems to be in better spirits than he once was. The narrator of the story intercedes to explain that Lucy think she loves Cecil and is nervous about George, and doesn't realize that the reverse is actually true. Charlotte arrives, confusing everyone by showing up at the wrong train station, missing Mrs. Honeychurch who was waiting at a different station, and taking a cab to Windy Corners. Once she arrives, Lucy, Cecil, Freddy, Freddy's friend Mr. Floyd, and Minnie try to persuade her not to pay them back for the cab fare, which Freddy paid. A long protracted discussion results in which Freddy and Cecil try to trick Charlotte into paying less, but Minnie intercedes, and finally Lucy goes into the house to get change from a maid. Charlotte follows her and quickly begins asking whether Lucy has told Cecil about George. Lucy objects, saying that George won't present anyone any problems by being a "cad." She tries to excuse his kiss by saying that he was simply carried away in a moment of beauty, and acted irrationally, but that it amounts to nothing. Yet she makes a little slip in her explanation: when telling Charlotte that it makes a difference when you are overcome by someone beautiful, she identifies the person as a he and not a she. |
Chapter XI. Another Reputation Ruined
It was not much more than three-quarters of a mile from the town to the
monastery. Alyosha walked quickly along the road, at that hour deserted.
It was almost night, and too dark to see anything clearly at thirty paces
ahead. There were cross-roads half-way. A figure came into sight under a
solitary willow at the cross-roads. As soon as Alyosha reached the cross-
roads the figure moved out and rushed at him, shouting savagely:
"Your money or your life!"
"So it's you, Mitya," cried Alyosha, in surprise, violently startled
however.
"Ha ha ha! You didn't expect me? I wondered where to wait for you. By her
house? There are three ways from it, and I might have missed you. At last
I thought of waiting here, for you had to pass here, there's no other way
to the monastery. Come, tell me the truth. Crush me like a beetle. But
what's the matter?"
"Nothing, brother--it's the fright you gave me. Oh, Dmitri! Father's blood
just now." (Alyosha began to cry, he had been on the verge of tears for a
long time, and now something seemed to snap in his soul.) "You almost
killed him--cursed him--and now--here--you're making jokes--'Your money or your
life!' "
"Well, what of that? It's not seemly--is that it? Not suitable in my
position?"
"No--I only--"
"Stay. Look at the night. You see what a dark night, what clouds, what a
wind has risen. I hid here under the willow waiting for you. And as God's
above, I suddenly thought, why go on in misery any longer, what is there
to wait for? Here I have a willow, a handkerchief, a shirt, I can twist
them into a rope in a minute, and braces besides, and why go on burdening
the earth, dishonoring it with my vile presence? And then I heard you
coming--Heavens, it was as though something flew down to me suddenly. So
there is a man, then, whom I love. Here he is, that man, my dear little
brother, whom I love more than any one in the world, the only one I love
in the world. And I loved you so much, so much at that moment that I
thought, 'I'll fall on his neck at once.' Then a stupid idea struck me, to
have a joke with you and scare you. I shouted, like a fool, 'Your money!'
Forgive my foolery--it was only nonsense, and there's nothing unseemly in
my soul.... Damn it all, tell me what's happened. What did she say? Strike
me, crush me, don't spare me! Was she furious?"
"No, not that.... There was nothing like that, Mitya. There--I found them
both there."
"Both? Whom?"
"Grushenka at Katerina Ivanovna's."
Dmitri was struck dumb.
"Impossible!" he cried. "You're raving! Grushenka with her?"
Alyosha described all that had happened from the moment he went in to
Katerina Ivanovna's. He was ten minutes telling his story. He can't be
said to have told it fluently and consecutively, but he seemed to make it
clear, not omitting any word or action of significance, and vividly
describing, often in one word, his own sensations. Dmitri listened in
silence, gazing at him with a terrible fixed stare, but it was clear to
Alyosha that he understood it all, and had grasped every point. But as the
story went on, his face became not merely gloomy, but menacing. He
scowled, he clenched his teeth, and his fixed stare became still more
rigid, more concentrated, more terrible, when suddenly, with incredible
rapidity, his wrathful, savage face changed, his tightly compressed lips
parted, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch broke into uncontrolled, spontaneous
laughter. He literally shook with laughter. For a long time he could not
speak.
"So she wouldn't kiss her hand! So she didn't kiss it; so she ran away!"
he kept exclaiming with hysterical delight; insolent delight it might have
been called, if it had not been so spontaneous. "So the other one called
her tigress! And a tigress she is! So she ought to be flogged on a
scaffold? Yes, yes, so she ought. That's just what I think; she ought to
have been long ago. It's like this, brother, let her be punished, but I
must get better first. I understand the queen of impudence. That's her all
over! You saw her all over in that hand-kissing, the she-devil! She's
magnificent in her own line! So she ran home? I'll go--ah--I'll run to her!
Alyosha, don't blame me, I agree that hanging is too good for her."
"But Katerina Ivanovna!" exclaimed Alyosha sorrowfully.
"I see her, too! I see right through her, as I've never done before! It's
a regular discovery of the four continents of the world, that is, of the
five! What a thing to do! That's just like Katya, who was not afraid to
face a coarse, unmannerly officer and risk a deadly insult on a generous
impulse to save her father! But the pride, the recklessness, the defiance
of fate, the unbounded defiance! You say that aunt tried to stop her? That
aunt, you know, is overbearing, herself. She's the sister of the general's
widow in Moscow, and even more stuck-up than she. But her husband was
caught stealing government money. He lost everything, his estate and all,
and the proud wife had to lower her colors, and hasn't raised them since.
So she tried to prevent Katya, but she wouldn't listen to her! She thinks
she can overcome everything, that everything will give way to her. She
thought she could bewitch Grushenka if she liked, and she believed it
herself: she plays a part to herself, and whose fault is it? Do you think
she kissed Grushenka's hand first, on purpose, with a motive? No, she
really was fascinated by Grushenka, that's to say, not by Grushenka, but
by her own dream, her own delusion--because it was _her_ dream, _her_
delusion! Alyosha, darling, how did you escape from them, those women? Did
you pick up your cassock and run? Ha ha ha!"
"Brother, you don't seem to have noticed how you've insulted Katerina
Ivanovna by telling Grushenka about that day. And she flung it in her face
just now that she had gone to gentlemen in secret to sell her beauty!
Brother, what could be worse than that insult?"
What worried Alyosha more than anything was that, incredible as it seemed,
his brother appeared pleased at Katerina Ivanovna's humiliation.
"Bah!" Dmitri frowned fiercely, and struck his forehead with his hand. He
only now realized it, though Alyosha had just told him of the insult, and
Katerina Ivanovna's cry: "Your brother is a scoundrel!"
"Yes, perhaps, I really did tell Grushenka about that 'fatal day,' as
Katya calls it. Yes, I did tell her, I remember! It was that time at
Mokroe. I was drunk, the gypsies were singing.... But I was sobbing. I was
sobbing then, kneeling and praying to Katya's image, and Grushenka
understood it. She understood it all then. I remember, she cried
herself.... Damn it all! But it's bound to be so now.... Then she cried,
but now 'the dagger in the heart'! That's how women are."
He looked down and sank into thought.
"Yes, I am a scoundrel, a thorough scoundrel!" he said suddenly, in a
gloomy voice. "It doesn't matter whether I cried or not, I'm a scoundrel!
Tell her I accept the name, if that's any comfort. Come, that's enough.
Good-by. It's no use talking! It's not amusing. You go your way and I
mine. And I don't want to see you again except as a last resource. Good-
by, Alexey!"
He warmly pressed Alyosha's hand, and still looking down, without raising
his head, as though tearing himself away, turned rapidly towards the town.
Alyosha looked after him, unable to believe he would go away so abruptly.
"Stay, Alexey, one more confession to you alone!" cried Dmitri, suddenly
turning back. "Look at me. Look at me well. You see here, here--there's
terrible disgrace in store for me." (As he said "here," Dmitri struck his
chest with his fist with a strange air, as though the dishonor lay
precisely on his chest, in some spot, in a pocket, perhaps, or hanging
round his neck.) "You know me now, a scoundrel, an avowed scoundrel, but
let me tell you that I've never done anything before and never shall
again, anything that can compare in baseness with the dishonor which I
bear now at this very minute on my breast, here, here, which will come to
pass, though I'm perfectly free to stop it. I can stop it or carry it
through, note that. Well, let me tell you, I shall carry it through. I
shan't stop it. I told you everything just now, but I didn't tell you
this, because even I had not brass enough for it. I can still pull up; if
I do, I can give back the full half of my lost honor to-morrow. But I
shan't pull up. I shall carry out my base plan, and you can bear witness
that I told you so beforehand. Darkness and destruction! No need to
explain. You'll find out in due time. The filthy back-alley and the she-
devil. Good-by. Don't pray for me, I'm not worth it. And there's no need,
no need at all.... I don't need it! Away!"
And he suddenly retreated, this time finally. Alyosha went towards the
monastery.
"What? I shall never see him again! What is he saying?" he wondered
wildly. "Why, I shall certainly see him to-morrow. I shall look him up. I
shall make a point of it. What does he mean?"
-------------------------------------
He went round the monastery, and crossed the pine-wood to the hermitage.
The door was opened to him, though no one was admitted at that hour. There
was a tremor in his heart as he went into Father Zossima's cell.
"Why, why, had he gone forth? Why had he sent him into the world? Here was
peace. Here was holiness. But there was confusion, there was darkness in
which one lost one's way and went astray at once...."
In the cell he found the novice Porfiry and Father Paissy, who came every
hour to inquire after Father Zossima. Alyosha learnt with alarm that he
was getting worse and worse. Even his usual discourse with the brothers
could not take place that day. As a rule every evening after service the
monks flocked into Father Zossima's cell, and all confessed aloud their
sins of the day, their sinful thoughts and temptations; even their
disputes, if there had been any. Some confessed kneeling. The elder
absolved, reconciled, exhorted, imposed penance, blessed, and dismissed
them. It was against this general "confession" that the opponents of
"elders" protested, maintaining that it was a profanation of the sacrament
of confession, almost a sacrilege, though this was quite a different
thing. They even represented to the diocesan authorities that such
confessions attained no good object, but actually to a large extent led to
sin and temptation. Many of the brothers disliked going to the elder, and
went against their own will because every one went, and for fear they
should be accused of pride and rebellious ideas. People said that some of
the monks agreed beforehand, saying, "I'll confess I lost my temper with
you this morning, and you confirm it," simply in order to have something
to say. Alyosha knew that this actually happened sometimes. He knew, too,
that there were among the monks some who deeply resented the fact that
letters from relations were habitually taken to the elder, to be opened
and read by him before those to whom they were addressed.
It was assumed, of course, that all this was done freely, and in good
faith, by way of voluntary submission and salutary guidance. But, in fact,
there was sometimes no little insincerity, and much that was false and
strained in this practice. Yet the older and more experienced of the monks
adhered to their opinion, arguing that "for those who have come within
these walls sincerely seeking salvation, such obedience and sacrifice will
certainly be salutary and of great benefit; those, on the other hand, who
find it irksome, and repine, are no true monks, and have made a mistake in
entering the monastery--their proper place is in the world. Even in the
temple one cannot be safe from sin and the devil. So it was no good taking
it too much into account."
"He is weaker, a drowsiness has come over him," Father Paissy whispered to
Alyosha, as he blessed him. "It's difficult to rouse him. And he must not
be roused. He waked up for five minutes, sent his blessing to the
brothers, and begged their prayers for him at night. He intends to take
the sacrament again in the morning. He remembered you, Alexey. He asked
whether you had gone away, and was told that you were in the town. 'I
blessed him for that work,' he said, 'his place is there, not here, for
awhile.' Those were his words about you. He remembered you lovingly, with
anxiety; do you understand how he honored you? But how is it that he has
decided that you shall spend some time in the world? He must have foreseen
something in your destiny! Understand, Alexey, that if you return to the
world, it must be to do the duty laid upon you by your elder, and not for
frivolous vanity and worldly pleasures."
Father Paissy went out. Alyosha had no doubt that Father Zossima was
dying, though he might live another day or two. Alyosha firmly and
ardently resolved that in spite of his promises to his father, the
Hohlakovs, and Katerina Ivanovna, he would not leave the monastery next
day, but would remain with his elder to the end. His heart glowed with
love, and he reproached himself bitterly for having been able for one
instant to forget him whom he had left in the monastery on his deathbed,
and whom he honored above every one in the world. He went into Father
Zossima's bedroom, knelt down, and bowed to the ground before the elder,
who slept quietly without stirring, with regular, hardly audible breathing
and a peaceful face.
Alyosha returned to the other room, where Father Zossima had received his
guests in the morning. Taking off his boots, he lay down on the hard,
narrow, leathern sofa, which he had long used as a bed, bringing nothing
but a pillow. The mattress, about which his father had shouted to him that
morning, he had long forgotten to lie on. He took off his cassock, which
he used as a covering. But before going to bed, he fell on his knees and
prayed a long time. In his fervent prayer he did not beseech God to
lighten his darkness but only thirsted for the joyous emotion, which
always visited his soul after the praise and adoration, of which his
evening prayer usually consisted. That joy always brought him light
untroubled sleep. As he was praying, he suddenly felt in his pocket the
little pink note the servant had handed him as he left Katerina
Ivanovna's. He was disturbed, but finished his prayer. Then, after some
hesitation, he opened the envelope. In it was a letter to him, signed by
Lise, the young daughter of Madame Hohlakov, who had laughed at him before
the elder in the morning.
"Alexey Fyodorovitch," she wrote, "I am writing to you without any one's
knowledge, even mamma's, and I know how wrong it is. But I cannot live
without telling you the feeling that has sprung up in my heart, and this
no one but us two must know for a time. But how am I to say what I want so
much to tell you? Paper, they say, does not blush, but I assure you it's
not true and that it's blushing just as I am now, all over. Dear Alyosha,
I love you, I've loved you from my childhood, since our Moscow days, when
you were very different from what you are now, and I shall love you all my
life. My heart has chosen you, to unite our lives, and pass them together
till our old age. Of course, on condition that you will leave the
monastery. As for our age we will wait for the time fixed by the law. By
that time I shall certainly be quite strong, I shall be walking and
dancing. There can be no doubt of that.
"You see how I've thought of everything. There's only one thing I can't
imagine: what you'll think of me when you read this. I'm always laughing
and being naughty. I made you angry this morning, but I assure you before
I took up my pen, I prayed before the Image of the Mother of God, and now
I'm praying, and almost crying.
"My secret is in your hands. When you come to-morrow, I don't know how I
shall look at you. Ah, Alexey Fyodorovitch, what if I can't restrain
myself like a silly and laugh when I look at you as I did to-day. You'll
think I'm a nasty girl making fun of you, and you won't believe my letter.
And so I beg you, dear one, if you've any pity for me, when you come to-
morrow, don't look me straight in the face, for if I meet your eyes, it
will be sure to make me laugh, especially as you'll be in that long gown.
I feel cold all over when I think of it, so when you come, don't look at
me at all for a time, look at mamma or at the window....
"Here I've written you a love-letter. Oh, dear, what have I done? Alyosha,
don't despise me, and if I've done something very horrid and wounded you,
forgive me. Now the secret of my reputation, ruined perhaps for ever, is
in your hands.
"I shall certainly cry to-day. Good-by till our meeting, our _awful_
meeting.--LISE.
"P.S.--Alyosha! You must, must, must come!--LISE."
Alyosha read the note in amazement, read it through twice, thought a
little, and suddenly laughed a soft, sweet laugh. He started. That laugh
seemed to him sinful. But a minute later he laughed again just as softly
and happily. He slowly replaced the note in the envelope, crossed himself
and lay down. The agitation in his heart passed at once. "God, have mercy
upon all of them, have all these unhappy and turbulent souls in Thy
keeping, and set them in the right path. All ways are Thine. Save them
according to Thy wisdom. Thou art love. Thou wilt send joy to all!"
Alyosha murmured, crossing himself, and falling into peaceful sleep. | One More Ruined Reputation As he returns to the monastery, Alyosha is again stopped by Dmitri, who laughs at the report of Grushenka's behavior. Suddenly remorseful, Dmitri then tells Alyosha that he is consumed by self-disgust. At the monastery that night, Alyosha learns that Zosima's health is rapidly deteriorating, and Zosima is near death. Alyosha decides to remain with Zosima, whom he loves like a father, instead of returning to help with his family's conflict. He reads Lise's letter, which contains a confession of her love for him. She writes that she hopes to marry Alyosha one day. Alyosha laughs happily, says a prayer for all his troubled loved ones, and, after such an eventful day, falls into a deep sleep. |
Scene II.
Leonato's orchard.
[Enter Benedick and Margaret [meeting.]
Bene.
Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well at my hands by
helping me to the speech of Beatrice.
Marg.
Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty?
Bene.
In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over
it; for in most comely truth thou deservest it.
Marg.
To have no man come over me? Why, shall I always keep below
stairs?
Bene.
Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's mouth--it catches.
Marg.
And yours as blunt as the fencer's foils, which hit but hurt not.
Bene.
A most manly wit, Margaret: it will not hurt a woman.
And so I pray thee call Beatrice. I give thee the bucklers.
Marg.
Give us the swords; we have bucklers of our own.
Bene.
If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice,
and they are dangerous weapons for maids.
Marg.
Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs.
Bene.
And therefore will come.
[Exit Margaret.]
[Sings] The god of love,
That sits above
And knows me, and knows me,
How pitiful I deserve--
I mean in singing; but in loving Leander the good swimmer,
Troilus the first employer of panders, and a whole book full of
these quondam carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly in the
even road of a blank verse--why, they were never so truly turn'd
over and over as my poor self in love. Marry, I cannot show it in
rhyme. I have tried. I can find out no rhyme to 'lady' but 'baby'
--an innocent rhyme; for 'scorn,' 'horn'--a hard rhyme; for
'school', 'fool'--a babbling rhyme: very ominous endings! No, I
was not born under a rhyming planet, nor cannot woo in festival
terms.
[Enter Beatrice.]
Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I call'd thee?
Beat.
Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me.
Bene.
O, stay but till then!
Beat.
'Then' is spoken. Fare you well now. And yet, ere I go, let me go
with that I came for, which is, with knowing what hath pass'd
between you and Claudio.
Bene.
Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee.
Beat.
Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath,
and foul breath is noisome. Therefore I will depart unkiss'd.
Bene.
Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible
is thy wit. But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my
challenge; and either I must shortly hear from him or I will
subscribe him a coward. And I pray thee now tell me, for which of
my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?
Beat.
For them all together, which maintain'd so politic a state of
evil that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with
them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love
for me?
Bene.
Suffer love!--a good epithet. I do suffer love indeed, for I love
thee against my will.
Beat.
In spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor heart! If you spite
it for my sake, I will spite it for yours, for I will never love
that which my friend hates.
Bene.
Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
Beat.
It appears not in this confession. There's not one wise man among
twenty, that will praise himself.
Bene.
An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that liv'd in the time of good
neighbours. If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he
dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the
bell rings and the widow weeps.
Beat.
And how long is that, think you?
Bene.
Question: why, an hour in clamour and a quarter in rheum.
Therefore is it most expedient for the wise, if Don Worm (his
conscience) find no impediment to the contrary, to be the
trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself. So much for
praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is
praiseworthy. And now tell me, how doth your cousin?
Beat.
Very ill.
Bene.
And how do you?
Beat.
Very ill too.
Bene.
Serve God, love me, and mend. There will I leave you too, for
here comes one in haste.
[Enter Ursula.]
Urs.
Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder's old coil at home.
It is proved my Lady Hero hath been falsely accus'd, the Prince
and Claudio mightily abus'd, and Don John is the author of all,
who is fled and gone. Will you come presently?
Beat.
Will you go hear this news, signior?
Bene.
I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried thy eyes;
and moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle's.
[Exeunt.] | Benedick asks Margaret to tell Beatrice he has done as she asked and challenged Claudio to a duel. Margaret, in exchange, asks him to write some love poetry. Beatrice arrives and tells Benedick about the terrible state of young Hero. Ursula arrives with the news of Borachio's arrest and confession, and the truth about Hero. A relieved Benedick and Beatrice continue their verbal sparring, though with much affection. |
At seven o'clock the next morning Jurgis was let out to get water to
wash his cell--a duty which he performed faithfully, but which most
of the prisoners were accustomed to shirk, until their cells became so
filthy that the guards interposed. Then he had more "duffers and
dope," and afterward was allowed three hours for exercise, in a long,
cement-walked court roofed with glass. Here were all the inmates of
the jail crowded together. At one side of the court was a place for
visitors, cut off by two heavy wire screens, a foot apart, so that
nothing could be passed in to the prisoners; here Jurgis watched
anxiously, but there came no one to see him.
Soon after he went back to his cell, a keeper opened the door to let
in another prisoner. He was a dapper young fellow, with a light brown
mustache and blue eyes, and a graceful figure. He nodded to Jurgis, and
then, as the keeper closed the door upon him, began gazing critically
about him.
"Well, pal," he said, as his glance encountered Jurgis again, "good
morning."
"Good morning," said Jurgis.
"A rum go for Christmas, eh?" added the other.
Jurgis nodded.
The newcomer went to the bunks and inspected the blankets; he lifted
up the mattress, and then dropped it with an exclamation. "My God!" he
said, "that's the worst yet."
He glanced at Jurgis again. "Looks as if it hadn't been slept in last
night. Couldn't stand it, eh?"
"I didn't want to sleep last night," said Jurgis.
"When did you come in?"
"Yesterday."
The other had another look around, and then wrinkled up his nose.
"There's the devil of a stink in here," he said, suddenly. "What is it?"
"It's me," said Jurgis.
"You?"
"Yes, me."
"Didn't they make you wash?"
"Yes, but this don't wash."
"What is it?"
"Fertilizer."
"Fertilizer! The deuce! What are you?"
"I work in the stockyards--at least I did until the other day. It's in
my clothes."
"That's a new one on me," said the newcomer. "I thought I'd been up
against 'em all. What are you in for?"
"I hit my boss."
"Oh--that's it. What did he do?"
"He--he treated me mean."
"I see. You're what's called an honest workingman!"
"What are you?" Jurgis asked.
"I?" The other laughed. "They say I'm a cracksman," he said.
"What's that?" asked Jurgis.
"Safes, and such things," answered the other.
"Oh," said Jurgis, wonderingly, and stared at the speaker in awe. "You
mean you break into them--you--you--"
"Yes," laughed the other, "that's what they say."
He did not look to be over twenty-two or three, though, as Jurgis found
afterward, he was thirty. He spoke like a man of education, like what
the world calls a "gentleman."
"Is that what you're here for?" Jurgis inquired.
"No," was the answer. "I'm here for disorderly conduct. They were mad
because they couldn't get any evidence.
"What's your name?" the young fellow continued after a pause. "My name's
Duane--Jack Duane. I've more than a dozen, but that's my company one."
He seated himself on the floor with his back to the wall and his legs
crossed, and went on talking easily; he soon put Jurgis on a friendly
footing--he was evidently a man of the world, used to getting on, and
not too proud to hold conversation with a mere laboring man. He drew
Jurgis out, and heard all about his life all but the one unmentionable
thing; and then he told stories about his own life. He was a great
one for stories, not always of the choicest. Being sent to jail had
apparently not disturbed his cheerfulness; he had "done time" twice
before, it seemed, and he took it all with a frolic welcome. What with
women and wine and the excitement of his vocation, a man could afford to
rest now and then.
Naturally, the aspect of prison life was changed for Jurgis by the
arrival of a cell mate. He could not turn his face to the wall and
sulk, he had to speak when he was spoken to; nor could he help being
interested in the conversation of Duane--the first educated man with
whom he had ever talked. How could he help listening with wonder while
the other told of midnight ventures and perilous escapes, of feastings
and orgies, of fortunes squandered in a night? The young fellow had an
amused contempt for Jurgis, as a sort of working mule; he, too, had
felt the world's injustice, but instead of bearing it patiently, he had
struck back, and struck hard. He was striking all the time--there was
war between him and society. He was a genial freebooter, living off the
enemy, without fear or shame. He was not always victorious, but then
defeat did not mean annihilation, and need not break his spirit.
Withal he was a goodhearted fellow--too much so, it appeared. His story
came out, not in the first day, nor the second, but in the long hours
that dragged by, in which they had nothing to do but talk and nothing
to talk of but themselves. Jack Duane was from the East; he was a
college-bred man--had been studying electrical engineering. Then his
father had met with misfortune in business and killed himself; and there
had been his mother and a younger brother and sister. Also, there was an
invention of Duane's; Jurgis could not understand it clearly, but it had
to do with telegraphing, and it was a very important thing--there were
fortunes in it, millions upon millions of dollars. And Duane had been
robbed of it by a great company, and got tangled up in lawsuits and lost
all his money. Then somebody had given him a tip on a horse race, and he
had tried to retrieve his fortune with another person's money, and had
to run away, and all the rest had come from that. The other asked
him what had led him to safe-breaking--to Jurgis a wild and appalling
occupation to think about. A man he had met, his cell mate had
replied--one thing leads to another. Didn't he ever wonder about his
family, Jurgis asked. Sometimes, the other answered, but not often--he
didn't allow it. Thinking about it would make it no better. This wasn't
a world in which a man had any business with a family; sooner or later
Jurgis would find that out also, and give up the fight and shift for
himself.
Jurgis was so transparently what he pretended to be that his cell mate
was as open with him as a child; it was pleasant to tell him adventures,
he was so full of wonder and admiration, he was so new to the ways of
the country. Duane did not even bother to keep back names and places--he
told all his triumphs and his failures, his loves and his griefs. Also
he introduced Jurgis to many of the other prisoners, nearly half of whom
he knew by name. The crowd had already given Jurgis a name--they called
him "the stinker." This was cruel, but they meant no harm by it, and he
took it with a good-natured grin.
Our friend had caught now and then a whiff from the sewers over which
he lived, but this was the first time that he had ever been splashed by
their filth. This jail was a Noah's ark of the city's crime--there were
murderers, "hold-up men" and burglars, embezzlers, counterfeiters and
forgers, bigamists, "shoplifters," "confidence men," petty thieves
and pickpockets, gamblers and procurers, brawlers, beggars, tramps
and drunkards; they were black and white, old and young, Americans and
natives of every nation under the sun. There were hardened criminals and
innocent men too poor to give bail; old men, and boys literally not yet
in their teens. They were the drainage of the great festering ulcer of
society; they were hideous to look upon, sickening to talk to. All life
had turned to rottenness and stench in them--love was a beastliness, joy
was a snare, and God was an imprecation. They strolled here and there
about the courtyard, and Jurgis listened to them. He was ignorant and
they were wise; they had been everywhere and tried everything. They
could tell the whole hateful story of it, set forth the inner soul of
a city in which justice and honor, women's bodies and men's souls, were
for sale in the marketplace, and human beings writhed and fought and
fell upon each other like wolves in a pit; in which lusts were raging
fires, and men were fuel, and humanity was festering and stewing and
wallowing in its own corruption. Into this wild-beast tangle these men
had been born without their consent, they had taken part in it because
they could not help it; that they were in jail was no disgrace to
them, for the game had never been fair, the dice were loaded. They were
swindlers and thieves of pennies and dimes, and they had been trapped
and put out of the way by the swindlers and thieves of millions of
dollars.
To most of this Jurgis tried not to listen. They frightened him with
their savage mockery; and all the while his heart was far away, where
his loved ones were calling. Now and then in the midst of it his
thoughts would take flight; and then the tears would come into his
eyes--and he would be called back by the jeering laughter of his
companions.
He spent a week in this company, and during all that time he had no word
from his home. He paid one of his fifteen cents for a postal card, and
his companion wrote a note to the family, telling them where he was
and when he would be tried. There came no answer to it, however, and at
last, the day before New Year's, Jurgis bade good-by to Jack Duane. The
latter gave him his address, or rather the address of his mistress, and
made Jurgis promise to look him up. "Maybe I could help you out of a
hole some day," he said, and added that he was sorry to have him go.
Jurgis rode in the patrol wagon back to Justice Callahan's court for
trial.
One of the first things he made out as he entered the room was Teta
Elzbieta and little Kotrina, looking pale and frightened, seated far in
the rear. His heart began to pound, but he did not dare to try to signal
to them, and neither did Elzbieta. He took his seat in the prisoners'
pen and sat gazing at them in helpless agony. He saw that Ona was not
with them, and was full of foreboding as to what that might mean. He
spent half an hour brooding over this--and then suddenly he straightened
up and the blood rushed into his face. A man had come in--Jurgis could
not see his features for the bandages that swathed him, but he knew the
burly figure. It was Connor! A trembling seized him, and his limbs bent
as if for a spring. Then suddenly he felt a hand on his collar, and
heard a voice behind him: "Sit down, you son of a--!"
He subsided, but he never took his eyes off his enemy. The fellow was
still alive, which was a disappointment, in one way; and yet it was
pleasant to see him, all in penitential plasters. He and the company
lawyer, who was with him, came and took seats within the judge's
railing; and a minute later the clerk called Jurgis' name, and the
policeman jerked him to his feet and led him before the bar, gripping
him tightly by the arm, lest he should spring upon the boss.
Jurgis listened while the man entered the witness chair, took the oath,
and told his story. The wife of the prisoner had been employed in a
department near him, and had been discharged for impudence to him. Half
an hour later he had been violently attacked, knocked down, and almost
choked to death. He had brought witnesses--
"They will probably not be necessary," observed the judge and he turned
to Jurgis. "You admit attacking the plaintiff?" he asked.
"Him?" inquired Jurgis, pointing at the boss.
"Yes," said the judge. "I hit him, sir," said Jurgis.
"Say 'your Honor,'" said the officer, pinching his arm hard.
"Your Honor," said Jurgis, obediently.
"You tried to choke him?"
"Yes, sir, your Honor."
"Ever been arrested before?"
"No, sir, your Honor."
"What have you to say for yourself?"
Jurgis hesitated. What had he to say? In two years and a half he had
learned to speak English for practical purposes, but these had never
included the statement that some one had intimidated and seduced his
wife. He tried once or twice, stammering and balking, to the annoyance
of the judge, who was gasping from the odor of fertilizer. Finally,
the prisoner made it understood that his vocabulary was inadequate, and
there stepped up a dapper young man with waxed mustaches, bidding him
speak in any language he knew.
Jurgis began; supposing that he would be given time, he explained how
the boss had taken advantage of his wife's position to make advances
to her and had threatened her with the loss of her place. When the
interpreter had translated this, the judge, whose calendar was crowded,
and whose automobile was ordered for a certain hour, interrupted with
the remark: "Oh, I see. Well, if he made love to your wife, why didn't
she complain to the superintendent or leave the place?"
Jurgis hesitated, somewhat taken aback; he began to explain that they
were very poor--that work was hard to get--
"I see," said Justice Callahan; "so instead you thought you would knock
him down." He turned to the plaintiff, inquiring, "Is there any truth in
this story, Mr. Connor?"
"Not a particle, your Honor," said the boss. "It is very
unpleasant--they tell some such tale every time you have to discharge a
woman--"
"Yes, I know," said the judge. "I hear it often enough. The fellow seems
to have handled you pretty roughly. Thirty days and costs. Next case."
Jurgis had been listening in perplexity. It was only when the policeman
who had him by the arm turned and started to lead him away that he
realized that sentence had been passed. He gazed round him wildly.
"Thirty days!" he panted and then he whirled upon the judge. "What will
my family do?" he cried frantically. "I have a wife and baby, sir, and
they have no money--my God, they will starve to death!"
"You would have done well to think about them before you committed
the assault," said the judge dryly, as he turned to look at the next
prisoner.
Jurgis would have spoken again, but the policeman had seized him by the
collar and was twisting it, and a second policeman was making for him
with evidently hostile intentions. So he let them lead him away. Far
down the room he saw Elzbieta and Kotrina, risen from their seats,
staring in fright; he made one effort to go to them, and then, brought
back by another twist at his throat, he bowed his head and gave up the
struggle. They thrust him into a cell room, where other prisoners were
waiting; and as soon as court had adjourned they led him down with them
into the "Black Maria," and drove him away.
This time Jurgis was bound for the "Bridewell," a petty jail where Cook
County prisoners serve their time. It was even filthier and more crowded
than the county jail; all the smaller fry out of the latter had been
sifted into it--the petty thieves and swindlers, the brawlers and
vagrants. For his cell mate Jurgis had an Italian fruit seller who
had refused to pay his graft to the policeman, and been arrested for
carrying a large pocketknife; as he did not understand a word of English
our friend was glad when he left. He gave place to a Norwegian sailor,
who had lost half an ear in a drunken brawl, and who proved to be
quarrelsome, cursing Jurgis because he moved in his bunk and caused
the roaches to drop upon the lower one. It would have been quite
intolerable, staying in a cell with this wild beast, but for the fact
that all day long the prisoners were put at work breaking stone.
Ten days of his thirty Jurgis spent thus, without hearing a word from
his family; then one day a keeper came and informed him that there was
a visitor to see him. Jurgis turned white, and so weak at the knees that
he could hardly leave his cell.
The man led him down the corridor and a flight of steps to the visitors'
room, which was barred like a cell. Through the grating Jurgis could
see some one sitting in a chair; and as he came into the room the person
started up, and he saw that it was little Stanislovas. At the sight
of some one from home the big fellow nearly went to pieces--he had to
steady himself by a chair, and he put his other hand to his forehead, as
if to clear away a mist. "Well?" he said, weakly.
Little Stanislovas was also trembling, and all but too frightened to
speak. "They--they sent me to tell you--" he said, with a gulp.
"Well?" Jurgis repeated. He followed the boy's glance to where the
keeper was standing watching them. "Never mind that," Jurgis cried,
wildly. "How are they?"
"Ona is very sick," Stanislovas said; "and we are almost starving. We
can't get along; we thought you might be able to help us."
Jurgis gripped the chair tighter; there were beads of perspiration on
his forehead, and his hand shook. "I--can't help you," he said.
"Ona lies in her room all day," the boy went on, breathlessly. "She
won't eat anything, and she cries all the time. She won't tell what is
the matter and she won't go to work at all. Then a long time ago the man
came for the rent. He was very cross. He came again last week. He said
he would turn us out of the house. And then Marija--"
A sob choked Stanislovas, and he stopped. "What's the matter with
Marija?" cried Jurgis.
"She's cut her hand!" said the boy. "She's cut it bad, this time, worse
than before. She can't work and it's all turning green, and the company
doctor says she may--she may have to have it cut off. And Marija cries
all the time--her money is nearly all gone, too, and we can't pay the
rent and the interest on the house; and we have no coal and nothing more
to eat, and the man at the store, he says--"
The little fellow stopped again, beginning to whimper. "Go on!" the
other panted in frenzy--"Go on!"
"I--I will," sobbed Stanislovas. "It's so--so cold all the time. And
last Sunday it snowed again--a deep, deep snow--and I couldn't--couldn't
get to work."
"God!" Jurgis half shouted, and he took a step toward the child. There
was an old hatred between them because of the snow--ever since that
dreadful morning when the boy had had his fingers frozen and Jurgis had
had to beat him to send him to work. Now he clenched his hands, looking
as if he would try to break through the grating. "You little villain,"
he cried, "you didn't try!"
"I did--I did!" wailed Stanislovas, shrinking from him in terror. "I
tried all day--two days. Elzbieta was with me, and she couldn't either.
We couldn't walk at all, it was so deep. And we had nothing to eat, and
oh, it was so cold! I tried, and then the third day Ona went with me--"
"Ona!"
"Yes. She tried to get to work, too. She had to. We were all starving.
But she had lost her place--"
Jurgis reeled, and gave a gasp. "She went back to that place?" he
screamed. "She tried to," said Stanislovas, gazing at him in perplexity.
"Why not, Jurgis?"
The man breathed hard, three or four times. "Go--on," he panted,
finally.
"I went with her," said Stanislovas, "but Miss Henderson wouldn't take
her back. And Connor saw her and cursed her. He was still bandaged
up--why did you hit him, Jurgis?" (There was some fascinating mystery
about this, the little fellow knew; but he could get no satisfaction.)
Jurgis could not speak; he could only stare, his eyes starting out. "She
has been trying to get other work," the boy went on; "but she's so weak
she can't keep up. And my boss would not take me back, either--Ona says
he knows Connor, and that's the reason; they've all got a grudge against
us now. So I've got to go downtown and sell papers with the rest of the
boys and Kotrina--"
"Kotrina!"
"Yes, she's been selling papers, too. She does best, because she's
a girl. Only the cold is so bad--it's terrible coming home at night,
Jurgis. Sometimes they can't come home at all--I'm going to try to find
them tonight and sleep where they do, it's so late and it's such a long
ways home. I've had to walk, and I didn't know where it was--I don't
know how to get back, either. Only mother said I must come, because you
would want to know, and maybe somebody would help your family when they
had put you in jail so you couldn't work. And I walked all day to get
here--and I only had a piece of bread for breakfast, Jurgis. Mother
hasn't any work either, because the sausage department is shut down;
and she goes and begs at houses with a basket, and people give her food.
Only she didn't get much yesterday; it was too cold for her fingers, and
today she was crying--"
So little Stanislovas went on, sobbing as he talked; and Jurgis stood,
gripping the table tightly, saying not a word, but feeling that his
head would burst; it was like having weights piled upon him, one after
another, crushing the life out of him. He struggled and fought within
himself--as if in some terrible nightmare, in which a man suffers an
agony, and cannot lift his hand, nor cry out, but feels that he is going
mad, that his brain is on fire--
Just when it seemed to him that another turn of the screw would kill
him, little Stanislovas stopped. "You cannot help us?" he said weakly.
Jurgis shook his head.
"They won't give you anything here?"
He shook it again.
"When are you coming out?"
"Three weeks yet," Jurgis answered.
And the boy gazed around him uncertainly. "Then I might as well go," he
said.
Jurgis nodded. Then, suddenly recollecting, he put his hand into his
pocket and drew it out, shaking. "Here," he said, holding out the
fourteen cents. "Take this to them."
And Stanislovas took it, and after a little more hesitation, started
for the door. "Good-by, Jurgis," he said, and the other noticed that he
walked unsteadily as he passed out of sight.
For a minute or so Jurgis stood clinging to his chair, reeling and
swaying; then the keeper touched him on the arm, and he turned and went
back to breaking stone. | Jurgis spends the morning hoping for visitors, but no one comes. Another prisoner is let into his cell a bit later on. The prisoner is a lively young guy who comments on the awful state of the mattress and the smell in the cell. Jurgis admits that the smell is coming from him - the reek of fertilizer doesn't wash off, and it's gotten into his clothes. The prisoner is surprised; he's never had a cellmate from the stockyards before. Jurgis explains that he's in jail because he hit his boss. His boss "treated mean" . The prisoner responds that he's a "cracksman" - someone who brakes into safes. But he's actually in jail for disturbing the peace, since the cops haven't found any evidence against him. Jurgis is astonished: the guy looks young, well put-together, and gentlemanly. The prisoner introduces himself as Jack Duane. Jurgis has never spoken to an educated man before, and he is interested in spite of himself. Jack Duane was a college kid studying electrical engineering when his father killed himself because of some business failure. Duane tried to help his mother and family by selling an invention of his, but he was cheated out of the patent by a big company and ended up losing everything. So Duane wound up skipping town, having learned that family is mostly a burden on a man. Jack Duane introduces Jurgis to all of his fellow prisoners. These criminals are outcasts, but they are also the products of a society that thrives on inequality and exploitation of other people. Jurgis doesn't hear from his family before his trial a week later. Jack Duane gives Jurgis an address where he can be reached, and promises he'll help Jurgis out one day if he can. When Jurgis arrives at the courtroom, he sees Teta Elzbieta and Kotrina but not Ona, and he doesn't know what her absence means. Connor walks into the room and Jurgis almost leaps for him again, but a cop holds him back. Connor testifies that he fired Jurgis's wife for rudeness, and half an hour later, Jurgis attacked him. Jurgis tries to explain through an interpreter that Connor sexually harassed and raped his wife. Judge Callahan cuts him off and won't listen; he asks why Jurgis's wife didn't complain if she didn't want to have sex with Connor. Judge Callahan turns to Connor and asks if this story is true. Connor says that it's not true at all. Judge Callahan believes Connor and sentences Jurgis to thirty days in jail plus costs. Jurgis is sent to a prison for smalltime offenders and spends his days breaking rocks. After ten days, he finally gets a visitor from his family. It's Stanislovas, and he comes bearing awful news: Ona is in bed and can't go to work. Marija has cut her hand badly and it's getting infected. The company doctor has told her she may have to have her hand amputated. They are starving, they can't get credit at the local store anymore, and they have missed the rent and interest payment for their house. The Sunday before, there was a heavy blizzard, and Stanislovas couldn't go to work. Jurgis accuses Stanislovas of not even trying to get to work because of his fear of the cold. Stanslovas promises that he did try, but neither he nor Elzbieta could walk through the snow. In desperation, Ona also tried to struggle through the snow to her old job, but Miss Henderson refuses to employ Ona any more. And Ona is so weak that she can't find anything else. Stanislovas's boss also won't take him back because Stanislovas's boss is friends with Connor. So Stanislovas and the two younger boys all go into the city to sell newspapers - along with Kotrina, who is new to the workforce. Teta Elzbieta has also lost her job, because the sausage factory has shut down for the slow season. So Teta Elzbieta has been begging from house to house. Jurgis cannot help them, and he cannot get out of prison for another three weeks. So Stanislovas has to walk away. Jurgis reels at all of this terrible news. |
ACT I SCENE I
MADAME PERNELLE and FLIPOTTE, her servant; ELMIRE, MARIANE, CLEANTE,
DAMIS, DORINE
MADAME PERNELLE
Come, come, Flipotte, and let me get away.
ELMIRE
You hurry so, I hardly can attend you.
MADAME PERNELLE
Then don't, my daughter-in law. Stay where you are.
I can dispense with your polite attentions.
ELMIRE
We're only paying what is due you, mother.
Why must you go away in such a hurry?
MADAME PERNELLE
Because I can't endure your carryings-on,
And no one takes the slightest pains to please me.
I leave your house, I tell you, quite disgusted;
You do the opposite of my instructions;
You've no respect for anything; each one
Must have his say; it's perfect pandemonium.
DORINE
If ...
MADAME PERNELLE
You're a servant wench, my girl, and much
Too full of gab, and too impertinent
And free with your advice on all occasions.
DAMIS
But ...
MADAME PERNELLE
You're a fool, my boy--f, o, o, l
Just spells your name. Let grandma tell you that
I've said a hundred times to my poor son,
Your father, that you'd never come to good
Or give him anything but plague and torment.
MARIANE
I think ...
MADAME PERNELLE
O dearie me, his little sister!
You're all demureness, butter wouldn't melt
In your mouth, one would think to look at you.
Still waters, though, they say ... you know the proverb;
And I don't like your doings on the sly.
ELMIRE
But, mother ...
MADAME PERNELLE
Daughter, by your leave, your conduct
In everything is altogether wrong;
You ought to set a good example for 'em;
Their dear departed mother did much better.
You are extravagant; and it offends me,
To see you always decked out like a princess.
A woman who would please her husband's eyes
Alone, wants no such wealth of fineries.
CLEANTE
But, madam, after all ...
MADAME PERNELLE
Sir, as for you,
The lady's brother, I esteem you highly,
Love and respect you. But, sir, all the same,
If I were in my son's, her husband's, place,
I'd urgently entreat you not to come
Within our doors. You preach a way of living
That decent people cannot tolerate.
I'm rather frank with you; but that's my way--
I don't mince matters, when I mean a thing.
DAMIS
Mr. Tartuffe, your friend, is mighty lucky ...
MADAME PERNELLE
He is a holy man, and must be heeded;
I can't endure, with any show of patience,
To hear a scatterbrains like you attack him.
DAMIS
What! Shall I let a bigot criticaster
Come and usurp a tyrant's power here?
And shall we never dare amuse ourselves
Till this fine gentleman deigns to consent?
DORINE
If we must hark to him, and heed his maxims,
There's not a thing we do but what's a crime;
He censures everything, this zealous carper.
MADAME PERNELLE
And all he censures is well censured, too.
He wants to guide you on the way to heaven;
My son should train you all to love him well.
DAMIS
No, madam, look you, nothing--not my father
Nor anything--can make me tolerate him.
I should belie my feelings not to say so.
His actions rouse my wrath at every turn;
And I foresee that there must come of it
An open rupture with this sneaking scoundrel.
DORINE
Besides, 'tis downright scandalous to see
This unknown upstart master of the house--
This vagabond, who hadn't, when he came,
Shoes to his feet, or clothing worth six farthings,
And who so far forgets his place, as now
To censure everything, and rule the roost!
MADAME PERNELLE
Eh! Mercy sakes alive! Things would go better
If all were governed by his pious orders.
DORINE
He passes for a saint in your opinion.
In fact, he's nothing but a hypocrite.
MADAME PERNELLE
Just listen to her tongue!
DORINE
I wouldn't trust him,
Nor yet his Lawrence, without bonds and surety.
MADAME PERNELLE
I don't know what the servant's character
May be; but I can guarantee the master
A holy man. You hate him and reject him
Because he tells home truths to all of you.
'Tis sin alone that moves his heart to anger,
And heaven's interest is his only motive.
DORINE
Of course. But why, especially of late,
Can he let nobody come near the house?
Is heaven offended at a civil call
That he should make so great a fuss about it?
I'll tell you, if you like, just what I think;
(Pointing to Elmire)
Upon my word, he's jealous of our mistress.
MADAME PERNELLE
You hold your tongue, and think what you are saying.
He's not alone in censuring these visits;
The turmoil that attends your sort of people,
Their carriages forever at the door,
And all their noisy footmen, flocked together,
Annoy the neighbourhood, and raise a scandal.
I'd gladly think there's nothing really wrong;
But it makes talk; and that's not as it should be.
CLEANTE
Eh! madam, can you hope to keep folk's tongues
From wagging? It would be a grievous thing
If, for the fear of idle talk about us,
We had to sacrifice our friends. No, no;
Even if we could bring ourselves to do it,
Think you that everyone would then be silenced?
Against backbiting there is no defence
So let us try to live in innocence,
To silly tattle pay no heed at all,
And leave the gossips free to vent their gall.
DORINE
Our neighbour Daphne, and her little husband,
Must be the ones who slander us, I'm thinking.
Those whose own conduct's most ridiculous,
Are always quickest to speak ill of others;
They never fail to seize at once upon
The slightest hint of any love affair,
And spread the news of it with glee, and give it
The character they'd have the world believe in.
By others' actions, painted in their colours,
They hope to justify their own; they think,
In the false hope of some resemblance, either
To make their own intrigues seem innocent,
Or else to make their neighbours share the blame
Which they are loaded with by everybody.
MADAME PERNELLE
These arguments are nothing to the purpose.
Orante, we all know, lives a perfect life;
Her thoughts are all of heaven; and I have heard
That she condemns the company you keep.
DORINE
O admirable pattern! Virtuous dame!
She lives the model of austerity;
But age has brought this piety upon her,
And she's a prude, now she can't help herself.
As long as she could capture men's attentions
She made the most of her advantages;
But, now she sees her beauty vanishing,
She wants to leave the world, that's leaving her,
And in the specious veil of haughty virtue
She'd hide the weakness of her worn-out charms.
That is the way with all your old coquettes;
They find it hard to see their lovers leave 'em;
And thus abandoned, their forlorn estate
Can find no occupation but a prude's.
These pious dames, in their austerity,
Must carp at everything, and pardon nothing.
They loudly blame their neighbours' way of living,
Not for religion's sake, but out of envy,
Because they can't endure to see another
Enjoy the pleasures age has weaned them from.
MADAME PERNELLE (to Elmire)
There! That's the kind of rigmarole to please you,
Daughter-in-law. One never has a chance
To get a word in edgewise, at your house,
Because this lady holds the floor all day;
But none the less, I mean to have my say, too.
I tell you that my son did nothing wiser
In all his life, than take this godly man
Into his household; heaven sent him here,
In your great need, to make you all repent;
For your salvation, you must hearken to him;
He censures nothing but deserves his censure.
These visits, these assemblies, and these balls,
Are all inventions of the evil spirit.
You never hear a word of godliness
At them--but idle cackle, nonsense, flimflam.
Our neighbour often comes in for a share,
The talk flies fast, and scandal fills the air;
It makes a sober person's head go round,
At these assemblies, just to hear the sound
Of so much gab, with not a word to say;
And as a learned man remarked one day
Most aptly, 'tis the Tower of Babylon,
Where all, beyond all limit, babble on.
And just to tell you how this point came in ...
(To Cleante)
So! Now the gentlemen must snicker, must he?
Go find fools like yourself to make you laugh
And don't ...
(To Elmire)
Daughter, good-bye; not one word more.
As for this house, I leave the half unsaid;
But I shan't soon set foot in it again,
(Cuffing Flipotte)
Come, you! What makes you dream and stand agape,
Hussy! I'll warm your ears in proper shape!
March, trollop, march! | Madame Pernelle is ready to leave her son Orgon's house because she finds it appalling that no one pays any attention to her. She offers everyone her good advice, and everyone tends to contradict or ignore her. She tells her grandson, Damis, that he is a dunce; her granddaughter, who seems so shy and demure, is censured for being so secretive. She accuses her daughter-in-law, Elmire, of being too free with money, and she accuses Cleante, Elmire's brother, of being too worldly. The only person who has her approval is Tartuffe -- to her, the epitome of perfection. Damis and the maid Dorine both argue that Tartuffe is a bigot and a hypocrite, but Madame Pernelle is unconvinced; she thinks that the others don't like Tartuffe because this "good man reminds them of their sins and reveals their moral flaws." She also maintains that there are too many visitors who come and, upon leaving, gossip about the family. Dorine snaps that the old woman condemns out of jealousy; before Madame Pernelle grew old, she was a part of the world and now, fearing that the world is going to drop her, she spends her time criticizing it. Madame Pernelle will not tolerate such comments and upon leaving, reminds the company that they are lucky to have such a holy man as Tartuffe dwelling beneath their roof. |
ACT II. SCENE I.
Britain. Before CYMBELINE'S palace
Enter CLOTEN and the two LORDS
CLOTEN. Was there ever man had such luck! When I kiss'd the
jack,
upon an up-cast to be hit away! I had a hundred pound on't;
and
then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as
if I
borrowed mine oaths of him, and might not spend them at my
pleasure.
FIRST LORD. What got he by that? You have broke his pate with
your
bowl.
SECOND LORD. [Aside] If his wit had been like him that broke
it, it
would have run all out.
CLOTEN. When a gentleman is dispos'd to swear, it is not for
any
standers-by to curtail his oaths. Ha?
SECOND LORD. No, my lord; [Aside] nor crop the ears of them.
CLOTEN. Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction? Would he had
been
one of my rank!
SECOND LORD. [Aside] To have smell'd like a fool.
CLOTEN. I am not vex'd more at anything in th' earth. A pox
on't! I
had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with
me,
because of the Queen my mother. Every jackslave hath his
bellyful
of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that
nobody
can match.
SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are cock and capon too; and you crow,
cock, with your comb on.
CLOTEN. Sayest thou?
SECOND LORD. It is not fit your lordship should undertake every
companion that you give offence to.
CLOTEN. No, I know that; but it is fit I should commit offence
to
my inferiors.
SECOND LORD. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only.
CLOTEN. Why, so I say.
FIRST LORD. Did you hear of a stranger that's come to court
to-night?
CLOTEN. A stranger, and I not known on't?
SECOND LORD. [Aside] He's a strange fellow himself, and knows
it
not.
FIRST LORD. There's an Italian come, and, 'tis thought, one of
Leonatus' friends.
CLOTEN. Leonatus? A banish'd rascal; and he's another,
whatsoever
he be. Who told you of this stranger?
FIRST LORD. One of your lordship's pages.
CLOTEN. Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no
derogation
in't?
SECOND LORD. You cannot derogate, my lord.
CLOTEN. Not easily, I think.
SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are a fool granted; therefore your
issues,
being foolish, do not derogate.
CLOTEN. Come, I'll go see this Italian. What I have lost to-day
at
bowls I'll win to-night of him. Come, go.
SECOND LORD. I'll attend your lordship.
Exeunt CLOTEN and FIRST LORD
That such a crafty devil as is his mother
Should yield the world this ass! A woman that
Bears all down with her brain; and this her son
Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart,
And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess,
Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur'st,
Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern'd,
A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer
More hateful than the foul expulsion is
Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act
Of the divorce he'd make! The heavens hold firm
The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshak'd
That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand
T' enjoy thy banish'd lord and this great land! Exit
SCENE II.
Britain. IMOGEN'S bedchamber in CYMBELINE'S palace; a trunk in
one corner
Enter IMOGEN in her bed, and a LADY attending
IMOGEN. Who's there? My woman? Helen?
LADY. Please you, madam.
IMOGEN. What hour is it?
LADY. Almost midnight, madam.
IMOGEN. I have read three hours then. Mine eyes are weak;
Fold down the leaf where I have left. To bed.
Take not away the taper, leave it burning;
And if thou canst awake by four o' th' clock,
I prithee call me. Sleep hath seiz'd me wholly. Exit LADY
To your protection I commend me, gods.
From fairies and the tempters of the night
Guard me, beseech ye!
[Sleeps. IACHIMO comes from the trunk]
IACHIMO. The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense
Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus
Did softly press the rushes ere he waken'd
The chastity he wounded. Cytherea,
How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! fresh lily,
And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch!
But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon'd,
How dearly they do't! 'Tis her breathing that
Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' th' taper
Bows toward her and would under-peep her lids
To see th' enclosed lights, now canopied
Under these windows white and azure, lac'd
With blue of heaven's own tinct. But my design
To note the chamber. I will write all down:
Such and such pictures; there the window; such
Th' adornment of her bed; the arras, figures-
Why, such and such; and the contents o' th' story.
Ah, but some natural notes about her body
Above ten thousand meaner movables
Would testify, t' enrich mine inventory.
O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her!
And be her sense but as a monument,
Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off;
[Taking off her bracelet]
As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard!
'Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly,
As strongly as the conscience does within,
To th' madding of her lord. On her left breast
A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops
I' th' bottom of a cowslip. Here's a voucher
Stronger than ever law could make; this secret
Will force him think I have pick'd the lock and ta'en
The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end?
Why should I write this down that's riveted,
Screw'd to my memory? She hath been reading late
The tale of Tereus; here the leaf's turn'd down
Where Philomel gave up. I have enough.
To th' trunk again, and shut the spring of it.
Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning
May bare the raven's eye! I lodge in fear;
Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. [Clock strikes]
One, two, three. Time, time! Exit into the trunk
SCENE III.
CYMBELINE'S palace. An ante-chamber adjoining IMOGEN'S apartments
Enter CLOTEN and LORDS
FIRST LORD. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the
most
coldest that ever turn'd up ace.
CLOTEN. It would make any man cold to lose.
FIRST LORD. But not every man patient after the noble temper of
your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win.
CLOTEN. Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get
this
foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It's almost
morning,
is't not?
FIRST LORD. Day, my lord.
CLOTEN. I would this music would come. I am advised to give her
music a mornings; they say it will penetrate.
Enter musicians
Come on, tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingering,
so.
We'll try with tongue too. If none will do, let her remain;
but
I'll never give o'er. First, a very excellent good-conceited
thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich
words to
it- and then let her consider.
SONG
Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chalic'd flow'rs that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes.
With everything that pretty bin,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise!
So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your
music
the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears which
horsehairs and calves' guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch
to
boot, can never amend. Exeunt musicians
Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN
SECOND LORD. Here comes the King.
CLOTEN. I am glad I was up so late, for that's the reason I was
up
so early. He cannot choose but take this service I have done
fatherly.- Good morrow to your Majesty and to my gracious
mother.
CYMBELINE. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter?
Will she not forth?
CLOTEN. I have assail'd her with musics, but she vouchsafes no
notice.
CYMBELINE. The exile of her minion is too new;
She hath not yet forgot him; some more time
Must wear the print of his remembrance out,
And then she's yours.
QUEEN. You are most bound to th' King,
Who lets go by no vantages that may
Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself
To orderly soliciting, and be friended
With aptness of the season; make denials
Increase your services; so seem as if
You were inspir'd to do those duties which
You tender to her; that you in all obey her,
Save when command to your dismission tends,
And therein you are senseless.
CLOTEN. Senseless? Not so.
Enter a MESSENGER
MESSENGER. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome;
The one is Caius Lucius.
CYMBELINE. A worthy fellow,
Albeit he comes on angry purpose now;
But that's no fault of his. We must receive him
According to the honour of his sender;
And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us,
We must extend our notice. Our dear son,
When you have given good morning to your mistress,
Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need
T' employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen.
Exeunt all but CLOTEN
CLOTEN. If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not,
Let her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho! [Knocks]
I know her women are about her; what
If I do line one of their hands? 'Tis gold
Which buys admittance; oft it doth-yea, and makes
Diana's rangers false themselves, yield up
Their deer to th' stand o' th' stealer; and 'tis gold
Which makes the true man kill'd and saves the thief;
Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. What
Can it not do and undo? I will make
One of her women lawyer to me, for
I yet not understand the case myself.
By your leave. [Knocks]
Enter a LADY
LADY. Who's there that knocks?
CLOTEN. A gentleman.
LADY. No more?
CLOTEN. Yes, and a gentlewoman's son.
LADY. That's more
Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours
Can justly boast of. What's your lordship's pleasure?
CLOTEN. Your lady's person; is she ready?
LADY. Ay,
To keep her chamber.
CLOTEN. There is gold for you; sell me your good report.
LADY. How? My good name? or to report of you
What I shall think is good? The Princess!
Enter IMOGEN
CLOTEN. Good morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand.
Exit LADY
IMOGEN. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains
For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give
Is telling you that I am poor of thanks,
And scarce can spare them.
CLOTEN. Still I swear I love you.
IMOGEN. If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me.
If you swear still, your recompense is still
That I regard it not.
CLOTEN. This is no answer.
IMOGEN. But that you shall not say I yield, being silent,
I would not speak. I pray you spare me. Faith,
I shall unfold equal discourtesy
To your best kindness; one of your great knowing
Should learn, being taught, forbearance.
CLOTEN. To leave you in your madness 'twere my sin;
I will not.
IMOGEN. Fools are not mad folks.
CLOTEN. Do you call me fool?
IMOGEN. As I am mad, I do;
If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad;
That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir,
You put me to forget a lady's manners
By being so verbal; and learn now, for all,
That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce,
By th' very truth of it, I care not for you,
And am so near the lack of charity
To accuse myself I hate you; which I had rather
You felt than make't my boast.
CLOTEN. You sin against
Obedience, which you owe your father. For
The contract you pretend with that base wretch,
One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes,
With scraps o' th' court- it is no contract, none.
And though it be allowed in meaner parties-
Yet who than he more mean?- to knit their souls-
On whom there is no more dependency
But brats and beggary- in self-figur'd knot,
Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by
The consequence o' th' crown, and must not foil
The precious note of it with a base slave,
A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth,
A pantler- not so eminent!
IMOGEN. Profane fellow!
Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more
But what thou art besides, thou wert too base
To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough,
Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made
Comparative for your virtues to be styl'd
The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated
For being preferr'd so well.
CLOTEN. The south fog rot him!
IMOGEN. He never can meet more mischance than come
To be but nam'd of thee. His mean'st garment
That ever hath but clipp'd his body is dearer
In my respect than all the hairs above thee,
Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio!
Enter PISANIO
CLOTEN. 'His garments'! Now the devil-
IMOGEN. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently.
CLOTEN. 'His garment'!
IMOGEN. I am sprited with a fool;
Frighted, and ang'red worse. Go bid my woman
Search for a jewel that too casually
Hath left mine arm. It was thy master's; shrew me,
If I would lose it for a revenue
Of any king's in Europe! I do think
I saw't this morning; confident I am
Last night 'twas on mine arm; I kiss'd it.
I hope it be not gone to tell my lord
That I kiss aught but he.
PISANIO. 'Twill not be lost.
IMOGEN. I hope so. Go and search. Exit PISANIO
CLOTEN. You have abus'd me.
'His meanest garment'!
IMOGEN. Ay, I said so, sir.
If you will make 't an action, call witness to 't.
CLOTEN. I will inform your father.
IMOGEN. Your mother too.
She's my good lady and will conceive, I hope,
But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir,
To th' worst of discontent. Exit
CLOTEN. I'll be reveng'd.
'His mean'st garment'! Well. Exit
SCENE IV.
Rome. PHILARIO'S house
Enter POSTHUMUS and PHILARIO
POSTHUMUS. Fear it not, sir; I would I were so sure
To win the King as I am bold her honour
Will remain hers.
PHILARIO. What means do you make to him?
POSTHUMUS. Not any; but abide the change of time,
Quake in the present winter's state, and wish
That warmer days would come. In these fear'd hopes
I barely gratify your love; they failing,
I must die much your debtor.
PHILARIO. Your very goodness and your company
O'erpays all I can do. By this your king
Hath heard of great Augustus. Caius Lucius
Will do's commission throughly; and I think
He'll grant the tribute, send th' arrearages,
Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance
Is yet fresh in their grief.
POSTHUMUS. I do believe
Statist though I am none, nor like to be,
That this will prove a war; and you shall hear
The legions now in Gallia sooner landed
In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings
Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen
Are men more order'd than when Julius Caesar
Smil'd at their lack of skill, but found their courage
Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline,
Now mingled with their courages, will make known
To their approvers they are people such
That mend upon the world.
Enter IACHIMO
PHILARIO. See! Iachimo!
POSTHUMUS. The swiftest harts have posted you by land,
And winds of all the comers kiss'd your sails,
To make your vessel nimble.
PHILARIO. Welcome, sir.
POSTHUMUS. I hope the briefness of your answer made
The speediness of your return.
IACHIMO. Your lady
Is one of the fairest that I have look'd upon.
POSTHUMUS. And therewithal the best; or let her beauty
Look through a casement to allure false hearts,
And be false with them.
IACHIMO. Here are letters for you.
POSTHUMUS. Their tenour good, I trust.
IACHIMO. 'Tis very like.
PHILARIO. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court
When you were there?
IACHIMO. He was expected then,
But not approach'd.
POSTHUMUS. All is well yet.
Sparkles this stone as it was wont, or is't not
Too dull for your good wearing?
IACHIMO. If I have lost it,
I should have lost the worth of it in gold.
I'll make a journey twice as far t' enjoy
A second night of such sweet shortness which
Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won.
POSTHUMUS. The stone's too hard to come by.
IACHIMO. Not a whit,
Your lady being so easy.
POSTHUMUS. Make not, sir,
Your loss your sport. I hope you know that we
Must not continue friends.
IACHIMO. Good sir, we must,
If you keep covenant. Had I not brought
The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant
We were to question farther; but I now
Profess myself the winner of her honour,
Together with your ring; and not the wronger
Of her or you, having proceeded but
By both your wills.
POSTHUMUS. If you can make't apparent
That you have tasted her in bed, my hand
And ring is yours. If not, the foul opinion
You had of her pure honour gains or loses
Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both
To who shall find them.
IACHIMO. Sir, my circumstances,
Being so near the truth as I will make them,
Must first induce you to believe- whose strength
I will confirm with oath; which I doubt not
You'll give me leave to spare when you shall find
You need it not.
POSTHUMUS. Proceed.
IACHIMO. First, her bedchamber,
Where I confess I slept not, but profess
Had that was well worth watching-it was hang'd
With tapestry of silk and silver; the story,
Proud Cleopatra when she met her Roman
And Cydnus swell'd above the banks, or for
The press of boats or pride. A piece of work
So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive
In workmanship and value; which I wonder'd
Could be so rarely and exactly wrought,
Since the true life on't was-
POSTHUMUS. This is true;
And this you might have heard of here, by me
Or by some other.
IACHIMO. More particulars
Must justify my knowledge.
POSTHUMUS. So they must,
Or do your honour injury.
IACHIMO. The chimney
Is south the chamber, and the chimneypiece
Chaste Dian bathing. Never saw I figures
So likely to report themselves. The cutter
Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her,
Motion and breath left out.
POSTHUMUS. This is a thing
Which you might from relation likewise reap,
Being, as it is, much spoke of.
IACHIMO. The roof o' th' chamber
With golden cherubins is fretted; her andirons-
I had forgot them- were two winking Cupids
Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely
Depending on their brands.
POSTHUMUS. This is her honour!
Let it be granted you have seen all this, and praise
Be given to your remembrance; the description
Of what is in her chamber nothing saves
The wager you have laid.
IACHIMO. Then, if you can, [Shows the bracelet]
Be pale. I beg but leave to air this jewel. See!
And now 'tis up again. It must be married
To that your diamond; I'll keep them.
POSTHUMUS. Jove!
Once more let me behold it. Is it that
Which I left with her?
IACHIMO. Sir- I thank her- that.
She stripp'd it from her arm; I see her yet;
Her pretty action did outsell her gift,
And yet enrich'd it too. She gave it me, and said
She priz'd it once.
POSTHUMUS. May be she pluck'd it off
To send it me.
IACHIMO. She writes so to you, doth she?
POSTHUMUS. O, no, no, no! 'tis true. Here, take this too;
[Gives the ring]
It is a basilisk unto mine eye,
Kills me to look on't. Let there be no honour
Where there is beauty; truth where semblance; love
Where there's another man. The vows of women
Of no more bondage be to where they are made
Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing.
O, above measure false!
PHILARIO. Have patience, sir,
And take your ring again; 'tis not yet won.
It may be probable she lost it, or
Who knows if one her women, being corrupted
Hath stol'n it from her?
POSTHUMUS. Very true;
And so I hope he came by't. Back my ring.
Render to me some corporal sign about her,
More evident than this; for this was stol'n.
IACHIMO. By Jupiter, I had it from her arm!
POSTHUMUS. Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears.
'Tis true- nay, keep the ring, 'tis true. I am sure
She would not lose it. Her attendants are
All sworn and honourable- they induc'd to steal it!
And by a stranger! No, he hath enjoy'd her.
The cognizance of her incontinency
Is this: she hath bought the name of whore thus dearly.
There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell
Divide themselves between you!
PHILARIO. Sir, be patient;
This is not strong enough to be believ'd
Of one persuaded well of.
POSTHUMUS. Never talk on't;
She hath been colted by him.
IACHIMO. If you seek
For further satisfying, under her breast-
Worthy the pressing- lies a mole, right proud
Of that most delicate lodging. By my life,
I kiss'd it; and it gave me present hunger
To feed again, though full. You do remember
This stain upon her?
POSTHUMUS. Ay, and it doth confirm
Another stain, as big as hell can hold,
Were there no more but it.
IACHIMO. Will you hear more?
POSTHUMUS. Spare your arithmetic; never count the turns.
Once, and a million!
IACHIMO. I'll be sworn-
POSTHUMUS. No swearing.
If you will swear you have not done't, you lie;
And I will kill thee if thou dost deny
Thou'st made me cuckold.
IACHIMO. I'll deny nothing.
POSTHUMUS. O that I had her here to tear her limb-meal!
I will go there and do't, i' th' court, before
Her father. I'll do something- Exit
PHILARIO. Quite besides
The government of patience! You have won.
Let's follow him and pervert the present wrath
He hath against himself.
IACHIMO. With all my heart. Exeunt
SCENE V.
Rome. Another room in PHILARIO'S house
Enter POSTHUMUS
POSTHUMUS. Is there no way for men to be, but women
Must be half-workers? We are all bastards,
And that most venerable man which I
Did call my father was I know not where
When I was stamp'd. Some coiner with his tools
Made me a counterfeit; yet my mother seem'd
The Dian of that time. So doth my wife
The nonpareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance!
Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain'd,
And pray'd me oft forbearance; did it with
A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on't
Might well have warm'd old Saturn; that I thought her
As chaste as unsunn'd snow. O, all the devils!
This yellow Iachimo in an hour- was't not?
Or less!- at first? Perchance he spoke not, but,
Like a full-acorn'd boar, a German one,
Cried "O!' and mounted; found no opposition
But what he look'd for should oppose and she
Should from encounter guard. Could I find out
The woman's part in me! For there's no motion
That tends to vice in man but I affirm
It is the woman's part. Be it lying, note it,
The woman's; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers;
Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers;
Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain,
Nice longing, slanders, mutability,
All faults that man may name, nay, that hell knows,
Why, hers, in part or all; but rather all;
For even to vice
They are not constant, but are changing still
One vice but of a minute old for one
Not half so old as that. I'll write against them,
Detest them, curse them. Yet 'tis greater skill
In a true hate to pray they have their will:
The very devils cannot plague them better. Exit | Cloten' second short scene - in which, once again, he demonstrates his buffoonery - opens Act Two, after which we are shown Imogen in her bedchamber, preparing for sleep. She says goodnight to her Lady-in-Waiting, then, after she has fallen fast asleep, Iachimo climbs out of the trunk that she agreed to keep in her room. He creeps around the room and jots down details both of the room's furnishings and of Imogen's intimate physical appearance, noting a mole on her left breast, with the intention of using these details to prove to Posthumus that he has spent the night with her. As further proof, he slips Posthumus's bracelet off of Imogen's wrist, then departs the room silently. Scene three returns to Cloten, who in his attempt to woo Imogen has hired a eunuch to sing a love song, to no avail. Cymbeline and the Queen enter and console him, only to be interrupted by the news that Caius Lucius, a Roman ambassador, has come to meet them. The King and Queen depart, leaving Cloten to again attempt to charm Imogen. His wooing, which Imogen immediately dismisses, soon dissolves into a bitter exchange of insults, as Cloten castigates Posthumus as a poor "pantling" unworthy of Imogen's love, and Imogen retorts that Cloten is not worth as much as Posthumus's "mean'st garment." She departs in high dudgeon, and Cloten obsesses over this comparison of his royal self to Posthumus's shabbiest clothing. In the meantime, back in Rome, Philario and Posthumus discuss the futility of the rake-like Iachimo ever winning the virtuous Imogen; that is, until Iachimo himself returns and insinuates that he has won the wager. Posthumus demands evidence, and Iachimo describes the furnishings and art in Imogen's bedroom. When these descriptions fail to satisfy him, Iachimo shows Posthumus the bracelet. This alarms Posthumus greatly, though Philario says that Iachimo might have gotten the bracelet a number of ways that didn't involve sleeping with Imogen. Finally, Iachimo pulls his trump card and describes the mole on Imogen's breast. This compelling piece of evidence convinces Posthumus of Imogen's infidelity. Enraged, he rushes off-stage with vengeance on his mind, returning to deliver a scathing, hate-filled soliloquy directed against all womankind. |
IT happened that Mrs. Pomfret had had a slight quarrel with Mrs.
Best, the housekeeper, on this Thursday morning--a fact which had two
consequences highly convenient to Hetty. It caused Mrs. Pomfret to have
tea sent up to her own room, and it inspired that exemplary lady's maid
with so lively a recollection of former passages in Mrs. Best's conduct,
and of dialogues in which Mrs. Best had decidedly the inferiority as an
interlocutor with Mrs. Pomfret, that Hetty required no more presence
of mind than was demanded for using her needle, and throwing in an
occasional "yes" or "no." She would have wanted to put on her hat
earlier than usual; only she had told Captain Donnithorne that she
usually set out about eight o'clock, and if he SHOULD go to the Grove
again expecting to see her, and she should be gone! Would he come? Her
little butterfly soul fluttered incessantly between memory and dubious
expectation. At last the minute-hand of the old-fashioned brazen-faced
timepiece was on the last quarter to eight, and there was every reason
for its being time to get ready for departure. Even Mrs. Pomfret's
preoccupied mind did not prevent her from noticing what looked like a
new flush of beauty in the little thing as she tied on her hat before
the looking-glass.
"That child gets prettier and prettier every day, I do believe," was her
inward comment. "The more's the pity. She'll get neither a place nor
a husband any the sooner for it. Sober well-to-do men don't like such
pretty wives. When I was a girl, I was more admired than if I had been
so very pretty. However, she's reason to be grateful to me for teaching
her something to get her bread with, better than farm-house work. They
always told me I was good-natured--and that's the truth, and to my hurt
too, else there's them in this house that wouldn't be here now to lord
it over me in the housekeeper's room."
Hetty walked hastily across the short space of pleasure-ground which she
had to traverse, dreading to meet Mr. Craig, to whom she could hardly
have spoken civilly. How relieved she was when she had got safely under
the oaks and among the fern of the Chase! Even then she was as ready to
be startled as the deer that leaped away at her approach. She thought
nothing of the evening light that lay gently in the grassy alleys
between the fern, and made the beauty of their living green more visible
than it had been in the overpowering flood of noon: she thought of
nothing that was present. She only saw something that was possible: Mr.
Arthur Donnithorne coming to meet her again along the Fir-tree Grove.
That was the foreground of Hetty's picture; behind it lay a bright hazy
something--days that were not to be as the other days of her life had
been. It was as if she had been wooed by a river-god, who might any
time take her to his wondrous halls below a watery heaven. There was no
knowing what would come, since this strange entrancing delight had come.
If a chest full of lace and satin and jewels had been sent her from some
unknown source, how could she but have thought that her whole lot was
going to change, and that to-morrow some still more bewildering joy
would befall her? Hetty had never read a novel; if she had ever seen
one, I think the words would have been too hard for her; how then could
she find a shape for her expectations? They were as formless as the
sweet languid odours of the garden at the Chase, which had floated past
her as she walked by the gate.
She is at another gate now--that leading into Fir-tree Grove. She enters
the wood, where it is already twilight, and at every step she takes, the
fear at her heart becomes colder. If he should not come! Oh, how dreary
it was--the thought of going out at the other end of the wood, into the
unsheltered road, without having seen him. She reaches the first turning
towards the Hermitage, walking slowly--he is not there. She hates the
leveret that runs across the path; she hates everything that is not what
she longs for. She walks on, happy whenever she is coming to a bend in
the road, for perhaps he is behind it. No. She is beginning to cry: her
heart has swelled so, the tears stand in her eyes; she gives one great
sob, while the corners of her mouth quiver, and the tears roll down.
She doesn't know that there is another turning to the Hermitage, that
she is close against it, and that Arthur Donnithorne is only a few yards
from her, full of one thought, and a thought of which she only is the
object. He is going to see Hetty again: that is the longing which has
been growing through the last three hours to a feverish thirst. Not,
of course, to speak in the caressing way into which he had unguardedly
fallen before dinner, but to set things right with her by a kindness
which would have the air of friendly civility, and prevent her from
running away with wrong notions about their mutual relation.
If Hetty had known he was there, she would not have cried; and it would
have been better, for then Arthur would perhaps have behaved as wisely
as he had intended. As it was, she started when he appeared at the end
of the side-alley, and looked up at him with two great drops rolling
down her cheeks. What else could he do but speak to her in a soft,
soothing tone, as if she were a bright-eyed spaniel with a thorn in her
foot?
"Has something frightened you, Hetty? Have you seen anything in the
wood? Don't be frightened--I'll take care of you now."
Hetty was blushing so, she didn't know whether she was happy or
miserable. To be crying again--what did gentlemen think of girls who
cried in that way? She felt unable even to say "no," but could only look
away from him and wipe the tears from her cheek. Not before a great drop
had fallen on her rose-coloured strings--she knew that quite well.
"Come, be cheerful again. Smile at me, and tell me what's the matter.
Come, tell me."
Hetty turned her head towards him, whispered, "I thought you wouldn't
come," and slowly got courage to lift her eyes to him. That look was too
much: he must have had eyes of Egyptian granite not to look too lovingly
in return.
"You little frightened bird! Little tearful rose! Silly pet! You won't
cry again, now I'm with you, will you?"
Ah, he doesn't know in the least what he is saying. This is not what
he meant to say. His arm is stealing round the waist again; it is
tightening its clasp; he is bending his face nearer and nearer to the
round cheek; his lips are meeting those pouting child-lips, and for a
long moment time has vanished. He may be a shepherd in Arcadia for aught
he knows, he may be the first youth kissing the first maiden, he may be
Eros himself, sipping the lips of Psyche--it is all one.
There was no speaking for minutes after. They walked along with beating
hearts till they came within sight of the gate at the end of the wood.
Then they looked at each other, not quite as they had looked before, for
in their eyes there was the memory of a kiss.
But already something bitter had begun to mingle itself with the
fountain of sweets: already Arthur was uncomfortable. He took his arm
from Hetty's waist, and said, "Here we are, almost at the end of the
Grove. I wonder how late it is," he added, pulling out his watch.
"Twenty minutes past eight--but my watch is too fast. However, I'd
better not go any further now. Trot along quickly with your little feet,
and get home safely. Good-bye."
He took her hand, and looked at her half-sadly, half with a constrained
smile. Hetty's eyes seemed to beseech him not to go away yet; but he
patted her cheek and said "Good-bye" again. She was obliged to turn away
from him and go on.
As for Arthur, he rushed back through the wood, as if he wanted to put
a wide space between himself and Hetty. He would not go to the Hermitage
again; he remembered how he had debated with himself there before
dinner, and it had all come to nothing--worse than nothing. He walked
right on into the Chase, glad to get out of the Grove, which surely was
haunted by his evil genius. Those beeches and smooth limes--there was
something enervating in the very sight of them; but the strong knotted
old oaks had no bending languor in them--the sight of them would give
a man some energy. Arthur lost himself among the narrow openings in
the fern, winding about without seeking any issue, till the twilight
deepened almost to night under the great boughs, and the hare looked
black as it darted across his path.
He was feeling much more strongly than he had done in the morning: it
was as if his horse had wheeled round from a leap and dared to dispute
his mastery. He was dissatisfied with himself, irritated, mortified. He
no sooner fixed his mind on the probable consequences of giving way to
the emotions which had stolen over him to-day--of continuing to notice
Hetty, of allowing himself any opportunity for such slight caresses as
he had been betrayed into already--than he refused to believe such a
future possible for himself. To flirt with Hetty was a very different
affair from flirting with a pretty girl of his own station: that was
understood to be an amusement on both sides, or, if it became serious,
there was no obstacle to marriage. But this little thing would be spoken
ill of directly, if she happened to be seen walking with him; and then
those excellent people, the Poysers, to whom a good name was as precious
as if they had the best blood in the land in their veins--he should hate
himself if he made a scandal of that sort, on the estate that was to be
his own some day, and among tenants by whom he liked, above all, to be
respected. He could no more believe that he should so fall in his own
esteem than that he should break both his legs and go on crutches all
the rest of his life. He couldn't imagine himself in that position; it
was too odious, too unlike him.
And even if no one knew anything about it, they might get too fond of
each other, and then there could be nothing but the misery of parting,
after all. No gentleman, out of a ballad, could marry a farmer's niece.
There must be an end to the whole thing at once. It was too foolish.
And yet he had been so determined this morning, before he went to
Gawaine's; and while he was there something had taken hold of him and
made him gallop back. It seemed he couldn't quite depend on his own
resolution, as he had thought he could; he almost wished his arm would
get painful again, and then he should think of nothing but the comfort
it would be to get rid of the pain. There was no knowing what impulse
might seize him to-morrow, in this confounded place, where there was
nothing to occupy him imperiously through the livelong day. What could
he do to secure himself from any more of this folly?
There was but one resource. He would go and tell Irwine--tell him
everything. The mere act of telling it would make it seem trivial; the
temptation would vanish, as the charm of fond words vanishes when one
repeats them to the indifferent. In every way it would help him to tell
Irwine. He would ride to Broxton Rectory the first thing after breakfast
to-morrow.
Arthur had no sooner come to this determination than he began to think
which of the paths would lead him home, and made as short a walk thither
as he could. He felt sure he should sleep now: he had had enough to tire
him, and there was no more need for him to think. | Hetty wonders fearfully whether the Captain will meet her again on her way home. The housekeeper notices her beauty and worries for her, thinking that a sensible man would not take her on either as a servant or as a wife. Hetty walks home, delighting in the expectation of meeting the Captain not only because she finds him attractive, but also because of what he could give her in the future. She begins to cry when she thinks that he is not there. When the Captain sees her, he forgets his resolve to behave coldly. He asks her if something has frightened her, and then, before he knows what he is doing, he puts his arms around her and kisses her. The Captain leaves her quickly, very upset with himself. He thinks that the trees in the grove hold some sort of evil sway over him. He reminds himself that flirting with Hetty is not as uncomplicated as flirting with someone of his own class. The Captain tries to think of a way to regain control over his own actions as he always has done before, and he decides to go confess to the vicar, with whom he has a close relationship |
II. A Sight
"You know the Old Bailey well, no doubt?" said one of the oldest of
clerks to Jerry the messenger.
"Ye-es, sir," returned Jerry, in something of a dogged manner. "I _do_
know the Bailey."
"Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry."
"I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. Much
better," said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment
in question, "than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the Bailey."
"Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the
door-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then let you in."
"Into the court, sir?"
"Into the court."
Mr. Cruncher's eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to
interchange the inquiry, "What do you think of this?"
"Am I to wait in the court, sir?" he asked, as the result of that
conference.
"I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the note to Mr.
Lorry, and do you make any gesture that will attract Mr. Lorry's
attention, and show him where you stand. Then what you have to do, is,
to remain there until he wants you."
"Is that all, sir?"
"That's all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to tell him
you are there."
As the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note,
Mr. Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until he came to the
blotting-paper stage, remarked:
"I suppose they'll be trying Forgeries this morning?"
"Treason!"
"That's quartering," said Jerry. "Barbarous!"
"It is the law," remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised
spectacles upon him. "It is the law."
"It's hard in the law to spile a man, I think. It's hard enough to kill
him, but it's wery hard to spile him, sir."
"Not at all," retained the ancient clerk. "Speak well of the law. Take
care of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take
care of itself. I give you that advice."
"It's the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice," said Jerry. "I
leave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is."
"Well, well," said the old clerk; "we all have our various ways of
gaining a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry
ways. Here is the letter. Go along."
Jerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less internal
deference than he made an outward show of, "You are a lean old one,
too," made his bow, informed his son, in passing, of his destination,
and went his way.
They hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street outside Newgate had
not obtained one infamous notoriety that has since attached to it.
But, the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of debauchery and
villainy were practised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came
into court with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from the
dock at my Lord Chief Justice himself, and pulled him off the bench. It
had more than once happened, that the Judge in the black cap pronounced
his own doom as certainly as the prisoner's, and even died before him.
For the rest, the Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard,
from which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on
a violent passage into the other world: traversing some two miles and a
half of public street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any.
So powerful is use, and so desirable to be good use in the beginning. It
was famous, too, for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted
a punishment of which no one could foresee the extent; also, for
the whipping-post, another dear old institution, very humanising and
softening to behold in action; also, for extensive transactions in
blood-money, another fragment of ancestral wisdom, systematically
leading to the most frightful mercenary crimes that could be committed
under Heaven. Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date, was a choice
illustration of the precept, that "Whatever is is right;" an aphorism
that would be as final as it is lazy, did it not include the troublesome
consequence, that nothing that ever was, was wrong.
Making his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up and down this
hideous scene of action, with the skill of a man accustomed to make his
way quietly, the messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in
his letter through a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play
at the Old Bailey, just as they paid to see the play in Bedlam--only the
former entertainment was much the dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey
doors were well guarded--except, indeed, the social doors by which the
criminals got there, and those were always left wide open.
After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a
very little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to squeeze himself into
court.
"What's on?" he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found himself next
to.
"Nothing yet."
"What's coming on?"
"The Treason case."
"The quartering one, eh?"
"Ah!" returned the man, with a relish; "he'll be drawn on a hurdle to
be half hanged, and then he'll be taken down and sliced before his own
face, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on,
and then his head will be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters.
That's the sentence."
"If he's found Guilty, you mean to say?" Jerry added, by way of proviso.
"Oh! they'll find him guilty," said the other. "Don't you be afraid of
that."
Mr. Cruncher's attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he
saw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry
sat at a table, among the gentlemen in wigs: not far from a wigged
gentleman, the prisoner's counsel, who had a great bundle of papers
before him: and nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands
in his pockets, whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher looked at him
then or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the
court. After some gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing
with his hand, Jerry attracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had stood up
to look for him, and who quietly nodded and sat down again.
"What's _he_ got to do with the case?" asked the man he had spoken with.
"Blest if I know," said Jerry.
"What have _you_ got to do with it, then, if a person may inquire?"
"Blest if I know that either," said Jerry.
The entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and settling
down in the court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, the dock became the
central point of interest. Two gaolers, who had been standing there,
went out, and the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar.
Everybody present, except the one wigged gentleman who looked at the
ceiling, stared at him. All the human breath in the place, rolled
at him, like a sea, or a wind, or a fire. Eager faces strained round
pillars and corners, to get a sight of him; spectators in back rows
stood up, not to miss a hair of him; people on the floor of the court,
laid their hands on the shoulders of the people before them, to help
themselves, at anybody's cost, to a view of him--stood a-tiptoe, got
upon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every inch of him.
Conspicuous among these latter, like an animated bit of the spiked wall
of Newgate, Jerry stood: aiming at the prisoner the beery breath of a
whet he had taken as he came along, and discharging it to mingle with
the waves of other beer, and gin, and tea, and coffee, and what not,
that flowed at him, and already broke upon the great windows behind him
in an impure mist and rain.
The object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about
five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and
a dark eye. His condition was that of a young gentleman. He was plainly
dressed in black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and
dark, was gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to be out
of his way than for ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express
itself through any covering of the body, so the paleness which his
situation engendered came through the brown upon his cheek, showing the
soul to be stronger than the sun. He was otherwise quite self-possessed,
bowed to the Judge, and stood quiet.
The sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at,
was not a sort that elevated humanity. Had he stood in peril of a less
horrible sentence--had there been a chance of any one of its savage
details being spared--by just so much would he have lost in his
fascination. The form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled,
was the sight; the immortal creature that was to be so butchered
and torn asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the various
spectators put upon the interest, according to their several arts and
powers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the root of it, Ogreish.
Silence in the court! Charles Darnay had yesterday pleaded Not Guilty to
an indictment denouncing him (with infinite jingle and jangle) for that
he was a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so
forth, prince, our Lord the King, by reason of his having, on divers
occasions, and by divers means and ways, assisted Lewis, the French
King, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and
so forth; that was to say, by coming and going, between the dominions of
our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the
said French Lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise
evil-adverbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what forces our
said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation
to send to Canada and North America. This much, Jerry, with his head
becoming more and more spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with
huge satisfaction, and so arrived circuitously at the understanding that
the aforesaid, and over and over again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood
there before him upon his trial; that the jury were swearing in; and
that Mr. Attorney-General was making ready to speak.
The accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged,
beheaded, and quartered, by everybody there, neither flinched from
the situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it. He was quiet and
attentive; watched the opening proceedings with a grave interest;
and stood with his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so
composedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which
it was strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs and sprinkled with
vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever.
Over the prisoner's head there was a mirror, to throw the light down
upon him. Crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in
it, and had passed from its surface and this earth's together. Haunted
in a most ghastly manner that abominable place would have been, if the
glass could ever have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean is one
day to give up its dead. Some passing thought of the infamy and disgrace
for which it had been reserved, may have struck the prisoner's mind. Be
that as it may, a change in his position making him conscious of a bar
of light across his face, he looked up; and when he saw the glass his
face flushed, and his right hand pushed the herbs away.
It happened, that the action turned his face to that side of the court
which was on his left. About on a level with his eyes, there sat,
in that corner of the Judge's bench, two persons upon whom his look
immediately rested; so immediately, and so much to the changing of his
aspect, that all the eyes that were turned upon him, turned to them.
The spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little more than
twenty, and a gentleman who was evidently her father; a man of a very
remarkable appearance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair,
and a certain indescribable intensity of face: not of an active kind,
but pondering and self-communing. When this expression was upon him, he
looked as if he were old; but when it was stirred and broken up--as
it was now, in a moment, on his speaking to his daughter--he became a
handsome man, not past the prime of life.
His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by
him, and the other pressed upon it. She had drawn close to him, in her
dread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner. Her forehead had
been strikingly expressive of an engrossing terror and compassion
that saw nothing but the peril of the accused. This had been so very
noticeable, so very powerfully and naturally shown, that starers who
had had no pity for him were touched by her; and the whisper went about,
"Who are they?"
Jerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his own
manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his
absorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The crowd about
him had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and
from him it had been more slowly pressed and passed back; at last it got
to Jerry:
"Witnesses."
"For which side?"
"Against."
"Against what side?"
"The prisoner's."
The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them,
leaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was
in his hand, as Mr. Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the
axe, and hammer the nails into the scaffold. | Jerry is told to take a note to Mr. Lorry at the Old Bailey law court and to stay there until Mr. Lorry needs him. After arriving at the Old Bailey and giving the doorkeeper the note to deliver to Mr. Lorry, Jerry makes his way into the crowded courtroom. The court is hearing a treason case, punishable by the grisly sentence of being drawn and quartered. The accused, Charles Darnay, stands quietly and calmly before the crowd until he catches sight of Lucie and Doctor Manette , who are witnesses against him. The spectators follow his eyes and are touched by Lucie's expression of fear and sympathy for Darnay. |
SCENE 2.
Near Saint Edmunds-bury. The French Camp.
[Enter, in arms, LOUIS, SALISBURY, MELUN, PEMBROKE, BIGOT, and
soldiers.]
LOUIS.
My Lord Melun, let this be copied out
And keep it safe for our remembrance:
Return the precedent to these lords again;
That, having our fair order written down,
Both they and we, perusing o'er these notes,
May know wherefore we took the sacrament,
And keep our faiths firm and inviolable.
SALISBURY.
Upon our sides it never shall be broken.
And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear
A voluntary zeal and an unurg'd faith
To your proceedings; yet, believe me, prince,
I am not glad that such a sore of time
Should seek a plaster by contemn'd revolt,
And heal the inveterate canker of one wound
By making many. O, it grieves my soul
That I must draw this metal from my side
To be a widow-maker! O, and there
Where honourable rescue and defence
Cries out upon the name of Salisbury!
But such is the infection of the time,
That, for the health and physic of our right,
We cannot deal but with the very hand
Of stern injustice and confused wrong.--
And is't not pity, O my grieved friends!
That we, the sons and children of this isle,
Were born to see so sad an hour as this;
Wherein we step after a stranger-march
Upon her gentle bosom, and fill up
Her enemies' ranks--I must withdraw and weep
Upon the spot of this enforc'd cause--
To grace the gentry of a land remote,
And follow unacquainted colours here?
What, here?--O nation, that thou couldst remove!
That Neptune's arms, who clippeth thee about,
Would bear thee from the knowledge of thyself,
And grapple thee unto a pagan shore,
Where these two Christian armies might combine
The blood of malice in a vein of league,
And not to spend it so unneighbourly!
LOUIS.
A noble temper dost thou show in this;
And great affections wrestling in thy bosom
Doth make an earthquake of nobility.
O, what a noble combat hast thou fought
Between compulsion and a brave respect!
Let me wipe off this honourable dew
That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks:
My heart hath melted at a lady's tears,
Being an ordinary inundation;
But this effusion of such manly drops,
This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul,
Startles mine eyes and makes me more amaz'd
Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven
Figur'd quite o'er with burning meteors.
Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,
And with a great heart heave away this storm:
Commend these waters to those baby eyes
That never saw the giant world enrag'd,
Nor met with fortune other than at feasts,
Full of warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping.
Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep
Into the purse of rich prosperity
As Louis himself:--so, nobles, shall you all,
That knit your sinews to the strength of mine.--
And even there, methinks, an angel spake:
Look, where the holy legate comes apace,
To give us warrant from the hand of heaven
And on our actions set the name of right
With holy breath.
[Enter PANDULPH, attended.]
PANDULPH.
Hail, noble prince of France!
The next is this,--King John hath reconcil'd
Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in,
That so stood out against the holy church,
The great metropolis and see of Rome:
Therefore thy threatening colours now wind up,
And tame the savage spirit of wild war,
That, like a lion foster'd up at hand,
It may lie gently at the foot of peace
And be no further harmful than in show.
LOUIS.
Your grace shall pardon me, I will not back:
I am too high-born to be propertied,
To be a secondary at control,
Or useful serving-man and instrument
To any sovereign state throughout the world.
Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars
Between this chastis'd kingdom and myself,
And brought in matter that should feed this fire;
And now 'tis far too huge to be blown out
With that same weak wind which enkindled it.
You taught me how to know the face of right,
Acquainted me with interest to this land,
Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart;
And come ye now to tell me John hath made
His peace with Rome? What is that peace to me?
I, by the honour of my marriage-bed,
After young Arthur, claim this land for mine;
And, now it is half-conquer'd, must I back
Because that John hath made his peace with Rome?
Am I Rome's slave? What penny hath Rome borne,
What men provided, what munition sent,
To underprop this action? Is't not I
That undergo this charge? Who else but I,
And such as to my claim are liable,
Sweat in this business and maintain this war?
Have I not heard these islanders shout out,
'Vive le roi!' as I have bank'd their towns?
Have I not here the best cards for the game,
To will this easy match, play'd for a crown?
And shall I now give o'er the yielded set?
No, no, on my soul, it never shall be said.
PANDULPH.
You look but on the outside of this work.
LOUIS.
Outside or inside, I will not return
Till my attempt so much be glorified
As to my ample hope was promised
Before I drew this gallant head of war,
And cull'd these fiery spirits from the world,
To outlook conquest, and to will renown
Even in the jaws of danger and of death.--
[Trumpet sounds.]
What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?
[Enter the BASTARD, attended.]
BASTARD.
According to the fair play of the world,
Let me have audience; I am sent to speak:--
My holy lord of Milan, from the king
I come, to learn how you have dealt for him;
And, as you answer, I do know the scope
And warrant limited unto my tongue.
PANDULPH.
The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite,
And will not temporize with my entreaties;
He flatly says he'll not lay down his arms.
BASTARD.
By all the blood that ever fury breath'd,
The youth says well.--Now hear our English king;
For thus his royalty doth speak in me.
He is prepar'd; and reason too he should:
This apish and unmannerly approach,
This harness'd masque and unadvised revel
This unhair'd sauciness and boyish troops,
The king doth smile at; and is well prepar'd
To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms,
From out the circle of his territories.
That hand which had the strength, even at your door,
To cudgel you, and make you take the hatch;
To dive, like buckets, in concealed wells;
To crouch in litter of your stable planks;
To lie, like pawns, lock'd up in chests and trunks;
To hug with swine; to seek sweet safety out
In vaults and prisons; and to thrill and shake
Even at the crying of your nation's crow,
Thinking this voice an armed Englishman;--
Shall that victorious hand be feebled here
That in your chambers gave you chastisement?
No: know the gallant monarch is in arms
And like an eagle o'er his aery towers
To souse annoyance that comes near his nest.--
And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts,
You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb
Of your dear mother England, blush for shame;
For your own ladies and pale-visag'd maids,
Like Amazons, come tripping after drums,--
Their thimbles into armed gauntlets chang'd,
Their needles to lances, and their gentle hearts
To fierce and bloody inclination.
LOUIS.
There end thy brave, and turn thy face in peace;
We grant thou canst outscold us: fare thee well;
We hold our time too precious to be spent
With such a brabbler.
PANDULPH.
Give me leave to speak.
BASTARD.
No, I will speak.
LOUIS.
We will attend to neither.--
Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war,
Plead for our interest and our being here.
BASTARD.
Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry out;
And so shall you, being beaten: do but start
And echo with the clamour of thy drum,
And even at hand a drum is ready brac'd
That shall reverberate all as loud as thine:
Sound but another, and another shall,
As loud as thine, rattle the welkin's ear,
And mock the deep-mouth'd thunder: for at hand,--
Not trusting to this halting legate here,
Whom he hath us'd rather for sport than need,--
Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits
A bare-ribb'd death, whose office is this day
To feast upon whole thousands of the French.
LOUIS.
Strike up our drums, to find this danger out.
BASTARD.
And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt.
[Exeunt.] | In St. Edmundsbury, England, Louis the Dauphin and his posse talk turkey. Louis is holding a piece of paper, a contract that has been signed by the French and English allies. The contract pledges their loyalty to each other, and their promise to fight against King John. Even though he has sworn loyalty to Louis and his cause, Salisbury isn't happy about it. Salisbury cries and gives a long speech about how bad he feels for being a traitor to King John. Louis tells him that it's okay; he totally respects Salisbury's feelings. Then there's a tender moment in which the Dauphin 1) wipes a "manly" tear from Salisbury's eye, 2) tells Salisbury how brave he is, and then 3) gently reminds Salisbury that crying is for babies. After the male bonding is over, Louis also promises that they will be able to get lots of plunder out of all of this. Just then, in walks Pandolf. Louis thinks this is a good sign: now he and his allies can get the Pope's blessing for their military expedition. But it turns out that Pandolf has come to put an end to the party. He tells everyone that King John is buddies with the Pope again, so they'd better call off their expedition. Louis is having none of it. He says that events have taken on their own momentum; Pandolf doesn't have the power to stop them now. Anyhow, he says, he paid for this military expedition himself, not the Pope. So the Church should just butt out. At this moment, the Bastard shows up. He asks Pandolf how things are going with his whole stopping-the-invasion-in-its-tracks thing. Pandolf says he's had no luck. The Bastard takes this as his cue: he makes a long speech threatening various horrible things in case the French invaders and English rebels don't turn back. Louis doesn't think much of this speech. Pandolf and the Bastard each try to make a last statement, but Louis tells them both that he won't listen. He tells his drummers to start beating a military march. The Bastard makes some more threats; then everybody heads off to their own people. |
The Carnatic, setting sail from Hong Kong at half-past six on the 7th
of November, directed her course at full steam towards Japan. She
carried a large cargo and a well-filled cabin of passengers. Two
state-rooms in the rear were, however, unoccupied--those which had been
engaged by Phileas Fogg.
The next day a passenger with a half-stupefied eye, staggering gait,
and disordered hair, was seen to emerge from the second cabin, and to
totter to a seat on deck.
It was Passepartout; and what had happened to him was as follows:
Shortly after Fix left the opium den, two waiters had lifted the
unconscious Passepartout, and had carried him to the bed reserved for
the smokers. Three hours later, pursued even in his dreams by a fixed
idea, the poor fellow awoke, and struggled against the stupefying
influence of the narcotic. The thought of a duty unfulfilled shook off
his torpor, and he hurried from the abode of drunkenness. Staggering
and holding himself up by keeping against the walls, falling down and
creeping up again, and irresistibly impelled by a kind of instinct, he
kept crying out, "The Carnatic! the Carnatic!"
The steamer lay puffing alongside the quay, on the point of starting.
Passepartout had but few steps to go; and, rushing upon the plank, he
crossed it, and fell unconscious on the deck, just as the Carnatic was
moving off. Several sailors, who were evidently accustomed to this
sort of scene, carried the poor Frenchman down into the second cabin,
and Passepartout did not wake until they were one hundred and fifty
miles away from China. Thus he found himself the next morning on the
deck of the Carnatic, and eagerly inhaling the exhilarating sea-breeze.
The pure air sobered him. He began to collect his sense, which he
found a difficult task; but at last he recalled the events of the
evening before, Fix's revelation, and the opium-house.
"It is evident," said he to himself, "that I have been abominably
drunk! What will Mr. Fogg say? At least I have not missed the
steamer, which is the most important thing."
Then, as Fix occurred to him: "As for that rascal, I hope we are well
rid of him, and that he has not dared, as he proposed, to follow us on
board the Carnatic. A detective on the track of Mr. Fogg, accused of
robbing the Bank of England! Pshaw! Mr. Fogg is no more a robber than
I am a murderer."
Should he divulge Fix's real errand to his master? Would it do to tell
the part the detective was playing? Would it not be better to wait
until Mr. Fogg reached London again, and then impart to him that an
agent of the metropolitan police had been following him round the
world, and have a good laugh over it? No doubt; at least, it was worth
considering. The first thing to do was to find Mr. Fogg, and apologise
for his singular behaviour.
Passepartout got up and proceeded, as well as he could with the rolling
of the steamer, to the after-deck. He saw no one who resembled either
his master or Aouda. "Good!" muttered he; "Aouda has not got up yet,
and Mr. Fogg has probably found some partners at whist."
He descended to the saloon. Mr. Fogg was not there. Passepartout had
only, however, to ask the purser the number of his master's state-room.
The purser replied that he did not know any passenger by the name of
Fogg.
"I beg your pardon," said Passepartout persistently. "He is a tall
gentleman, quiet, and not very talkative, and has with him a young
lady--"
"There is no young lady on board," interrupted the purser. "Here is a
list of the passengers; you may see for yourself."
Passepartout scanned the list, but his master's name was not upon it.
All at once an idea struck him.
"Ah! am I on the Carnatic?"
"Yes."
"On the way to Yokohama?"
"Certainly."
Passepartout had for an instant feared that he was on the wrong boat;
but, though he was really on the Carnatic, his master was not there.
He fell thunderstruck on a seat. He saw it all now. He remembered
that the time of sailing had been changed, that he should have informed
his master of that fact, and that he had not done so. It was his
fault, then, that Mr. Fogg and Aouda had missed the steamer. Yes, but
it was still more the fault of the traitor who, in order to separate
him from his master, and detain the latter at Hong Kong, had inveigled
him into getting drunk! He now saw the detective's trick; and at this
moment Mr. Fogg was certainly ruined, his bet was lost, and he himself
perhaps arrested and imprisoned! At this thought Passepartout tore his
hair. Ah, if Fix ever came within his reach, what a settling of
accounts there would be!
After his first depression, Passepartout became calmer, and began to
study his situation. It was certainly not an enviable one. He found
himself on the way to Japan, and what should he do when he got there?
His pocket was empty; he had not a solitary shilling, not so much as a
penny. His passage had fortunately been paid for in advance; and he
had five or six days in which to decide upon his future course. He
fell to at meals with an appetite, and ate for Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and
himself. He helped himself as generously as if Japan were a desert,
where nothing to eat was to be looked for.
At dawn on the 13th the Carnatic entered the port of Yokohama. This is
an important port of call in the Pacific, where all the mail-steamers,
and those carrying travellers between North America, China, Japan, and
the Oriental islands put in. It is situated in the bay of Yeddo, and
at but a short distance from that second capital of the Japanese
Empire, and the residence of the Tycoon, the civil Emperor, before the
Mikado, the spiritual Emperor, absorbed his office in his own. The
Carnatic anchored at the quay near the custom-house, in the midst of a
crowd of ships bearing the flags of all nations.
Passepartout went timidly ashore on this so curious territory of the
Sons of the Sun. He had nothing better to do than, taking chance for
his guide, to wander aimlessly through the streets of Yokohama. He
found himself at first in a thoroughly European quarter, the houses
having low fronts, and being adorned with verandas, beneath which he
caught glimpses of neat peristyles. This quarter occupied, with its
streets, squares, docks, and warehouses, all the space between the
"promontory of the Treaty" and the river. Here, as at Hong Kong and
Calcutta, were mixed crowds of all races, Americans and English,
Chinamen and Dutchmen, mostly merchants ready to buy or sell anything.
The Frenchman felt himself as much alone among them as if he had
dropped down in the midst of Hottentots.
He had, at least, one resource,--to call on the French and English
consuls at Yokohama for assistance. But he shrank from telling the
story of his adventures, intimately connected as it was with that of
his master; and, before doing so, he determined to exhaust all other
means of aid. As chance did not favour him in the European quarter, he
penetrated that inhabited by the native Japanese, determined, if
necessary, to push on to Yeddo.
The Japanese quarter of Yokohama is called Benten, after the goddess of
the sea, who is worshipped on the islands round about. There
Passepartout beheld beautiful fir and cedar groves, sacred gates of a
singular architecture, bridges half hid in the midst of bamboos and
reeds, temples shaded by immense cedar-trees, holy retreats where were
sheltered Buddhist priests and sectaries of Confucius, and interminable
streets, where a perfect harvest of rose-tinted and red-cheeked
children, who looked as if they had been cut out of Japanese screens,
and who were playing in the midst of short-legged poodles and yellowish
cats, might have been gathered.
The streets were crowded with people. Priests were passing in
processions, beating their dreary tambourines; police and custom-house
officers with pointed hats encrusted with lac and carrying two sabres
hung to their waists; soldiers, clad in blue cotton with white stripes,
and bearing guns; the Mikado's guards, enveloped in silken doubles,
hauberks and coats of mail; and numbers of military folk of all
ranks--for the military profession is as much respected in Japan as it
is despised in China--went hither and thither in groups and pairs.
Passepartout saw, too, begging friars, long-robed pilgrims, and simple
civilians, with their warped and jet-black hair, big heads, long busts,
slender legs, short stature, and complexions varying from copper-colour
to a dead white, but never yellow, like the Chinese, from whom the
Japanese widely differ. He did not fail to observe the curious
equipages--carriages and palanquins, barrows supplied with sails, and
litters made of bamboo; nor the women--whom he thought not especially
handsome--who took little steps with their little feet, whereon they
wore canvas shoes, straw sandals, and clogs of worked wood, and who
displayed tight-looking eyes, flat chests, teeth fashionably blackened,
and gowns crossed with silken scarfs, tied in an enormous knot behind
an ornament which the modern Parisian ladies seem to have borrowed from
the dames of Japan.
Passepartout wandered for several hours in the midst of this motley
crowd, looking in at the windows of the rich and curious shops, the
jewellery establishments glittering with quaint Japanese ornaments, the
restaurants decked with streamers and banners, the tea-houses, where
the odorous beverage was being drunk with saki, a liquor concocted from
the fermentation of rice, and the comfortable smoking-houses, where
they were puffing, not opium, which is almost unknown in Japan, but a
very fine, stringy tobacco. He went on till he found himself in the
fields, in the midst of vast rice plantations. There he saw dazzling
camellias expanding themselves, with flowers which were giving forth
their last colours and perfumes, not on bushes, but on trees, and
within bamboo enclosures, cherry, plum, and apple trees, which the
Japanese cultivate rather for their blossoms than their fruit, and
which queerly-fashioned, grinning scarecrows protected from the
sparrows, pigeons, ravens, and other voracious birds. On the branches
of the cedars were perched large eagles; amid the foliage of the
weeping willows were herons, solemnly standing on one leg; and on every
hand were crows, ducks, hawks, wild birds, and a multitude of cranes,
which the Japanese consider sacred, and which to their minds symbolise
long life and prosperity.
As he was strolling along, Passepartout espied some violets among the
shrubs.
"Good!" said he; "I'll have some supper."
But, on smelling them, he found that they were odourless.
"No chance there," thought he.
The worthy fellow had certainly taken good care to eat as hearty a
breakfast as possible before leaving the Carnatic; but, as he had been
walking about all day, the demands of hunger were becoming importunate.
He observed that the butchers stalls contained neither mutton, goat,
nor pork; and, knowing also that it is a sacrilege to kill cattle,
which are preserved solely for farming, he made up his mind that meat
was far from plentiful in Yokohama--nor was he mistaken; and, in
default of butcher's meat, he could have wished for a quarter of wild
boar or deer, a partridge, or some quails, some game or fish, which,
with rice, the Japanese eat almost exclusively. But he found it
necessary to keep up a stout heart, and to postpone the meal he craved
till the following morning. Night came, and Passepartout re-entered
the native quarter, where he wandered through the streets, lit by
vari-coloured lanterns, looking on at the dancers, who were executing
skilful steps and boundings, and the astrologers who stood in the open
air with their telescopes. Then he came to the harbour, which was lit
up by the resin torches of the fishermen, who were fishing from their
boats.
The streets at last became quiet, and the patrol, the officers of
which, in their splendid costumes, and surrounded by their suites,
Passepartout thought seemed like ambassadors, succeeded the bustling
crowd. Each time a company passed, Passepartout chuckled, and said to
himself: "Good! another Japanese embassy departing for Europe!" | "In which Passepartout finds out that, even at the antipodes, it is convenient to have some money in one's pocket" The Carnatic left Hong Kong for Japan with Passepartout aboard. He came to in his cabin after staggering to the boat in his drug stupor and collapsing. The next day he remembers the plot of Fix to drug him and follow his master. He considers once more whether to tell Fogg about Fix but thinks perhaps he will wait till they arrive in England and then have a laugh about it. When he goes to find his master on board, he is surprised that neither he nor Aouda are there. Finally he remembers that he did not deliver the message to Fogg that the departure time had changed. He berates himself for ruining his master and vows he will get Fix. Realizing he has no money when he gets to Japan, he eats enough for three people on the journey. Passepartout wanders around in Yokohama seeing all races of people, finally ending up in the Japanese quarter called Benten. Yokohama is a main traffic route in the Pacific, and surely he can find some help there while he looks for Fogg. He is hungry, but there is no food in sight for him, as he spends the night near the harbor. |
THERE was a message brought, one day, from the worshipful Gervayse
Pyncheon to young Matthew Maule, the carpenter, desiring his immediate
presence at the House of the Seven Gables.
"And what does your master want with me?" said the carpenter to Mr.
Pyncheon's black servant. "Does the house need any repair? Well it
may, by this time; and no blame to my father who built it, neither! I
was reading the old Colonel's tombstone, no longer ago than last
Sabbath; and, reckoning from that date, the house has stood
seven-and-thirty years. No wonder if there should be a job to do on
the roof."
"Don't know what massa wants," answered Scipio. "The house is a berry
good house, and old Colonel Pyncheon think so too, I reckon;--else why
the old man haunt it so, and frighten a poor nigga, As he does?"
"Well, well, friend Scipio; let your master know that I'm coming," said
the carpenter with a laugh. "For a fair, workmanlike job, he'll find
me his man. And so the house is haunted, is it? It will take a tighter
workman than I am to keep the spirits out of the Seven Gables. Even if
the Colonel would be quiet," he added, muttering to himself, "my old
grandfather, the wizard, will be pretty sure to stick to the Pyncheons
as long as their walls hold together."
"What's that you mutter to yourself, Matthew Maule?" asked Scipio.
"And what for do you look so black at me?"
"No matter, darky," said the carpenter. "Do you think nobody is to
look black but yourself? Go tell your master I'm coming; and if you
happen to see Mistress Alice, his daughter, give Matthew Maule's humble
respects to her. She has brought a fair face from Italy,--fair, and
gentle, and proud,--has that same Alice Pyncheon!"
"He talk of Mistress Alice!" cried Scipio, as he returned from his
errand. "The low carpenter-man! He no business so much as to look at
her a great way off!"
This young Matthew Maule, the carpenter, it must be observed, was a
person little understood, and not very generally liked, in the town
where he resided; not that anything could be alleged against his
integrity, or his skill and diligence in the handicraft which he
exercised. The aversion (as it might justly be called) with which many
persons regarded him was partly the result of his own character and
deportment, and partly an inheritance.
He was the grandson of a former Matthew Maule, one of the early
settlers of the town, and who had been a famous and terrible wizard in
his day. This old reprobate was one of the sufferers when Cotton
Mather, and his brother ministers, and the learned judges, and other
wise men, and Sir William Phipps, the sagacious governor, made such
laudable efforts to weaken the great enemy of souls, by sending a
multitude of his adherents up the rocky pathway of Gallows Hill. Since
those days, no doubt, it had grown to be suspected that, in consequence
of an unfortunate overdoing of a work praiseworthy in itself, the
proceedings against the witches had proved far less acceptable to the
Beneficent Father than to that very Arch Enemy whom they were intended
to distress and utterly overwhelm. It is not the less certain,
however, that awe and terror brooded over the memories of those who
died for this horrible crime of witchcraft. Their graves, in the
crevices of the rocks, were supposed to be incapable of retaining the
occupants who had been so hastily thrust into them. Old Matthew Maule,
especially, was known to have as little hesitation or difficulty in
rising out of his grave as an ordinary man in getting out of bed, and
was as often seen at midnight as living people at noonday. This
pestilent wizard (in whom his just punishment seemed to have wrought no
manner of amendment) had an inveterate habit of haunting a certain
mansion, styled the House of the Seven Gables, against the owner of
which he pretended to hold an unsettled claim for ground-rent. The
ghost, it appears,--with the pertinacity which was one of his
distinguishing characteristics while alive,--insisted that he was the
rightful proprietor of the site upon which the house stood. His terms
were, that either the aforesaid ground-rent, from the day when the
cellar began to be dug, should be paid down, or the mansion itself
given up; else he, the ghostly creditor, would have his finger in all
the affairs of the Pyncheons, and make everything go wrong with them,
though it should be a thousand years after his death. It was a wild
story, perhaps, but seemed not altogether so incredible to those who
could remember what an inflexibly obstinate old fellow this wizard
Maule had been.
Now, the wizard's grandson, the young Matthew Maule of our story, was
popularly supposed to have inherited some of his ancestor's
questionable traits. It is wonderful how many absurdities were
promulgated in reference to the young man. He was fabled, for example,
to have a strange power of getting into people's dreams, and regulating
matters there according to his own fancy, pretty much like the
stage-manager of a theatre. There was a great deal of talk among the
neighbors, particularly the petticoated ones, about what they called
the witchcraft of Maule's eye. Some said that he could look into
people's minds; others, that, by the marvellous power of this eye, he
could draw people into his own mind, or send them, if he pleased, to do
errands to his grandfather, in the spiritual world; others, again, that
it was what is termed an Evil Eye, and possessed the valuable faculty
of blighting corn, and drying children into mummies with the heartburn.
But, after all, what worked most to the young carpenter's disadvantage
was, first, the reserve and sternness of his natural disposition, and
next, the fact of his not being a church-communicant, and the suspicion
of his holding heretical tenets in matters of religion and polity.
After receiving Mr. Pyncheon's message, the carpenter merely tarried to
finish a small job, which he happened to have in hand, and then took
his way towards the House of the Seven Gables. This noted edifice,
though its style might be getting a little out of fashion, was still as
respectable a family residence as that of any gentleman in town. The
present owner, Gervayse Pyncheon, was said to have contracted a dislike
to the house, in consequence of a shock to his sensibility, in early
childhood, from the sudden death of his grandfather. In the very act
of running to climb Colonel Pyncheon's knee, the boy had discovered the
old Puritan to be a corpse. On arriving at manhood, Mr. Pyncheon had
visited England, where he married a lady of fortune, and had
subsequently spent many years, partly in the mother country, and partly
in various cities on the continent of Europe. During this period, the
family mansion had been consigned to the charge of a kinsman, who was
allowed to make it his home for the time being, in consideration of
keeping the premises in thorough repair. So faithfully had this
contract been fulfilled, that now, as the carpenter approached the
house, his practised eye could detect nothing to criticise in its
condition. The peaks of the seven gables rose up sharply; the shingled
roof looked thoroughly water-tight; and the glittering plaster-work
entirely covered the exterior walls, and sparkled in the October sun,
as if it had been new only a week ago.
The house had that pleasant aspect of life which is like the cheery
expression of comfortable activity in the human countenance. You could
see, at once, that there was the stir of a large family within it. A
huge load of oak-wood was passing through the gateway, towards the
outbuildings in the rear; the fat cook--or probably it might be the
housekeeper--stood at the side door, bargaining for some turkeys and
poultry which a countryman had brought for sale. Now and then a
maid-servant, neatly dressed, and now the shining sable face of a
slave, might be seen bustling across the windows, in the lower part of
the house. At an open window of a room in the second story, hanging
over some pots of beautiful and delicate flowers,--exotics, but which
had never known a more genial sunshine than that of the New England
autumn,--was the figure of a young lady, an exotic, like the flowers,
and beautiful and delicate as they. Her presence imparted an
indescribable grace and faint witchery to the whole edifice. In other
respects, it was a substantial, jolly-looking mansion, and seemed fit
to be the residence of a patriarch, who might establish his own
headquarters in the front gable and assign one of the remainder to each
of his six children, while the great chimney in the centre should
symbolize the old fellow's hospitable heart, which kept them all warm,
and made a great whole of the seven smaller ones.
There was a vertical sundial on the front gable; and as the carpenter
passed beneath it, he looked up and noted the hour.
"Three o'clock!" said he to himself. "My father told me that dial was
put up only an hour before the old Colonel's death. How truly it has
kept time these seven-and-thirty years past! The shadow creeps and
creeps, and is always looking over the shoulder of the sunshine!"
It might have befitted a craftsman, like Matthew Maule, on being sent
for to a gentleman's house, to go to the back door, where servants and
work-people were usually admitted; or at least to the side entrance,
where the better class of tradesmen made application. But the
carpenter had a great deal of pride and stiffness in his nature; and,
at this moment, moreover, his heart was bitter with the sense of
hereditary wrong, because he considered the great Pyncheon House to be
standing on soil which should have been his own. On this very site,
beside a spring of delicious water, his grandfather had felled the
pine-trees and built a cottage, in which children had been born to him;
and it was only from a dead man's stiffened fingers that Colonel
Pyncheon had wrested away the title-deeds. So young Maule went
straight to the principal entrance, beneath a portal of carved oak, and
gave such a peal of the iron knocker that you would have imagined the
stern old wizard himself to be standing at the threshold.
Black Scipio answered the summons in a prodigious, hurry; but showed
the whites of his eyes in amazement on beholding only the carpenter.
"Lord-a-mercy, what a great man he be, this carpenter fellow!" mumbled
Scipio, down in his throat. "Anybody think he beat on the door with
his biggest hammer!"
"Here I am!" said Maule sternly. "Show me the way to your master's
parlor."
As he stept into the house, a note of sweet and melancholy music
thrilled and vibrated along the passage-way, proceeding from one of the
rooms above stairs. It was the harpsichord which Alice Pyncheon had
brought with her from beyond the sea. The fair Alice bestowed most of
her maiden leisure between flowers and music, although the former were
apt to droop, and the melodies were often sad. She was of foreign
education, and could not take kindly to the New England modes of life,
in which nothing beautiful had ever been developed.
As Mr. Pyncheon had been impatiently awaiting Maule's arrival, black
Scipio, of course, lost no time in ushering the carpenter into his
master's presence. The room in which this gentleman sat was a parlor of
moderate size, looking out upon the garden of the house, and having its
windows partly shadowed by the foliage of fruit-trees. It was Mr.
Pyncheon's peculiar apartment, and was provided with furniture, in an
elegant and costly style, principally from Paris; the floor (which was
unusual at that day) being covered with a carpet, so skilfully and
richly wrought that it seemed to glow as with living flowers. In one
corner stood a marble woman, to whom her own beauty was the sole and
sufficient garment. Some pictures--that looked old, and had a mellow
tinge diffused through all their artful splendor--hung on the walls.
Near the fireplace was a large and very beautiful cabinet of ebony,
inlaid with ivory; a piece of antique furniture, which Mr. Pyncheon had
bought in Venice, and which he used as the treasure-place for medals,
ancient coins, and whatever small and valuable curiosities he had
picked up on his travels. Through all this variety of decoration,
however, the room showed its original characteristics; its low stud,
its cross-beam, its chimney-piece, with the old-fashioned Dutch tiles;
so that it was the emblem of a mind industriously stored with foreign
ideas, and elaborated into artificial refinement, but neither larger,
nor, in its proper self, more elegant than before.
There were two objects that appeared rather out of place in this very
handsomely furnished room. One was a large map, or surveyor's plan, of
a tract of land, which looked as if it had been drawn a good many years
ago, and was now dingy with smoke, and soiled, here and there, with the
touch of fingers. The other was a portrait of a stern old man, in a
Puritan garb, painted roughly, but with a bold effect, and a remarkably
strong expression of character.
At a small table, before a fire of English sea-coal, sat Mr. Pyncheon,
sipping coffee, which had grown to be a very favorite beverage with him
in France. He was a middle-aged and really handsome man, with a wig
flowing down upon his shoulders; his coat was of blue velvet, with lace
on the borders and at the button-holes; and the firelight glistened on
the spacious breadth of his waistcoat, which was flowered all over with
gold. On the entrance of Scipio, ushering in the carpenter, Mr.
Pyncheon turned partly round, but resumed his former position, and
proceeded deliberately to finish his cup of coffee, without immediate
notice of the guest whom he had summoned to his presence. It was not
that he intended any rudeness or improper neglect,--which, indeed, he
would have blushed to be guilty of,--but it never occurred to him that
a person in Maule's station had a claim on his courtesy, or would
trouble himself about it one way or the other.
The carpenter, however, stepped at once to the hearth, and turned
himself about, so as to look Mr. Pyncheon in the face.
"You sent for me," said he. "Be pleased to explain your business, that
I may go back to my own affairs."
"Ah! excuse me," said Mr. Pyncheon quietly. "I did not mean to tax
your time without a recompense. Your name, I think, is Maule,--Thomas
or Matthew Maule,--a son or grandson of the builder of this house?"
"Matthew Maule," replied the carpenter,--"son of him who built the
house,--grandson of the rightful proprietor of the soil."
"I know the dispute to which you allude," observed Mr. Pyncheon with
undisturbed equanimity. "I am well aware that my grandfather was
compelled to resort to a suit at law, in order to establish his claim
to the foundation-site of this edifice. We will not, if you please,
renew the discussion. The matter was settled at the time, and by the
competent authorities,--equitably, it is to be presumed,--and, at all
events, irrevocably. Yet, singularly enough, there is an incidental
reference to this very subject in what I am now about to say to you.
And this same inveterate grudge,--excuse me, I mean no offence,--this
irritability, which you have just shown, is not entirely aside from the
matter."
"If you can find anything for your purpose, Mr. Pyncheon," said the
carpenter, "in a man's natural resentment for the wrongs done to his
blood, you are welcome to it."
"I take you at your word, Goodman Maule," said the owner of the Seven
Gables, with a smile, "and will proceed to suggest a mode in which your
hereditary resentments--justifiable or otherwise--may have had a
bearing on my affairs. You have heard, I suppose, that the Pyncheon
family, ever since my grandfather's days, have been prosecuting a still
unsettled claim to a very large extent of territory at the Eastward?"
"Often," replied Maule,--and it is said that a smile came over his
face,--"very often,--from my father!"
"This claim," continued Mr. Pyncheon, after pausing a moment, as if to
consider what the carpenter's smile might mean, "appeared to be on the
very verge of a settlement and full allowance, at the period of my
grandfather's decease. It was well known, to those in his confidence,
that he anticipated neither difficulty nor delay. Now, Colonel
Pyncheon, I need hardly say, was a practical man, well acquainted with
public and private business, and not at all the person to cherish
ill-founded hopes, or to attempt the following out of an impracticable
scheme. It is obvious to conclude, therefore, that he had grounds, not
apparent to his heirs, for his confident anticipation of success in the
matter of this Eastern claim. In a word, I believe,--and my legal
advisers coincide in the belief, which, moreover, is authorized, to a
certain extent, by the family traditions,--that my grandfather was in
possession of some deed, or other document, essential to this claim,
but which has since disappeared."
"Very likely," said Matthew Maule,--and again, it is said, there was a
dark smile on his face,--"but what can a poor carpenter have to do with
the grand affairs of the Pyncheon family?"
"Perhaps nothing," returned Mr. Pyncheon, "possibly much!"
Here ensued a great many words between Matthew Maule and the proprietor
of the Seven Gables, on the subject which the latter had thus broached.
It seems (although Mr. Pyncheon had some hesitation in referring to
stories so exceedingly absurd in their aspect) that the popular belief
pointed to some mysterious connection and dependence, existing between
the family of the Maules and these vast unrealized possessions of the
Pyncheons. It was an ordinary saying that the old wizard, hanged
though he was, had obtained the best end of the bargain in his contest
with Colonel Pyncheon; inasmuch as he had got possession of the great
Eastern claim, in exchange for an acre or two of garden-ground. A very
aged woman, recently dead, had often used the metaphorical expression,
in her fireside talk, that miles and miles of the Pyncheon lands had
been shovelled into Maule's grave; which, by the bye, was but a very
shallow nook, between two rocks, near the summit of Gallows Hill.
Again, when the lawyers were making inquiry for the missing document,
it was a by-word that it would never be found, unless in the wizard's
skeleton hand. So much weight had the shrewd lawyers assigned to these
fables, that (but Mr. Pyncheon did not see fit to inform the carpenter
of the fact) they had secretly caused the wizard's grave to be
searched. Nothing was discovered, however, except that, unaccountably,
the right hand of the skeleton was gone.
Now, what was unquestionably important, a portion of these popular
rumors could be traced, though rather doubtfully and indistinctly, to
chance words and obscure hints of the executed wizard's son, and the
father of this present Matthew Maule. And here Mr. Pyncheon could
bring an item of his own personal evidence into play. Though but a
child at the time, he either remembered or fancied that Matthew's
father had had some job to perform on the day before, or possibly the
very morning of the Colonel's decease, in the private room where he and
the carpenter were at this moment talking. Certain papers belonging to
Colonel Pyncheon, as his grandson distinctly recollected, had been
spread out on the table.
Matthew Maule understood the insinuated suspicion.
"My father," he said,--but still there was that dark smile, making a
riddle of his countenance,--"my father was an honester man than the
bloody old Colonel! Not to get his rights back again would he have
carried off one of those papers!"
"I shall not bandy words with you," observed the foreign-bred Mr.
Pyncheon, with haughty composure. "Nor will it become me to resent any
rudeness towards either my grandfather or myself. A gentleman, before
seeking intercourse with a person of your station and habits, will
first consider whether the urgency of the end may compensate for the
disagreeableness of the means. It does so in the present instance."
He then renewed the conversation, and made great pecuniary offers to
the carpenter, in case the latter should give information leading to
the discovery of the lost document, and the consequent success of the
Eastern claim. For a long time Matthew Maule is said to have turned a
cold ear to these propositions. At last, however, with a strange kind
of laugh, he inquired whether Mr. Pyncheon would make over to him the
old wizard's homestead-ground, together with the House of the Seven
Gables, now standing on it, in requital of the documentary evidence so
urgently required.
The wild, chimney-corner legend (which, without copying all its
extravagances, my narrative essentially follows) here gives an account
of some very strange behavior on the part of Colonel Pyncheon's
portrait. This picture, it must be understood, was supposed to be so
intimately connected with the fate of the house, and so magically built
into its walls, that, if once it should be removed, that very instant
the whole edifice would come thundering down in a heap of dusty ruin.
All through the foregoing conversation between Mr. Pyncheon and the
carpenter, the portrait had been frowning, clenching its fist, and
giving many such proofs of excessive discomposure, but without
attracting the notice of either of the two colloquists. And finally,
at Matthew Maule's audacious suggestion of a transfer of the
seven-gabled structure, the ghostly portrait is averred to have lost
all patience, and to have shown itself on the point of descending
bodily from its frame. But such incredible incidents are merely to be
mentioned aside.
"Give up this house!" exclaimed Mr. Pyncheon, in amazement at the
proposal. "Were I to do so, my grandfather would not rest quiet in his
grave!"
"He never has, if all stories are true," remarked the carpenter
composedly. "But that matter concerns his grandson more than it does
Matthew Maule. I have no other terms to propose."
Impossible as he at first thought it to comply with Maule's conditions,
still, on a second glance, Mr. Pyncheon was of opinion that they might
at least be made matter of discussion. He himself had no personal
attachment for the house, nor any pleasant associations connected with
his childish residence in it. On the contrary, after seven-and-thirty
years, the presence of his dead grandfather seemed still to pervade it,
as on that morning when the affrighted boy had beheld him, with so
ghastly an aspect, stiffening in his chair. His long abode in foreign
parts, moreover, and familiarity with many of the castles and ancestral
halls of England, and the marble palaces of Italy, had caused him to
look contemptuously at the House of the Seven Gables, whether in point
of splendor or convenience. It was a mansion exceedingly inadequate to
the style of living which it would be incumbent on Mr. Pyncheon to
support, after realizing his territorial rights. His steward might
deign to occupy it, but never, certainly, the great landed proprietor
himself. In the event of success, indeed, it was his purpose to return
to England; nor, to say the truth, would he recently have quitted that
more congenial home, had not his own fortune, as well as his deceased
wife's, begun to give symptoms of exhaustion. The Eastern claim once
fairly settled, and put upon the firm basis of actual possession, Mr.
Pyncheon's property--to be measured by miles, not acres--would be worth
an earldom, and would reasonably entitle him to solicit, or enable him
to purchase, that elevated dignity from the British monarch. Lord
Pyncheon!--or the Earl of Waldo!--how could such a magnate be expected
to contract his grandeur within the pitiful compass of seven shingled
gables?
In short, on an enlarged view of the business, the carpenter's terms
appeared so ridiculously easy that Mr. Pyncheon could scarcely forbear
laughing in his face. He was quite ashamed, after the foregoing
reflections, to propose any diminution of so moderate a recompense for
the immense service to be rendered.
"I consent to your proposition, Maule!" cried he. "Put me in possession
of the document essential to establish my rights, and the House of the
Seven Gables is your own!"
According to some versions of the story, a regular contract to the
above effect was drawn up by a lawyer, and signed and sealed in the
presence of witnesses. Others say that Matthew Maule was contented
with a private written agreement, in which Mr. Pyncheon pledged his
honor and integrity to the fulfillment of the terms concluded upon.
The gentleman then ordered wine, which he and the carpenter drank
together, in confirmation of their bargain. During the whole preceding
discussion and subsequent formalities, the old Puritan's portrait seems
to have persisted in its shadowy gestures of disapproval; but without
effect, except that, as Mr. Pyncheon set down the emptied glass, he
thought he beheld his grandfather frown.
"This sherry is too potent a wine for me; it has affected my brain
already," he observed, after a somewhat startled look at the picture.
"On returning to Europe, I shall confine myself to the more delicate
vintages of Italy and France, the best of which will not bear
transportation."
"My Lord Pyncheon may drink what wine he will, and wherever he
pleases," replied the carpenter, as if he had been privy to Mr.
Pyncheon's ambitious projects. "But first, sir, if you desire tidings
of this lost document, I must crave the favor of a little talk with
your fair daughter Alice."
"You are mad, Maule!" exclaimed Mr. Pyncheon haughtily; and now, at
last, there was anger mixed up with his pride. "What can my daughter
have to do with a business like this?"
Indeed, at this new demand on the carpenter's part, the proprietor of
the Seven Gables was even more thunder-struck than at the cool
proposition to surrender his house. There was, at least, an assignable
motive for the first stipulation; there appeared to be none whatever
for the last. Nevertheless, Matthew Maule sturdily insisted on the
young lady being summoned, and even gave her father to understand, in a
mysterious kind of explanation,--which made the matter considerably
darker than it looked before,--that the only chance of acquiring the
requisite knowledge was through the clear, crystal medium of a pure and
virgin intelligence, like that of the fair Alice. Not to encumber our
story with Mr. Pyncheon's scruples, whether of conscience, pride, or
fatherly affection, he at length ordered his daughter to be called. He
well knew that she was in her chamber, and engaged in no occupation
that could not readily be laid aside; for, as it happened, ever since
Alice's name had been spoken, both her father and the carpenter had
heard the sad and sweet music of her harpsichord, and the airier
melancholy of her accompanying voice.
So Alice Pyncheon was summoned, and appeared. A portrait of this young
lady, painted by a Venetian artist, and left by her father in England,
is said to have fallen into the hands of the present Duke of
Devonshire, and to be now preserved at Chatsworth; not on account of
any associations with the original, but for its value as a picture, and
the high character of beauty in the countenance. If ever there was a
lady born, and set apart from the world's vulgar mass by a certain
gentle and cold stateliness, it was this very Alice Pyncheon. Yet
there was the womanly mixture in her; the tenderness, or, at least, the
tender capabilities. For the sake of that redeeming quality, a man of
generous nature would have forgiven all her pride, and have been
content, almost, to lie down in her path, and let Alice set her slender
foot upon his heart. All that he would have required was simply the
acknowledgment that he was indeed a man, and a fellow-being, moulded of
the same elements as she.
As Alice came into the room, her eyes fell upon the carpenter, who was
standing near its centre, clad in green woollen jacket, a pair of loose
breeches, open at the knees, and with a long pocket for his rule, the
end of which protruded; it was as proper a mark of the artisan's
calling as Mr. Pyncheon's full-dress sword of that gentleman's
aristocratic pretensions. A glow of artistic approval brightened over
Alice Pyncheon's face; she was struck with admiration--which she made
no attempt to conceal--of the remarkable comeliness, strength, and
energy of Maule's figure. But that admiring glance (which most other
men, perhaps, would have cherished as a sweet recollection all through
life) the carpenter never forgave. It must have been the devil himself
that made Maule so subtile in his preception.
"Does the girl look at me as if I were a brute beast?" thought he,
setting his teeth. "She shall know whether I have a human spirit; and
the worse for her, if it prove stronger than her own!"
"My father, you sent for me," said Alice, in her sweet and harp-like
voice. "But, if you have business with this young man, pray let me go
again. You know I do not love this room, in spite of that Claude, with
which you try to bring back sunny recollections."
"Stay a moment, young lady, if you please!" said Matthew Maule. "My
business with your father is over. With yourself, it is now to begin!"
Alice looked towards her father, in surprise and inquiry.
"Yes, Alice," said Mr. Pyncheon, with some disturbance and confusion.
"This young man--his name is Matthew Maule--professes, so far as I can
understand him, to be able to discover, through your means, a certain
paper or parchment, which was missing long before your birth. The
importance of the document in question renders it advisable to neglect
no possible, even if improbable, method of regaining it. You will
therefore oblige me, my dear Alice, by answering this person's
inquiries, and complying with his lawful and reasonable requests, so
far as they may appear to have the aforesaid object in view. As I
shall remain in the room, you need apprehend no rude nor unbecoming
deportment, on the young man's part; and, at your slightest wish, of
course, the investigation, or whatever we may call it, shall
immediately be broken off."
"Mistress Alice Pyncheon," remarked Matthew Maule, with the utmost
deference, but yet a half-hidden sarcasm in his look and tone, "will no
doubt feel herself quite safe in her father's presence, and under his
all-sufficient protection."
"I certainly shall entertain no manner of apprehension, with my father
at hand," said Alice with maidenly dignity. "Neither do I conceive
that a lady, while true to herself, can have aught to fear from
whomsoever, or in any circumstances!"
Poor Alice! By what unhappy impulse did she thus put herself at once on
terms of defiance against a strength which she could not estimate?
"Then, Mistress Alice," said Matthew Maule, handing a
chair,--gracefully enough, for a craftsman, "will it please you only to
sit down, and do me the favor (though altogether beyond a poor
carpenter's deserts) to fix your eyes on mine!"
Alice complied, She was very proud. Setting aside all advantages of
rank, this fair girl deemed herself conscious of a power--combined of
beauty, high, unsullied purity, and the preservative force of
womanhood--that could make her sphere impenetrable, unless betrayed by
treachery within. She instinctively knew, it may be, that some
sinister or evil potency was now striving to pass her barriers; nor
would she decline the contest. So Alice put woman's might against
man's might; a match not often equal on the part of woman.
Her father meanwhile had turned away, and seemed absorbed in the
contemplation of a landscape by Claude, where a shadowy and
sun-streaked vista penetrated so remotely into an ancient wood, that it
would have been no wonder if his fancy had lost itself in the picture's
bewildering depths. But, in truth, the picture was no more to him at
that moment than the blank wall against which it hung. His mind was
haunted with the many and strange tales which he had heard, attributing
mysterious if not supernatural endowments to these Maules, as well the
grandson here present as his two immediate ancestors. Mr. Pyncheon's
long residence abroad, and intercourse with men of wit and
fashion,--courtiers, worldings, and free-thinkers,--had done much
towards obliterating the grim Puritan superstitions, which no man of
New England birth at that early period could entirely escape. But, on
the other hand, had not a whole community believed Maule's grandfather
to be a wizard? Had not the crime been proved? Had not the wizard died
for it? Had he not bequeathed a legacy of hatred against the Pyncheons
to this only grandson, who, as it appeared, was now about to exercise a
subtle influence over the daughter of his enemy's house? Might not
this influence be the same that was called witchcraft?
Turning half around, he caught a glimpse of Maule's figure in the
looking-glass. At some paces from Alice, with his arms uplifted in the
air, the carpenter made a gesture as if directing downward a slow,
ponderous, and invisible weight upon the maiden.
"Stay, Maule!" exclaimed Mr. Pyncheon, stepping forward. "I forbid
your proceeding further!"
"Pray, my dear father, do not interrupt the young man," said Alice,
without changing her position. "His efforts, I assure you, will prove
very harmless."
Again Mr. Pyncheon turned his eyes towards the Claude. It was then his
daughter's will, in opposition to his own, that the experiment should
be fully tried. Henceforth, therefore, he did but consent, not urge
it. And was it not for her sake far more than for his own that he
desired its success? That lost parchment once restored, the beautiful
Alice Pyncheon, with the rich dowry which he could then bestow, might
wed an English duke or a German reigning-prince, instead of some New
England clergyman or lawyer! At the thought, the ambitious father
almost consented, in his heart, that, if the devil's power were needed
to the accomplishment of this great object, Maule might evoke him.
Alice's own purity would be her safeguard.
With his mind full of imaginary magnificence, Mr. Pyncheon heard a
half-uttered exclamation from his daughter. It was very faint and low;
so indistinct that there seemed but half a will to shape out the words,
and too undefined a purport to be intelligible. Yet it was a call for
help!--his conscience never doubted it;--and, little more than a
whisper to his ear, it was a dismal shriek, and long reechoed so, in
the region round his heart! But this time the father did not turn.
After a further interval, Maule spoke.
"Behold your daughter," said he.
Mr. Pyncheon came hastily forward. The carpenter was standing erect in
front of Alice's chair, and pointing his finger towards the maiden with
an expression of triumphant power, the limits of which could not be
defined, as, indeed, its scope stretched vaguely towards the unseen and
the infinite. Alice sat in an attitude of profound repose, with the
long brown lashes drooping over her eyes.
"There she is!" said the carpenter. "Speak to her!"
"Alice! My daughter!" exclaimed Mr. Pyncheon. "My own Alice!"
She did not stir.
"Louder!" said Maule, smiling.
"Alice! Awake!" cried her father. "It troubles me to see you thus!
Awake!"
He spoke loudly, with terror in his voice, and close to that delicate
ear which had always been so sensitive to every discord. But the sound
evidently reached her not. It is indescribable what a sense of remote,
dim, unattainable distance betwixt himself and Alice was impressed on
the father by this impossibility of reaching her with his voice.
"Best touch her!" said Matthew Maule "Shake the girl, and roughly, too!
My hands are hardened with too much use of axe, saw, and plane,--else I
might help you!"
Mr. Pyncheon took her hand, and pressed it with the earnestness of
startled emotion. He kissed her, with so great a heart-throb in the
kiss, that he thought she must needs feel it. Then, in a gust of anger
at her insensibility, he shook her maiden form with a violence which,
the next moment, it affrighted him to remember. He withdrew his
encircling arms, and Alice--whose figure, though flexible, had been
wholly impassive--relapsed into the same attitude as before these
attempts to arouse her. Maule having shifted his position, her face
was turned towards him slightly, but with what seemed to be a reference
of her very slumber to his guidance.
Then it was a strange sight to behold how the man of conventionalities
shook the powder out of his periwig; how the reserved and stately
gentleman forgot his dignity; how the gold-embroidered waistcoat
flickered and glistened in the firelight with the convulsion of rage,
terror, and sorrow in the human heart that was beating under it.
"Villain!" cried Mr. Pyncheon, shaking his clenched fist at Maule.
"You and the fiend together have robbed me of my daughter. Give her
back, spawn of the old wizard, or you shall climb Gallows Hill in your
grandfather's footsteps!"
"Softly, Mr. Pyncheon!" said the carpenter with scornful composure.
"Softly, an' it please your worship, else you will spoil those rich
lace-ruffles at your wrists! Is it my crime if you have sold your
daughter for the mere hope of getting a sheet of yellow parchment into
your clutch? There sits Mistress Alice quietly asleep. Now let Matthew
Maule try whether she be as proud as the carpenter found her awhile
since."
He spoke, and Alice responded, with a soft, subdued, inward
acquiescence, and a bending of her form towards him, like the flame of
a torch when it indicates a gentle draught of air. He beckoned with
his hand, and, rising from her chair,--blindly, but undoubtingly, as
tending to her sure and inevitable centre,--the proud Alice approached
him. He waved her back, and, retreating, Alice sank again into her
seat.
"She is mine!" said Matthew Maule. "Mine, by the right of the
strongest spirit!"
In the further progress of the legend, there is a long, grotesque, and
occasionally awe-striking account of the carpenter's incantations (if
so they are to be called), with a view of discovering the lost
document. It appears to have been his object to convert the mind of
Alice into a kind of telescopic medium, through which Mr. Pyncheon and
himself might obtain a glimpse into the spiritual world. He succeeded,
accordingly, in holding an imperfect sort of intercourse, at one
remove, with the departed personages in whose custody the so much
valued secret had been carried beyond the precincts of earth. During
her trance, Alice described three figures as being present to her
spiritualized perception. One was an aged, dignified, stern-looking
gentleman, clad as for a solemn festival in grave and costly attire,
but with a great blood-stain on his richly wrought band; the second, an
aged man, meanly dressed, with a dark and malign countenance, and a
broken halter about his neck; the third, a person not so advanced in
life as the former two, but beyond the middle age, wearing a coarse
woollen tunic and leather breeches, and with a carpenter's rule
sticking out of his side pocket. These three visionary characters
possessed a mutual knowledge of the missing document. One of them, in
truth,--it was he with the blood-stain on his band,--seemed, unless his
gestures were misunderstood, to hold the parchment in his immediate
keeping, but was prevented by his two partners in the mystery from
disburdening himself of the trust. Finally, when he showed a purpose
of shouting forth the secret loudly enough to be heard from his own
sphere into that of mortals, his companions struggled with him, and
pressed their hands over his mouth; and forthwith--whether that he were
choked by it, or that the secret itself was of a crimson hue--there was
a fresh flow of blood upon his band. Upon this, the two meanly dressed
figures mocked and jeered at the much-abashed old dignitary, and
pointed their fingers at the stain.
At this juncture, Maule turned to Mr. Pyncheon.
"It will never be allowed," said he. "The custody of this secret, that
would so enrich his heirs, makes part of your grandfather's
retribution. He must choke with it until it is no longer of any value.
And keep you the House of the Seven Gables! It is too dear bought an
inheritance, and too heavy with the curse upon it, to be shifted yet
awhile from the Colonel's posterity."
Mr. Pyncheon tried to speak, but--what with fear and passion--could
make only a gurgling murmur in his throat. The carpenter smiled.
"Aha, worshipful sir!--so you have old Maule's blood to drink!" said he
jeeringly.
"Fiend in man's shape! why dost thou keep dominion over my child?"
cried Mr. Pyncheon, when his choked utterance could make way. "Give me
back my daughter. Then go thy ways; and may we never meet again!"
"Your daughter!" said Matthew Maule. "Why, she is fairly mine!
Nevertheless, not to be too hard with fair Mistress Alice, I will leave
her in your keeping; but I do not warrant you that she shall never have
occasion to remember Maule, the carpenter."
He waved his hands with an upward motion; and, after a few repetitions
of similar gestures, the beautiful Alice Pyncheon awoke from her
strange trance. She awoke without the slightest recollection of her
visionary experience; but as one losing herself in a momentary reverie,
and returning to the consciousness of actual life, in almost as brief
an interval as the down-sinking flame of the hearth should quiver again
up the chimney. On recognizing Matthew Maule, she assumed an air of
somewhat cold but gentle dignity, the rather, as there was a certain
peculiar smile on the carpenter's visage that stirred the native pride
of the fair Alice. So ended, for that time, the quest for the lost
title-deed of the Pyncheon territory at the Eastward; nor, though often
subsequently renewed, has it ever yet befallen a Pyncheon to set his
eye upon that parchment.
But, alas for the beautiful, the gentle, yet too haughty Alice! A
power that she little dreamed of had laid its grasp upon her maiden
soul. A will, most unlike her own, constrained her to do its grotesque
and fantastic bidding. Her father as it proved, had martyred his poor
child to an inordinate desire for measuring his land by miles instead
of acres. And, therefore, while Alice Pyncheon lived, she was Maule's
slave, in a bondage more humiliating, a thousand-fold, than that which
binds its chain around the body. Seated by his humble fireside, Maule
had but to wave his hand; and, wherever the proud lady chanced to
be,--whether in her chamber, or entertaining her father's stately
guests, or worshipping at church,--whatever her place or occupation,
her spirit passed from beneath her own control, and bowed itself to
Maule. "Alice, laugh!"--the carpenter, beside his hearth, would say;
or perhaps intensely will it, without a spoken word. And, even were it
prayer-time, or at a funeral, Alice must break into wild laughter.
"Alice, be sad!"--and, at the instant, down would come her tears,
quenching all the mirth of those around her like sudden rain upon a
bonfire. "Alice, dance."--and dance she would, not in such court-like
measures as she had learned abroad, but some high-paced jig, or
hop-skip rigadoon, befitting the brisk lasses at a rustic merry-making.
It seemed to be Maule's impulse, not to ruin Alice, nor to visit her
with any black or gigantic mischief, which would have crowned her
sorrows with the grace of tragedy, but to wreak a low, ungenerous scorn
upon her. Thus all the dignity of life was lost. She felt herself too
much abased, and longed to change natures with some worm!
One evening, at a bridal party (but not her own; for, so lost from
self-control, she would have deemed it sin to marry), poor Alice was
beckoned forth by her unseen despot, and constrained, in her gossamer
white dress and satin slippers, to hasten along the street to the mean
dwelling of a laboring-man. There was laughter and good cheer within;
for Matthew Maule, that night, was to wed the laborer's daughter, and
had summoned proud Alice Pyncheon to wait upon his bride. And so she
did; and when the twain were one, Alice awoke out of her enchanted
sleep. Yet, no longer proud,--humbly, and with a smile all steeped in
sadness,--she kissed Maule's wife, and went her way. It was an
inclement night; the southeast wind drove the mingled snow and rain
into her thinly sheltered bosom; her satin slippers were wet through
and through, as she trod the muddy sidewalks. The next day a cold;
soon, a settled cough; anon, a hectic cheek, a wasted form, that sat
beside the harpsichord, and filled the house with music! Music in
which a strain of the heavenly choristers was echoed! Oh; joy! For
Alice had borne her last humiliation! Oh, greater joy! For Alice was
penitent of her one earthly sin, and proud no more!
The Pyncheons made a great funeral for Alice. The kith and kin were
there, and the whole respectability of the town besides. But, last in
the procession, came Matthew Maule, gnashing his teeth, as if he would
have bitten his own heart in twain,--the darkest and wofullest man that
ever walked behind a corpse! He meant to humble Alice, not to kill her;
but he had taken a woman's delicate soul into his rude gripe, to play
with--and she was dead! | Alice Pyncheon This chapter is the text of Holgrave's story about the Pyncheon curse, which he reads aloud to Phoebe. Gervayse Pyncheon, the grandson of Colonel Pyncheon, summons a carpenter named Matthew Maule, the grandson of the same Matthew Maule who placed the curse on the Pyncheon family. The younger Maule, a bitter and unpopular carpenter, knows the family legend well and has a deep hatred for the Pyncheons. Maule believes that the house of the seven gables is rightfully his and that the curse will never end until the house has been returned to the Maule family. Although he is only a laborer, Maule defiantly barges into the house through the front door and demands to know what Pyncheon wants. Pyncheon, now a middle-aged man, has not lived in the house for very long. He spent his younger years in Europe, where he got married and traveled the continent. Now that Gervayse has returned to New England, however, he is interested in the large area of land in Maine that Colonel Pyncheon was in the process of acquiring when he died. Gervayse believes that the Maule family may know where the missing deeds to the land are, since the current Matthew Maule's father, the first Maule's son, was working on the Pyncheon house when these deeds disappeared. The Pyncheons have searched thoroughly for the missing document, even digging up the grave of the first Matthew Maule to look for it, but have been unable to find it. The younger Maule turns a deaf ear to Gervayse's offers of money if he can produce the desired documentation, but he eventually agrees to help Gervayse in exchange for the house of the seven gables. After some deliberation, Gervayse decides that the exchange is worth it, and they have a celebratory drink. Before giving the information, Maule asks to see Gervayse's young daughter, Alice Pyncheon. Gervayse reluctantly agrees. When Alice enters, she admires the strength and artistry evident in the younger Maule, but he mistakes her glance for haughtiness. He makes her sit down and hypnotizes her. Gervayse has a premonition that Maule is doing something terrible, but Alice waves her father off, and this dismissal, combined with his greed, keep Gervayse from protesting. Maule uses Alice as a medium to contact the spirits of Colonel Pyncheon, the older Matthew Maule, and his own father. In Alice's vision, the two Maule spirits physically restrain the ghost of the Colonel from divulging the document's location, and he is so choked with his own secret that he begins to cough up blood. The younger Maule declares that the secret will not be revealed until the deed no longer has value. He tells Pyncheon to keep the house of the seven gables and glories in the fact that he now has control over Alice. Over the next few years, Maule uses his power to toy with Alice. Regardless of where she is, she is at his beck and call. He can make her happy or sad at the most inopportune times, or have her dance a vulgar jig anytime he pleases. Alice suffers greatly from this indignity, and she refuses to marry while her life is not her own. One night, she is summoned by Maule from a bridal party to a laborer's home, and trudges through the dark and snow wearing only a light evening gown. She arrives at the home, where Maule is marrying the laborer's daughter, and he uses his powers to force Alice to wait upon and serve his new bride. Alice wakes up from her trance once the ceremony is over and humbly kisses the new bride before heading back home. Inappropriately clad for the cold weather, however, Alice catches pneumonia and dies. The last marcher in the elaborate funeral procession is Matthew Maule, who is broken with guilt by the way his petty antics, which were only meant to humble, have cost the innocent girl her life |
When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as
much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the
examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her
being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any
revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering.
But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that
cheerfulness which had been used to characterize her style, and which,
proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself, and kindly
disposed towards every one, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth
noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an
attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's
shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her a
keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation to
think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next,
and a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should herself be
with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her
spirits, by all that affection could do.
She could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent, without remembering that
his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear
that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not
mean to be unhappy about him.
While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the
door bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its
being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in
the evening, and might now come to enquire particularly after her. But
this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently
affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the
room. In an hurried manner he immediately began an enquiry after her
health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.
She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and
then getting up walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said
not a word. After a silence of several minutes he came towards her in an
agitated manner, and thus began,
"In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be
repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love
you."
Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,
doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement,
and the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt for her,
immediately followed. He spoke well, but there were feelings besides
those of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the
subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority--of
its being a degradation--of the family obstacles which judgment had
always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed
due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to
recommend his suit.
In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to
the compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did
not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to
receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost
all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to
answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with
representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of
all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with
expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of
his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of
a favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but his
countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only
exasperate farther, and when he ceased, the colour rose into her
cheeks, and she said,
"In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to
express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however
unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be
felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I
cannot--I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly
bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to any
one. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of
short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the
acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming
it after this explanation."
Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantle-piece with his eyes fixed
on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than
surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of
his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the
appearance of composure, and would not open his lips, till he believed
himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings
dreadful. At length, in a voice of forced calmness, he said,
"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I
might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at
civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."
"I might as well enquire," replied she, "why with so evident a design of
offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me
against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?
Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have
other provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided
against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been
favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept
the man, who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the
happiness of a most beloved sister?"
As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion
was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she
continued.
"I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can
excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not,
you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means
of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the
world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for
disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest
kind."
She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening
with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse.
He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.
"Can you deny that you have done it?" she repeated.
With assumed tranquillity he then replied, "I have no wish of denying
that I did every thing in my power to separate my friend from your
sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been
kinder than towards myself."
Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection,
but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.
"But it is not merely this affair," she continued, "on which my dislike
is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was
decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received
many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to
say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?
or under what misrepresentation, can you here impose upon others?"
"You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns," said Darcy in
a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.
"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an
interest in him?"
"His misfortunes!" repeated Darcy contemptuously; "yes, his misfortunes
have been great indeed."
"And of your infliction," cried Elizabeth with energy. "You have reduced
him to his present state of poverty, comparative poverty. You have
withheld the advantages, which you must know to have been designed for
him. You have deprived the best years of his life, of that independence
which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and
yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and
ridicule."
"And this," cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room,
"is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I
thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this
calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps," added he, stopping in his
walk, and turning towards her, "these offences might have been
overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the
scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These
bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I with greater policy
concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being
impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by
reflection, by every thing. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.
Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just.
Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?
To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life
is so decidedly beneath my own?"
Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to
the utmost to speak with composure when she said,
"You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your
declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the
concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a
more gentleman-like manner."
She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued,
"You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way
that would have tempted me to accept it."
Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an
expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on.
"From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my
acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest
belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the
feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of
disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a
dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the
last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."
"You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your
feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.
Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best
wishes for your health and happiness."
And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him
the next moment open the front door and quit the house.
The tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to
support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for half an
hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was
increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of
marriage from Mr. Darcy! that he should have been in love with her for
so many months! so much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all
the objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying her
sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case,
was almost incredible! it was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously
so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his
shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane, his
unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it,
and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his
cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the
pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited.
She continued in very agitating reflections till the sound of Lady
Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter
Charlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room. | When the Company leaves, Elizabeth begins to reread Janes letters. Suddenly Darcy comes back in. After making perfunctory inquiries about her health, he declares his love for Elizabeth, who is thunderstruck and mute. Darcy speaks a good deal about his pride and makes Jane feel she is socially inferior to him. He acts like his proposal to her is a divine honor, which Elizabeth cannot turn down. Elizabeth, furious over his superior attitude, spares no words in refusing him. She accuses Darcy of separating Jane and Bingley, of treating Wickham horribly, and of acting in an arrogant manner. Darcy accepts these accusations without apology, but it hurts him when she says that his demeanor is not gentlemanly. When Darcy leaves the house, Elizabeth is so flustered great that she breaks into tears. |
Scene II.
A public road near Coventry.
Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.
Fal. Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill me a bottle of
sack. Our soldiers shall march through. We'll to Sutton
Co'fil'
to-night.
Bard. Will you give me money, Captain?
Fal. Lay out, lay out.
Bard. This bottle makes an angel.
Fal. An if it do, take it for thy labour; an if it make twenty,
take them all; I'll answer the coinage. Bid my lieutenant
Peto
meet me at town's end.
Bard. I will, Captain. Farewell. Exit.
Fal. If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a sous'd gurnet.
I
have misused the King's press damnably. I have got in
exchange of
a hundred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I
press me none but good householders, yeomen's sons; inquire
me
out contracted bachelors, such as had been ask'd twice on the
banes- such a commodity of warm slaves as had as lieve hear
the
devil as a drum; such as fear the report of a caliver worse
than
a struck fowl or a hurt wild duck. I press'd me none but such
toasts-and-butter, with hearts in their bellies no bigger
than
pins' heads, and they have bought out their services; and now
my
whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants,
gentlemen of companies- slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the
painted cloth, where the glutton's dogs licked his sores; and
such as indeed were never soldiers, but discarded unjust
serving-men, younger sons to Younger brothers, revolted
tapsters,
and ostlers trade-fall'n; the cankers of a calm world and a
long
peace; ten times more dishonourable ragged than an old fac'd
ancient; and such have I to fill up the rooms of them that
have
bought out their services that you would think that I had a
hundred and fifty tattered Prodigals lately come from
swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met
me
on the way, and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets and
press'd the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows.
I'll
not march through Coventry with them, that's flat. Nay, and
the
villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves
on;
for indeed I had the most of them out of prison. There's but
a
shirt and a half in all my company; and the half-shirt is two
napkins tack'd together and thrown over the shoulders like a
herald's coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say the
truth,
stol'n from my host at Saint Alban's, or the red-nose
innkeeper
of Daventry. But that's all one; they'll find linen enough on
every hedge.
Enter the Prince and the Lord of Westmoreland.
Prince. How now, blown Jack? How now, quilt?
Fal. What, Hal? How now, mad wag? What a devil dost thou in
Warwickshire? My good Lord of Westmoreland, I cry you mercy.
I
thought your honour had already been at Shrewsbury.
West. Faith, Sir John, 'tis more than time that I were there,
and
you too; but my powers are there already. The King, I can
tell
you, looks for us all. We must away all, to-night.
Fal. Tut, never fear me. I am as vigilant as a cat to steal
cream.
Prince. I think, to steal cream indeed, for thy theft hath
already
made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these
that
come after?
Fal. Mine, Hal, mine.
Prince. I did never see such pitiful rascals.
Fal. Tut, tut! good enough to toss; food for powder, food for
powder. They'll fill a pit as well as better. Tush, man,
mortal
men, mortal men.
West. Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are exceeding poor and
bare-
too beggarly.
Fal. Faith, for their poverty, I know, not where they had that;
and
for their bareness, I am surd they never learn'd that of me.
Prince. No, I'll be sworn, unless you call three fingers on the
ribs bare. But, sirrah, make haste. Percy 's already in the
field.
Exit.
Fal. What, is the King encamp'd?
West. He is, Sir John. I fear we shall stay too long.
[Exit.]
Fal. Well,
To the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feast
Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest. Exit. | Falstaff and Bardolph appear on a public road near Coventry, followed by a newly enlisted company of soldiers. Sir John orders Bardolph to replenish his supply of sack and to tell Peto to meet him at the town's end. He dislikes the idea of marching his men through the town in their rags and tatters. Abjectly impoverished, not one of them could pay him, as so many others had, for release from military service. In Falstaff's own words, "No eye hath seen such scarecrows" . Prince Hal and Westmoreland meet him on the road and comment on the poor creatures whom Falstaff leads. The knight remains undisturbed and is philosophical in the face of this criticism. And, for that matter, the prince seems amused rather than indignant. All are to make haste, says Hal, for Percy is already in the field. |
Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates's youngest
daughter.
The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the ----regiment of infantry,
and Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope
and interest; but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy
remembrance of him dying in action abroad--of his widow sinking under
consumption and grief soon afterwards--and this girl.
By birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old, on
losing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the consolation,
the foundling of her grandmother and aunt, there had seemed every
probability of her being permanently fixed there; of her being taught
only what very limited means could command, and growing up with no
advantages of connexion or improvement, to be engrafted on what
nature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and
warm-hearted, well-meaning relations.
But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change
to her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded
Fairfax, as an excellent officer and most deserving young man; and
farther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe
camp-fever, as he believed had saved his life. These were claims which
he did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the
death of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England put any thing in
his power. When he did return, he sought out the child and took notice
of her. He was a married man, with only one living child, a girl, about
Jane's age: and Jane became their guest, paying them long visits and
growing a favourite with all; and before she was nine years old, his
daughter's great fondness for her, and his own wish of being a real
friend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell of undertaking
the whole charge of her education. It was accepted; and from that period
Jane had belonged to Colonel Campbell's family, and had lived with them
entirely, only visiting her grandmother from time to time.
The plan was that she should be brought up for educating others; the
very few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making
independence impossible. To provide for her otherwise was out of Colonel
Campbell's power; for though his income, by pay and appointments, was
handsome, his fortune was moderate and must be all his daughter's;
but, by giving her an education, he hoped to be supplying the means of
respectable subsistence hereafter.
Such was Jane Fairfax's history. She had fallen into good hands, known
nothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent
education. Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed people,
her heart and understanding had received every advantage of discipline
and culture; and Colonel Campbell's residence being in London, every
lighter talent had been done full justice to, by the attendance of
first-rate masters. Her disposition and abilities were equally worthy
of all that friendship could do; and at eighteen or nineteen she was,
as far as such an early age can be qualified for the care of children,
fully competent to the office of instruction herself; but she was too
much beloved to be parted with. Neither father nor mother could promote,
and the daughter could not endure it. The evil day was put off. It was
easy to decide that she was still too young; and Jane remained with
them, sharing, as another daughter, in all the rational pleasures of
an elegant society, and a judicious mixture of home and amusement, with
only the drawback of the future, the sobering suggestions of her own
good understanding to remind her that all this might soon be over.
The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss
Campbell in particular, was the more honourable to each party from
the circumstance of Jane's decided superiority both in beauty and
acquirements. That nature had given it in feature could not be unseen
by the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by the
parents. They continued together with unabated regard however, till the
marriage of Miss Campbell, who by that chance, that luck which so often
defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs, giving attraction to what is
moderate rather than to what is superior, engaged the affections of
Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich and agreeable, almost as soon as they were
acquainted; and was eligibly and happily settled, while Jane Fairfax had
yet her bread to earn.
This event had very lately taken place; too lately for any thing to be
yet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path
of duty; though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had
fixed on for beginning. She had long resolved that one-and-twenty
should be the period. With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she had
resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire from
all the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse, equal society, peace
and hope, to penance and mortification for ever.
The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such
a resolution, though their feelings did. As long as they lived, no
exertions would be necessary, their home might be hers for ever; and for
their own comfort they would have retained her wholly; but this would
be selfishness:--what must be at last, had better be soon. Perhaps they
began to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted the
temptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of such enjoyments
of ease and leisure as must now be relinquished. Still, however,
affection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not hurrying
on the wretched moment. She had never been quite well since the time of
their daughter's marriage; and till she should have completely recovered
her usual strength, they must forbid her engaging in duties, which, so
far from being compatible with a weakened frame and varying spirits,
seemed, under the most favourable circumstances, to require something
more than human perfection of body and mind to be discharged with
tolerable comfort.
With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her
aunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths
not told. It was her own choice to give the time of their absence to
Highbury; to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with
those kind relations to whom she was so very dear: and the Campbells,
whatever might be their motive or motives, whether single, or double, or
treble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said, that they
depended more on a few months spent in her native air, for the recovery
of her health, than on any thing else. Certain it was that she was to
come; and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect novelty which
had been so long promised it--Mr. Frank Churchill--must put up for the
present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the freshness of a two
years' absence.
Emma was sorry;--to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like
through three long months!--to be always doing more than she wished,
and less than she ought! Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a
difficult question to answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it was
because she saw in her the really accomplished young woman, which she
wanted to be thought herself; and though the accusation had been eagerly
refuted at the time, there were moments of self-examination in which
her conscience could not quite acquit her. But "she could never get
acquainted with her: she did not know how it was, but there was such
coldness and reserve--such apparent indifference whether she pleased or
not--and then, her aunt was such an eternal talker!--and she was made
such a fuss with by every body!--and it had been always imagined that
they were to be so intimate--because their ages were the same, every
body had supposed they must be so fond of each other." These were her
reasons--she had no better.
It was a dislike so little just--every imputed fault was so magnified
by fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first time after any
considerable absence, without feeling that she had injured her; and
now, when the due visit was paid, on her arrival, after a two years'
interval, she was particularly struck with the very appearance and
manners, which for those two whole years she had been depreciating. Jane
Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had herself the
highest value for elegance. Her height was pretty, just such as almost
every body would think tall, and nobody could think very tall; her
figure particularly graceful; her size a most becoming medium, between
fat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed to point
out the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but feel all this; and
then, her face--her features--there was more beauty in them altogether
than she had remembered; it was not regular, but it was very pleasing
beauty. Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and eyebrows, had
never been denied their praise; but the skin, which she had been used to
cavil at, as wanting colour, had a clearness and delicacy which really
needed no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty, of which elegance was
the reigning character, and as such, she must, in honour, by all her
principles, admire it:--elegance, which, whether of person or of mind,
she saw so little in Highbury. There, not to be vulgar, was distinction,
and merit.
In short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax with
twofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering
justice, and was determining that she would dislike her no longer. When
she took in her history, indeed, her situation, as well as her beauty;
when she considered what all this elegance was destined to, what she was
going to sink from, how she was going to live, it seemed impossible
to feel any thing but compassion and respect; especially, if to every
well-known particular entitling her to interest, were added the highly
probable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had
so naturally started to herself. In that case, nothing could be more
pitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on.
Emma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon's
actions from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which her imagination
had suggested at first. If it were love, it might be simple, single,
successless love on her side alone. She might have been unconsciously
sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his conversation with her
friend; and from the best, the purest of motives, might now be
denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to divide herself
effectually from him and his connexions by soon beginning her career of
laborious duty.
Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings,
as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury
afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that she
could wish to scheme about for her.
These were charming feelings--but not lasting. Before she had committed
herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax,
or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors, than
saying to Mr. Knightley, "She certainly is handsome; she is better than
handsome!" Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with her grandmother
and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its usual state.
Former provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome as ever; more
tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to admiration
of her powers; and they had to listen to the description of exactly how
little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how small a slice
of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new
workbags for her mother and herself; and Jane's offences rose again.
They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the thanks and praise
which necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of candour, an
air of greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher style her own very
superior performance. She was, besides, which was the worst of all, so
cold, so cautious! There was no getting at her real opinion. Wrapt up in
a cloak of politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing. She was
disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved.
If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved on
the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed bent
on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon's character, or her own value
for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all
general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or distinguished.
It did her no service however. Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw
its artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There probably _was_
something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps,
had been very near changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only
to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds.
The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill
had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a
little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma
procure as to what he truly was. "Was he handsome?"--"She believed
he was reckoned a very fine young man." "Was he agreeable?"--"He was
generally thought so." "Did he appear a sensible young man; a young
man of information?"--"At a watering-place, or in a common London
acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were
all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than
they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his
manners pleasing." Emma could not forgive her. | Our narrator gives us all the dirt on Jane Fairfax. Her parents died when she was a baby, but a friend of her father's offered to raise her. He's got a daughter that's Jane's age. Jane is, apparently, perfect. She's prettier, smarter, and all-around better than her friend Miss Campbell. For some reason, however, Miss Campbell and Jane love each other like sisters. Of course, as you've probably figured out by now, in this novel pretty girls don't get too far on their looks alone. Jane's poor. Miss Campbell is rich. Miss Campbell gets engaged; Jane has to find a job as a governess. The Campbells love Jane like a daughter, but they can't give her any of their money. Why not? This means that Jane has to go out into the wide, wide world. The Campbells put it off as long as possible, but Jane decides that, once she turns 21, she's cutting the cord. Fortunately, right after she turns 21, she gets sick. And that brings us up to speed with Jane. Now back to Emma: Emma sort of hates Jane . In other words, Emma's pretty smart - she knows that Jane is more accomplished than she is. To make matters worse, Mr. Knightley constantly tells Emma that Jane is better than she is. Even if you didn't hate Jane before, wouldn't you hate her now? Despite her past history, Emma decides to start afresh. Emma visits Jane and is pleasantly surprised at how pretty and elegant she is . Before long, however, things are back to normal. It starts when Jane comes to Hartfield with her aunts. The combination of Miss Bates' chatter and Jane's refusal to dish on Frank Churchill makes Emma think Jane insufferable. And unbearable. And lots of other nasty words we won't mention here. |
I came to myself in darkness, in great pain, bound hand and foot, and
deafened by many unfamiliar noises. There sounded in my ears a roaring
of water as of a huge mill-dam, the thrashing of heavy sprays, the
thundering of the sails, and the shrill cries of seamen. The whole world
now heaved giddily up, and now rushed giddily downward; and so sick and
hurt was I in body, and my mind so much confounded, that it took me a
long while, chasing my thoughts up and down, and ever stunned again by
a fresh stab of pain, to realise that I must be lying somewhere bound in
the belly of that unlucky ship, and that the wind must have strengthened
to a gale. With the clear perception of my plight, there fell upon me a
blackness of despair, a horror of remorse at my own folly, and a passion
of anger at my uncle, that once more bereft me of my senses.
When I returned again to life, the same uproar, the same confused and
violent movements, shook and deafened me; and presently, to my other
pains and distresses, there was added the sickness of an unused landsman
on the sea. In that time of my adventurous youth, I suffered many
hardships; but none that was so crushing to my mind and body, or lit by
so few hopes, as these first hours aboard the brig.
I heard a gun fire, and supposed the storm had proved too strong for us,
and we were firing signals of distress. The thought of deliverance, even
by death in the deep sea, was welcome to me. Yet it was no such matter;
but (as I was afterwards told) a common habit of the captain's, which
I here set down to show that even the worst man may have his kindlier
side. We were then passing, it appeared, within some miles of Dysart,
where the brig was built, and where old Mrs. Hoseason, the captain's
mother, had come some years before to live; and whether outward or
inward bound, the Covenant was never suffered to go by that place by
day, without a gun fired and colours shown.
I had no measure of time; day and night were alike in that ill-smelling
cavern of the ship's bowels where I lay; and the misery of my situation
drew out the hours to double. How long, therefore, I lay waiting to hear
the ship split upon some rock, or to feel her reel head foremost into
the depths of the sea, I have not the means of computation. But sleep at
length stole from me the consciousness of sorrow.
I was awakened by the light of a hand-lantern shining in my face. A
small man of about thirty, with green eyes and a tangle of fair hair,
stood looking down at me.
"Well," said he, "how goes it?"
I answered by a sob; and my visitor then felt my pulse and temples, and
set himself to wash and dress the wound upon my scalp.
"Ay," said he, "a sore dunt*. What, man? Cheer up! The world's no done;
you've made a bad start of it but you'll make a better. Have you had any
meat?"
* Stroke.
I said I could not look at it: and thereupon he gave me some brandy and
water in a tin pannikin, and left me once more to myself.
The next time he came to see me, I was lying betwixt sleep and waking,
my eyes wide open in the darkness, the sickness quite departed, but
succeeded by a horrid giddiness and swimming that was almost worse
to bear. I ached, besides, in every limb, and the cords that bound me
seemed to be of fire. The smell of the hole in which I lay seemed to
have become a part of me; and during the long interval since his last
visit I had suffered tortures of fear, now from the scurrying of the
ship's rats, that sometimes pattered on my very face, and now from the
dismal imaginings that haunt the bed of fever.
The glimmer of the lantern, as a trap opened, shone in like the heaven's
sunlight; and though it only showed me the strong, dark beams of the
ship that was my prison, I could have cried aloud for gladness. The man
with the green eyes was the first to descend the ladder, and I noticed
that he came somewhat unsteadily. He was followed by the captain.
Neither said a word; but the first set to and examined me, and dressed
my wound as before, while Hoseason looked me in my face with an odd,
black look.
"Now, sir, you see for yourself," said the first: "a high fever, no
appetite, no light, no meat: you see for yourself what that means."
"I am no conjurer, Mr. Riach," said the captain.
"Give me leave, sir," said Riach; "you've a good head upon your
shoulders, and a good Scotch tongue to ask with; but I will leave you no
manner of excuse; I want that boy taken out of this hole and put in the
forecastle."
"What ye may want, sir, is a matter of concern to nobody but yoursel',"
returned the captain; "but I can tell ye that which is to be. Here he
is; here he shall bide."
"Admitting that you have been paid in a proportion," said the other, "I
will crave leave humbly to say that I have not. Paid I am, and none too
much, to be the second officer of this old tub, and you ken very well if
I do my best to earn it. But I was paid for nothing more."
"If ye could hold back your hand from the tin-pan, Mr. Riach, I would
have no complaint to make of ye," returned the skipper; "and instead
of asking riddles, I make bold to say that ye would keep your breath to
cool your porridge. We'll be required on deck," he added, in a sharper
note, and set one foot upon the ladder.
But Mr. Riach caught him by the sleeve.
"Admitting that you have been paid to do a murder----" he began.
Hoseason turned upon him with a flash.
"What's that?" he cried. "What kind of talk is that?"
"It seems it is the talk that you can understand," said Mr. Riach,
looking him steadily in the face.
"Mr. Riach, I have sailed with ye three cruises," replied the captain.
"In all that time, sir, ye should have learned to know me: I'm a stiff
man, and a dour man; but for what ye say the now--fie, fie!--it comes
from a bad heart and a black conscience. If ye say the lad will die----"
"Ay, will he!" said Mr. Riach.
"Well, sir, is not that enough?" said Hoseason. "Flit him where ye
please!"
Thereupon the captain ascended the ladder; and I, who had lain silent
throughout this strange conversation, beheld Mr. Riach turn after him
and bow as low as to his knees in what was plainly a spirit of derision.
Even in my then state of sickness, I perceived two things: that the
mate was touched with liquor, as the captain hinted, and that (drunk or
sober) he was like to prove a valuable friend.
Five minutes afterwards my bonds were cut, I was hoisted on a man's
back, carried up to the forecastle, and laid in a bunk on some
sea-blankets; where the first thing that I did was to lose my senses.
It was a blessed thing indeed to open my eyes again upon the daylight,
and to find myself in the society of men. The forecastle was a roomy
place enough, set all about with berths, in which the men of the watch
below were seated smoking, or lying down asleep. The day being calm and
the wind fair, the scuttle was open, and not only the good daylight, but
from time to time (as the ship rolled) a dusty beam of sunlight shone
in, and dazzled and delighted me. I had no sooner moved, moreover, than
one of the men brought me a drink of something healing which Mr. Riach
had prepared, and bade me lie still and I should soon be well again.
There were no bones broken, he explained: "A clour* on the head was
naething. Man," said he, "it was me that gave it ye!"
* Blow.
Here I lay for the space of many days a close prisoner, and not only got
my health again, but came to know my companions. They were a rough lot
indeed, as sailors mostly are: being men rooted out of all the kindly
parts of life, and condemned to toss together on the rough seas, with
masters no less cruel. There were some among them that had sailed with
the pirates and seen things it would be a shame even to speak of; some
were men that had run from the king's ships, and went with a halter
round their necks, of which they made no secret; and all, as the saying
goes, were "at a word and a blow" with their best friends. Yet I had
not been many days shut up with them before I began to be ashamed of my
first judgment, when I had drawn away from them at the Ferry pier, as
though they had been unclean beasts. No class of man is altogether bad,
but each has its own faults and virtues; and these shipmates of mine
were no exception to the rule. Rough they were, sure enough; and bad, I
suppose; but they had many virtues. They were kind when it occurred to
them, simple even beyond the simplicity of a country lad like me, and
had some glimmerings of honesty.
There was one man, of maybe forty, that would sit on my berthside for
hours and tell me of his wife and child. He was a fisher that had lost
his boat, and thus been driven to the deep-sea voyaging. Well, it is
years ago now: but I have never forgotten him. His wife (who was "young
by him," as he often told me) waited in vain to see her man return; he
would never again make the fire for her in the morning, nor yet keep
the bairn when she was sick. Indeed, many of these poor fellows (as the
event proved) were upon their last cruise; the deep seas and cannibal
fish received them; and it is a thankless business to speak ill of the
dead.
Among other good deeds that they did, they returned my money, which had
been shared among them; and though it was about a third short, I was
very glad to get it, and hoped great good from it in the land I was
going to. The ship was bound for the Carolinas; and you must not suppose
that I was going to that place merely as an exile. The trade was even
then much depressed; since that, and with the rebellion of the colonies
and the formation of the United States, it has, of course, come to
an end; but in those days of my youth, white men were still sold into
slavery on the plantations, and that was the destiny to which my wicked
uncle had condemned me.
The cabin-boy Ransome (from whom I had first heard of these atrocities)
came in at times from the round-house, where he berthed and served, now
nursing a bruised limb in silent agony, now raving against the cruelty
of Mr. Shuan. It made my heart bleed; but the men had a great respect
for the chief mate, who was, as they said, "the only seaman of the whole
jing-bang, and none such a bad man when he was sober." Indeed, I found
there was a strange peculiarity about our two mates: that Mr. Riach was
sullen, unkind, and harsh when he was sober, and Mr. Shuan would not
hurt a fly except when he was drinking. I asked about the captain; but I
was told drink made no difference upon that man of iron.
I did my best in the small time allowed me to make some thing like a
man, or rather I should say something like a boy, of the poor creature,
Ransome. But his mind was scarce truly human. He could remember nothing
of the time before he came to sea; only that his father had made clocks,
and had a starling in the parlour, which could whistle "The North
Countrie;" all else had been blotted out in these years of hardship
and cruelties. He had a strange notion of the dry land, picked up from
sailor's stories: that it was a place where lads were put to some kind
of slavery called a trade, and where apprentices were continually lashed
and clapped into foul prisons. In a town, he thought every second person
a decoy, and every third house a place in which seamen would be drugged
and murdered. To be sure, I would tell him how kindly I had myself been
used upon that dry land he was so much afraid of, and how well fed and
carefully taught both by my friends and my parents: and if he had been
recently hurt, he would weep bitterly and swear to run away; but if
he was in his usual crackbrain humour, or (still more) if he had had a
glass of spirits in the roundhouse, he would deride the notion.
It was Mr. Riach (Heaven forgive him!) who gave the boy drink; and
it was, doubtless, kindly meant; but besides that it was ruin to his
health, it was the pitifullest thing in life to see this unhappy,
unfriended creature staggering, and dancing, and talking he knew not
what. Some of the men laughed, but not all; others would grow as black
as thunder (thinking, perhaps, of their own childhood or their own
children) and bid him stop that nonsense, and think what he was doing.
As for me, I felt ashamed to look at him, and the poor child still comes
about me in my dreams.
All this time, you should know, the Covenant was meeting continual
head-winds and tumbling up and down against head-seas, so that the
scuttle was almost constantly shut, and the forecastle lighted only by a
swinging lantern on a beam. There was constant labour for all hands; the
sails had to be made and shortened every hour; the strain told on the
men's temper; there was a growl of quarrelling all day long from berth
to berth; and as I was never allowed to set my foot on deck, you
can picture to yourselves how weary of my life I grew to be, and how
impatient for a change.
And a change I was to get, as you shall hear; but I must first tell of
a conversation I had with Mr. Riach, which put a little heart in me to
bear my troubles. Getting him in a favourable stage of drink (for indeed
he never looked near me when he was sober), I pledged him to secrecy,
and told him my whole story.
He declared it was like a ballad; that he would do his best to help
me; that I should have paper, pen, and ink, and write one line to Mr.
Campbell and another to Mr. Rankeillor; and that if I had told the
truth, ten to one he would be able (with their help) to pull me through
and set me in my rights.
"And in the meantime," says he, "keep your heart up. You're not the only
one, I'll tell you that. There's many a man hoeing tobacco over-seas
that should be mounting his horse at his own door at home; many and
many! And life is all a variorum, at the best. Look at me: I'm a laird's
son and more than half a doctor, and here I am, man-Jack to Hoseason!"
I thought it would be civil to ask him for his story.
He whistled loud.
"Never had one," said he. "I like fun, that's all." And he skipped out
of the forecastle. | When Davie regains consciousness, he finds himself tied up and in pain in a dark room. The intense rocking of the ship convinces Davie that they are in a storm. He is so afraid for his future and so angry at his uncle that he faints again. When Davie comes to a second time, seasickness is added to his list of troubles. This, Davie tells us, is pretty much the worst moment in his life, these miserable first hours on the Covenant. Davie hears gunfire. He finds out afterwards that these shots have come from the town of Dysart, which the Covenant was passing. The captain Mr. Hoseason's mother lived in Dysart, and whenever the Covenant passed, she fired shots and raised a flag in her son's honor. Davie has no idea how long he spent in "that ill-smelling cavern of the ship's bowels" before he falls asleep a third time. Davie wakes up to a light shining on his face from a lantern held by a guy in his thirties, with green eyes and light hair. The stranger asks Davie how he is. Davie starts to cry. The stranger cleans the injury on Davie's head and tells him to cheer up. He offers Davie food, gives him a bit of brandy and water, then leaves. When the stranger returns a bit later, Davie is wandering in the head with a bad fever. The stranger is accompanied this time by Captain Hoseason. The stranger tells Hoseason that Davie is ill, and he needs to be brought up above deck. The captain says tough - Davie's not going anywhere. The stranger - whose name, we now learn, is Mr. Riach - tells Captain Hoseason that he was hired to be the ship's second mate. He hasn't been paid for anything more, and he won't help in committing murder. Captain Hoseason is angry that Riach could suspect him of such a thing. He tells Riach to take Davie wherever he pleases, if he thinks Davie will die otherwise. Davie notices two things: Riach is a little drunk, and he seems like he'll be a good friend to him. Riach frees Davie and carries him up to a bunk in the forecastle, where Davie falls asleep yet again. When Davie wakes up, he's glad to see the sun at last. He's also no longer alone: there are sailors all around. Davie spends many days in the bunk recuperating. He also gets to know the Covenant's sailors. While they're kind of rough -- and several of them are out-and-out criminals - he feels guilty about how judgmental he was when he first saw them at the Queen's Ferry. The sailors aren't so bad, but what is pretty bad is the fate awaiting Davie: his uncle has sold him to a plantation in the Carolinas. This practice of selling the labor of European immigrants to colonial American employers was pretty common in the eighteenth century. It's often called "indentured servitude," and it differs from the slavery of African Americans primarily in that indentured servants usually had term limits - three to seven years -- before the worker could go free. Davie also meets up with his old buddy, the cabin boy Ransome. Ransome tells Davie that Riach is mean when he's sober, and Shuan is fine except when he's drunk. Ransome is also quite a drinker. It turns out that Riach, trying to be nice, is the one who supplies Ransome with the alcohol that seems to be ruining his mind. As a background to all of these conversations, Davie tells us that he's not allowed to leave the forecastle, so he's getting pretty bored. He does manage to catch one lucky break: he runs into Riach when he's at just the right stage of drunkenness and tells Riach his life story. Riach promises to write a letter to Campbell and Rankeillor for help. Riach also reassures Davie that he's not alone in his changing fortunes: Riach himself is the son of a lord and "more than half a doctor" and here he is, serving Captain Hoseason. His reason for these changes in his life? "I like fun, that's all." . |
Meanwhile a middle-aged man was dreaming a dream of great beauty
concerning the writer of the above letter. He was Richard
Phillotson, who had recently removed from the mixed village school at
Lumsdon near Christminster, to undertake a large boys' school in his
native town of Shaston, which stood on a hill sixty miles to the
south-west as the crow flies.
A glance at the place and its accessories was almost enough to reveal
that the schoolmaster's plans and dreams so long indulged in had
been abandoned for some new dream with which neither the Church nor
literature had much in common. Essentially an unpractical man, he
was now bent on making and saving money for a practical purpose--that
of keeping a wife, who, if she chose, might conduct one of the girls'
schools adjoining his own; for which purpose he had advised her to go
into training, since she would not marry him offhand.
About the time that Jude was removing from Marygreen to Melchester,
and entering on adventures at the latter place with Sue, the
schoolmaster was settling down in the new school-house at Shaston.
All the furniture being fixed, the books shelved, and the nails
driven, he had begun to sit in his parlour during the dark winter
nights and re-attempt some of his old studies--one branch of
which had included Roman-Britannic antiquities--an unremunerative
labour for a national school-master but a subject, that, after his
abandonment of the university scheme, had interested him as being a
comparatively unworked mine; practicable to those who, like himself,
had lived in lonely spots where these remains were abundant, and were
seen to compel inferences in startling contrast to accepted views on
the civilization of that time.
A resumption of this investigation was the outward and apparent hobby
of Phillotson at present--his ostensible reason for going alone into
fields where causeways, dykes, and tumuli abounded, or shutting
himself up in his house with a few urns, tiles, and mosaics he had
collected, instead of calling round upon his new neighbours, who for
their part had showed themselves willing enough to be friendly with
him. But it was not the real, or the whole, reason, after all.
Thus on a particular evening in the month, when it had grown quite
late--to near midnight, indeed--and the light of his lamp, shining
from his window at a salient angle of the hill-top town over infinite
miles of valley westward, announced as by words a place and person
given over to study, he was not exactly studying.
The interior of the room--the books, the furniture, the
schoolmaster's loose coat, his attitude at the table, even the
flickering of the fire, bespoke the same dignified tale of
undistracted research--more than creditable to a man who had had no
advantages beyond those of his own making. And yet the tale, true
enough till latterly, was not true now. What he was regarding was
not history. They were historic notes, written in a bold womanly
hand at his dictation some months before, and it was the clerical
rendering of word after word that absorbed him.
He presently took from a drawer a carefully tied bundle of letters,
few, very few, as correspondence counts nowadays. Each was in its
envelope just as it had arrived, and the handwriting was of the same
womanly character as the historic notes. He unfolded them one by
one and read them musingly. At first sight there seemed in these
small documents to be absolutely nothing to muse over. They were
straightforward, frank letters, signed "Sue B--"; just such ones as
would be written during short absences, with no other thought than
their speedy destruction, and chiefly concerning books in reading
and other experiences of a training school, forgotten doubtless by
the writer with the passing of the day of their inditing. In one of
them--quite a recent note--the young woman said that she had received
his considerate letter, and that it was honourable and generous of
him to say he would not come to see her oftener than she desired (the
school being such an awkward place for callers, and because of her
strong wish that her engagement to him should not be known, which it
would infallibly be if he visited her often). Over these phrases the
school-master pored. What precise shade of satisfaction was to be
gathered from a woman's gratitude that the man who loved her had not
been often to see her? The problem occupied him, distracted him.
He opened another drawer, and found therein an envelope, from which
he drew a photograph of Sue as a child, long before he had known her,
standing under trellis-work with a little basket in her hand. There
was another of her as a young woman, her dark eyes and hair making a
very distinct and attractive picture of her, which just disclosed,
too, the thoughtfulness that lay behind her lighter moods. It was
a duplicate of the one she had given Jude, and would have given to
any man. Phillotson brought it half-way to his lips, but withdrew
it in doubt at her perplexing phrases: ultimately kissing the
dead pasteboard with all the passionateness, and more than all the
devotion, of a young man of eighteen.
The schoolmaster's was an unhealthy-looking, old-fashioned face,
rendered more old-fashioned by his style of shaving. A certain
gentlemanliness had been imparted to it by nature, suggesting an
inherent wish to do rightly by all. His speech was a little slow,
but his tones were sincere enough to make his hesitation no defect.
His greying hair was curly, and radiated from a point in the middle
of his crown. There were four lines across his forehead, and he only
wore spectacles when reading at night. It was almost certainly a
renunciation forced upon him by his academic purpose, rather than a
distaste for women, which had hitherto kept him from closing with one
of the sex in matrimony.
Such silent proceedings as those of this evening were repeated many
and oft times when he was not under the eye of the boys, whose quick
and penetrating regard would frequently become almost intolerable to
the self-conscious master in his present anxious care for Sue, making
him, in the grey hours of morning, dread to meet anew the gimlet
glances, lest they should read what the dream within him was.
He had honourably acquiesced in Sue's announced wish that he was
not often to visit her at the training school; but at length, his
patience being sorely tried, he set out one Saturday afternoon to pay
her an unexpected call. There the news of her departure--expulsion
as it might almost have been considered--was flashed upon him without
warning or mitigation as he stood at the door expecting in a few
minutes to behold her face; and when he turned away he could hardly
see the road before him.
Sue had, in fact, never written a line to her suitor on the subject,
although it was fourteen days old. A short reflection told him that
this proved nothing, a natural delicacy being as ample a reason for
silence as any degree of blameworthiness.
They had informed him at the school where she was living, and having
no immediate anxiety about her comfort, his thoughts took the
direction of a burning indignation against the training school
committee. In his bewilderment Phillotson entered the adjacent
cathedral, just now in a direly dismantled state by reason of
the repairs. He sat down on a block of freestone, regardless of
the dusty imprint it made on his breeches; and his listless eyes
following the movements of the workmen he presently became aware
that the reputed culprit, Sue's lover Jude, was one amongst them.
Jude had never spoken to his former hero since the meeting by the
model of Jerusalem. Having inadvertently witnessed Phillotson's
tentative courtship of Sue in the lane there had grown up in the
younger man's mind a curious dislike to think of the elder, to meet
him, to communicate in any way with him; and since Phillotson's
success in obtaining at least her promise had become known to Jude,
he had frankly recognized that he did not wish to see or hear of his
senior any more, learn anything of his pursuits, or even imagine
again what excellencies might appertain to his character. On this
very day of the schoolmaster's visit Jude was expecting Sue, as she
had promised; and when therefore he saw the schoolmaster in the nave
of the building, saw, moreover, that he was coming to speak to him,
he felt no little embarrassment; which Phillotson's own embarrassment
prevented his observing.
Jude joined him, and they both withdrew from the other workmen to the
spot where Phillotson had been sitting. Jude offered him a piece of
sackcloth for a cushion, and told him it was dangerous to sit on the
bare block.
"Yes; yes," said Phillotson abstractedly, as he reseated himself, his
eyes resting on the ground as if he were trying to remember where he
was. "I won't keep you long. It was merely that I have heard that
you have seen my little friend Sue recently. It occurred to me to
speak to you on that account. I merely want to ask--about her."
"I think I know what!" Jude hurriedly said. "About her escaping
from the training school, and her coming to me?"
"Yes."
"Well"--Jude for a moment felt an unprincipled and fiendish wish to
annihilate his rival at all cost. By the exercise of that treachery
which love for the same woman renders possible to men the most
honourable in every other relation of life, he could send off
Phillotson in agony and defeat by saying that the scandal was true,
and that Sue had irretrievably committed herself with him. But his
action did not respond for a moment to his animal instinct; and what
he said was, "I am glad of your kindness in coming to talk plainly to
me about it. You know what they say?--that I ought to marry her."
"What!"
"And I wish with all my soul I could!"
Phillotson trembled, and his naturally pale face acquired a
corpselike sharpness in its lines. "I had no idea that it was of
this nature! God forbid!"
"No, no!" said Jude aghast. "I thought you understood? I mean that
were I in a position to marry her, or someone, and settle down,
instead of living in lodgings here and there, I should be glad!"
What he had really meant was simply that he loved her.
"But--since this painful matter has been opened up--what really
happened?" asked Phillotson, with the firmness of a man who felt that
a sharp smart now was better than a long agony of suspense hereafter.
"Cases arise, and this is one, when even ungenerous questions must be
put to make false assumptions impossible, and to kill scandal."
Jude explained readily; giving the whole series of adventures,
including the night at the shepherd's, her wet arrival at his
lodging, her indisposition from her immersion, their vigil of
discussion, and his seeing her off next morning.
"Well now," said Phillotson at the conclusion, "I take it as your
final word, and I know I can believe you, that the suspicion which
led to her rustication is an absolutely baseless one?"
"It is," said Jude solemnly. "Absolutely. So help me God!"
The schoolmaster rose. Each of the twain felt that the interview
could not comfortably merge in a friendly discussion of their recent
experiences, after the manner of friends; and when Jude had taken him
round, and shown him some features of the renovation which the old
cathedral was undergoing, Phillotson bade the young man good-day and
went away.
This visit took place about eleven o'clock in the morning; but no Sue
appeared. When Jude went to his dinner at one he saw his beloved
ahead of him in the street leading up from the North Gate, walking
as if no way looking for him. Speedily overtaking her he remarked
that he had asked her to come to him at the cathedral, and she had
promised.
"I have been to get my things from the college," she said--an
observation which he was expected to take as an answer, though it was
not one. Finding her to be in this evasive mood he felt inclined to
give her the information so long withheld.
"You have not seen Mr. Phillotson to-day?" he ventured to inquire.
"I have not. But I am not going to be cross-examined about him; and
if you ask anything more I won't answer!"
"It is very odd that--" He stopped, regarding her.
"What?"
"That you are often not so nice in your real presence as you are in
your letters!"
"Does it really seem so to you?" said she, smiling with quick
curiosity. "Well, that's strange; but I feel just the same about
you, Jude. When you are gone away I seem such a coldhearted--"
As she knew his sentiment towards her Jude saw that they were getting
upon dangerous ground. It was now, he thought, that he must speak as
an honest man.
But he did not speak, and she continued: "It was that which made me
write and say--I didn't mind your loving me--if you wanted to, much!"
The exultation he might have felt at what that implied, or seemed to
imply, was nullified by his intention, and he rested rigid till he
began: "I have never told you--"
"Yes you have," murmured she.
"I mean, I have never told you my history--all of it."
"But I guess it. I know nearly."
Jude looked up. Could she possibly know of that morning performance
of his with Arabella; which in a few months had ceased to be a
marriage more completely than by death? He saw that she did not.
"I can't quite tell you here in the street," he went on with a gloomy
tongue. "And you had better not come to my lodgings. Let us go in
here."
The building by which they stood was the market-house; it was the
only place available; and they entered, the market being over, and
the stalls and areas empty. He would have preferred a more congenial
spot, but, as usually happens, in place of a romantic field or solemn
aisle for his tale, it was told while they walked up and down over a
floor littered with rotten cabbage-leaves, and amid all the usual
squalors of decayed vegetable matter and unsaleable refuse. He
began and finished his brief narrative, which merely led up to the
information that he had married a wife some years earlier, and that
his wife was living still. Almost before her countenance had time to
change she hurried out the words,
"Why didn't you tell me before!"
"I couldn't. It seemed so cruel to tell it."
"To yourself, Jude. So it was better to be cruel to me!"
"No, dear darling!" cried Jude passionately. He tried to take her
hand, but she withdrew it. Their old relations of confidence seemed
suddenly to have ended, and the antagonisms of sex to sex were left
without any counter-poising predilections. She was his comrade,
friend, unconscious sweetheart no longer; and her eyes regarded him
in estranged silence.
"I was ashamed of the episode in my life which brought about the
marriage," he continued. "I can't explain it precisely now. I could
have done it if you had taken it differently!"
"But how can I?" she burst out. "Here I have been saying, or
writing, that--that you might love me, or something of the
sort!--just out of charity--and all the time--oh, it is perfectly
damnable how things are!" she said, stamping her foot in a nervous
quiver.
"You take me wrong, Sue! I never thought you cared for me at all,
till quite lately; so I felt it did not matter! Do you care for me,
Sue?--you know how I mean?--I don't like 'out of charity' at all!"
It was a question which in the circumstances Sue did not choose to
answer.
"I suppose she--your wife--is--a very pretty woman, even if she's
wicked?" she asked quickly.
"She's pretty enough, as far as that goes."
"Prettier than I am, no doubt!"
"You are not the least alike. And I have never seen her for
years... But she's sure to come back--they always do!"
"How strange of you to stay apart from her like this!" said Sue,
her trembling lip and lumpy throat belying her irony. "You, such a
religious man. How will the demi-gods in your Pantheon--I mean those
legendary persons you call saints--intercede for you after this?
Now if I had done such a thing it would have been different, and not
remarkable, for I at least don't regard marriage as a sacrament.
Your theories are not so advanced as your practice!"
"Sue, you are terribly cutting when you like to be--a perfect
Voltaire! But you must treat me as you will!"
When she saw how wretched he was she softened, and trying to blink
away her sympathetic tears said with all the winning reproachfulness
of a heart-hurt woman: "Ah--you should have told me before you gave
me that idea that you wanted to be allowed to love me! I had no
feeling before that moment at the railway-station, except--" For
once Sue was as miserable as he, in her attempts to keep herself free
from emotion, and her less than half-success.
"Don't cry, dear!" he implored.
"I am--not crying--because I meant to--love you; but because of your
want of--confidence!"
They were quite screened from the market-square without, and he could
not help putting out his arm towards her waist. His momentary desire
was the means of her rallying. "No, no!" she said, drawing back
stringently, and wiping her eyes. "Of course not! It would be
hypocrisy to pretend that it would be meant as from my cousin; and it
can't be in any other way."
They moved on a dozen paces, and she showed herself recovered. It
was distracting to Jude, and his heart would have ached less had she
appeared anyhow but as she did appear; essentially large-minded and
generous on reflection, despite a previous exercise of those narrow
womanly humours on impulse that were necessary to give her sex.
"I don't blame you for what you couldn't help," she said, smiling.
"How should I be so foolish? I do blame you a little bit for not
telling me before. But, after all, it doesn't matter. We should
have had to keep apart, you see, even if this had not been in your
life."
"No, we shouldn't, Sue! This is the only obstacle."
"You forget that I must have loved you, and wanted to be your
wife, even if there had been no obstacle," said Sue, with a gentle
seriousness which did not reveal her mind. "And then we are cousins,
and it is bad for cousins to marry. And--I am engaged to somebody
else. As to our going on together as we were going, in a sort of
friendly way, the people round us would have made it unable to
continue. Their views of the relations of man and woman are limited,
as is proved by their expelling me from the school. Their philosophy
only recognizes relations based on animal desire. The wide field
of strong attachment where desire plays, at least, only a secondary
part, is ignored by them--the part of--who is it?--Venus Urania."
Her being able to talk learnedly showed that she was mistress of
herself again; and before they parted she had almost regained her
vivacious glance, her reciprocity of tone, her gay manner, and her
second-thought attitude of critical largeness towards others of her
age and sex.
He could speak more freely now. "There were several reasons against
my telling you rashly. One was what I have said; another, that
it was always impressed upon me that I ought not to marry--that
I belonged to an odd and peculiar family--the wrong breed for
marriage."
"Ah--who used to say that to you?"
"My great-aunt. She said it always ended badly with us Fawleys."
"That's strange. My father used to say the same to me!"
They stood possessed by the same thought, ugly enough, even as an
assumption: that a union between them, had such been possible, would
have meant a terrible intensification of unfitness--two bitters in
one dish.
"Oh, but there can't be anything in it!" she said with nervous
lightness. "Our family have been unlucky of late years in choosing
mates--that's all."
And then they pretended to persuade themselves that all that had
happened was of no consequence, and that they could still be cousins
and friends and warm correspondents, and have happy genial times
when they met, even if they met less frequently than before. Their
parting was in good friendship, and yet Jude's last look into her
eyes was tinged with inquiry, for he felt that he did not even now
quite know her mind.
Tidings from Sue a day or two after passed across Jude like a
withering blast.
Before reading the letter he was led to suspect that its contents
were of a somewhat serious kind by catching sight of the
signature--which was in her full name, never used in her
correspondence with him since her first note:
MY DEAR JUDE,--I have something to tell you which perhaps
you will not be surprised to hear, though certainly it may
strike you as being accelerated (as the railway companies
say of their trains). Mr. Phillotson and I are to be married
quite soon--in three or four weeks. We had intended, as you
know, to wait till I had gone through my course of training
and obtained my certificate, so as to assist him, if
necessary, in the teaching. But he generously says he does
not see any object in waiting, now I am not at the training
school. It is so good of him, because the awkwardness of my
situation has really come about by my fault in getting
expelled.
Wish me joy. Remember I say you are to, and you mustn't
refuse!--Your affectionate cousin,
SUSANNA FLORENCE MARY BRIDEHEAD.
Jude staggered under the news; could eat no breakfast; and kept on
drinking tea because his mouth was so dry. Then presently he went
back to his work and laughed the usual bitter laugh of a man so
confronted. Everything seemed turning to satire. And yet, what
could the poor girl do? he asked himself, and felt worse than
shedding tears.
"O Susanna Florence Mary!" he said as he worked. "You don't know
what marriage means!"
Could it be possible that his announcement of his own marriage had
pricked her on to this, just as his visit to her when in liquor may
have pricked her on to her engagement? To be sure, there seemed to
exist these other and sufficient reasons, practical and social, for
her decision; but Sue was not a very practical or calculating person;
and he was compelled to think that a pique at having his secret
sprung upon her had moved her to give way to Phillotson's probable
representations, that the best course to prove how unfounded were the
suspicions of the school authorities would be to marry him off-hand,
as in fulfilment of an ordinary engagement. Sue had, in fact, been
placed in an awkward corner. Poor Sue!
He determined to play the Spartan; to make the best of it, and
support her; but he could not write the requested good wishes for a
day or two. Meanwhile there came another note from his impatient
little dear:
Jude, will you give me away? I have nobody else who could
do it so conveniently as you, being the only married relation
I have here on the spot, even if my father were friendly
enough to be willing, which he isn't. I hope you won't think
it a trouble? I have been looking at the marriage service in
the prayer-book, and it seems to me very humiliating that a
giver-away should be required at all. According to the
ceremony as there printed, my bridegroom chooses me of his
own will and pleasure; but I don't choose him. Somebody
GIVES me to him, like a she-ass or she-goat, or any other
domestic animal. Bless your exalted views of woman, O
churchman! But I forget: I am no longer privileged to tease
you.--Ever,
SUSANNA FLORENCE MARY BRIDEHEAD.
Jude screwed himself up to heroic key; and replied:
MY DEAR SUE,--Of course I wish you joy! And also of course
I will give you away. What I suggest is that, as you have
no house of your own, you do not marry from your school
friend's, but from mine. It would be more proper, I think,
since I am, as you say, the person nearest related to you in
this part of the world.
I don't see why you sign your letter in such a new and
terribly formal way? Surely you care a bit about me
still!--Ever your affectionate,
JUDE.
What had jarred on him even more than the signature was a little
sting he had been silent on--the phrase "married relation"--What an
idiot it made him seem as her lover! If Sue had written that in
satire, he could hardly forgive her; if in suffering--ah, that was
another thing!
His offer of his lodging must have commended itself to Phillotson
at any rate, for the schoolmaster sent him a line of warm thanks,
accepting the convenience. Sue also thanked him. Jude immediately
moved into more commodious quarters, as much to escape the espionage
of the suspicious landlady who had been one cause of Sue's unpleasant
experience as for the sake of room.
Then Sue wrote to tell him the day fixed for the wedding; and Jude
decided, after inquiry, that she should come into residence on the
following Saturday, which would allow of a ten days' stay in the city
prior to the ceremony, sufficiently representing a nominal residence
of fifteen.
She arrived by the ten o'clock train on the day aforesaid, Jude not
going to meet her at the station, by her special request, that he
should not lose a morning's work and pay, she said (if this were
her true reason). But so well by this time did he know Sue that the
remembrance of their mutual sensitiveness at emotional crises might,
he thought, have weighed with her in this. When he came home to
dinner she had taken possession of her apartment.
She lived in the same house with him, but on a different floor, and
they saw each other little, an occasional supper being the only meal
they took together, when Sue's manner was something like that of a
scared child. What she felt he did not know; their conversation was
mechanical, though she did not look pale or ill. Phillotson came
frequently, but mostly when Jude was absent. On the morning of the
wedding, when Jude had given himself a holiday, Sue and her cousin
had breakfast together for the first and last time during this
curious interval; in his room--the parlour--which he had hired for
the period of Sue's residence. Seeing, as women do, how helpless he
was in making the place comfortable, she bustled about.
"What's the matter, Jude?" she said suddenly.
He was leaning with his elbows on the table and his chin on his
hands, looking into a futurity which seemed to be sketched out on the
tablecloth.
"Oh--nothing!"
"You are 'father', you know. That's what they call the man who gives
you away."
Jude could have said "Phillotson's age entitles him to be called
that!" But he would not annoy her by such a cheap retort.
She talked incessantly, as if she dreaded his indulgence in
reflection, and before the meal was over both he and she wished they
had not put such confidence in their new view of things, and had
taken breakfast apart. What oppressed Jude was the thought that,
having done a wrong thing of this sort himself, he was aiding and
abetting the woman he loved in doing a like wrong thing, instead of
imploring and warning her against it. It was on his tongue to say,
"You have quite made up your mind?"
After breakfast they went out on an errand together moved by a mutual
thought that it was the last opportunity they would have of indulging
in unceremonious companionship. By the irony of fate, and the
curious trick in Sue's nature of tempting Providence at critical
times, she took his arm as they walked through the muddy street--a
thing she had never done before in her life--and on turning the
corner they found themselves close to a grey perpendicular church
with a low-pitched roof--the church of St. Thomas.
"That's the church," said Jude.
"Where I am going to be married?"
"Yes."
"Indeed!" she exclaimed with curiosity. "How I should like to go in
and see what the spot is like where I am so soon to kneel and do it."
Again he said to himself, "She does not realize what marriage means!"
He passively acquiesced in her wish to go in, and they entered by
the western door. The only person inside the gloomy building was
a charwoman cleaning. Sue still held Jude's arm, almost as if she
loved him. Cruelly sweet, indeed, she had been to him that morning;
but his thoughts of a penance in store for her were tempered by an
ache:
... I can find no way
How a blow should fall, such as falls on men,
Nor prove too much for your womanhood!
They strolled undemonstratively up the nave towards the altar
railing, which they stood against in silence, turning then and
walking down the nave again, her hand still on his arm, precisely
like a couple just married. The too suggestive incident, entirely
of her making, nearly broke down Jude.
"I like to do things like this," she said in the delicate voice of an
epicure in emotions, which left no doubt that she spoke the truth.
"I know you do!" said Jude.
"They are interesting, because they have probably never been done
before. I shall walk down the church like this with my husband in
about two hours, shan't I!"
"No doubt you will!"
"Was it like this when you were married?"
"Good God, Sue--don't be so awfully merciless! ... There, dear one,
I didn't mean it!"
"Ah--you are vexed!" she said regretfully, as she blinked away an
access of eye moisture. "And I promised never to vex you! ... I
suppose I ought not to have asked you to bring me in here. Oh, I
oughtn't! I see it now. My curiosity to hunt up a new sensation
always leads me into these scrapes. Forgive me! ... You will, won't
you, Jude?"
The appeal was so remorseful that Jude's eyes were even wetter than
hers as he pressed her hand for Yes.
"Now we'll hurry away, and I won't do it any more!" she continued
humbly; and they came out of the building, Sue intending to go
on to the station to meet Phillotson. But the first person they
encountered on entering the main street was the schoolmaster himself,
whose train had arrived sooner than Sue expected. There was nothing
really to demur to in her leaning on Jude's arm; but she withdrew her
hand, and Jude thought that Phillotson had looked surprised.
"We have been doing such a funny thing!" said she, smiling candidly.
"We've been to the church, rehearsing as it were. Haven't we, Jude?"
"How?" said Phillotson curiously.
Jude inwardly deplored what he thought to be unnecessary frankness;
but she had gone too far not to explain all, which she accordingly
did, telling him how they had marched up to the altar.
Seeing how puzzled Phillotson seemed, Jude said as cheerfully as he
could, "I am going to buy her another little present. Will you both
come to the shop with me?"
"No," said Sue, "I'll go on to the house with him"; and requesting
her lover not to be a long time she departed with the schoolmaster.
Jude soon joined them at his rooms, and shortly after they prepared
for the ceremony. Phillotson's hair was brushed to a painful
extent, and his shirt collar appeared stiffer than it had been for
the previous twenty years. Beyond this he looked dignified and
thoughtful, and altogether a man of whom it was not unsafe to predict
that he would make a kind and considerate husband. That he adored
Sue was obvious; and she could almost be seen to feel that she was
undeserving his adoration.
Although the distance was so short he had hired a fly from the Red
Lion, and six or seven women and children had gathered by the door
when they came out. The schoolmaster and Sue were unknown, though
Jude was getting to be recognized as a citizen; and the couple were
judged to be some relations of his from a distance, nobody supposing
Sue to have been a recent pupil at the training school.
In the carriage Jude took from his pocket his extra little
wedding-present, which turned out to be two or three yards of white
tulle, which he threw over her bonnet and all, as a veil.
"It looks so odd over a bonnet," she said. "I'll take the bonnet
off."
"Oh no--let it stay," said Phillotson. And she obeyed.
When they had passed up the church and were standing in their places
Jude found that the antecedent visit had certainly taken off the edge
of this performance, but by the time they were half-way on with the
service he wished from his heart that he had not undertaken the
business of giving her away. How could Sue have had the temerity to
ask him to do it--a cruelty possibly to herself as well as to him?
Women were different from men in such matters. Was it that they
were, instead of more sensitive, as reputed, more callous, and less
romantic; or were they more heroic? Or was Sue simply so perverse
that she wilfully gave herself and him pain for the odd and mournful
luxury of practising long-suffering in her own person, and of being
touched with tender pity for him at having made him practise it? He
could perceive that her face was nervously set, and when they reached
the trying ordeal of Jude giving her to Phillotson she could hardly
command herself; rather, however, as it seemed, from her knowledge of
what her cousin must feel, whom she need not have had there at all,
than from self-consideration. Possibly she would go on inflicting
such pains again and again, and grieving for the sufferer again and
again, in all her colossal inconsistency.
Phillotson seemed not to notice, to be surrounded by a mist which
prevented his seeing the emotions of others. As soon as they had
signed their names and come away, and the suspense was over, Jude
felt relieved.
The meal at his lodging was a very simple affair, and at two o'clock
they went off. In crossing the pavement to the fly she looked back;
and there was a frightened light in her eyes. Could it be that Sue
had acted with such unusual foolishness as to plunge into she knew
not what for the sake of asserting her independence of him, of
retaliating on him for his secrecy? Perhaps Sue was thus venturesome
with men because she was childishly ignorant of that side of their
natures which wore out women's hearts and lives.
When her foot was on the carriage-step she turned round, saying that
she had forgotten something. Jude and the landlady offered to get
it.
"No," she said, running back. "It is my handkerchief. I know where
I left it."
Jude followed her back. She had found it, and came holding it in her
hand. She looked into his eyes with her own tearful ones, and her
lips suddenly parted as if she were going to avow something. But she
went on; and whatever she had meant to say remained unspoken. | In his new position at Shaston Phillotson, though pursuing his work at the school as well as his interest in antiquities, thinks mostly of Sue: saving money to support his future marriage, rereading her letters, looking at photographs of her. Though for a while he has honored Sue's desire that he not visit her frequently at the training college in Melchester, he grows impatient and pays her a visit only to discover she has been expelled. Entering the nearby cathedral, he encounters Jude and from him discovers the truth about the alleged scandal as well as something of Jude's feelings for Sue. When Jude meets Sue, finding her evasive about whether she has seen Phillotson, he tells her of his marriage to Arabella. Sue is angry because he has thought of himself first in concealing his marriage and has caused her to allow him to love her, and she asks him how he can reconcile this with his religious beliefs. To Jude's insistence that his marriage is the only obstacle between them, she names several, among which is that she would have to love him. As a reason for not telling her of Arabella, Jude mentions the family's lucklessness in marriage, which momentarily frightens them both. They part, pretending they can still be friends. When Sue writes to Jude that she is going to marry Phillotson soon, Jude wonders if his revealing his marriage to Arabella has hastened her decision, as he feels his visiting her drunk hurried her engagement. Even more upsetting is a second letter asking Jude to give her away at the ceremony, with its mention of him as her nearest "married relation." At Jude's suggestion Sue comes to stay with him so as to marry from his house, and their behavior toward each other is strained. Certain that she is making a mistake in marrying Phillotson, Jude allows Sue to go into the church a few hours before the wedding to see the place where she is to be married, an odd request that she herself acknowledges is characteristic of her. This and, later, the wedding are painful to Jude, and he wonders if she has willfully wanted him to be present. After the wedding and a meal at Jude's lodgings, when the newly married couple are ready to leave Sue hurries back into the house for her handkerchief. She looks at Jude as if to speak but says nothing and hurries out. |
ACT V. SCENE I.
Plains near Rome
Enter LUCIUS with an army of GOTHS with drums and colours
LUCIUS. Approved warriors and my faithful friends,
I have received letters from great Rome
Which signifies what hate they bear their Emperor
And how desirous of our sight they are.
Therefore, great lords, be, as your titles witness,
Imperious and impatient of your wrongs;
And wherein Rome hath done you any scath,
Let him make treble satisfaction.
FIRST GOTH. Brave slip, sprung from the great Andronicus,
Whose name was once our terror, now our comfort,
Whose high exploits and honourable deeds
Ingrateful Rome requites with foul contempt,
Be bold in us: we'll follow where thou lead'st,
Like stinging bees in hottest summer's day,
Led by their master to the flow'red fields,
And be aveng'd on cursed Tamora.
ALL THE GOTHS. And as he saith, so say we all with him.
LUCIUS. I humbly thank him, and I thank you all.
But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth?
Enter a GOTH, leading AARON with his CHILD in his arms
SECOND GOTH. Renowned Lucius, from our troops I stray'd
To gaze upon a ruinous monastery;
And as I earnestly did fix mine eye
Upon the wasted building, suddenly
I heard a child cry underneath a wall.
I made unto the noise, when soon I heard
The crying babe controll'd with this discourse:
'Peace, tawny slave, half me and half thy dam!
Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art,
Had nature lent thee but thy mother's look,
Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor;
But where the bull and cow are both milk-white,
They never do beget a coal-black calf.
Peace, villain, peace!'- even thus he rates the babe-
'For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth,
Who, when he knows thou art the Empress' babe,
Will hold thee dearly for thy mother's sake.'
With this, my weapon drawn, I rush'd upon him,
Surpris'd him suddenly, and brought him hither
To use as you think needful of the man.
LUCIUS. O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil
That robb'd Andronicus of his good hand;
This is the pearl that pleas'd your Empress' eye;
And here's the base fruit of her burning lust.
Say, wall-ey'd slave, whither wouldst thou convey
This growing image of thy fiend-like face?
Why dost not speak? What, deaf? Not a word?
A halter, soldiers! Hang him on this tree,
And by his side his fruit of bastardy.
AARON. Touch not the boy, he is of royal blood.
LUCIUS. Too like the sire for ever being good.
First hang the child, that he may see it sprawl-
A sight to vex the father's soul withal.
Get me a ladder.
[A ladder brought, which AARON is made to climb]
AARON. Lucius, save the child,
And bear it from me to the Empress.
If thou do this, I'll show thee wondrous things
That highly may advantage thee to hear;
If thou wilt not, befall what may befall,
I'll speak no more but 'Vengeance rot you all!'
LUCIUS. Say on; an if it please me which thou speak'st,
Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourish'd.
AARON. An if it please thee! Why, assure thee, Lucius,
'Twill vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak;
For I must talk of murders, rapes, and massacres,
Acts of black night, abominable deeds,
Complots of mischief, treason, villainies,
Ruthful to hear, yet piteously perform'd;
And this shall all be buried in my death,
Unless thou swear to me my child shall live.
LUCIUS. Tell on thy mind; I say thy child shall live.
AARON. Swear that he shall, and then I will begin.
LUCIUS. Who should I swear by? Thou believest no god;
That granted, how canst thou believe an oath?
AARON. What if I do not? as indeed I do not;
Yet, for I know thou art religious
And hast a thing within thee called conscience,
With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies
Which I have seen thee careful to observe,
Therefore I urge thy oath. For that I know
An idiot holds his bauble for a god,
And keeps the oath which by that god he swears,
To that I'll urge him. Therefore thou shalt vow
By that same god- what god soe'er it be
That thou adorest and hast in reverence-
To save my boy, to nourish and bring him up;
Or else I will discover nought to thee.
LUCIUS. Even by my god I swear to thee I will.
AARON. First know thou, I begot him on the Empress.
LUCIUS. O most insatiate and luxurious woman!
AARON. Tut, Lucius, this was but a deed of charity
To that which thou shalt hear of me anon.
'Twas her two sons that murdered Bassianus;
They cut thy sister's tongue, and ravish'd her,
And cut her hands, and trimm'd her as thou sawest.
LUCIUS. O detestable villain! Call'st thou that trimming?
AARON. Why, she was wash'd, and cut, and trimm'd, and 'twas
Trim sport for them which had the doing of it.
LUCIUS. O barbarous beastly villains like thyself!
AARON. Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct them.
That codding spirit had they from their mother,
As sure a card as ever won the set;
That bloody mind, I think, they learn'd of me,
As true a dog as ever fought at head.
Well, let my deeds be witness of my worth.
I train'd thy brethren to that guileful hole
Where the dead corpse of Bassianus lay;
I wrote the letter that thy father found,
And hid the gold within that letter mention'd,
Confederate with the Queen and her two sons;
And what not done, that thou hast cause to rue,
Wherein I had no stroke of mischief in it?
I play'd the cheater for thy father's hand,
And, when I had it, drew myself apart
And almost broke my heart with extreme laughter.
I pried me through the crevice of a wall,
When, for his hand, he had his two sons' heads;
Beheld his tears, and laugh'd so heartily
That both mine eyes were rainy like to his;
And when I told the Empress of this sport,
She swooned almost at my pleasing tale,
And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses.
GOTH. What, canst thou say all this and never blush?
AARON. Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is.
LUCIUS. Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?
AARON. Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.
Even now I curse the day- and yet, I think,
Few come within the compass of my curse-
Wherein I did not some notorious ill;
As kill a man, or else devise his death;
Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it;
Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself;
Set deadly enmity between two friends;
Make poor men's cattle break their necks;
Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night,
And bid the owners quench them with their tears.
Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves,
And set them upright at their dear friends' door
Even when their sorrows almost was forgot,
And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,
Have with my knife carved in Roman letters
'Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.'
Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things
As willingly as one would kill a fly;
And nothing grieves me heartily indeed
But that I cannot do ten thousand more.
LUCIUS. Bring down the devil, for he must not die
So sweet a death as hanging presently.
AARON. If there be devils, would I were a devil,
To live and burn in everlasting fire,
So I might have your company in hell
But to torment you with my bitter tongue!
LUCIUS. Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak no more.
Enter AEMILIUS
GOTH. My lord, there is a messenger from Rome
Desires to be admitted to your presence.
LUCIUS. Let him come near.
Welcome, Aemilius. What's the news from Rome?
AEMILIUS. Lord Lucius, and you Princes of the Goths,
The Roman Emperor greets you all by me;
And, for he understands you are in arms,
He craves a parley at your father's house,
Willing you to demand your hostages,
And they shall be immediately deliver'd.
FIRST GOTH. What says our general?
LUCIUS. Aemilius, let the Emperor give his pledges
Unto my father and my uncle Marcus.
And we will come. March away. Exeunt
SCENE II.
Rome. Before TITUS' house
Enter TAMORA, and her two sons, DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, disguised
TAMORA. Thus, in this strange and sad habiliment,
I will encounter with Andronicus,
And say I am Revenge, sent from below
To join with him and right his heinous wrongs.
Knock at his study, where they say he keeps
To ruminate strange plots of dire revenge;
Tell him Revenge is come to join with him,
And work confusion on his enemies.
They knock and TITUS opens his study door, above
TITUS. Who doth molest my contemplation?
Is it your trick to make me ope the door,
That so my sad decrees may fly away
And all my study be to no effect?
You are deceiv'd; for what I mean to do
See here in bloody lines I have set down;
And what is written shall be executed.
TAMORA. Titus, I am come to talk with thee.
TITUS. No, not a word. How can I grace my talk,
Wanting a hand to give it that accord?
Thou hast the odds of me; therefore no more.
TAMORA. If thou didst know me, thou wouldst talk with me.
TITUS. I am not mad, I know thee well enough:
Witness this wretched stump, witness these crimson lines;
Witness these trenches made by grief and care;
Witness the tiring day and heavy night;
Witness all sorrow that I know thee well
For our proud Empress, mighty Tamora.
Is not thy coming for my other hand?
TAMORA. Know thou, sad man, I am not Tamora:
She is thy enemy and I thy friend.
I am Revenge, sent from th' infernal kingdom
To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind
By working wreakful vengeance on thy foes.
Come down and welcome me to this world's light;
Confer with me of murder and of death;
There's not a hollow cave or lurking-place,
No vast obscurity or misty vale,
Where bloody murder or detested rape
Can couch for fear but I will find them out;
And in their ears tell them my dreadful name-
Revenge, which makes the foul offender quake.
TITUS. Art thou Revenge? and art thou sent to me
To be a torment to mine enemies?
TAMORA. I am; therefore come down and welcome me.
TITUS. Do me some service ere I come to thee.
Lo, by thy side where Rape and Murder stands;
Now give some surance that thou art Revenge-
Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot wheels;
And then I'll come and be thy waggoner
And whirl along with thee about the globes.
Provide thee two proper palfreys, black as jet,
To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away,
And find out murderers in their guilty caves;
And when thy car is loaden with their heads,
I will dismount, and by thy waggon wheel
Trot, like a servile footman, all day long,
Even from Hyperion's rising in the east
Until his very downfall in the sea.
And day by day I'll do this heavy task,
So thou destroy Rapine and Murder there.
TAMORA. These are my ministers, and come with me.
TITUS. Are they thy ministers? What are they call'd?
TAMORA. Rape and Murder; therefore called so
'Cause they take vengeance of such kind of men.
TITUS. Good Lord, how like the Empress' sons they are!
And you the Empress! But we worldly men
Have miserable, mad, mistaking eyes.
O sweet Revenge, now do I come to thee;
And, if one arm's embracement will content thee,
I will embrace thee in it by and by.
TAMORA. This closing with him fits his lunacy.
Whate'er I forge to feed his brain-sick humours,
Do you uphold and maintain in your speeches,
For now he firmly takes me for Revenge;
And, being credulous in this mad thought,
I'll make him send for Lucius his son,
And whilst I at a banquet hold him sure,
I'll find some cunning practice out of hand
To scatter and disperse the giddy Goths,
Or, at the least, make them his enemies.
See, here he comes, and I must ply my theme.
Enter TITUS, below
TITUS. Long have I been forlorn, and all for thee.
Welcome, dread Fury, to my woeful house.
Rapine and Murder, you are welcome too.
How like the Empress and her sons you are!
Well are you fitted, had you but a Moor.
Could not all hell afford you such a devil?
For well I wot the Empress never wags
But in her company there is a Moor;
And, would you represent our queen aright,
It were convenient you had such a devil.
But welcome as you are. What shall we do?
TAMORA. What wouldst thou have us do, Andronicus?
DEMETRIUS. Show me a murderer, I'll deal with him.
CHIRON. Show me a villain that hath done a rape,
And I am sent to be reveng'd on him.
TAMORA. Show me a thousand that hath done thee wrong,
And I will be revenged on them all.
TITUS. Look round about the wicked streets of Rome,
And when thou find'st a man that's like thyself,
Good Murder, stab him; he's a murderer.
Go thou with him, and when it is thy hap
To find another that is like to thee,
Good Rapine, stab him; he is a ravisher.
Go thou with them; and in the Emperor's court
There is a queen, attended by a Moor;
Well shalt thou know her by thine own proportion,
For up and down she doth resemble thee.
I pray thee, do on them some violent death;
They have been violent to me and mine.
TAMORA. Well hast thou lesson'd us; this shall we do.
But would it please thee, good Andronicus,
To send for Lucius, thy thrice-valiant son,
Who leads towards Rome a band of warlike Goths,
And bid him come and banquet at thy house;
When he is here, even at thy solemn feast,
I will bring in the Empress and her sons,
The Emperor himself, and all thy foes;
And at thy mercy shall they stoop and kneel,
And on them shalt thou ease thy angry heart.
What says Andronicus to this device?
TITUS. Marcus, my brother! 'Tis sad Titus calls.
Enter MARCUS
Go, gentle Marcus, to thy nephew Lucius;
Thou shalt inquire him out among the Goths.
Bid him repair to me, and bring with him
Some of the chiefest princes of the Goths;
Bid him encamp his soldiers where they are.
Tell him the Emperor and the Empress too
Feast at my house, and he shall feast with them.
This do thou for my love; and so let him,
As he regards his aged father's life.
MARCUS. This will I do, and soon return again. Exit
TAMORA. Now will I hence about thy business,
And take my ministers along with me.
TITUS. Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay with me,
Or else I'll call my brother back again,
And cleave to no revenge but Lucius.
TAMORA. [Aside to her sons] What say you, boys? Will you
abide
with him,
Whiles I go tell my lord the Emperor
How I have govern'd our determin'd jest?
Yield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair,
And tarry with him till I turn again.
TITUS. [Aside] I knew them all, though they suppos'd me mad,
And will o'er reach them in their own devices,
A pair of cursed hell-hounds and their dam.
DEMETRIUS. Madam, depart at pleasure; leave us here.
TAMORA. Farewell, Andronicus, Revenge now goes
To lay a complot to betray thy foes.
TITUS. I know thou dost; and, sweet Revenge, farewell.
Exit TAMORA
CHIRON. Tell us, old man, how shall we be employ'd?
TITUS. Tut, I have work enough for you to do.
Publius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine.
Enter PUBLIUS, CAIUS, and VALENTINE
PUBLIUS. What is your will?
TITUS. Know you these two?
PUBLIUS. The Empress' sons, I take them: Chiron, Demetrius.
TITUS. Fie, Publius, fie! thou art too much deceiv'd.
The one is Murder, and Rape is the other's name;
And therefore bind them, gentle Publius-
Caius and Valentine, lay hands on them.
Oft have you heard me wish for such an hour,
And now I find it; therefore bind them sure,
And stop their mouths if they begin to cry. Exit
[They lay hold on CHIRON and DEMETRIUS]
CHIRON. Villains, forbear! we are the Empress' sons.
PUBLIUS. And therefore do we what we are commanded.
Stop close their mouths, let them not speak a word.
Is he sure bound? Look that you bind them fast.
Re-enter TITUS ANDRONICUS
with a knife, and LAVINIA, with a basin
TITUS. Come, come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are bound.
Sirs, stop their mouths, let them not speak to me;
But let them hear what fearful words I utter.
O villains, Chiron and Demetrius!
Here stands the spring whom you have stain'd with mud;
This goodly summer with your winter mix'd.
You kill'd her husband; and for that vile fault
Two of her brothers were condemn'd to death,
My hand cut off and made a merry jest;
Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more dear
Than hands or tongue, her spotless chastity,
Inhuman traitors, you constrain'd and forc'd.
What would you say, if I should let you speak?
Villains, for shame you could not beg for grace.
Hark, wretches! how I mean to martyr you.
This one hand yet is left to cut your throats,
Whiles that Lavinia 'tween her stumps doth hold
The basin that receives your guilty blood.
You know your mother means to feast with me,
And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad.
Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust,
And with your blood and it I'll make a paste;
And of the paste a coffin I will rear,
And make two pasties of your shameful heads;
And bid that strumpet, your unhallowed dam,
Like to the earth, swallow her own increase.
This is the feast that I have bid her to,
And this the banquet she shall surfeit on;
For worse than Philomel you us'd my daughter,
And worse than Progne I will be reveng'd.
And now prepare your throats. Lavinia, come,
Receive the blood; and when that they are dead,
Let me go grind their bones to powder small,
And with this hateful liquor temper it;
And in that paste let their vile heads be bak'd.
Come, come, be every one officious
To make this banquet, which I wish may prove
More stern and bloody than the Centaurs' feast.
[He cuts their throats]
So.
Now bring them in, for I will play the cook,
And see them ready against their mother comes.
Exeunt, bearing the dead bodies
SCENE III.
The court of TITUS' house
Enter Lucius, MARCUS, and the GOTHS, with AARON prisoner,
and his CHILD in the arms of an attendant
LUCIUS. Uncle Marcus, since 'tis my father's mind
That I repair to Rome, I am content.
FIRST GOTH. And ours with thine, befall what fortune will.
LUCIUS. Good uncle, take you in this barbarous Moor,
This ravenous tiger, this accursed devil;
Let him receive no sust'nance, fetter him,
Till he be brought unto the Empress' face
For testimony of her foul proceedings.
And see the ambush of our friends be strong;
I fear the Emperor means no good to us.
AARON. Some devil whisper curses in my ear,
And prompt me that my tongue may utter forth
The venomous malice of my swelling heart!
LUCIUS. Away, inhuman dog, unhallowed slave!
Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in.
Exeunt GOTHS with AARON. Flourish within
The trumpets show the Emperor is at hand.
Sound trumpets. Enter SATURNINUS and
TAMORA, with AEMILIUS, TRIBUNES, SENATORS, and others
SATURNINUS. What, hath the firmament more suns than one?
LUCIUS. What boots it thee to call thyself a sun?
MARCUS. Rome's Emperor, and nephew, break the parle;
These quarrels must be quietly debated.
The feast is ready which the careful Titus
Hath ordain'd to an honourable end,
For peace, for love, for league, and good to Rome.
Please you, therefore, draw nigh and take your places.
SATURNINUS. Marcus, we will.
[A table brought in. The company sit down]
Trumpets sounding, enter TITUS
like a cook, placing the dishes, and LAVINIA
with a veil over her face; also YOUNG LUCIUS, and others
TITUS. Welcome, my lord; welcome, dread Queen;
Welcome, ye warlike Goths; welcome, Lucius;
And welcome all. Although the cheer be poor,
'Twill fill your stomachs; please you eat of it.
SATURNINUS. Why art thou thus attir'd, Andronicus?
TITUS. Because I would be sure to have all well
To entertain your Highness and your Empress.
TAMORA. We are beholding to you, good Andronicus.
TITUS. An if your Highness knew my heart, you were.
My lord the Emperor, resolve me this:
Was it well done of rash Virginius
To slay his daughter with his own right hand,
Because she was enforc'd, stain'd, and deflower'd?
SATURNINUS. It was, Andronicus.
TITUS. Your reason, mighty lord.
SATURNINUS. Because the girl should not survive her shame,
And by her presence still renew his sorrows.
TITUS. A reason mighty, strong, and effectual;
A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant
For me, most wretched, to perform the like.
Die, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee; [He kills her]
And with thy shame thy father's sorrow die!
SATURNINUS. What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind?
TITUS. Kill'd her for whom my tears have made me blind.
I am as woeful as Virginius was,
And have a thousand times more cause than he
To do this outrage; and it now is done.
SATURNINUS. What, was she ravish'd? Tell who did the deed.
TITUS. Will't please you eat? Will't please your Highness
feed?
TAMORA. Why hast thou slain thine only daughter thus?
TITUS. Not I; 'twas Chiron and Demetrius.
They ravish'd her, and cut away her tongue;
And they, 'twas they, that did her all this wrong.
SATURNINUS. Go, fetch them hither to us presently.
TITUS. Why, there they are, both baked in this pie,
Whereof their mother daintily hath fed,
Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred.
'Tis true, 'tis true: witness my knife's sharp point.
[He stabs the EMPRESS]
SATURNINUS. Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed!
[He stabs TITUS]
LUCIUS. Can the son's eye behold his father bleed?
There's meed for meed, death for a deadly deed.
[He stabs SATURNINUS. A great tumult. LUCIUS,
MARCUS, and their friends go up into the balcony]
MARCUS. You sad-fac'd men, people and sons of Rome,
By uproars sever'd, as a flight of fowl
Scatter'd by winds and high tempestuous gusts?
O, let me teach you how to knit again
This scattered corn into one mutual sheaf,
These broken limbs again into one body;
Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself,
And she whom mighty kingdoms curtsy to,
Like a forlorn and desperate castaway,
Do shameful execution on herself.
But if my frosty signs and chaps of age,
Grave witnesses of true experience,
Cannot induce you to attend my words,
[To Lucius] Speak, Rome's dear friend, as erst our ancestor,
When with his solemn tongue he did discourse
To love-sick Dido's sad attending ear
The story of that baleful burning night,
When subtle Greeks surpris'd King Priam's Troy.
Tell us what Sinon hath bewitch'd our ears,
Or who hath brought the fatal engine in
That gives our Troy, our Rome, the civil wound.
My heart is not compact of flint nor steel;
Nor can I utter all our bitter grief,
But floods of tears will drown my oratory
And break my utt'rance, even in the time
When it should move ye to attend me most,
And force you to commiseration.
Here's Rome's young Captain, let him tell the tale;
While I stand by and weep to hear him speak.
LUCIUS. Then, gracious auditory, be it known to you
That Chiron and the damn'd Demetrius
Were they that murd'red our Emperor's brother;
And they it were that ravished our sister.
For their fell faults our brothers were beheaded,
Our father's tears despis'd, and basely cozen'd
Of that true hand that fought Rome's quarrel out
And sent her enemies unto the grave.
Lastly, myself unkindly banished,
The gates shut on me, and turn'd weeping out,
To beg relief among Rome's enemies;
Who drown'd their enmity in my true tears,
And op'd their arms to embrace me as a friend.
I am the turned forth, be it known to you,
That have preserv'd her welfare in my blood
And from her bosom took the enemy's point,
Sheathing the steel in my advent'rous body.
Alas! you know I am no vaunter, I;
My scars can witness, dumb although they are,
That my report is just and full of truth.
But, soft! methinks I do digress too much,
Citing my worthless praise. O, pardon me!
For when no friends are by, men praise themselves.
MARCUS. Now is my turn to speak. Behold the child.
[Pointing to the CHILD in an attendant's arms]
Of this was Tamora delivered,
The issue of an irreligious Moor,
Chief architect and plotter of these woes.
The villain is alive in Titus' house,
Damn'd as he is, to witness this is true.
Now judge what cause had Titus to revenge
These wrongs unspeakable, past patience,
Or more than any living man could bear.
Now have you heard the truth: what say you, Romans?
Have we done aught amiss, show us wherein,
And, from the place where you behold us pleading,
The poor remainder of Andronici
Will, hand in hand, all headlong hurl ourselves,
And on the ragged stones beat forth our souls,
And make a mutual closure of our house.
Speak, Romans, speak; and if you say we shall,
Lo, hand in hand, Lucius and I will fall.
AEMILIUS. Come, come, thou reverend man of Rome,
And bring our Emperor gently in thy hand,
Lucius our Emperor; for well I know
The common voice do cry it shall be so.
ALL. Lucius, all hail, Rome's royal Emperor!
MARCUS. Go, go into old Titus' sorrowful house,
And hither hale that misbelieving Moor
To be adjudg'd some direful slaught'ring death,
As punishment for his most wicked life. Exeunt some
attendants. LUCIUS, MARCUS, and the others descend
ALL. Lucius, all hail, Rome's gracious governor!
LUCIUS. Thanks, gentle Romans! May I govern so
To heal Rome's harms and wipe away her woe!
But, gentle people, give me aim awhile,
For nature puts me to a heavy task.
Stand all aloof; but, uncle, draw you near
To shed obsequious tears upon this trunk.
O, take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips. [Kisses TITUS]
These sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stain'd face,
The last true duties of thy noble son!
MARCUS. Tear for tear and loving kiss for kiss
Thy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips.
O, were the sum of these that I should pay
Countless and infinite, yet would I pay them!
LUCIUS. Come hither, boy; come, come, come, and learn of us
To melt in showers. Thy grandsire lov'd thee well;
Many a time he danc'd thee on his knee,
Sung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow;
Many a story hath he told to thee,
And bid thee bear his pretty tales in mind
And talk of them when he was dead and gone.
MARCUS. How many thousand times hath these poor lips,
When they were living, warm'd themselves on thine!
O, now, sweet boy, give them their latest kiss!
Bid him farewell; commit him to the grave;
Do them that kindness, and take leave of them.
BOY. O grandsire, grandsire! ev'n with all my heart
Would I were dead, so you did live again!
O Lord, I cannot speak to him for weeping;
My tears will choke me, if I ope my mouth.
Re-enter attendants with AARON
A ROMAN. You sad Andronici, have done with woes;
Give sentence on the execrable wretch
That hath been breeder of these dire events.
LUCIUS. Set him breast-deep in earth, and famish him;
There let him stand and rave and cry for food.
If any one relieves or pities him,
For the offence he dies. This is our doom.
Some stay to see him fast'ned in the earth.
AARON. Ah, why should wrath be mute and fury dumb?
I am no baby, I, that with base prayers
I should repent the evils I have done;
Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did
Would I perform, if I might have my will.
If one good deed in all my life I did,
I do repent it from my very soul.
LUCIUS. Some loving friends convey the Emperor hence,
And give him burial in his father's grave.
My father and Lavinia shall forthwith
Be closed in our household's monument.
As for that ravenous tiger, Tamora,
No funeral rite, nor man in mourning weed,
No mournful bell shall ring her burial;
But throw her forth to beasts and birds to prey.
Her life was beastly and devoid of pity,
And being dead, let birds on her take pity. Exeunt | Act Five opens outside the walls of Rome, where Lucius stands before his army of Goths. He announces that the Roman public desires the deposition of their emperor, and a Goth leader assures him that they too want to take revenge on Tamora. Another Goth enters leading Aaron and his child and says that the infant is the product of an adulterous affair between Tamora and the Moor. Lucius, remembering Aaron's plot to divest Titus of his hand, orders Aaron and the child to be hanged. Aaron says that he will confess to his many crimes in exchange for his child's life. Lucius agrees, and Aaron confesses to his affair with Tamora and his role in Lavinia's rape and mutilation, and admits to having masterminded the plot to execute Titus' sons. He goes on to admit to many other heinous crimes, causing Lucius to have him gagged and sentenced to a slow death. Aemilius then enters and tells Lucius that Saturninus wishes to see him at Titus' house for a parley. Tamora, meanwhile, sets in motion her plot to destroy Titus. Accompanied by her sons, who are disguised as Rape and Murder, she comes to his house in the guise of the goddess Revenge. Titus immediately recognizes her, but she refuses to admit to her true identity. She talks Titus into joining her, while he all the while remarks how alike she and her companions are to the empress and her sons. He even instructs his visitors to kill Tamora and her sons, whom he says they will know by their similarity to themselves. Tamora then tells Titus to summon Lucius to the parley at his house, and Titus instructs Marcus to do as she bids. When Tamora and her sons ready themselves to leave, Titus insists that Rape and Murder stay with him. They do so, assuming that they'll be able to continue the charade. As soon as Tamora leaves, however, Titus has Publius bind and gag her sons. He goes into the house for a knife and returns with Lavinia, who is holding a basin. Titus tells the rapists that he is going to slaughter them and bake their flesh and blood into a meat pie, which he will then serve at the parley banquet. He cuts their throats, and the baking begins. Marcus and Lucius, meanwhile, make their way to the parley, where they meet Saturninus and his queen. Titus, dressed in cook's garb, sets up a table and serves his meat pies. As Saturninus eats, Titus asks him about the tale of Virginius and his daughter, who was violated and then slain. Saturninus agrees that Virginius was right to kill his daughter because she had been raped. Upon hearing this, Titus kills Lavinia. When Saturninus and Tamora ask why he would do such a thing, he tells them that Chiron and Demetrius raped and mutilated her. They ask for the boys to be fetched, but Titus declares that they are already dead and have been baked into the pies that sit on the table before them. He then kills Tamora, after which Saturninus stabs Titus, and Lucius slays Saturninus. After the bloodshed has finished, Marcus and Lucius explain to the Roman elites the sad history of the Andronici: how Lavinia was raped and Bassianus killed, how Titus' sons were wrongfully executed and his hand needlessly chopped off, how Aaron and Tamora conceived a child, and so on. The Romans all agree that Titus' revenge was justified, and unanimously elect Lucius the next emperor of Rome. The remaining Andronici pay homage to Titus, and Lucius orders that Aaron the Moor be buried chest-deep in the ground and starved to death. He orders funeral rites for Titus and Saturninus, but declares that Tamora will not receive a proper burial: instead, she will be devoured by birds and wild beasts. |
Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused
not once for breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested
here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an
imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and
presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that
even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of
times, started back in astonishment.
'Why, what's the matter with the boy!' said the old pauper.
'Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!' cried Noah, with well-affected dismay: and
in tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr.
Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much
that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat,--which is a very
curious and remarkable circumstance: as showing that even a beadle,
acted upon a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a
momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of
personal dignity.
'Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!' said Noah: 'Oliver, sir,--Oliver has--'
'What? What?' interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his
metallic eyes. 'Not run away; he hasn't run away, has he, Noah?'
'No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious,' replied
Noah. 'He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder
Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is!
Such agony, please, sir!' And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body
into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr.
Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of
Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from
which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture.
When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed
Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his
dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a
gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in
his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to
attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman
aforesaid.
The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked
three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young
cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with
something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so
designated, an involuntary process?
'It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir,' replied Mr. Bumble, 'who
has been nearly murdered--all but murdered, sir,--by young Twist.'
'By Jove!' exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping
short. 'I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first,
that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!'
'He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,' said
Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.
'And his missis,' interposed Mr. Claypole.
'And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?' added Mr. Bumble.
'No! he's out, or he would have murdered him,' replied Noah. 'He said
he wanted to.'
'Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?' inquired the gentleman in the
white waistcoat.
'Yes, sir,' replied Noah. 'And please, sir, missis wants to know
whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog
him--'cause master's out.'
'Certainly, my boy; certainly,' said the gentleman in the white
waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah's head, which was about
three inches higher than his own. 'You're a good boy--a very good boy.
Here's a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry's with your
cane, and see what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble.'
'No, I will not, sir,' replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane
having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr.
Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the
undertaker's shop.
Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had
not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished
vigour, at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by
Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr.
Bumble judged it prudent to parley, before opening the door. With this
view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude; and, then,
applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone:
'Oliver!'
'Come; you let me out!' replied Oliver, from the inside.
'Do you know this here voice, Oliver?' said Mr. Bumble.
'Yes,' replied Oliver.
'Ain't you afraid of it, sir? Ain't you a-trembling while I speak,
sir?' said Mr. Bumble.
'No!' replied Oliver, boldly.
An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was
in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He
stepped back from the keyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and
looked from one to another of the three bystanders, in mute
astonishment.
'Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad,' said Mrs. Sowerberry.
'No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you.'
'It's not Madness, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of
deep meditation. 'It's Meat.'
'What?' exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.
'Meat, ma'am, meat,' replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. 'You've
over-fed him, ma'am. You've raised a artificial soul and spirit in
him, ma'am unbecoming a person of his condition: as the board, Mrs.
Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have
paupers to do with soul or spirit? It's quite enough that we let 'em
have live bodies. If you had kept the boy on gruel, ma'am, this would
never have happened.'
'Dear, dear!' ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to
the kitchen ceiling: 'this comes of being liberal!'
The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profuse
bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else
would eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in
her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble's heavy accusation. Of
which, to do her justice, she was wholly innocent, in thought, word, or
deed.
'Ah!' said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth
again; 'the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to
leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he's a little starved
down; and then to take him out, and keep him on gruel all through the
apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs.
Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said, that that mother of his
made her way here, against difficulties and pain that would have killed
any well-disposed woman, weeks before.'
At this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to
know that some allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced
kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible.
Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver's offence having been
explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best
calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a
twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out, by the collar.
Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face
was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead.
The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled
out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite
undismayed.
'Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?' said Sowerberry; giving
Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear.
'He called my mother names,' replied Oliver.
'Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?' said Mrs.
Sowerberry. 'She deserved what he said, and worse.'
'She didn't' said Oliver.
'She did,' said Mrs. Sowerberry.
'It's a lie!' said Oliver.
Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.
This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had
hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be
quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been,
according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a
brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of
a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital
within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far
as his power went--it was not very extensive--kindly disposed towards
the boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps,
because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no
resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs.
Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent application of
the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he
was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of
bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks
outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his
mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of
Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed.
It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the
gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings
which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a
mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt;
he had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in
his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they
had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear
him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his
hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few
so young may ever have cause to pour out before him!
For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The
candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having
gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the
fastenings of the door, and looked abroad.
It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy's eyes,
farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no
wind; and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground,
looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly
reclosed the door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the
candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel
he had, sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning.
With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the
shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look
around--one moment's pause of hesitation--he had closed it behind him,
and was in the open street.
He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly.
He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up
the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across
the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the
road; struck into it, and walked quickly on.
Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside
Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm.
His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly
when he bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back.
He had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by
doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of
his being seen; so he walked on.
He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring
at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A
child was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his
pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions.
Oliver felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than
himself, he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been
beaten, and starved, and shut up together, many and many a time.
'Hush, Dick!' said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his
thin arm between the rails to greet him. 'Is any one up?'
'Nobody but me,' replied the child.
'You musn't say you saw me, Dick,' said Oliver. 'I am running away.
They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, some
long way off. I don't know where. How pale you are!'
'I heard the doctor tell them I was dying,' replied the child with a
faint smile. 'I am very glad to see you, dear; but don't stop, don't
stop!'
'Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b'ye to you,' replied Oliver. 'I shall
see you again, Dick. I know I shall! You will be well and happy!'
'I hope so,' replied the child. 'After I am dead, but not before. I
know the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of
Heaven, and Angels, and kind faces that I never see when I am awake.
Kiss me,' said the child, climbing up the low gate, and flinging his
little arms round Oliver's neck. 'Good-b'ye, dear! God bless you!'
The blessing was from a young child's lips, but it was the first that
Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles
and sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never
once forgot it. | Noah found Mr. Bumble and told him that Oliver had tried to murder him, Charlotte, and Mrs. Sowerberry. Mr. Bumble and the man in white waistcoat were horrified, and Noah exclaimed that Oliver had intended to murder Mr. Sowerberry also. Mr. Bumble went with Noah to thrash Oliver and when they arrived, Mrs. Sowerberry had locked Oliver in the cellar. Mr. Bumble spoke sharply to Oliver and told Mrs. Sowerberry that she had been feeding the boy to liberally and that he should be kept on gruel for the rest of his apprenticeship. Mr. Bumble then stated that Oliver had come from a bad family, which angered Oliver again. Mr. Sowerberry arrives home asks Oliver what happened. Oliver tells him that Noah said bad things about his mother, and Mrs. Sowerberry began insulting her again. She then burst into tears because Oliver was talking back to her, and this forced Mr. Sowerberry to punish Oliver severely. They then sent him to bed, and early the next morning he rose and left the house. On his way towards London he stopped by the house of Mrs. Mann and saw his friend Dick, who appeared to be dying, out in the garden. The boys embrace, talk, and say their farewells to each other, and Oliver heads towards the city intent on running away from the Sowerberrys |
NOTHING can be more uniform and undiversified than the life of the
Typees; one tranquil day of ease and happiness follows another in quiet
succession; and with these unsophisicated savages the history of a
day is the history of a life. I will, therefore, as briefly as I can,
describe one of our days in the valley.
To begin with the morning. We were not very early risers--the sun would
be shooting his golden spikes above the Happar mountain, ere I threw
aside my tappa robe, and girding my long tunic about my waist, sallied
out with Fayaway and Kory-Kory, and the rest of the household, and bent
my steps towards the stream. Here we found congregated all those who
dwelt in our section of the valley; and here we bathed with them. The
fresh morning air and the cool flowing waters put both soul and body in
a glow, and after a half-hour employed in this recreation, we sauntered
back to the house--Tinor and Marheyo gathering dry sticks by the way
for fire-wood; some of the young men laying the cocoanut trees under
contribution as they passed beneath them; while Kory-Kory played his
outlandish pranks for my particular diversion, and Fayaway and I, not
arm in arm to be sure, but sometimes hand in hand, strolled along, with
feelings of perfect charity for all the world, and especial good-will
towards each other.
Our morning meal was soon prepared. The islanders are somewhat
abstemious at this repast; reserving the more powerful efforts of
their appetite to a later period of the day. For my own part, with the
assistance of my valet, who, as I have before stated, always officiated
as spoon on these occasions, I ate sparingly from one of Tinor's
trenchers, of poee-poee; which was devoted exclusively for my own use,
being mixed with the milky meat of ripe cocoanut. A section of a roasted
bread-fruit, a small cake of 'Amar', or a mess of 'Cokoo,' two or three
bananas, or a mammee-apple; an annuee, or some other agreeable and
nutritious fruit served from day to day to diversify the meal, which was
finished by tossing off the liquid contents of a young cocoanut or two.
While partaking of this simple repast, the inmates of Marheyo's house,
after the style of the ancient Romans, reclined in sociable groups upon
the divan of mats, and digestion was promoted by cheerful conversation.
After the morning meal was concluded, pipes were lighted; and among them
my own especial pipe, a present from the noble Mehevi.
The islanders, who only smoke a whiff or two at a time, and at long
intervals, and who keep their pipes going from hand to hand continually,
regarded my systematic smoking of four or five pipefuls of tobacco in
succession, as something quite wonderful. When two or three pipes had
circulated freely, the company gradually broke up. Marheyo went to the
little hut he was forever building. Tinor began to inspect her rolls of
tappa, or employed her busy fingers in plaiting grass-mats. The girls
anointed themselves with their fragrant oils, dressed their hair, or
looked over their curious finery, and compared together their ivory
trinkets, fashioned out of boar's tusks or whale's teeth. The young men
and warriors produced their spears, paddles, canoe-gear, battle-clubs,
and war-conchs, and occupied themselves in carving, all sorts of figures
upon them with pointed bits of shell or flint, and adorning them,
especially the war-conchs, with tassels of braided bark and tufts of
human hair. Some, immediately after eating, threw themselves once more
upon the inviting mats, and resumed the employment of the previous
night, sleeping as soundly as if they had not closed their eyes for a
week. Others sallied out into the groves, for the purpose of gathering
fruit or fibres of bark and leaves; the last two being in constant
requisition, and applied to a hundred uses. A few, perhaps, among the
girls, would slip into the woods after flowers, or repair to the stream
will; small calabashes and cocoanut shells, in order to polish them
by friction with a smooth stone in the water. In truth these innocent
people seemed to be at no loss for something to occupy their time; and
it would be no light task to enumerate all their employments, or rather
pleasures.
My own mornings I spent in a variety of ways. Sometimes I rambled about
from house to house, sure of receiving a cordial welcome wherever I
went; or from grove to grove, and from one shady place to another, in
company with Kory-Kory and Fayaway, and a rabble rout of merry young
idlers. Sometimes I was too indolent for exercise, and accepting one of
the many invitations I was continually receiving, stretched myself out
on the mats of some hospitable dwelling, and occupied myself pleasantly
either in watching the proceedings of those around me or taking part
in them myself. Whenever I chose to do the latter, the delight of the
islanders was boundless; and there was always a throng of competitors
for the honour of instructing me in any particular craft. I soon became
quite an accomplished hand at making tappa--could braid a grass sling as
well as the best of them--and once, with my knife, carved the handle of
a javelin so exquisitely, that I have no doubt, to this day, Karnoonoo,
its owner, preserves it as a surprising specimen of my skill. As noon
approached, all those who had wandered forth from our habitation, began
to return; and when midday was fairly come scarcely a sound was to be
heard in the valley: a deep sleep fell upon all. The luxurious siesta
was hardly ever omitted, except by old Marheyo, who was so eccentric
a character, that he seemed to be governed by no fixed principles
whatever; but acting just according to the humour of the moment,
slept, ate, or tinkered away at his little hut, without regard to the
proprieties of time or place. Frequently he might have been seen taking
a nap in the sun at noon-day, or a bath in the stream of mid-night.
Once I beheld him perched eighty feet from the ground, in the tuft of a
cocoanut tree, smoking; and often I saw him standing up to the waist
in water, engaged in plucking out the stray hairs of his beard, using a
piece of muscle-shell for tweezers.
The noon-tide slumber lasted generally an hour and a half: very often
longer; and after the sleepers had arisen from their mats they again
had recourse to their pipes, and then made preparations for the most
important meal of the day.
I, however, like those gentlemen of leisure who breakfast at home and
dine at their club, almost invariably, during my intervals of health,
enjoyed the afternoon repast with the bachelor chiefs of the Ti, who
were always rejoiced to see me, and lavishly spread before me all the
good things which their larder afforded. Mehevi generally introduced
among other dainties a baked pig, an article which I have every reason
to suppose was provided for my sole gratification.
The Ti was a right jovial place. It did my heart, as well as my body,
good to visit it. Secure from female intrusion, there was no restraint
upon the hilarity of the warriors, who, like the gentlemen of Europe
after the cloth is drawn and the ladies retire, freely indulged their
mirth.
After spending a considerable portion of the afternoon at the Ti, I
usually found myself, as the cool of the evening came on, either sailing
on the little lake with Fayaway, or bathing in the waters of the
stream with a number of the savages, who, at this hour, always repaired
thither. As the shadows of night approached Marheyo's household were
once more assembled under his roof: tapers were lit, long curious chants
were raised, interminable stories were told (for which one present was
little the wiser), and all sorts of social festivities served to while
away the time.
The young girls very often danced by moonlight in front of their
dwellings. There are a great variety of these dances, in which, however,
I never saw the men take part. They all consist of active, romping,
mischievous evolutions, in which every limb is brought into requisition.
Indeed, the Marquesan girls dance all over, as it were; not only do
their feet dance, but their arms, hands, fingers, ay, their very eyes,
seem to dance in their heads.
The damsels wear nothing but flowers and their compendious gala tunics;
and when they plume themselves for the dance, they look like a band of
olive-coloured Sylphides on the point of taking wing. In good sooth,
they so sway their floating forms, arch their necks, toss aloft their
naked arms, and glide, and swim, and whirl, that it was almost too much
for a quiet, sober-minded, modest young man like myself.
Unless some particular festivity was going forward, the inmates of
Marheyo's house retired to their mats rather early in the evening; but
not for the night, since, after slumbering lightly for a while, they
rose again, relit their tapers, partook of the third and last meal of
the day, at which poee-poee alone was eaten, and then, after inhaling a
narcotic whiff from a pipe of tobacco, disposed themselves for the great
business of night, sleep. With the Marquesans it might almost most be
styled the great business of life, for they pass a large portion
of their time in the arms of Somnus. The native strength of their
constitution is no way shown more emphatically than in the quantity of
sleep they can endure. To many of them, indeed, life is little else than
an often interrupted and luxurious nap. | In order to best describe Typee life, the narrator profiles a typical day. Usually, they wake late, after the sun is up. Then they rise and bathe in a nearby refreshing stream. A light breakfast is enjoyed and then pipes are smoked. After breakfast, people tend to whatever they like. Tinor inspects her cloth and food supplies; Marheyo works on his hut; the girls adorn their hair and skin with oils. The narrator usually wanders with Kory-Kory or else sits inside. Then they enjoy a midday nap. Usually in the afternoon, the narrator goes to the Ti, where Mehevi and the other chiefs gather. Since women are not allowed in the Ti, it resembles a happy bachelor pad where the best food can be found and where the men sit around smoking and talking. After night falls, a light evening meal of "poee-poee," cooked breadfruit, is eaten. Native girls often dance around their huts under the moonlight. Everyone then sleeps. In general, life with the Typees resembles a continual gentle slumber, with activities in between |
I was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an old
benevolent man, with calm and mild manners. He looked upon me, however,
with some degree of severity; and then, turning towards my conductors,
he asked who appeared as witnesses on this occasion.
About half a dozen men came forward; and one being selected by the
magistrate, he deposed, that he had been out fishing the night before
with his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, about ten o'clock,
they observed a strong northerly blast rising, and they accordingly put
in for port. It was a very dark night, as the moon had not yet risen;
they did not land at the harbour, but, as they had been accustomed, at a
creek about two miles below. He walked on first, carrying a part of the
fishing tackle, and his companions followed him at some distance. As he
was proceeding along the sands, he struck his foot against something,
and fell all his length on the ground. His companions came up to assist
him; and, by the light of their lantern, they found that he had fallen
on the body of a man, who was to all appearance dead. Their first
supposition was, that it was the corpse of some person who had been
drowned, and was thrown on shore by the waves; but, upon examination,
they found that the clothes were not wet, and even that the body was not
then cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage of an old woman near
the spot, and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to life. He
appeared to be a handsome young man, about five and twenty years of age.
He had apparently been strangled; for there was no sign of any violence,
except the black mark of fingers on his neck.
The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me; but
when the mark of the fingers was mentioned, I remembered the murder of
my brother, and felt myself extremely agitated; my limbs trembled, and a
mist came over my eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for support.
The magistrate observed me with a keen eye, and of course drew an
unfavourable augury from my manner.
The son confirmed his father's account: but when Daniel Nugent was
called, he swore positively that, just before the fall of his companion,
he saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance from the
shore; and, as far as he could judge by the light of a few stars, it was
the same boat in which I had just landed.
A woman deposed, that she lived near the beach, and was standing at the
door of her cottage, waiting for the return of the fishermen, about an
hour before she heard of the discovery of the body, when she saw a boat,
with only one man in it, push off from that part of the shore where the
corpse was afterwards found.
Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having brought the
body into her house; it was not cold. They put it into a bed, and rubbed
it; and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was quite
gone.
Several other men were examined concerning my landing; and they agreed,
that, with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night, it
was very probable that I had beaten about for many hours, and had been
obliged to return nearly to the same spot from which I had departed.
Besides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the body from
another place, and it was likely, that as I did not appear to know the
shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant of the distance of the
town of ---- from the place where I had deposited the corpse.
Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken
into the room where the body lay for interment that it might be observed
what effect the sight of it would produce upon me. This idea was
probably suggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited when the
mode of the murder had been described. I was accordingly conducted, by
the magistrate and several other persons, to the inn. I could not help
being struck by the strange coincidences that had taken place during
this eventful night; but, knowing that I had been conversing with
several persons in the island I had inhabited about the time that the
body had been found, I was perfectly tranquil as to the consequences of
the affair.
I entered the room where the corpse lay, and was led up to the coffin.
How can I describe my sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched
with horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment without
shuddering and agony, that faintly reminds me of the anguish of the
recognition. The trial, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses,
passed like a dream from my memory, when I saw the lifeless form of
Henry Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath; and, throwing
myself on the body, I exclaimed, "Have my murderous machinations
deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already
destroyed; other victims await their destiny: but you, Clerval, my
friend, my benefactor"----
The human frame could no longer support the agonizing suffering that I
endured, and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions.
A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death:
my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the
murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated
my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was
tormented; and, at others, I felt the fingers of the monster already
grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately,
as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my
gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other
witnesses.
Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I
not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming
children, the only hopes of their doating parents: how many brides and
youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and
the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials
was I made, that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the
turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture.
But I was doomed to live; and, in two months, found myself as awaking
from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by
gaolers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon.
It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding: I had
forgotten the particulars of what had happened, and only felt as if some
great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around,
and saw the barred windows, and the squalidness of the room in which I
was, all flashed across my memory, and I groaned bitterly.
This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside me.
She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her
countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterize
that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of
persons accustomed to see without sympathizing in sights of misery. Her
tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and
the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings:
"Are you better now, Sir?" said she.
I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, "I believe I am;
but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am
still alive to feel this misery and horror."
"For that matter," replied the old woman, "if you mean about the
gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you
were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you; but you will be hung
when the next sessions come on. However, that's none of my business, I
am sent to nurse you, and get you well; I do my duty with a safe
conscience, it were well if every body did the same."
I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a
speech to a person just saved, on the very edge of death; but I felt
languid, and unable to reflect on all that had passed. The whole series
of my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it
were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind with the force
of reality.
As the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew
feverish; a darkness pressed around me; no one was near me who soothed
me with the gentle voice of love; no dear hand supported me. The
physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman prepared them
for me; but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the
expression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the second.
Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer, but the hangman who
would gain his fee?
These were my first reflections; but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had
shewn me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room in the prison to
be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best); and it was he who had
provided a physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to see me;
for, although he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of every
human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and
miserable ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore, sometimes to see
that I was not neglected; but his visits were short, and at long
intervals.
One day, when I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my
eyes half open, and my cheeks livid like those in death, I was overcome
by gloom and misery, and often reflected I had better seek death than
remain miserably pent up only to be let loose in a world replete with
wretchedness. At one time I considered whether I should not declare
myself guilty, and suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent than
poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts, when the door of my
apartment was opened, and Mr. Kirwin entered. His countenance expressed
sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair close to mine, and addressed me
in French--
"I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do any thing to
make you more comfortable?"
"I thank you; but all that you mention is nothing to me: on the whole
earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving."
"I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief to
one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But you will, I
hope, soon quit this melancholy abode; for, doubtless, evidence can
easily be brought to free you from the criminal charge."
"That is my least concern: I am, by a course of strange events, become
the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am and have
been, can death be any evil to me?"
"Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonizing than the strange
chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by some surprising
accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality: seized
immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight that was presented
to your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so unaccountable a
manner, and placed, as it were, by some fiend across your path."
As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured on this
retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise at the
knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose some
astonishment was exhibited in my countenance; for Mr. Kirwin hastened to
say--
"It was not until a day or two after your illness that I thought of
examining your dress, that I might discover some trace by which I could
send to your relations an account of your misfortune and illness. I
found several letters, and, among others, one which I discovered from
its commencement to be from your father. I instantly wrote to Geneva:
nearly two months have elapsed since the departure of my letter.--But
you are ill; even now you tremble: you are unfit for agitation of any
kind."
"This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible event:
tell me what new scene of death has been acted, and whose murder I am
now to lament."
"Your family is perfectly well," said Mr. Kirwin, with gentleness; "and
some one, a friend, is come to visit you."
I know not by what chain of thought the idea presented itself, but it
instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come to mock at my
misery, and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as a new incitement for
me to comply with his hellish desires. I put my hand before my eyes, and
cried out in agony--
"Oh! take him away! I cannot see him; for God's sake, do not let him
enter!"
Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He could not help
regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt, and said, in
rather a severe tone--
"I should have thought, young man, that the presence of your father
would have been welcome, instead of inspiring such violent repugnance."
"My father!" cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed
from anguish to pleasure. "Is my father, indeed, come? How kind, how
very kind. But where is he, why does he not hasten to me?"
My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate; perhaps he
thought that my former exclamation was a momentary return of delirium,
and now he instantly resumed his former benevolence. He rose, and
quitted the room with my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it.
Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure than the
arrival of my father. I stretched out my hand to him, and cried--
"Are you then safe--and Elizabeth--and Ernest?"
My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare, and endeavoured,
by dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my
desponding spirits; but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode
of cheerfulness. "What a place is this that you inhabit, my son!" said
he, looking mournfully at the barred windows, and wretched appearance of
the room. "You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems to
pursue you. And poor Clerval--"
The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation too
great to be endured in my weak state; I shed tears.
"Alas! yes, my father," replied I; "some destiny of the most horrible
kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I should
have died on the coffin of Henry."
We were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the
precarious state of my health rendered every precaution necessary that
could insure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in, and insisted that my
strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion. But the
appearance of my father was to me like that of my good angel, and I
gradually recovered my health.
As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black
melancholy, that nothing could dissipate. The image of Clerval was for
ever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once the agitation into
which these reflections threw me made my friends dread a dangerous
relapse. Alas! why did they preserve so miserable and detested a life?
It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing to a
close. Soon, oh, very soon, will death extinguish these throbbings, and
relieve me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears me to the dust;
and, in executing the award of justice, I shall also sink to rest. Then
the appearance of death was distant, although the wish was ever present
to my thoughts; and I often sat for hours motionless and speechless,
wishing for some mighty revolution that might bury me and my destroyer
in its ruins.
The season of the assizes approached. I had already been three months
in prison; and although I was still weak, and in continual danger of a
relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles to the
county-town, where the court was held. Mr. Kirwin charged himself with
every care of collecting witnesses, and arranging my defence. I was
spared the disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was
not brought before the court that decides on life and death. The grand
jury rejected the bill, on its being proved that I was on the Orkney
Islands at the hour the body of my friend was found, and a fortnight
after my removal I was liberated from prison.
My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations of a
criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh
atmosphere, and allowed to return to my native country. I did not
participate in these feelings; for to me the walls of a dungeon or a
palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned for ever; and
although the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I
saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by
no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me. Sometimes they
were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing in death, the dark orbs
nearly covered by the lids, and the long black lashes that fringed them;
sometimes it was the watery clouded eyes of the monster, as I first saw
them in my chamber at Ingolstadt.
My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection. He talked of
Geneva, which I should soon visit--of Elizabeth, and Ernest; but these
words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish
for happiness; and thought, with melancholy delight, of my beloved
cousin; or longed, with a devouring _maladie du pays_, to see once more
the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in early
childhood: but my general state of feeling was a torpor, in which a
prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and
these fits were seldom interrupted, but by paroxysms of anguish and
despair. At these moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the
existence I loathed; and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance
to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence.
I remember, as I quitted the prison, I heard one of the men say, "He may
be innocent of the murder, but he has certainly a bad conscience." These
words struck me. A bad conscience! yes, surely I had one. William,
Justine, and Clerval, had died through my infernal machinations; "And
whose death," cried I, "is to finish the tragedy? Ah! my father, do not
remain in this wretched country; take me where I may forget myself, my
existence, and all the world."
My father easily acceded to my desire; and, after having taken leave of
Mr. Kirwin, we hastened to Dublin. I felt as if I was relieved from a
heavy weight, when the packet sailed with a fair wind from Ireland, and
I had quitted for ever the country which had been to me the scene of so
much misery.
It was midnight. My father slept in the cabin; and I lay on the deck,
looking at the stars, and listening to the dashing of the waves. I
hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my sight, and my pulse beat
with a feverish joy, when I reflected that I should soon see Geneva. The
past appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream; yet the vessel in
which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested shore of Ireland,
and the sea which surrounded me, told me too forcibly that I was
deceived by no vision, and that Clerval, my friend and dearest
companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation. I
repassed, in my memory, my whole life; my quiet happiness while residing
with my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for
Ingolstadt. I remembered shuddering at the mad enthusiasm that hurried
me on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the
night during which he first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of
thought; a thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly.
Ever since my recovery from the fever I had been in the custom of taking
every night a small quantity of laudanum; for it was by means of this
drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest necessary for the
preservation of life. Oppressed by the recollection of my various
misfortunes, I now took a double dose, and soon slept profoundly. But
sleep did not afford me respite from thought and misery; my dreams
presented a thousand objects that scared me. Towards morning I was
possessed by a kind of night-mare; I felt the fiend's grasp in my neck,
and could not free myself from it; groans and cries rung in my ears. My
father, who was watching over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me,
and pointed to the port of Holyhead, which we were now entering. | Victor is charged with murder and the case is supported by circumstantial evidence. The witnesses, a man, his son and brother-in-law, were out fishing. They had landed at a creek and the main witness had stumbled upon the body of a man. They tried everything to restore his life but failed. The corpse apparently had finger marks on his neck. This information reminds Victor of William's death. The main witness gives additional information, saying that he saw a single man out in a boat that night. The people conclude that Victor was trying to leave the scene of the crime, but that the wind had steered his boat back to the land. Victor is told to identify the body, and he is shocked to find that it is Henry's. He breaks into convulsions and takes to bed for over two months. Mr. Kirwin, the magistrate, has in the meanwhile contacted Victor's family, and his father arrives to see him. Thanks to Mr. Kirwin's efforts, Victor is spared criminal charges and allowed to return home. They sail on a vessel bound for Havre-de-Grace. Victor tries to sleep but has a nightmare. He is now taking laudanum every night in order to be able to rest. |
The trees began softly to sing a hymn of twilight. The sun sank until
slanted bronze rays struck the forest. There was a lull in the noises
of insects as if they had bowed their beaks and were making a
devotional pause. There was silence save for the chanted chorus of the
trees.
Then, upon this stillness, there suddenly broke a tremendous clangor of
sounds. A crimson roar came from the distance.
The youth stopped. He was transfixed by this terrific medley of all
noises. It was as if worlds were being rended. There was the ripping
sound of musketry and the breaking crash of the artillery.
His mind flew in all directions. He conceived the two armies to be at
each other panther fashion. He listened for a time. Then he began to
run in the direction of the battle. He saw that it was an ironical
thing for him to be running thus toward that which he had been at such
pains to avoid. But he said, in substance, to himself that if the
earth and the moon were about to clash, many persons would doubtless
plan to get upon the roofs to witness the collision.
As he ran, he became aware that the forest had stopped its music, as if
at last becoming capable of hearing the foreign sounds. The trees
hushed and stood motionless. Everything seemed to be listening to the
crackle and clatter and earshaking thunder. The chorus pealed over the
still earth.
It suddenly occurred to the youth that the fight in which he had been
was, after all, but perfunctory popping. In the hearing of this
present din he was doubtful if he had seen real battle scenes. This
uproar explained a celestial battle; it was tumbling hordes a-struggle
in the air.
Reflecting, he saw a sort of a humor in the point of view of himself
and his fellows during the late encounter. They had taken themselves
and the enemy very seriously and had imagined that they were deciding
the war. Individuals must have supposed that they were cutting the
letters of their names deep into everlasting tablets of brass, or
enshrining their reputations forever in the hearts of their countrymen,
while, as to fact, the affair would appear in printed reports under a
meek and immaterial title. But he saw that it was good, else, he said,
in battle every one would surely run save forlorn hopes and their ilk.
He went rapidly on. He wished to come to the edge of the forest that
he might peer out.
As he hastened, there passed through his mind pictures of stupendous
conflicts. His accumulated thought upon such subjects was used to form
scenes. The noise was as the voice of an eloquent being, describing.
Sometimes the brambles formed chains and tried to hold him back. Trees,
confronting him, stretched out their arms and forbade him to pass.
After its previous hostility this new resistance of the forest filled
him with a fine bitterness. It seemed that Nature could not be quite
ready to kill him.
But he obstinately took roundabout ways, and presently he was where he
could see long gray walls of vapor where lay battle lines. The voices
of cannon shook him. The musketry sounded in long irregular surges
that played havoc with his ears. He stood regardant for a moment. His
eyes had an awestruck expression. He gawked in the direction of the
fight.
Presently he proceeded again on his forward way. The battle was like
the grinding of an immense and terrible machine to him. Its
complexities and powers, its grim processes, fascinated him. He must
go close and see it produce corpses.
He came to a fence and clambered over it. On the far side, the ground
was littered with clothes and guns. A newspaper, folded up, lay in the
dirt. A dead soldier was stretched with his face hidden in his arm.
Farther off there was a group of four or five corpses keeping mournful
company. A hot sun had blazed upon the spot.
In this place the youth felt that he was an invader. This forgotten
part of the battle ground was owned by the dead men, and he hurried, in
the vague apprehension that one of the swollen forms would rise and
tell him to begone.
He came finally to a road from which he could see in the distance dark
and agitated bodies of troops, smoke-fringed. In the lane was a
blood-stained crowd streaming to the rear. The wounded men were
cursing, groaning, and wailing. In the air, always, was a mighty swell
of sound that it seemed could sway the earth. With the courageous words
of the artillery and the spiteful sentences of the musketry mingled red
cheers. And from this region of noises came the steady current of the
maimed.
One of the wounded men had a shoeful of blood. He hopped like a
schoolboy in a game. He was laughing hysterically.
One was swearing that he had been shot in the arm through the
commanding general's mismanagement of the army. One was marching with
an air imitative of some sublime drum major. Upon his features was an
unholy mixture of merriment and agony. As he marched he sang a bit of
doggerel in a high and quavering voice:
"Sing a song 'a vic'try,
A pocketful 'a bullets,
Five an' twenty dead men
Baked in a--pie."
Parts of the procession limped and staggered to this tune.
Another had the gray seal of death already upon his face. His lips
were curled in hard lines and his teeth were clinched. His hands were
bloody from where he had pressed them upon his wound. He seemed to be
awaiting the moment when he should pitch headlong. He stalked like the
specter of a soldier, his eyes burning with the power of a stare into
the unknown.
There were some who proceeded sullenly, full of anger at their wounds,
and ready to turn upon anything as an obscure cause.
An officer was carried along by two privates. He was peevish. "Don't
joggle so, Johnson, yeh fool," he cried. "Think m' leg is made of
iron? If yeh can't carry me decent, put me down an' let some one else
do it."
He bellowed at the tottering crowd who blocked the quick march of his
bearers. "Say, make way there, can't yeh? Make way, dickens take it
all."
They sulkily parted and went to the roadsides. As he was carried past
they made pert remarks to him. When he raged in reply and threatened
them, they told him to be damned.
The shoulder of one of the tramping bearers knocked heavily against the
spectral soldier who was staring into the unknown.
The youth joined this crowd and marched along with it. The torn bodies
expressed the awful machinery in which the men had been entangled.
Orderlies and couriers occasionally broke through the throng in the
roadway, scattering wounded men right and left, galloping on followed
by howls. The melancholy march was continually disturbed by the
messengers, and sometimes by bustling batteries that came swinging and
thumping down upon them, the officers shouting orders to clear the way.
There was a tattered man, fouled with dust, blood and powder stain from
hair to shoes, who trudged quietly at the youth's side. He was
listening with eagerness and much humility to the lurid descriptions of
a bearded sergeant. His lean features wore an expression of awe and
admiration. He was like a listener in a country store to wondrous
tales told among the sugar barrels. He eyed the story-teller with
unspeakable wonder. His mouth was agape in yokel fashion.
The sergeant, taking note of this, gave pause to his elaborate history
while he administered a sardonic comment. "Be keerful, honey, you 'll
be a-ketchin' flies," he said.
The tattered man shrank back abashed.
After a time he began to sidle near to the youth, and in a different
way try to make him a friend. His voice was gentle as a girl's voice
and his eyes were pleading. The youth saw with surprise that the
soldier had two wounds, one in the head, bound with a blood-soaked rag,
and the other in the arm, making that member dangle like a broken bough.
After they had walked together for some time the tattered man mustered
sufficient courage to speak. "Was pretty good fight, wa'n't it?" he
timidly said. The youth, deep in thought, glanced up at the bloody and
grim figure with its lamblike eyes. "What?"
"Was pretty good fight, wa'n't it?
"Yes," said the youth shortly. He quickened his pace.
But the other hobbled industriously after him. There was an air of
apology in his manner, but he evidently thought that he needed only to
talk for a time, and the youth would perceive that he was a good fellow.
"Was pretty good fight, wa'n't it?" he began in a small voice, and then
he achieved the fortitude to continue. "Dern me if I ever see fellers
fight so. Laws, how they did fight! I knowed th' boys 'd like when
they onct got square at it. Th' boys ain't had no fair chanct up t'
now, but this time they showed what they was. I knowed it 'd turn out
this way. Yeh can't lick them boys. No, sir! They're fighters, they
be."
He breathed a deep breath of humble admiration. He had looked at the
youth for encouragement several times. He received none, but gradually
he seemed to get absorbed in his subject.
"I was talkin' 'cross pickets with a boy from Georgie, onct, an' that
boy, he ses, 'Your fellers 'll all run like hell when they onct hearn a
gun,' he ses. 'Mebbe they will,' I ses, 'but I don't b'lieve none of
it,' I ses; 'an' b'jiminey,' I ses back t' 'um, 'mebbe your fellers 'll
all run like hell when they onct hearn a gun,' I ses. He larfed. Well,
they didn't run t' day, did they, hey? No, sir! They fit, an' fit,
an' fit."
His homely face was suffused with a light of love for the army which
was to him all things beautiful and powerful.
After a time he turned to the youth. "Where yeh hit, ol' boy?" he
asked in a brotherly tone.
The youth felt instant panic at this question, although at first its
full import was not borne in upon him.
"What?" he asked.
"Where yeh hit?" repeated the tattered man.
"Why," began the youth, "I--I--that is--why--I--"
He turned away suddenly and slid through the crowd. His brow was
heavily flushed, and his fingers were picking nervously at one of his
buttons. He bent his head and fastened his eyes studiously upon the
button as if it were a little problem.
The tattered man looked after him in astonishment. | Henry continues on through the forest. He hears loud crashes and roars through the darkening sky. It seems as if the world is being rent asunder. Henry's mind is going in all directions at once. He feels that the two armies are going at each other in a panther-like fashion. He then runs, ironically, in the direction of the battle, more to witness the collision of the armies than to participate. As he runs, the forest becomes silent and still. Henry feels that the fight he had fled from was not a struggle, but instead a small skirmish. He doubts that he has seen a real battle. He feels silly for having taken the situation so seriously. He was not carving his name in the tablet of history. The noises still describe a large battle. The brambles of the forest grab him as he runs. Eventually he sees the long gray walls of the battle lines. He stands awestruck by the fight. He then proceeds along his way, but the complexity of the fight fascinates him and he decides to go close to the machine of war and see it produce corpses. He climbs a fence. Five corpses lie on the other side in a road. He scampers away, afraid to disturb them. He soon encounters a procession of wounded soldiers making their way down the road. They are cursing and moaning. One with a wound in his foot hops and laughs hysterically. One swears he has been shot because of the general's mismanagement. Another sings nonsense lyrics to old nursery rhymes. A tattered soldier, wounded in his head and arm, comes up to the youth. He wants to converse about the battle. Henry can barely say anything as the man babbles on. Soon the tattered man asks him where he has been hit. The question makes Henry panic. Embarrassed, he stutters to the man; then he turns his head away and picks at his uniform |
This is not the time at which I am to enter on the state of my mind
beneath its load of sorrow. I came to think that the Future was walled
up before me, that the energy and action of my life were at an end, that
I never could find any refuge but in the grave. I came to think so, I
say, but not in the first shock of my grief. It slowly grew to that.
If the events I go on to relate, had not thickened around me, in the
beginning to confuse, and in the end to augment, my affliction, it is
possible (though I think not probable), that I might have fallen at once
into this condition. As it was, an interval occurred before I fully knew
my own distress; an interval, in which I even supposed that its sharpest
pangs were past; and when my mind could soothe itself by resting on
all that was most innocent and beautiful, in the tender story that was
closed for ever.
When it was first proposed that I should go abroad, or how it came to be
agreed among us that I was to seek the restoration of my peace in change
and travel, I do not, even now, distinctly know. The spirit of Agnes so
pervaded all we thought, and said, and did, in that time of sorrow, that
I assume I may refer the project to her influence. But her influence was
so quiet that I know no more.
And now, indeed, I began to think that in my old association of her with
the stained-glass window in the church, a prophetic foreshadowing of
what she would be to me, in the calamity that was to happen in the
fullness of time, had found a way into my mind. In all that sorrow, from
the moment, never to be forgotten, when she stood before me with her
upraised hand, she was like a sacred presence in my lonely house. When
the Angel of Death alighted there, my child-wife fell asleep--they told
me so when I could bear to hear it--on her bosom, with a smile. From my
swoon, I first awoke to a consciousness of her compassionate tears, her
words of hope and peace, her gentle face bending down as from a purer
region nearer Heaven, over my undisciplined heart, and softening its
pain.
Let me go on.
I was to go abroad. That seemed to have been determined among us from
the first. The ground now covering all that could perish of my
departed wife, I waited only for what Mr. Micawber called the 'final
pulverization of Heep'; and for the departure of the emigrants.
At the request of Traddles, most affectionate and devoted of friends in
my trouble, we returned to Canterbury: I mean my aunt, Agnes, and I. We
proceeded by appointment straight to Mr. Micawber's house; where, and at
Mr. Wickfield's, my friend had been labouring ever since our explosive
meeting. When poor Mrs. Micawber saw me come in, in my black clothes,
she was sensibly affected. There was a great deal of good in Mrs.
Micawber's heart, which had not been dunned out of it in all those many
years.
'Well, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber,' was my aunt's first salutation after we
were seated. 'Pray, have you thought about that emigration proposal of
mine?'
'My dear madam,' returned Mr. Micawber, 'perhaps I cannot better express
the conclusion at which Mrs. Micawber, your humble servant, and I may
add our children, have jointly and severally arrived, than by borrowing
the language of an illustrious poet, to reply that our Boat is on the
shore, and our Bark is on the sea.'
'That's right,' said my aunt. 'I augur all sort of good from your
sensible decision.'
'Madam, you do us a great deal of honour,' he rejoined. He then referred
to a memorandum. 'With respect to the pecuniary assistance enabling
us to launch our frail canoe on the ocean of enterprise, I have
reconsidered that important business-point; and would beg to propose
my notes of hand--drawn, it is needless to stipulate, on stamps of the
amounts respectively required by the various Acts of Parliament applying
to such securities--at eighteen, twenty-four, and thirty months.
The proposition I originally submitted, was twelve, eighteen, and
twenty-four; but I am apprehensive that such an arrangement might not
allow sufficient time for the requisite amount of--Something--to turn
up. We might not,' said Mr. Micawber, looking round the room as if it
represented several hundred acres of highly cultivated land, 'on the
first responsibility becoming due, have been successful in our harvest,
or we might not have got our harvest in. Labour, I believe, is sometimes
difficult to obtain in that portion of our colonial possessions where it
will be our lot to combat with the teeming soil.'
'Arrange it in any way you please, sir,' said my aunt.
'Madam,' he replied, 'Mrs. Micawber and myself are deeply sensible of
the very considerate kindness of our friends and patrons. What I wish
is, to be perfectly business-like, and perfectly punctual. Turning over,
as we are about to turn over, an entirely new leaf; and falling back,
as we are now in the act of falling back, for a Spring of no common
magnitude; it is important to my sense of self-respect, besides being
an example to my son, that these arrangements should be concluded as
between man and man.'
I don't know that Mr. Micawber attached any meaning to this last phrase;
I don't know that anybody ever does, or did; but he appeared to relish
it uncommonly, and repeated, with an impressive cough, 'as between man
and man'.
'I propose,' said Mr. Micawber, 'Bills--a convenience to the mercantile
world, for which, I believe, we are originally indebted to the Jews, who
appear to me to have had a devilish deal too much to do with them
ever since--because they are negotiable. But if a Bond, or any other
description of security, would be preferred, I should be happy to
execute any such instrument. As between man and man.'
My aunt observed, that in a case where both parties were willing to
agree to anything, she took it for granted there would be no difficulty
in settling this point. Mr. Micawber was of her opinion.
'In reference to our domestic preparations, madam,' said Mr. Micawber,
with some pride, 'for meeting the destiny to which we are now understood
to be self-devoted, I beg to report them. My eldest daughter attends
at five every morning in a neighbouring establishment, to acquire
the process--if process it may be called--of milking cows. My younger
children are instructed to observe, as closely as circumstances will
permit, the habits of the pigs and poultry maintained in the poorer
parts of this city: a pursuit from which they have, on two occasions,
been brought home, within an inch of being run over. I have myself
directed some attention, during the past week, to the art of baking; and
my son Wilkins has issued forth with a walking-stick and driven cattle,
when permitted, by the rugged hirelings who had them in charge, to
render any voluntary service in that direction--which I regret to say,
for the credit of our nature, was not often; he being generally warned,
with imprecations, to desist.'
'All very right indeed,' said my aunt, encouragingly. 'Mrs. Micawber has
been busy, too, I have no doubt.'
'My dear madam,' returned Mrs. Micawber, with her business-like air.
'I am free to confess that I have not been actively engaged in pursuits
immediately connected with cultivation or with stock, though well aware
that both will claim my attention on a foreign shore. Such opportunities
as I have been enabled to alienate from my domestic duties, I have
devoted to corresponding at some length with my family. For I own it
seems to me, my dear Mr. Copperfield,' said Mrs. Micawber, who always
fell back on me, I suppose from old habit, to whomsoever else she might
address her discourse at starting, 'that the time is come when the past
should be buried in oblivion; when my family should take Mr. Micawber by
the hand, and Mr. Micawber should take my family by the hand; when the
lion should lie down with the lamb, and my family be on terms with Mr.
Micawber.'
I said I thought so too.
'This, at least, is the light, my dear Mr. Copperfield,' pursued Mrs.
Micawber, 'in which I view the subject. When I lived at home with my
papa and mama, my papa was accustomed to ask, when any point was under
discussion in our limited circle, "In what light does my Emma view the
subject?" That my papa was too partial, I know; still, on such a point
as the frigid coldness which has ever subsisted between Mr. Micawber and
my family, I necessarily have formed an opinion, delusive though it may
be.'
'No doubt. Of course you have, ma'am,' said my aunt.
'Precisely so,' assented Mrs. Micawber. 'Now, I may be wrong in my
conclusions; it is very likely that I am, but my individual impression
is, that the gulf between my family and Mr. Micawber may be traced to an
apprehension, on the part of my family, that Mr. Micawber would require
pecuniary accommodation. I cannot help thinking,' said Mrs. Micawber,
with an air of deep sagacity, 'that there are members of my family who
have been apprehensive that Mr. Micawber would solicit them for their
names.---I do not mean to be conferred in Baptism upon our children,
but to be inscribed on Bills of Exchange, and negotiated in the Money
Market.'
The look of penetration with which Mrs. Micawber announced this
discovery, as if no one had ever thought of it before, seemed rather to
astonish my aunt; who abruptly replied, 'Well, ma'am, upon the whole, I
shouldn't wonder if you were right!'
'Mr. Micawber being now on the eve of casting off the pecuniary
shackles that have so long enthralled him,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'and of
commencing a new career in a country where there is sufficient range
for his abilities,--which, in my opinion, is exceedingly important; Mr.
Micawber's abilities peculiarly requiring space,--it seems to me that
my family should signalize the occasion by coming forward. What I could
wish to see, would be a meeting between Mr. Micawber and my family at
a festive entertainment, to be given at my family's expense; where Mr.
Micawber's health and prosperity being proposed, by some leading member
of my family, Mr. Micawber might have an opportunity of developing his
views.'
'My dear,' said Mr. Micawber, with some heat, 'it may be better for me
to state distinctly, at once, that if I were to develop my views to that
assembled group, they would possibly be found of an offensive nature:
my impression being that your family are, in the aggregate, impertinent
Snobs; and, in detail, unmitigated Ruffians.'
'Micawber,' said Mrs. Micawber, shaking her head, 'no! You have never
understood them, and they have never understood you.'
Mr. Micawber coughed.
'They have never understood you, Micawber,' said his wife. 'They may
be incapable of it. If so, that is their misfortune. I can pity their
misfortune.'
'I am extremely sorry, my dear Emma,' said Mr. Micawber, relenting, 'to
have been betrayed into any expressions that might, even remotely, have
the appearance of being strong expressions. All I would say is, that
I can go abroad without your family coming forward to favour me,--in
short, with a parting Shove of their cold shoulders; and that, upon the
whole, I would rather leave England with such impetus as I possess, than
derive any acceleration of it from that quarter. At the same time, my
dear, if they should condescend to reply to your communications--which
our joint experience renders most improbable--far be it from me to be a
barrier to your wishes.'
The matter being thus amicably settled, Mr. Micawber gave Mrs. Micawber
his arm, and glancing at the heap of books and papers lying before
Traddles on the table, said they would leave us to ourselves; which they
ceremoniously did.
'My dear Copperfield,' said Traddles, leaning back in his chair when
they were gone, and looking at me with an affection that made his eyes
red, and his hair all kinds of shapes, 'I don't make any excuse for
troubling you with business, because I know you are deeply interested
in it, and it may divert your thoughts. My dear boy, I hope you are not
worn out?'
'I am quite myself,' said I, after a pause. 'We have more cause to think
of my aunt than of anyone. You know how much she has done.'
'Surely, surely,' answered Traddles. 'Who can forget it!'
'But even that is not all,' said I. 'During the last fortnight, some new
trouble has vexed her; and she has been in and out of London every day.
Several times she has gone out early, and been absent until evening.
Last night, Traddles, with this journey before her, it was almost
midnight before she came home. You know what her consideration for
others is. She will not tell me what has happened to distress her.'
My aunt, very pale, and with deep lines in her face, sat immovable until
I had finished; when some stray tears found their way to her cheeks, and
she put her hand on mine.
'It's nothing, Trot; it's nothing. There will be no more of it. You
shall know by and by. Now Agnes, my dear, let us attend to these
affairs.'
'I must do Mr. Micawber the justice to say,' Traddles began, 'that
although he would appear not to have worked to any good account for
himself, he is a most untiring man when he works for other people. I
never saw such a fellow. If he always goes on in the same way, he must
be, virtually, about two hundred years old, at present. The heat into
which he has been continually putting himself; and the distracted and
impetuous manner in which he has been diving, day and night, among
papers and books; to say nothing of the immense number of letters he has
written me between this house and Mr. Wickfield's, and often across the
table when he has been sitting opposite, and might much more easily have
spoken; is quite extraordinary.'
'Letters!' cried my aunt. 'I believe he dreams in letters!'
'There's Mr. Dick, too,' said Traddles, 'has been doing wonders! As soon
as he was released from overlooking Uriah Heep, whom he kept in such
charge as I never saw exceeded, he began to devote himself to Mr.
Wickfield. And really his anxiety to be of use in the investigations we
have been making, and his real usefulness in extracting, and copying,
and fetching, and carrying, have been quite stimulating to us.'
'Dick is a very remarkable man,' exclaimed my aunt; 'and I always said
he was. Trot, you know it.'
'I am happy to say, Miss Wickfield,' pursued Traddles, at once with
great delicacy and with great earnestness, 'that in your absence Mr.
Wickfield has considerably improved. Relieved of the incubus that had
fastened upon him for so long a time, and of the dreadful apprehensions
under which he had lived, he is hardly the same person. At times,
even his impaired power of concentrating his memory and attention on
particular points of business, has recovered itself very much; and he
has been able to assist us in making some things clear, that we should
have found very difficult indeed, if not hopeless, without him. But
what I have to do is to come to results; which are short enough; not
to gossip on all the hopeful circumstances I have observed, or I shall
never have done.' His natural manner and agreeable simplicity made it
transparent that he said this to put us in good heart, and to enable
Agnes to hear her father mentioned with greater confidence; but it was
not the less pleasant for that.
'Now, let me see,' said Traddles, looking among the papers on the
table. 'Having counted our funds, and reduced to order a great mass of
unintentional confusion in the first place, and of wilful confusion and
falsification in the second, we take it to be clear that Mr. Wickfield
might now wind up his business, and his agency-trust, and exhibit no
deficiency or defalcation whatever.'
'Oh, thank Heaven!' cried Agnes, fervently.
'But,' said Traddles, 'the surplus that would be left as his means of
support--and I suppose the house to be sold, even in saying this--would
be so small, not exceeding in all probability some hundreds of pounds,
that perhaps, Miss Wickfield, it would be best to consider whether he
might not retain his agency of the estate to which he has so long been
receiver. His friends might advise him, you know; now he is free. You
yourself, Miss Wickfield--Copperfield--I--'
'I have considered it, Trotwood,' said Agnes, looking to me, 'and I feel
that it ought not to be, and must not be; even on the recommendation of
a friend to whom I am so grateful, and owe so much.'
'I will not say that I recommend it,' observed Traddles. 'I think it
right to suggest it. No more.'
'I am happy to hear you say so,' answered Agnes, steadily, 'for it gives
me hope, almost assurance, that we think alike. Dear Mr. Traddles and
dear Trotwood, papa once free with honour, what could I wish for! I have
always aspired, if I could have released him from the toils in which he
was held, to render back some little portion of the love and care I owe
him, and to devote my life to him. It has been, for years, the utmost
height of my hopes. To take our future on myself, will be the next
great happiness--the next to his release from all trust and
responsibility--that I can know.'
'Have you thought how, Agnes?'
'Often! I am not afraid, dear Trotwood. I am certain of success. So many
people know me here, and think kindly of me, that I am certain. Don't
mistrust me. Our wants are not many. If I rent the dear old house, and
keep a school, I shall be useful and happy.'
The calm fervour of her cheerful voice brought back so vividly, first
the dear old house itself, and then my solitary home, that my heart was
too full for speech. Traddles pretended for a little while to be busily
looking among the papers.
'Next, Miss Trotwood,' said Traddles, 'that property of yours.'
'Well, sir,' sighed my aunt. 'All I have got to say about it is, that if
it's gone, I can bear it; and if it's not gone, I shall be glad to get
it back.'
'It was originally, I think, eight thousand pounds, Consols?' said
Traddles.
'Right!' replied my aunt.
'I can't account for more than five,' said Traddles, with an air of
perplexity.
'--thousand, do you mean?' inquired my aunt, with uncommon composure,
'or pounds?'
'Five thousand pounds,' said Traddles.
'It was all there was,' returned my aunt. 'I sold three, myself. One, I
paid for your articles, Trot, my dear; and the other two I have by me.
When I lost the rest, I thought it wise to say nothing about that sum,
but to keep it secretly for a rainy day. I wanted to see how you would
come out of the trial, Trot; and you came out nobly--persevering,
self-reliant, self-denying! So did Dick. Don't speak to me, for I find
my nerves a little shaken!'
Nobody would have thought so, to see her sitting upright, with her arms
folded; but she had wonderful self-command.
'Then I am delighted to say,' cried Traddles, beaming with joy, 'that we
have recovered the whole money!'
'Don't congratulate me, anybody!' exclaimed my aunt. 'How so, sir?'
'You believed it had been misappropriated by Mr. Wickfield?' said
Traddles.
'Of course I did,' said my aunt, 'and was therefore easily silenced.
Agnes, not a word!'
'And indeed,' said Traddles, 'it was sold, by virtue of the power of
management he held from you; but I needn't say by whom sold, or on whose
actual signature. It was afterwards pretended to Mr. Wickfield, by that
rascal,--and proved, too, by figures,--that he had possessed himself of
the money (on general instructions, he said) to keep other deficiencies
and difficulties from the light. Mr. Wickfield, being so weak and
helpless in his hands as to pay you, afterwards, several sums of
interest on a pretended principal which he knew did not exist, made
himself, unhappily, a party to the fraud.'
'And at last took the blame upon himself,' added my aunt; 'and wrote me
a mad letter, charging himself with robbery, and wrong unheard of. Upon
which I paid him a visit early one morning, called for a candle, burnt
the letter, and told him if he ever could right me and himself, to
do it; and if he couldn't, to keep his own counsel for his daughter's
sake.---If anybody speaks to me, I'll leave the house!'
We all remained quiet; Agnes covering her face.
'Well, my dear friend,' said my aunt, after a pause, 'and you have
really extorted the money back from him?'
'Why, the fact is,' returned Traddles, 'Mr. Micawber had so completely
hemmed him in, and was always ready with so many new points if an
old one failed, that he could not escape from us. A most remarkable
circumstance is, that I really don't think he grasped this sum even so
much for the gratification of his avarice, which was inordinate, as in
the hatred he felt for Copperfield. He said so to me, plainly. He said
he would even have spent as much, to baulk or injure Copperfield.'
'Ha!' said my aunt, knitting her brows thoughtfully, and glancing at
Agnes. 'And what's become of him?'
'I don't know. He left here,' said Traddles, 'with his mother, who had
been clamouring, and beseeching, and disclosing, the whole time. They
went away by one of the London night coaches, and I know no more about
him; except that his malevolence to me at parting was audacious. He
seemed to consider himself hardly less indebted to me, than to Mr.
Micawber; which I consider (as I told him) quite a compliment.'
'Do you suppose he has any money, Traddles?' I asked.
'Oh dear, yes, I should think so,' he replied, shaking his head,
seriously. 'I should say he must have pocketed a good deal, in one
way or other. But, I think you would find, Copperfield, if you had an
opportunity of observing his course, that money would never keep that
man out of mischief. He is such an incarnate hypocrite, that whatever
object he pursues, he must pursue crookedly. It's his only compensation
for the outward restraints he puts upon himself. Always creeping along
the ground to some small end or other, he will always magnify every
object in the way; and consequently will hate and suspect everybody that
comes, in the most innocent manner, between him and it. So the crooked
courses will become crookeder, at any moment, for the least reason,
or for none. It's only necessary to consider his history here,' said
Traddles, 'to know that.'
'He's a monster of meanness!' said my aunt.
'Really I don't know about that,' observed Traddles thoughtfully. 'Many
people can be very mean, when they give their minds to it.'
'And now, touching Mr. Micawber,' said my aunt.
'Well, really,' said Traddles, cheerfully, 'I must, once more, give Mr.
Micawber high praise. But for his having been so patient and persevering
for so long a time, we never could have hoped to do anything worth
speaking of. And I think we ought to consider that Mr. Micawber did
right, for right's sake, when we reflect what terms he might have made
with Uriah Heep himself, for his silence.'
'I think so too,' said I.
'Now, what would you give him?' inquired my aunt.
'Oh! Before you come to that,' said Traddles, a little disconcerted,
'I am afraid I thought it discreet to omit (not being able to carry
everything before me) two points, in making this lawless adjustment--for
it's perfectly lawless from beginning to end--of a difficult affair.
Those I.O.U.'s, and so forth, which Mr. Micawber gave him for the
advances he had--'
'Well! They must be paid,' said my aunt.
'Yes, but I don't know when they may be proceeded on, or where they
are,' rejoined Traddles, opening his eyes; 'and I anticipate, that,
between this time and his departure, Mr. Micawber will be constantly
arrested, or taken in execution.'
'Then he must be constantly set free again, and taken out of execution,'
said my aunt. 'What's the amount altogether?'
'Why, Mr. Micawber has entered the transactions--he calls them
transactions--with great form, in a book,' rejoined Traddles, smiling;
'and he makes the amount a hundred and three pounds, five.'
'Now, what shall we give him, that sum included?' said my aunt. 'Agnes,
my dear, you and I can talk about division of it afterwards. What should
it be? Five hundred pounds?'
Upon this, Traddles and I both struck in at once. We both recommended
a small sum in money, and the payment, without stipulation to Mr.
Micawber, of the Uriah claims as they came in. We proposed that the
family should have their passage and their outfit, and a hundred pounds;
and that Mr. Micawber's arrangement for the repayment of the advances
should be gravely entered into, as it might be wholesome for him
to suppose himself under that responsibility. To this, I added the
suggestion, that I should give some explanation of his character and
history to Mr. Peggotty, who I knew could be relied on; and that to Mr.
Peggotty should be quietly entrusted the discretion of advancing another
hundred. I further proposed to interest Mr. Micawber in Mr. Peggotty,
by confiding so much of Mr. Peggotty's story to him as I might feel
justified in relating, or might think expedient; and to endeavour to
bring each of them to bear upon the other, for the common advantage. We
all entered warmly into these views; and I may mention at once, that the
principals themselves did so, shortly afterwards, with perfect good will
and harmony.
Seeing that Traddles now glanced anxiously at my aunt again, I reminded
him of the second and last point to which he had adverted.
'You and your aunt will excuse me, Copperfield, if I touch upon a
painful theme, as I greatly fear I shall,' said Traddles, hesitating;
'but I think it necessary to bring it to your recollection. On the day
of Mr. Micawber's memorable denunciation a threatening allusion was made
by Uriah Heep to your aunt's--husband.'
My aunt, retaining her stiff position, and apparent composure, assented
with a nod.
'Perhaps,' observed Traddles, 'it was mere purposeless impertinence?'
'No,' returned my aunt.
'There was--pardon me--really such a person, and at all in his power?'
hinted Traddles.
'Yes, my good friend,' said my aunt.
Traddles, with a perceptible lengthening of his face, explained that he
had not been able to approach this subject; that it had shared the fate
of Mr. Micawber's liabilities, in not being comprehended in the terms he
had made; that we were no longer of any authority with Uriah Heep; and
that if he could do us, or any of us, any injury or annoyance, no doubt
he would.
My aunt remained quiet; until again some stray tears found their way to
her cheeks. 'You are quite right,' she said. 'It was very thoughtful to
mention it.'
'Can I--or Copperfield--do anything?' asked Traddles, gently.
'Nothing,' said my aunt. 'I thank you many times. Trot, my dear, a vain
threat! Let us have Mr. and Mrs. Micawber back. And don't any of you
speak to me!' With that she smoothed her dress, and sat, with her
upright carriage, looking at the door.
'Well, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber!' said my aunt, when they entered. 'We have
been discussing your emigration, with many apologies to you for keeping
you out of the room so long; and I'll tell you what arrangements we
propose.'
These she explained to the unbounded satisfaction of the
family,--children and all being then present,--and so much to the
awakening of Mr. Micawber's punctual habits in the opening stage of
all bill transactions, that he could not be dissuaded from immediately
rushing out, in the highest spirits, to buy the stamps for his notes of
hand. But, his joy received a sudden check; for within five minutes,
he returned in the custody of a sheriff 's officer, informing us, in
a flood of tears, that all was lost. We, being quite prepared for this
event, which was of course a proceeding of Uriah Heep's, soon paid the
money; and in five minutes more Mr. Micawber was seated at the table,
filling up the stamps with an expression of perfect joy, which only
that congenial employment, or the making of punch, could impart in full
completeness to his shining face. To see him at work on the stamps, with
the relish of an artist, touching them like pictures, looking at them
sideways, taking weighty notes of dates and amounts in his pocket-book,
and contemplating them when finished, with a high sense of their
precious value, was a sight indeed.
'Now, the best thing you can do, sir, if you'll allow me to advise
you,' said my aunt, after silently observing him, 'is to abjure that
occupation for evermore.'
'Madam,' replied Mr. Micawber, 'it is my intention to register such a
vow on the virgin page of the future. Mrs. Micawber will attest it. I
trust,' said Mr. Micawber, solemnly, 'that my son Wilkins will ever bear
in mind, that he had infinitely better put his fist in the fire, than
use it to handle the serpents that have poisoned the life-blood of his
unhappy parent!' Deeply affected, and changed in a moment to the image
of despair, Mr. Micawber regarded the serpents with a look of gloomy
abhorrence (in which his late admiration of them was not quite subdued),
folded them up and put them in his pocket.
This closed the proceedings of the evening. We were weary with sorrow
and fatigue, and my aunt and I were to return to London on the morrow.
It was arranged that the Micawbers should follow us, after effecting a
sale of their goods to a broker; that Mr. Wickfield's affairs should be
brought to a settlement, with all convenient speed, under the direction
of Traddles; and that Agnes should also come to London, pending those
arrangements. We passed the night at the old house, which, freed from
the presence of the Heeps, seemed purged of a disease; and I lay in my
old room, like a shipwrecked wanderer come home.
We went back next day to my aunt's house--not to mine--and when she and
I sat alone, as of old, before going to bed, she said:
'Trot, do you really wish to know what I have had upon my mind lately?'
'Indeed I do, aunt. If there ever was a time when I felt unwilling that
you should have a sorrow or anxiety which I could not share, it is now.'
'You have had sorrow enough, child,' said my aunt, affectionately,
'without the addition of my little miseries. I could have no other
motive, Trot, in keeping anything from you.'
'I know that well,' said I. 'But tell me now.'
'Would you ride with me a little way tomorrow morning?' asked my aunt.
'Of course.'
'At nine,' said she. 'I'll tell you then, my dear.'
At nine, accordingly, we went out in a little chariot, and drove to
London. We drove a long way through the streets, until we came to one of
the large hospitals. Standing hard by the building was a plain hearse.
The driver recognized my aunt, and, in obedience to a motion of her hand
at the window, drove slowly off; we following.
'You understand it now, Trot,' said my aunt. 'He is gone!'
'Did he die in the hospital?'
'Yes.'
She sat immovable beside me; but, again I saw the stray tears on her
face.
'He was there once before,' said my aunt presently. 'He was ailing a
long time--a shattered, broken man, these many years. When he knew his
state in this last illness, he asked them to send for me. He was sorry
then. Very sorry.'
'You went, I know, aunt.'
'I went. I was with him a good deal afterwards.'
'He died the night before we went to Canterbury?' said I. My aunt
nodded. 'No one can harm him now,' she said. 'It was a vain threat.'
We drove away, out of town, to the churchyard at Hornsey. 'Better here
than in the streets,' said my aunt. 'He was born here.'
We alighted; and followed the plain coffin to a corner I remember well,
where the service was read consigning it to the dust.
'Six-and-thirty years ago, this day, my dear,' said my aunt, as we
walked back to the chariot, 'I was married. God forgive us all!' We took
our seats in silence; and so she sat beside me for a long time, holding
my hand. At length she suddenly burst into tears, and said:
'He was a fine-looking man when I married him, Trot--and he was sadly
changed!'
It did not last long. After the relief of tears, she soon became
composed, and even cheerful. Her nerves were a little shaken, she said,
or she would not have given way to it. God forgive us all!
So we rode back to her little cottage at Highgate, where we found the
following short note, which had arrived by that morning's post from Mr.
Micawber:
'Canterbury,
'Friday.
'My dear Madam, and Copperfield,
'The fair land of promise lately looming on the horizon is again
enveloped in impenetrable mists, and for ever withdrawn from the eyes of
a drifting wretch whose Doom is sealed!
'Another writ has been issued (in His Majesty's High Court of King's
Bench at Westminster), in another cause of HEEP V. MICAWBER, and
the defendant in that cause is the prey of the sheriff having legal
jurisdiction in this bailiwick.
'Now's the day, and now's the hour,
See the front of battle lower,
See approach proud EDWARD'S power--
Chains and slavery!
'Consigned to which, and to a speedy end (for mental torture is not
supportable beyond a certain point, and that point I feel I have
attained), my course is run. Bless you, bless you! Some future
traveller, visiting, from motives of curiosity, not unmingled, let us
hope, with sympathy, the place of confinement allotted to debtors in
this city, may, and I trust will, Ponder, as he traces on its wall,
inscribed with a rusty nail,
'The obscure initials,
'W. M.
'P.S. I re-open this to say that our common friend, Mr. Thomas Traddles
(who has not yet left us, and is looking extremely well), has paid the
debt and costs, in the noble name of Miss Trotwood; and that myself and
family are at the height of earthly bliss.' | Mr. Micawber's Transactions Mr. Micawber, who thinks the move to Australia may be exactly what his family needs, wants to be sure that he arranges the finances between him and Miss Betsey professionally. Mrs. Micawber is very concerned that Mr. Micawber should repair her relationship with her family before they leave. Agnes, Traddles, David, and Miss Betsey meet to discuss the Micawbers' finances. Traddles has discovered that he can recover all of Miss Betsey's money as well as Mr. Wickfield's. Agnes says she will rent out the house and run a school in order to keep herself and her father financially secure. David, meanwhile, decides he will go abroad. Traddles reports that Uriah has left town with his mother, and no one knows what has become of him. Arrangements are made to provide for the Micawbers' debts and raise enough money to get them to Australia. Two days later, Miss Betsey takes David to a hospital and to a funeral. She tells him that her husband has died, and that he will not be a threat to her anymore |
SUMMER as it was, the east wind set poor Hepzibah's few remaining teeth
chattering in her head, as she and Clifford faced it, on their way up
Pyncheon Street, and towards the centre of the town. Not merely was it
the shiver which this pitiless blast brought to her frame (although her
feet and hands, especially, had never seemed so death-a-cold as now),
but there was a moral sensation, mingling itself with the physical
chill, and causing her to shake more in spirit than in body. The
world's broad, bleak atmosphere was all so comfortless! Such, indeed,
is the impression which it makes on every new adventurer, even if he
plunge into it while the warmest tide of life is bubbling through his
veins. What, then, must it have been to Hepzibah and Clifford,--so
time-stricken as they were, yet so like children in their
inexperience,--as they left the doorstep, and passed from beneath the
wide shelter of the Pyncheon Elm! They were wandering all abroad, on
precisely such a pilgrimage as a child often meditates, to the world's
end, with perhaps a sixpence and a biscuit in his pocket. In
Hepzibah's mind, there was the wretched consciousness of being adrift.
She had lost the faculty of self-guidance; but, in view of the
difficulties around her, felt it hardly worth an effort to regain it,
and was, moreover, incapable of making one.
As they proceeded on their strange expedition, she now and then cast a
look sidelong at Clifford, and could not but observe that he was
possessed and swayed by a powerful excitement. It was this, indeed,
that gave him the control which he had at once, and so irresistibly,
established over his movements. It not a little resembled the
exhilaration of wine. Or, it might more fancifully be compared to a
joyous piece of music, played with wild vivacity, but upon a disordered
instrument. As the cracked jarring note might always be heard, and as
it jarred loudest amidst the loftiest exultation of the melody, so was
there a continual quake through Clifford, causing him most to quiver
while he wore a triumphant smile, and seemed almost under a necessity
to skip in his gait.
They met few people abroad, even on passing from the retired
neighborhood of the House of the Seven Gables into what was ordinarily
the more thronged and busier portion of the town. Glistening
sidewalks, with little pools of rain, here and there, along their
unequal surface; umbrellas displayed ostentatiously in the
shop-windows, as if the life of trade had concentrated itself in that
one article; wet leaves of the horse-chestnut or elm-trees, torn off
untimely by the blast and scattered along the public way; an unsightly,
accumulation of mud in the middle of the street, which perversely grew
the more unclean for its long and laborious washing,--these were the
more definable points of a very sombre picture. In the way of movement
and human life, there was the hasty rattle of a cab or coach, its
driver protected by a waterproof cap over his head and shoulders; the
forlorn figure of an old man, who seemed to have crept out of some
subterranean sewer, and was stooping along the kennel, and poking the
wet rubbish with a stick, in quest of rusty nails; a merchant or two,
at the door of the post-office, together with an editor and a
miscellaneous politician, awaiting a dilatory mail; a few visages of
retired sea-captains at the window of an insurance office, looking out
vacantly at the vacant street, blaspheming at the weather, and fretting
at the dearth as well of public news as local gossip. What a
treasure-trove to these venerable quidnuncs, could they have guessed
the secret which Hepzibah and Clifford were carrying along with them!
But their two figures attracted hardly so much notice as that of a
young girl, who passed at the same instant, and happened to raise her
skirt a trifle too high above her ankles. Had it been a sunny and
cheerful day, they could hardly have gone through the streets without
making themselves obnoxious to remark. Now, probably, they were felt
to be in keeping with the dismal and bitter weather, and therefore did
not stand out in strong relief, as if the sun were shining on them, but
melted into the gray gloom and were forgotten as soon as gone.
Poor Hepzibah! Could she have understood this fact, it would have
brought her some little comfort; for, to all her other
troubles,--strange to say!--there was added the womanish and
old-maiden-like misery arising from a sense of unseemliness in her
attire. Thus, she was fain to shrink deeper into herself, as it were,
as if in the hope of making people suppose that here was only a cloak
and hood, threadbare and woefully faded, taking an airing in the midst
of the storm, without any wearer!
As they went on, the feeling of indistinctness and unreality kept dimly
hovering round about her, and so diffusing itself into her system that
one of her hands was hardly palpable to the touch of the other. Any
certainty would have been preferable to this. She whispered to
herself, again and again, "Am I awake?--Am I awake?" and sometimes
exposed her face to the chill spatter of the wind, for the sake of its
rude assurance that she was. Whether it was Clifford's purpose, or
only chance, had led them thither, they now found themselves passing
beneath the arched entrance of a large structure of gray stone.
Within, there was a spacious breadth, and an airy height from floor to
roof, now partially filled with smoke and steam, which eddied
voluminously upward and formed a mimic cloud-region over their heads.
A train of cars was just ready for a start; the locomotive was fretting
and fuming, like a steed impatient for a headlong rush; and the bell
rang out its hasty peal, so well expressing the brief summons which
life vouchsafes to us in its hurried career. Without question or
delay,--with the irresistible decision, if not rather to be called
recklessness, which had so strangely taken possession of him, and
through him of Hepzibah,--Clifford impelled her towards the cars, and
assisted her to enter. The signal was given; the engine puffed forth
its short, quick breaths; the train began its movement; and, along with
a hundred other passengers, these two unwonted travellers sped onward
like the wind.
At last, therefore, and after so long estrangement from everything that
the world acted or enjoyed, they had been drawn into the great current
of human life, and were swept away with it, as by the suction of fate
itself.
Still haunted with the idea that not one of the past incidents,
inclusive of Judge Pyncheon's visit, could be real, the recluse of the
Seven Gables murmured in her brother's ear,--
"Clifford! Clifford! Is not this a dream?"
"A dream, Hepzibah!" repeated he, almost laughing in her face. "On the
contrary, I have never been awake before!"
Meanwhile, looking from the window, they could see the world racing
past them. At one moment, they were rattling through a solitude; the
next, a village had grown up around them; a few breaths more, and it
had vanished, as if swallowed by an earthquake. The spires of
meeting-houses seemed set adrift from their foundations; the
broad-based hills glided away. Everything was unfixed from its
age-long rest, and moving at whirlwind speed in a direction opposite to
their own.
Within the car there was the usual interior life of the railroad,
offering little to the observation of other passengers, but full of
novelty for this pair of strangely enfranchised prisoners. It was
novelty enough, indeed, that there were fifty human beings in close
relation with them, under one long and narrow roof, and drawn onward by
the same mighty influence that had taken their two selves into its
grasp. It seemed marvellous how all these people could remain so
quietly in their seats, while so much noisy strength was at work in
their behalf. Some, with tickets in their hats (long travellers these,
before whom lay a hundred miles of railroad), had plunged into the
English scenery and adventures of pamphlet novels, and were keeping
company with dukes and earls. Others, whose briefer span forbade their
devoting themselves to studies so abstruse, beguiled the little tedium
of the way with penny-papers. A party of girls, and one young man, on
opposite sides of the car, found huge amusement in a game of ball.
They tossed it to and fro, with peals of laughter that might be
measured by mile-lengths; for, faster than the nimble ball could fly,
the merry players fled unconsciously along, leaving the trail of their
mirth afar behind, and ending their game under another sky than had
witnessed its commencement. Boys, with apples, cakes, candy, and rolls
of variously tinctured lozenges,--merchandise that reminded Hepzibah of
her deserted shop,--appeared at each momentary stopping-place, doing up
their business in a hurry, or breaking it short off, lest the market
should ravish them away with it. New people continually entered. Old
acquaintances--for such they soon grew to be, in this rapid current of
affairs--continually departed. Here and there, amid the rumble and the
tumult, sat one asleep. Sleep; sport; business; graver or lighter
study; and the common and inevitable movement onward! It was life
itself!
Clifford's naturally poignant sympathies were all aroused. He caught
the color of what was passing about him, and threw it back more vividly
than he received it, but mixed, nevertheless, with a lurid and
portentous hue. Hepzibah, on the other hand, felt herself more apart
from human kind than even in the seclusion which she had just quitted.
"You are not happy, Hepzibah!" said Clifford apart, in a tone of
approach. "You are thinking of that dismal old house, and of Cousin
Jaffrey"--here came the quake through him,--"and of Cousin Jaffrey
sitting there, all by himself! Take my advice,--follow my example,--and
let such things slip aside. Here we are, in the world, Hepzibah!--in
the midst of life!--in the throng of our fellow beings! Let you and I
be happy! As happy as that youth and those pretty girls, at their game
of ball!"
"Happy--" thought Hepzibah, bitterly conscious, at the word, of her
dull and heavy heart, with the frozen pain in it,--"happy. He is mad
already; and, if I could once feel myself broad awake, I should go mad
too!"
If a fixed idea be madness, she was perhaps not remote from it. Fast
and far as they had rattled and clattered along the iron track, they
might just as well, as regarded Hepzibah's mental images, have been
passing up and down Pyncheon Street. With miles and miles of varied
scenery between, there was no scene for her save the seven old
gable-peaks, with their moss, and the tuft of weeds in one of the
angles, and the shop-window, and a customer shaking the door, and
compelling the little bell to jingle fiercely, but without disturbing
Judge Pyncheon! This one old house was everywhere! It transported its
great, lumbering bulk with more than railroad speed, and set itself
phlegmatically down on whatever spot she glanced at. The quality of
Hepzibah's mind was too unmalleable to take new impressions so readily
as Clifford's. He had a winged nature; she was rather of the vegetable
kind, and could hardly be kept long alive, if drawn up by the roots.
Thus it happened that the relation heretofore existing between her
brother and herself was changed. At home, she was his guardian; here,
Clifford had become hers, and seemed to comprehend whatever belonged to
their new position with a singular rapidity of intelligence. He had
been startled into manhood and intellectual vigor; or, at least, into a
condition that resembled them, though it might be both diseased and
transitory.
The conductor now applied for their tickets; and Clifford, who had made
himself the purse-bearer, put a bank-note into his hand, as he had
observed others do.
"For the lady and yourself?" asked the conductor. "And how far?"
"As far as that will carry us," said Clifford. "It is no great matter.
We are riding for pleasure merely."
"You choose a strange day for it, sir!" remarked a gimlet-eyed old
gentleman on the other side of the car, looking at Clifford and his
companion, as if curious to make them out. "The best chance of
pleasure, in an easterly rain, I take it, is in a man's own house, with
a nice little fire in the chimney."
"I cannot precisely agree with you," said Clifford, courteously bowing
to the old gentleman, and at once taking up the clew of conversation
which the latter had proffered. "It had just occurred to me, on the
contrary, that this admirable invention of the railroad--with the vast
and inevitable improvements to be looked for, both as to speed and
convenience--is destined to do away with those stale ideas of home and
fireside, and substitute something better."
"In the name of common-sense," asked the old gentleman rather testily,
"what can be better for a man than his own parlor and chimney-corner?"
"These things have not the merit which many good people attribute to
them," replied Clifford. "They may be said, in few and pithy words, to
have ill served a poor purpose. My impression is, that our wonderfully
increased and still increasing facilities of locomotion are destined to
bring us around again to the nomadic state. You are aware, my dear
sir,--you must have observed it in your own experience,--that all human
progress is in a circle; or, to use a more accurate and beautiful
figure, in an ascending spiral curve. While we fancy ourselves going
straight forward, and attaining, at every step, an entirely new
position of affairs, we do actually return to something long ago tried
and abandoned, but which we now find etherealized, refined, and
perfected to its ideal. The past is but a coarse and sensual prophecy
of the present and the future. To apply this truth to the topic now
under discussion. In the early epochs of our race, men dwelt in
temporary huts, of bowers of branches, as easily constructed as a
bird's-nest, and which they built,--if it should be called building,
when such sweet homes of a summer solstice rather grew than were made
with hands,--which Nature, we will say, assisted them to rear where
fruit abounded, where fish and game were plentiful, or, most
especially, where the sense of beauty was to be gratified by a lovelier
shade than elsewhere, and a more exquisite arrangement of lake, wood,
and hill. This life possessed a charm which, ever since man quitted
it, has vanished from existence. And it typified something better than
itself. It had its drawbacks; such as hunger and thirst, inclement
weather, hot sunshine, and weary and foot-blistering marches over
barren and ugly tracts, that lay between the sites desirable for their
fertility and beauty. But in our ascending spiral, we escape all this.
These railroads--could but the whistle be made musical, and the rumble
and the jar got rid of--are positively the greatest blessing that the
ages have wrought out for us. They give us wings; they annihilate the
toil and dust of pilgrimage; they spiritualize travel! Transition being
so facile, what can be any man's inducement to tarry in one spot? Why,
therefore, should he build a more cumbrous habitation than can readily
be carried off with him? Why should he make himself a prisoner for life
in brick, and stone, and old worm-eaten timber, when he may just as
easily dwell, in one sense, nowhere,--in a better sense, wherever the
fit and beautiful shall offer him a home?"
Clifford's countenance glowed, as he divulged this theory; a youthful
character shone out from within, converting the wrinkles and pallid
duskiness of age into an almost transparent mask. The merry girls let
their ball drop upon the floor, and gazed at him. They said to
themselves, perhaps, that, before his hair was gray and the crow's-feet
tracked his temples, this now decaying man must have stamped the
impress of his features on many a woman's heart. But, alas! no woman's
eye had seen his face while it was beautiful.
"I should scarcely call it an improved state of things," observed
Clifford's new acquaintance, "to live everywhere and nowhere!"
"Would you not?" exclaimed Clifford, with singular energy. "It is as
clear to me as sunshine,--were there any in the sky,--that the greatest
possible stumbling-blocks in the path of human happiness and
improvement are these heaps of bricks and stones, consolidated with
mortar, or hewn timber, fastened together with spike-nails, which men
painfully contrive for their own torment, and call them house and home!
The soul needs air; a wide sweep and frequent change of it. Morbid
influences, in a thousand-fold variety, gather about hearths, and
pollute the life of households. There is no such unwholesome
atmosphere as that of an old home, rendered poisonous by one's defunct
forefathers and relatives. I speak of what I know. There is a certain
house within my familiar recollection,--one of those peaked-gable
(there are seven of them), projecting-storied edifices, such as you
occasionally see in our older towns,--a rusty, crazy, creaky,
dry-rotted, dingy, dark, and miserable old dungeon, with an arched
window over the porch, and a little shop-door on one side, and a great,
melancholy elm before it! Now, sir, whenever my thoughts recur to this
seven-gabled mansion (the fact is so very curious that I must needs
mention it), immediately I have a vision or image of an elderly man, of
remarkably stern countenance, sitting in an oaken elbow-chair, dead,
stone-dead, with an ugly flow of blood upon his shirt-bosom! Dead, but
with open eyes! He taints the whole house, as I remember it. I could
never flourish there, nor be happy, nor do nor enjoy what God meant me
to do and enjoy."
His face darkened, and seemed to contract, and shrivel itself up, and
wither into age.
"Never, sir!" he repeated. "I could never draw cheerful breath there!"
"I should think not," said the old gentleman, eyeing Clifford
earnestly, and rather apprehensively. "I should conceive not, sir,
with that notion in your head!"
"Surely not," continued Clifford; "and it were a relief to me if that
house could be torn down, or burnt up, and so the earth be rid of it,
and grass be sown abundantly over its foundation. Not that I should
ever visit its site again! for, sir, the farther I get away from it,
the more does the joy, the lightsome freshness, the heart-leap, the
intellectual dance, the youth, in short,--yes, my youth, my youth!--the
more does it come back to me. No longer ago than this morning, I was
old. I remember looking in the glass, and wondering at my own gray
hair, and the wrinkles, many and deep, right across my brow, and the
furrows down my cheeks, and the prodigious trampling of crow's-feet
about my temples! It was too soon! I could not bear it! Age had no
right to come! I had not lived! But now do I look old? If so, my
aspect belies me strangely; for--a great weight being off my mind--I
feel in the very heyday of my youth, with the world and my best days
before me!"
"I trust you may find it so," said the old gentleman, who seemed rather
embarrassed, and desirous of avoiding the observation which Clifford's
wild talk drew on them both. "You have my best wishes for it."
"For Heaven's sake, dear Clifford, be quiet!" whispered his sister.
"They think you mad."
"Be quiet yourself, Hepzibah!" returned her brother. "No matter what
they think! I am not mad. For the first time in thirty years my
thoughts gush up and find words ready for them. I must talk, and I
will!"
He turned again towards the old gentleman, and renewed the conversation.
"Yes, my dear sir," said he, "it is my firm belief and hope that these
terms of roof and hearth-stone, which have so long been held to embody
something sacred, are soon to pass out of men's daily use, and be
forgotten. Just imagine, for a moment, how much of human evil will
crumble away, with this one change! What we call real estate--the solid
ground to build a house on--is the broad foundation on which nearly all
the guilt of this world rests. A man will commit almost any wrong,--he
will heap up an immense pile of wickedness, as hard as granite, and
which will weigh as heavily upon his soul, to eternal ages,--only to
build a great, gloomy, dark-chambered mansion, for himself to die in,
and for his posterity to be miserable in. He lays his own dead corpse
beneath the underpinning, as one may say, and hangs his frowning
picture on the wall, and, after thus converting himself into an evil
destiny, expects his remotest great-grandchildren to be happy there. I
do not speak wildly. I have just such a house in my mind's eye!"
"Then, sir," said the old gentleman, getting anxious to drop the
subject, "you are not to blame for leaving it."
"Within the lifetime of the child already born," Clifford went on, "all
this will be done away. The world is growing too ethereal and
spiritual to bear these enormities a great while longer. To me,
though, for a considerable period of time, I have lived chiefly in
retirement, and know less of such things than most men,--even to me,
the harbingers of a better era are unmistakable. Mesmerism, now! Will
that effect nothing, think you, towards purging away the grossness out
of human life?"
"All a humbug!" growled the old gentleman.
"These rapping spirits, that little Phoebe told us of, the other day,"
said Clifford,--"what are these but the messengers of the spiritual
world, knocking at the door of substance? And it shall be flung wide
open!"
"A humbug, again!" cried the old gentleman, growing more and more testy
at these glimpses of Clifford's metaphysics. "I should like to rap
with a good stick on the empty pates of the dolts who circulate such
nonsense!"
"Then there is electricity,--the demon, the angel, the mighty physical
power, the all-pervading intelligence!" exclaimed Clifford. "Is that a
humbug, too? Is it a fact--or have I dreamt it--that, by means of
electricity, the world of matter has become a great nerve, vibrating
thousands of miles in a breathless point of time? Rather, the round
globe is a vast head, a brain, instinct with intelligence! Or, shall
we say, it is itself a thought, nothing but thought, and no longer the
substance which we deemed it!"
"If you mean the telegraph," said the old gentleman, glancing his eye
toward its wire, alongside the rail-track, "it is an excellent
thing,--that is, of course, if the speculators in cotton and politics
don't get possession of it. A great thing, indeed, sir, particularly
as regards the detection of bank-robbers and murderers."
"I don't quite like it, in that point of view," replied Clifford. "A
bank-robber, and what you call a murderer, likewise, has his rights,
which men of enlightened humanity and conscience should regard in so
much the more liberal spirit, because the bulk of society is prone to
controvert their existence. An almost spiritual medium, like the
electric telegraph, should be consecrated to high, deep, joyful, and
holy missions. Lovers, day by, day--hour by hour, if so often moved to
do it,--might send their heart-throbs from Maine to Florida, with some
such words as these 'I love you forever!'--'My heart runs over with
love!'--'I love you more than I can!' and, again, at the next message
'I have lived an hour longer, and love you twice as much!' Or, when a
good man has departed, his distant friend should be conscious of an
electric thrill, as from the world of happy spirits, telling him 'Your
dear friend is in bliss!' Or, to an absent husband, should come tidings
thus 'An immortal being, of whom you are the father, has this moment
come from God!' and immediately its little voice would seem to have
reached so far, and to be echoing in his heart. But for these poor
rogues, the bank-robbers,--who, after all, are about as honest as nine
people in ten, except that they disregard certain formalities, and
prefer to transact business at midnight rather than 'Change-hours,--and
for these murderers, as you phrase it, who are often excusable in the
motives of their deed, and deserve to be ranked among public
benefactors, if we consider only its result,--for unfortunate
individuals like these, I really cannot applaud the enlistment of an
immaterial and miraculous power in the universal world-hunt at their
heels!"
"You can't, hey?" cried the old gentleman, with a hard look.
"Positively, no!" answered Clifford. "It puts them too miserably at
disadvantage. For example, sir, in a dark, low, cross-beamed, panelled
room of an old house, let us suppose a dead man, sitting in an
arm-chair, with a blood-stain on his shirt-bosom,--and let us add to
our hypothesis another man, issuing from the house, which he feels to
be over-filled with the dead man's presence,--and let us lastly imagine
him fleeing, Heaven knows whither, at the speed of a hurricane, by
railroad! Now, sir, if the fugitive alight in some distant town, and
find all the people babbling about that self-same dead man, whom he has
fled so far to avoid the sight and thought of, will you not allow that
his natural rights have been infringed? He has been deprived of his
city of refuge, and, in my humble opinion, has suffered infinite wrong!"
"You are a strange man; Sir!" said the old gentleman, bringing his
gimlet-eye to a point on Clifford, as if determined to bore right into
him. "I can't see through you!"
"No, I'll be bound you can't!" cried Clifford, laughing. "And yet, my
dear sir, I am as transparent as the water of Maule's well! But come,
Hepzibah! We have flown far enough for once. Let us alight, as the
birds do, and perch ourselves on the nearest twig, and consult wither
we shall fly next!"
Just then, as it happened, the train reached a solitary way-station.
Taking advantage of the brief pause, Clifford left the car, and drew
Hepzibah along with him. A moment afterwards, the train--with all the
life of its interior, amid which Clifford had made himself so
conspicuous an object--was gliding away in the distance, and rapidly
lessening to a point which, in another moment, vanished. The world had
fled away from these two wanderers. They gazed drearily about them.
At a little distance stood a wooden church, black with age, and in a
dismal state of ruin and decay, with broken windows, a great rift
through the main body of the edifice, and a rafter dangling from the
top of the square tower. Farther off was a farm-house, in the old
style, as venerably black as the church, with a roof sloping downward
from the three-story peak, to within a man's height of the ground. It
seemed uninhabited. There were the relics of a wood-pile, indeed, near
the door, but with grass sprouting up among the chips and scattered
logs. The small rain-drops came down aslant; the wind was not
turbulent, but sullen, and full of chilly moisture.
Clifford shivered from head to foot. The wild effervescence of his
mood--which had so readily supplied thoughts, fantasies, and a strange
aptitude of words, and impelled him to talk from the mere necessity of
giving vent to this bubbling-up gush of ideas had entirely subsided. A
powerful excitement had given him energy and vivacity. Its operation
over, he forthwith began to sink.
"You must take the lead now, Hepzibah!" murmured he, with a torpid and
reluctant utterance. "Do with me as you will!" She knelt down upon the
platform where they were standing and lifted her clasped hands to the
sky. The dull, gray weight of clouds made it invisible; but it was no
hour for disbelief,--no juncture this to question that there was a sky
above, and an Almighty Father looking from it!
"O God!"--ejaculated poor, gaunt Hepzibah,--then paused a moment, to
consider what her prayer should be,--"O God,--our Father,--are we not
thy children? Have mercy on us!" | Hepzibah and Clifford dash out through the summer rain and soon find themselves at a railroad station; they board a train and Clifford seems to be almost bubbling; Hepzibah, however, views the passengers about them as though they were figures in a dream. Clifford then strikes up a wild conversation with a gimlet-eyed old man across the aisle and speaks of the railroads' role in creating a new order of nomads; then he declares a need to tear down all houses -- particularly those with blood-stained corpses in them -- and goes on to rave further about the value of mesmerism, spiritualism, electricity, and the telegraph -- except when it is used to apprehend bank robbers and murderers. Repeatedly, Clifford describes a seven-gabled house "presided over" by a corpse. Suddenly Clifford wants off the train, and he and his prayerful sister alight at a way-station under gloomy clouds. |
THE BLACK SPOT AGAIN
The council of the buccaneers had lasted some time, when one of them
re-entered the house, and with a repetition of the same salute, which
had in my eyes an ironical air, begged for a moment's loan of the torch.
Silver briefly agreed, and this emissary retired again, leaving us
together in the dark.
"There's a breeze coming, Jim," said Silver, who had by this time
adopted quite a friendly and familiar tone.
I turned to the loophole nearest me and looked out. The embers of the
great fire had so far burned themselves out, and now glowed so low and
duskily, that I understood why these conspirators desired a torch. About
halfway down the slope to the stockade they were collected in a group;
one held the light; another was on his knees in their midst, and I saw
the blade of an open knife shine in his hand with varying colors, in the
moon and torchlight. The rest were all somewhat stooping, as though
watching the maneuvers of this last. I could just make out that he had a
book as well as a knife in his hand; and was still wondering how
anything so incongruous had come in their possession, when the kneeling
figure rose once more to his feet, and the whole party began to move
together toward the house.
"Here they come," said I; and I returned to my former position, for it
seemed beneath my dignity that they should find me watching them.
"Well, let 'em come, lad--let 'em come," said Silver, cheerily. "I've
still a shot in my locker."
The door opened, and the five men, standing huddled together just
inside, pushed one of their number forward. In any other circumstances
it would have been comical to see his slow advance, hesitating as he set
down each foot, but holding his closed right hand in front of him.
"Step up, lad," cried Silver. "I won't eat you. Hand it over, lubber. I
know the rules, I do; I won't hurt a depytation."
Thus encouraged the buccaneer stepped forth more briskly, and having
passed something to Silver, from hand to hand, slipped yet more smartly
back again to his companions.
The sea-cook looked at what had been given him.
"The black spot! I thought so," he observed. "Where might you have got
the paper? Why, hello! look here, now; this ain't lucky! You've gone and
cut this out of a Bible. What fool's cut a Bible?"
"Ah, there," said Morgan, "there! Wot did I say? No good'll come o'
that, I said."
"Well, you've about fixed it now, among you," continued Silver. "You'll
all swing now, I reckon. What soft-headed lubber had a Bible?"
"It was Dick," said one.
"Dick, was it? Then Dick can get to prayers," said Silver. "He's seen
his slice of luck, has Dick, and you may lay to that."
But here the long man with the yellow eyes struck in.
"Belay that talk, John Silver," he said. "This crew has tipped you the
black spot in full council, as in dooty bound; just you turn it over, as
in dooty bound, and see what's wrote there. Then you can talk."
"Thanky, George," replied the sea-cook. "You always was brisk for
business, and has the rules by heart, George, as I'm pleased to see.
Well, what is it, anyway? Ah! 'Deposed'--that's it, is it? Very pretty
wrote, to be sure; like print, I swear. Your hand o' write, George? Why,
you was gettin' quite a leadin' man in this here crew. You'll be cap'n
next, I shouldn't wonder. Just oblige me with that torch again, will
you? this pipe don't draw."
"Come, now," said George, "you don't fool this crew no more. You're a
funny man, by your account; but you're over now, and you'll maybe step
down off that barrel, and help vote."
"I thought you said you knowed the rules," returned Silver,
contemptuously. "Leastways, if you don't, I do; and I wait here--and I'm
still your cap'n, mind--till you outs with your grievances, and I reply;
in the meantime, your black spot ain't worth a biscuit. After that we'll
see."
"Oh," replied George, "you don't be under no kind of apprehension;
_we're_ all square, we are. First, you've made a hash of this
cruise--you'll be a bold man to say no to that. Second, you let the
enemy out o' this here trap for nothing. Why did they want out? I dunno,
but it's pretty plain they wanted it. Third, you wouldn't let us go at
them upon the march. Oh, we see through you, John Silver; you want to
play booty, that's what's wrong with you. And then, fourth, there's this
here boy."
"Is that all?" asked Silver, quietly.
"Enough, too," retorted George. "We'll all swing and sun-dry for your
bungling."
"Well, now, look here, I'll answer these four p'ints; one after another
I'll answer 'em. I made a hash o' this cruise, did I? Well, now, you all
know what I wanted; and you all know, if that had been done, that we'd
'a' been aboard the _Hispaniola_ this night as ever was, every man of us
alive, and fit, and full of good plum-duff, and the treasure in the hold
of her, by thunder! Well, who crossed me? Who forced my hand, as was the
lawful cap'n? Who tipped me the black spot the day we landed, and began
this dance? Ah, it's a fine dance--I'm with you there--and looks mighty
like a hornpipe in a rope's end at Execution Dock by London town, it
does. But who done it? Why, it was Anderson, and Hands, and you, George
Merry! And you're the last above board of that same meddling crew; and
you have the Davy Jones insolence to up and stand for cap'n over
me--you, that sunk the lot of us! By the powers! but this tops the
stiffest yarn to nothing."
Silver paused, and I could see by the faces of George and his late
comrades that these words had not been said in vain.
"That's for number one," cried the accused, wiping the sweat from his
brow, for he had been talking with a vehemence that shook the house.
"Why, I give you my word, I'm sick to speak to you. You've neither sense
nor memory, and I leave it to fancy where your mothers was that let you
come to sea. Sea! Gentlemen o' fortune! I reckon tailors is your trade."
"Go on, John," said Morgan. "Speak up to the others."
"Ah, the others!" returned John. "They're a nice lot, ain't they? You
say this cruise is bungled. Ah! by gum, if you could understand how bad
it's bungled, you would see! We're that near the gibbet that my neck's
stiff with thinking on it. You've seen 'em, maybe, hanged in chains,
birds about 'em, seamen p'inting 'em out as they go down with the tide.
'Who's that?' says one. 'That! Why, that's John Silver. I knowed him
well,' says another. And you can hear the chains a-jangle as you go
about and reach for the other buoy. Now, that's about where we are,
every mother's son of us, thanks to him, and Hands, and Anderson, and
other ruination fools of you. And if you want to know about number four,
and that boy, why, shiver my timbers! isn't he a hostage? Are we a-going
to waste a hostage? No, not us; he might be our last chance, and I
shouldn't wonder. Kill that boy? not me, mates! And number three? Ah,
well, there's a deal to say to number three. Maybe you don't count it
nothing to have a real college doctor come to see you every day--you,
John, with your head broke--or you, George Merry, that had the ague
shakes upon you not six hours agone, and has your eyes the color of
lemon peel to this same moment on the clock? And maybe, perhaps, you
didn't know there was a consort coming, either? But there is, and not so
long till then; and we'll see who'll be glad to have a hostage when it
comes to that. And as for number two, and why I made a bargain--well,
you come crawling on your knees to me to make it--on your knees you
came, you was that downhearted--and you'd have starved, too, if I
hadn't--but that's a trifle! you look there--that's why!"
And he cast down upon the floor a paper that I instantly
recognized--none other than the chart on yellow paper, with the three
red crosses, that I had found in the oilcloth at the bottom of the
captain's chest. Why the doctor had given it to him was more than I
could fancy.
But if it were inexplicable to me, the appearance of the chart was
incredible to the surviving mutineers. They leaped upon it like cats
upon a mouse. It went from hand to hand, one tearing it from another;
and by the oaths and the cries and the childish laughter with which they
accompanied their examination, you would have thought, not only they
were fingering the very gold, but were at sea with it, besides, in
safety.
"Yes," said one, "that's Flint, sure enough. J. F., and a score below,
with a close hitch to it, so he done ever."
"Mighty pretty," said George. "But how are we to get away with it, and
us no ship?"
Silver suddenly sprang up, and supporting himself with a hand against
the wall: "Now, I give you warning, George," he cried. "One more word of
your sauce, and I'll call you down and fight you. How? Why, how do I
know? You had ought to tell me that--you and the rest, that lost me my
schooner, with your interference, burn you! But not you, you can't; you
ain't got the invention of a cockroach. But civil you can speak, and
shall, George Merry, you may lay to that."
"That's fair enow," said the old man Morgan.
"Fair! I reckon so," said the sea-cook. "You lost the ship; I found the
treasure. Who's the better man at that? And now I resign, by thunder!
Elect whom you please to be your cap'n now; I'm done with it."
"Silver!" they cried. "Barbecue forever! Barbecue for cap'n!"
"So that's the toon, is it?" cried the cook. "George, I reckon you'll
have to wait another turn, friend, and lucky for you as I'm not a
revengeful man. But that was never my way. And now, shipmates, this
black spot? 'Tain't much good now, is it? Dick's crossed his luck and
spoiled his Bible, and that's about all."
"It'll do to kiss the book on still, won't it?" growled Dick, who was
evidently uneasy at the curse he had brought upon himself.
"A Bible with a bit cut out!" returned Silver, derisively. "Not it. It
don't bind no more'n a ballad-book."
"Don't it, though?" cried Dick, with a sort of joy. "Well, I reckon
that's worth having, too."
"Here, Jim--here's a cur'osity for you," said Silver, and he tossed me
the paper.
It was a round about the size of a crown piece. One side was blank, for
it had been the last leaf; the other contained a verse or two of
Revelation--these words among the rest, which struck sharply home upon
my mind: "Without are dogs and murderers." The printed side had been
blackened with wood ash, which already began to come off and soil my
fingers; on the blank side had been written with the same material the
one word "Deposed." I have that curiosity beside me at this moment; but
not a trace of writing now remains beyond a single scratch, such as a
man might make with his thumb-nail.
That was the end of the night's business. Soon after, with a drink all
round, we lay down to sleep, and the outside of Silver's vengeance was
to put George Merry up for sentinel, and threaten him with death if he
should prove unfaithful.
It was long ere I could close an eye, and heaven knows I had matter
enough for thought in the man whom I had slain that afternoon, in my own
most perilous position, and, above all, in the remarkable game that I
saw Silver now engaged upon--keeping the mutineers together with one
hand, and grasping, with the other, after every means, possible and
impossible, to make his peace and save his miserable life. He himself
slept peacefully, and snored aloud; yet my heart was sore for him,
wicked as he was, to think on the dark perils that environed, and the
shameful gibbet that awaited him. | One of the buccaneers shows up later to borrow the light. Silver, by this time, has started talking to Jim in a friendly tone. Jim sees the group of buccaneers proceeding towards the stockade. Unlike Jim, Silver is hardly concerned. When the door opens, one of the men is pushed ahead to hand over a piece of paper to Silver. Its the Black Spot again. Silver condemns their act, as he recognizes the paper as having been cut out of a bible. He taunts Dick for doing this. At this, George is furious and asks Silver to do his part of his duty by reading it. He asks Silver to step down from his position for a common note. In the heated conversation that followed, Silver is accused of releasing the prisoners and saving the life of Jim. Now it is Silvers turn to lash out at their arguments and prove his superiority. He answers their arguments one by one. Firstly, he accuses Anderson, Hands, George and Davy Jones for crossing him. He goes on to tell them that they will be better off as tailors than sailors. As for Jim, he says he is a hostage and killing him would be a waste. He reminds them about the consort. He also reminds them that he was the one who bargained for food without which they would have been, by now, crawling on the floor. Much to their surprise, he then throws the original treasure map in front of them. The men are dumb founded. Silver gives a final warning to George and asks him to shut his mouth if he wants to live. To prove his supremacy once again, Silver asks who the Captain is. Silver throws the piece of paper to Jim. The paper contains two verses of the Bible. This is blackened with wood ash which soiled out as Jim took it in his hand. `Deposed was written on the blank side. Jim is unable to comprehend any thing. That ends the nights activity. Jim lies down admiring the remarkable tactics Silver used to control the mutineers and save his life. |
Near Misenum.
[Flourish. Enter POMPEY and MENAS at one side, with drum and
trumpet; at the other, CAESAR, ANTONY, LEPIDUS, ENOBARBUS,
MAECENAS, with Soldiers marching.]
POMPEY.
Your hostages I have, so have you mine;
And we shall talk before we fight.
CAESAR.
Most meet
That first we come to words; and therefore have we
Our written purposes before us sent;
Which, if thou hast consider'd, let us know
If 'twill tie up thy discontented sword,
And carry back to Sicily much tall youth
That else must perish here.
POMPEY.
To you all three,
The senators alone of this great world,
Chief factors for the gods,--I do not know
Wherefore my father should revengers want,
Having a son and friends; since Julius Caesar,
Who at Philippi the good Brutus ghosted,
There saw you labouring for him. What was't
That mov'd pale Cassius to conspire; and what
Made the all-honour'd, honest Roman, Brutus,
With the arm'd rest, courtiers of beauteous freedom,
To drench the Capitol, but that they would
Have one man but a man? And that is it
Hath made me rig my navy; at whose burden
The anger'd ocean foams; with which I meant
To scourge the ingratitude that despiteful Rome
Cast on my noble father.
CAESAR.
Take your time.
ANTONY.
Thou canst not fear us, Pompey, with thy sails;
We'll speak with thee at sea: at land thou know'st
How much we do o'er-count thee.
POMPEY.
At land, indeed,
Thou dost o'er-count me of my father's house:
But, since the cuckoo builds not for himself,
Remain in't as thou mayst.
LEPIDUS.
Be pleas'd to tell us,--
For this is from the present,--how you take
The offers we have sent you.
CAESAR.
There's the point.
ANTONY.
Which do not be entreated to, but weigh
What it is worth embrac'd.
CAESAR.
And what may follow,
To try a larger fortune.
POMPEY.
You have made me offer
Of Sicily, Sardinia; and I must
Rid all the sea of pirates; then to send
Measures of wheat to Rome; this 'greed upon,
To part with unhack'd edges and bear back
Our targes undinted.
CAESAR, ANTONY, and LEPIDUS.
That's our offer.
POMPEY.
Know, then,
I came before you here a man prepar'd
To take this offer: but Mark Antony
Put me to some impatience:--though I lose
The praise of it by telling, you must know,
When Caesar and your brother were at blows,
Your mother came to Sicily, and did find
Her welcome friendly.
ANTONY.
I have heard it, Pompey,
And am well studied for a liberal thanks
Which I do owe you.
POMPEY.
Let me have your hand:
I did not think, sir, to have met you here.
ANTONY.
The beds i' the East are soft; and, thanks to you,
That call'd me, timelier than my purpose, hither;
For I have gained by it.
CAESAR.
Since I saw you last
There is a change upon you.
POMPEY.
Well, I know not
What counts harsh fortune casts upon my face;
But in my bosom shall she never come
To make my heart her vassal.
LEPIDUS.
Well met here.
POMPEY.
I hope so, Lepidus.--Thus we are agreed:
I crave our composition may be written,
And seal'd between us.
CAESAR.
That's the next to do.
POMPEY.
We'll feast each other ere we part; and let's
Draw lots who shall begin.
ANTONY.
That will I, Pompey.
POMPEY.
No, Antony, take the lot: but, first
Or last, your fine Egyptian cookery
Shall have the fame. I have heard that Julius Caesar
Grew fat with feasting there.
ANTONY.
You have heard much.
POMPEY.
I have fair meanings, sir.
ANTONY.
And fair words to them.
POMPEY.
Then so much have I heard;
And I have heard Apollodorus carried,--
ENOBARBUS.
No more of that:--he did so.
POMPEY.
What, I pray you?
ENOBARBUS.
A certain queen to Caesar in a mattress.
POMPEY.
I know thee now: how far'st thou, soldier?
ENOBARBUS.
Well;
And well am like to do; for I perceive
Four feasts are toward.
POMPEY.
Let me shake thy hand;
I never hated thee: I have seen thee fight,
When I have envied thy behaviour.
ENOBARBUS.
Sir,
I never lov'd you much; but I ha' prais'd ye
When you have well deserv'd ten times as much
As I have said you did.
POMPEY.
Enjoy thy plainness;
It nothing ill becomes thee.--
Aboard my galley I invite you all:
Will you lead, lords?
CAESAR, ANTONY, and LEPIDUS.
Show's the way, sir.
POMPEY.
Come.
[Exeunt all but ENOBARBUS and MENAS.]
MENAS.
[Aside.] Thy father, Pompey, would ne'er have made this treaty.--
You and I have known, sir.
ENOBARBUS.
At sea, I think.
MENAS.
We have, sir.
ENOBARBUS.
You have done well by water.
MENAS.
And you by land.
ENOBARBUS.
I will praise any man that will praise me; though it cannot be
denied what I have done by land.
MENAS.
Nor what I have done by water.
ENOBARBUS.
Yes, something you can deny for your own safety: you have been a
great thief by sea.
MENAS.
And you by land.
ENOBARBUS.
There I deny my land service. But give me your hand, Menas: if
our eyes had authority, here they might take two thieves kissing.
MENAS.
All men's faces are true, whatsome'er their hands are.
ENOBARBUS.
But there is never a fair woman has a true face.
MENAS.
No slander; they steal hearts.
ENOBARBUS.
We came hither to fight with you.
MENAS.
For my part, I am sorry it is turn'd to a drinking. Pompey doth
this day laugh away his fortune.
ENOBARBUS.
If he do, sure he cannot weep it back again.
MENAS.
You have said, sir. We look'd not for Mark Antony here: pray you,
is he married to Cleopatra?
ENOBARBUS.
Caesar's sister is called Octavia.
MENAS.
True, sir; she was the wife of Caius Marcellus.
ENOBARBUS.
But she is now the wife of Marcus Antonius.
MENAS.
Pray you, sir?
ENOBARBUS.
'Tis true.
MENAS.
Then is Caesar and he for ever knit together.
ENOBARBUS.
If I were bound to divine of this unity, I would not prophesy so.
MENAS.
I think the policy of that purpose made more in the marriage than
the love of the parties.
ENOBARBUS.
I think so too. But you shall find the band that seems to tie
their friendship together will be the very strangler of their
amity: Octavia is of a holy, cold, and still conversation.
MENAS.
Who would not have his wife so?
ENOBARBUS.
Not he that himself is not so; which is Mark Antony. He will to
his Egyptian dish again: then shall the sighs of Octavia blow the
fire up in Caesar; and, as I said before, that which is the
strength of their amity shall prove the immediate author of their
variance. Antony will use his affection where it is: he married
but his occasion here.
MENAS.
And thus it may be. Come, sir, will you aboard? I have a health
for you.
ENOBARBUS.
I shall take it, sir: we have used our throats in Egypt.
MENAS.
Come, let's away.
[Exeunt.] | Near Misenum. The triumvirate meets with Pompey. He tells them he wants to avenge his father against Rome. Antony points out that while at sea Pompey is powerful, by land the triumvirate is supreme. The triumvirate has made Pompey an offer: he can retain rule of Sicily and Sardinia, but he must rid the sea of pirates and send tribute to Rome. Pompey says that he would accept, if not for the ingratitude Antony has shown him. When Octavius and Antony's brother were at war, Antony's mother fled to Sicily and was generously received by Pompey. Antony thanks him, the two men shake, and Pompey accepts the triumvirate's offer. The tension is eased, and the men turn to talk of feasting together. Enobarbus pipes up, blunt as always, and Pompey recognizes him from past battles. Pompey and Enobarbus exchange compliments. All exit except Menas and Enobarbus. They exchange compliments, mixed with a bit of boasting. Menas confesses displeasure at Pompey's decision. Enobarbus, when asked about Cleopatra, informs Menas of Antony's marriage to Octavia. He predicts that Antony will return to Cleopatra, and that Antony and Caesar must eventually face off. They go to drink together |
ACT IV. SCENE I.
A dark Cave. In the middle, a Caldron Boiling.
[Thunder. Enter the three Witches.]
FIRST WITCH.
Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd.
SECOND WITCH.
Thrice; and once the hedge-pig whin'd.
THIRD WITCH.
Harpier cries:--"tis time, 'tis time.
FIRST WITCH.
Round about the caldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw.--
Toad, that under cold stone,
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot!
ALL.
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble.
SECOND WITCH.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and howlet's wing,--
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
ALL.
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble.
THIRD WITCH.
Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witch's mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse,
Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips,
Finger of birth-strangl'd babe
Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,--
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
For the ingredients of our caldron.
ALL.
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble.
SECOND WITCH.
Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.
[Enter Hecate.]
HECATE.
O, well done! I commend your pains;
And everyone shall share i' the gains.
And now about the cauldron sing,
Like elves and fairies in a ring,
Enchanting all that you put in.
Song.
Black spirits and white, red spirits and gray;
Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may.
[Exit Hecate.]
SECOND WITCH.
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes:--
Open, locks, whoever knocks!
[Enter Macbeth.]
MACBETH.
How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags!
What is't you do?
ALL.
A deed without a name.
MACBETH.
I conjure you, by that which you profess,--
Howe'er you come to know it,--answer me:
Though you untie the winds, and let them fight
Against the churches; though the yesty waves
Confound and swallow navigation up;
Though bladed corn be lodg'd, and trees blown down;
Though castles topple on their warders' heads;
Though palaces and pyramids do slope
Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure
Of nature's germins tumble all together,
Even till destruction sicken,--answer me
To what I ask you.
FIRST WITCH.
Speak.
SECOND WITCH.
Demand.
THIRD WITCH.
We'll answer.
FIRST WITCH.
Say, if thou'dst rather hear it from our mouths,
Or from our masters?
MACBETH.
Call 'em, let me see 'em.
FIRST WITCH.
Pour in sow's blood, that hath eaten
Her nine farrow; grease that's sweaten
From the murderer's gibbet throw
Into the flame.
ALL.
Come, high or low;
Thyself and office deftly show!
[Thunder. An Apparition of an armed Head rises.]
MACBETH.
Tell me, thou unknown power,--
FIRST WITCH.
He knows thy thought:
Hear his speech, but say thou naught.
APPARITION.
Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff;
Beware the Thane of Fife.--Dismiss me:--enough.
[Descends.]
MACBETH.
Whate'er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks;
Thou hast harp'd my fear aright:--but one word more,--
FIRST WITCH.
He will not be commanded: here's another,
More potent than the first.
[Thunder. An Apparition of a bloody Child rises.]
APPARITION.--
Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!
MACBETH.
Had I three ears, I'd hear thee.
APPARITION.
Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn
The power of man, for none of woman born
Shall harm Macbeth.
[Descends.]
MACBETH.
Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of thee?
But yet I'll make assurance double sure,
And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live;
That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies,
And sleep in spite of thunder.--What is this,
[Thunder. An Apparition of a Child crowned, with a tree in his
hand, rises.]
That rises like the issue of a king,
And wears upon his baby brow the round
And top of sovereignty?
ALL.
Listen, but speak not to't.
APPARITION.
Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care
Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are:
Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until
Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill
Shall come against him.
[Descends.]
MACBETH.
That will never be:
Who can impress the forest; bid the tree
Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements, good!
Rebellion's head, rise never till the wood
Of Birnam rise, and our high-plac'd Macbeth
Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath
To time and mortal custom.--Yet my heart
Throbs to know one thing: tell me,--if your art
Can tell so much,--shall Banquo's issue ever
Reign in this kingdom?
ALL.
Seek to know no more.
MACBETH.
I will be satisfied: deny me this,
And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know:--
Why sinks that cauldron? and what noise is this?
[Hautboys.]
FIRST WITCH.
Show!
SECOND WITCH.
Show!
THIRD WITCH.
Show!
ALL.
Show his eyes, and grieve his heart;
Come like shadows, so depart!
[Eight kings appear, and pass over in order, the last with a
glass in his hand; Banquo following.]
MACBETH.
Thou are too like the spirit of Banquo; down!
Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs:--and thy hair,
Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first;--
A third is like the former.--Filthy hags!
Why do you show me this?--A fourth!--Start, eyes!
What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?
Another yet!--A seventh!--I'll see no more:--
And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass
Which shows me many more; and some I see
That twofold balls and treble sceptres carry:
Horrible sight!--Now I see 'tis true;
For the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me,
And points at them for his.--What! is this so?
FIRST WITCH.
Ay, sir, all this is so:--but why
Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?--
Come,sisters, cheer we up his sprites,
And show the best of our delights;
I'll charm the air to give a sound,
While you perform your antic round;
That this great king may kindly say,
Our duties did his welcome pay.
[Music. The Witches dance, and then vanish.]
MACBETH.
Where are they? Gone?--Let this pernicious hour
Stand aye accursed in the calendar!--
Come in, without there!
[Enter Lennox.]
LENNOX.
What's your grace's will?
MACBETH.
Saw you the weird sisters?
LENNOX.
No, my lord.
MACBETH.
Came they not by you?
LENNOX.
No indeed, my lord.
MACBETH.
Infected be the air whereon they ride;
And damn'd all those that trust them!--I did hear
The galloping of horse: who was't came by?
LENNOX.
'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word
Macduff is fled to England.
MACBETH.
Fled to England!
LENNOX.
Ay, my good lord.
MACBETH.
Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits:
The flighty purpose never is o'ertook
Unless the deed go with it: from this moment
The very firstlings of my heart shall be
The firstlings of my hand. And even now,
To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done:
The castle of Macduff I will surprise;
Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword
His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls
That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool;
This deed I'll do before this purpose cool:
But no more sights!--Where are these gentlemen?
Come, bring me where they are.
[Exeunt.] | On a dark and stormy night, the three witches are hanging out in a cave roasting marshmallows and chanting spells around a boiling cauldron, into which they cast all sorts of nasty bits, from lizard's leg to the finger of stillborn baby. Hecate enters, pleased with the witches' more serious approach this time around. After Hecate exits, the Second With announces "something wicked this way comes." Not surprisingly, Macbeth promptly follows. Macbeth gives the witches some props for being able to control the weather and conjure crazy winds that batter churches, cause huge ocean waves to "swallow" ships, destroy crops, topple castles, and so on. Macbeth says he has some more questions about his future and he wants some answers from the weird sisters, pronto. The witches add some more ingredients to the cauldron, and then apparitions begin to appear, each addressing Macbeth. First, an armed head warns him to beware of Macduff. The second apparition is a bloody child who says that Macbeth won't be harmed by anyone who was "of woman born." Um, well...that's pretty much everyone, right? Including Macduff. So really Macbeth figures he has nothing to fear. He welcomes this good but figures he might as well have Macduff killed anyway--you know, just to be sure. The third apparition is a child wearing a crown and holding a tree in his hand. The child promises that Macbeth won't be conquered until Birnam Wood marches to Dunsinane. This seems about as unlikely as Macduff not being born of a woman. Given all of this, Macbeth feels safe that he won't be conquered in the upcoming war. But again, to be on the safe side, he still asks if Banquo's children will ever rule the kingdom. He is warned to ask no more questions. He demands to be answered anyway. Macbeth is not pleased when he's shown a line of eight kings, the last of which holds a mirror that reflects on many more such kings. One of the kings in the mirror happens to be holding two orbs. Time for a History Snack: King James I of England traced his lineage back to Banquo and, at his coronation ceremony in England James held two orbs . Quite a coincidence, don't you think? The apparitions disappear and the witches tease Macbeth for looking horrible when he saw his future destruction. The witches do yet another song and dance routine and they vanish. Enter Lennox to find a perplexed Macbeth. Lennox tells Macbeth the news that Macduff has definitely run away to England, presumably to get some help for a rebellion. Get your highlighter out because this next bit is important: Macbeth says that from now on, he's going to act immediately on whatever thought enters his mind: "From this moment / The very firstlings of my heart shall be / The firstlings of my hand." In other words, no more thinking and contemplating about the pros and cons of being bad - he's just going to do whatever the heck he feels like doing. Starting with... wiping out Macduff's entire family, especially his kids, since Macbeth doesn't ever want to see any little Macduffs running around. |
Enter Lord Chamberlaine, reading this Letter.
My Lord, the Horses your Lordship sent for, with all the
care I had, I saw well chosen, ridden, and furnish'd.
They were young and handsome, and of the best breed in the
North. When they were ready to set out for London, a man
of my Lord Cardinalls, by Commission, and maine power tooke
'em from me, with this reason: his maister would bee seru'd before
a Subiect, if not before the King, which stop'd our mouthes
Sir.
I feare he will indeede; well, let him haue them; hee
will haue all I thinke.
Enter to the Lord Chamberlaine, the Dukes of Norfolke and
Suffolke.
Norf. Well met my Lord Chamberlaine
Cham. Good day to both your Graces
Suff. How is the King imployd?
Cham. I left him priuate,
Full of sad thoughts and troubles
Norf. What's the cause?
Cham. It seemes the Marriage with his Brothers Wife
Ha's crept too neere his Conscience
Suff. No, his Conscience
Ha's crept too neere another Ladie
Norf. Tis so;
This is the Cardinals doing: The King-Cardinall,
That blinde Priest, like the eldest Sonne of Fortune,
Turnes what he list. The King will know him one day
Suff. Pray God he doe,
Hee'l neuer know himselfe else
Norf. How holily he workes in all his businesse,
And with what zeale? For now he has crackt the League
Between vs & the Emperor (the Queens great Nephew)
He diues into the Kings Soule, and there scatters
Dangers, doubts, wringing of the Conscience,
Feares, and despaires, and all these for his Marriage.
And out of all these, to restore the King,
He counsels a Diuorce, a losse of her
That like a Iewell, ha's hung twenty yeares
About his necke, yet neuer lost her lustre;
Of her that loues him with that excellence,
That Angels loue good men with: Euen of her,
That when the greatest stroake of Fortune falls
Will blesse the King: and is not this course pious?
Cham. Heauen keep me from such councel: tis most true
These newes are euery where, euery tongue speaks 'em,
And euery true heart weepes for't. All that dare
Looke into these affaires, see this maine end,
The French Kings Sister. Heauen will one day open
The Kings eyes, that so long haue slept vpon
This bold bad man
Suff. And free vs from his slauery
Norf. We had need pray,
And heartily, for our deliuerance;
Or this imperious man will worke vs all
From Princes into Pages: all mens honours
Lie like one lumpe before him, to be fashion'd
Into what pitch he please
Suff. For me, my Lords,
I loue him not, nor feare him, there's my Creede:
As I am made without him, so Ile stand,
If the King please: his Curses and his blessings
Touch me alike: th'are breath I not beleeue in.
I knew him, and I know him: so I leaue him
To him that made him proud; the Pope
Norf. Let's in;
And with some other busines, put the King
From these sad thoughts, that work too much vpon him:
My Lord, youle beare vs company?
Cham. Excuse me,
The King ha's sent me otherwhere: Besides
You'l finde a most vnfit time to disturbe him:
Health to your Lordships
Norfolke. Thankes my good Lord Chamberlaine.
Exit Lord Chamberlaine, and the King drawes the Curtaine and sits
reading
pensiuely.
Suff. How sad he lookes; sure he is much afflicted
Kin. Who's there? Ha?
Norff. Pray God he be not angry
Kin. Who's there I say? How dare you thrust your selues
Into my priuate Meditations?
Who am I? Ha?
Norff. A gracious King, that pardons all offences
Malice ne're meant: Our breach of Duty this way,
Is businesse of Estate; in which, we come
To know your Royall pleasure
Kin. Ye are too bold:
Go too; Ile make ye know your times of businesse:
Is this an howre for temporall affaires? Ha?
Enter Wolsey and Campeius with a Commission.
Who's there? my good Lord Cardinall? O my Wolsey,
The quiet of my wounded Conscience;
Thou art a cure fit for a King; you'r welcome
Most learned Reuerend Sir, into our Kingdome,
Vse vs, and it: My good Lord, haue great care,
I be not found a Talker
Wol. Sir, you cannot;
I would your Grace would giue vs but an houre
Of priuate conference
Kin. We are busie; goe
Norff. This Priest ha's no pride in him?
Suff. Not to speake of:
I would not be so sicke though for his place:
But this cannot continue
Norff. If it doe, Ile venture one; haue at him
Suff. I another.
Exeunt. Norfolke and Suffolke.
Wol. Your Grace ha's giuen a President of wisedome
Aboue all Princes, in committing freely
Your scruple to the voyce of Christendome:
Who can be angry now? What Enuy reach you?
The Spaniard tide by blood and fauour to her,
Must now confesse, if they haue any goodnesse,
The Tryall, iust and Noble. All the Clerkes,
(I meane the learned ones in Christian Kingdomes)
Haue their free voyces. Rome (the Nurse of Iudgement)
Inuited by your Noble selfe, hath sent
One generall Tongue vnto vs. This good man,
This iust and learned Priest, Cardnall Campeius,
Whom once more, I present vnto your Highnesse
Kin. And once more in mine armes I bid him welcome,
And thanke the holy Conclaue for their loues,
They haue sent me such a Man, I would haue wish'd for
Cam. Your Grace must needs deserue all strangers loues,
You are so Noble: To your Highnesse hand
I tender my Commission; by whose vertue,
The Court of Rome commanding. You my Lord
Cardinall of Yorke, are ioyn'd with me their Seruant,
In the vnpartiall iudging of this Businesse
Kin. Two equall men: The Queene shall be acquainted
Forthwith for what you come. Where's Gardiner?
Wol. I know your Maiesty, ha's alwayes lou'd her
So deare in heart, not to deny her that
A Woman of lesse Place might aske by Law;
Schollers allow'd freely to argue for her
Kin. I, and the best she shall haue; and my fauour
To him that does best, God forbid els: Cardinall,
Prethee call Gardiner to me, my new Secretary.
I find him a fit fellow.
Enter Gardiner.
Wol. Giue me your hand: much ioy & fauour to you;
You are the Kings now
Gard. But to be commanded
For euer by your Grace, whose hand ha's rais'd me
Kin. Come hither Gardiner.
Walkes and whispers.
Camp. My Lord of Yorke, was not one Doctor Pace
In this mans place before him?
Wol. Yes, he was
Camp. Was he not held a learned man?
Wol. Yes surely
Camp. Beleeue me, there's an ill opinion spread then,
Euen of your selfe Lord Cardinall
Wol. How? of me?
Camp. They will not sticke to say, you enuide him;
And fearing he would rise (he was so vertuous)
Kept him a forraigne man still, which so greeu'd him,
That he ran mad, and dide
Wol. Heau'ns peace be with him:
That's Christian care enough: for liuing Murmurers,
There's places of rebuke. He was a Foole;
For he would needs be vertuous. That good Fellow,
If I command him followes my appointment,
I will haue none so neere els. Learne this Brother,
We liue not to be grip'd by meaner persons
Kin. Deliuer this with modesty to th' Queene.
Exit Gardiner.
The most conuenient place, that I can thinke of
For such receipt of Learning, is Black-Fryers:
There ye shall meete about this waighty busines.
My Wolsey, see it furnish'd, O my Lord,
Would it not grieue an able man to leaue
So sweet a Bedfellow? But Conscience, Conscience;
O 'tis a tender place, and I must leaue her.
Exeunt. | Mail call: Lord Chamberlain reads a letter about his horses. It turns out Wolsey took a bunch of them, claiming they were for the king. Chamberlain might have wanted them and all, but he doesn't have them anymore. Lord Chamberlain thinks about this. He decides that Wolsey will end up taking everything he has and then some. He's also sure that Wolsey will take and take from the nobles until nothing is left. As Chamberlain is deep in thought, Suffolk and Norfolk come in and begin gossiping about the king. Norfolk has heard that Henry is worried that his marriage to Katherine hasn't been up to scratch; it seems that there's something questionable about its legality. If their marriage were illegal, then Henry would have to divorce Katherine--you know, to placate his conscience. Right. Suffolk thinks it's more likely that Henry just has a new honey and is trying to make an excuse to be with her. Yep, it was Wolsey's idea, Norfolk reports. Wolsey suggested to Henry that his first marriage should be annulled. Never mind that this would mean war with Spain, and never mind that Katherine has been a supportive and loving wife for twenty years: Katherine was previously married to Henry VII , so that might make the marriage illegal. Well, how convenient. Lord Chamberlain is shocked. He doesn't want to have anything to do with such a man, and he hopes Henry can see the real Wolsey soon, before it's too late. Chamberlain leaves, and Norfolk and Suffolk pay a little visit to Henry. He's reading, and he isn't happy that they've interrupted him in the middle of his private meditations. When Wolsey and Cardinal Campeius enter, Henry tells Suffolk and Norfolk to beat it. They do, but they whisper to each other as they're leaving that they don't trust Wolsey--or Campeius, either. Alone with Henry and Campeius, Wolsey makes a speech about how no one will get mad at Henry for leaving Katherine if the Pope says it's okay. Campeius seconds that. He's brought with him some papers declaring his judgment on the marriage. Henry orders for these papers to be read later on. The king's secretary, Gardiner, used to be Wolsey's secretary. If you're thinking this is no coincidence, then you're right: Wolsey arranged for his man to be on the inside track with the king. As Gardiner exits, Wolsey reminds the secretary how much he's helped him. Hint, hint. Gardiner picks up on Wolsey's not-so-subtle hint and confirms his loyalty to the cardinal over the king. Then Henry and Gardiner leave to have a chat. Meanwhile, Campeius and Wolsey discuss current events. Campeius reports that people all around town seem to have a bad vibe about Wolsey. Wolsey is surprised by this, but Campeius confirms that people think he had a hand in Buckingham's execution. Gasp. Wolsey pretends to be offended by all this--even though he totally did have something to do with it. Henry reenters with news that he will announce his split from Katherine at Blackfriars. He orders Gardiner to deliver a letter to Katherine. He's really down about leaving "so sweet a bedfellow" , but his conscience tells him he has to. We're pretty sure by conscience, he means Wolsey. |
At last it came, the famous agricultural show. On the morning of the
solemnity all the inhabitants at their doors were chatting over the
preparations. The pediment of the town hall had been hung with garlands
of ivy; a tent had been erected in a meadow for the banquet; and in the
middle of the Place, in front of the church, a kind of bombarde was
to announce the arrival of the prefect and the names of the successful
farmers who had obtained prizes. The National Guard of Buchy (there was
none at Yonville) had come to join the corps of firemen, of whom Binet
was captain. On that day he wore a collar even higher than usual; and,
tightly buttoned in his tunic, his figure was so stiff and motionless
that the whole vital portion of his person seemed to have descended into
his legs, which rose in a cadence of set steps with a single movement.
As there was some rivalry between the tax-collector and the colonel,
both, to show off their talents, drilled their men separately. One
saw the red epaulettes and the black breastplates pass and re-pass
alternately; there was no end to it, and it constantly began again.
There had never been such a display of pomp. Several citizens had
scoured their houses the evening before; tri-coloured flags hung from
half-open windows; all the public-houses were full; and in the lovely
weather the starched caps, the golden crosses, and the coloured
neckerchiefs seemed whiter than snow, shone in the sun, and relieved
with the motley colours the sombre monotony of the frock-coats and blue
smocks. The neighbouring farmers' wives, when they got off their horses,
pulled out the long pins that fastened around them their dresses, turned
up for fear of mud; and the husbands, for their part, in order to save
their hats, kept their handkerchiefs around them, holding one corner
between their teeth.
The crowd came into the main street from both ends of the village.
People poured in from the lanes, the alleys, the houses; and from time
to time one heard knockers banging against doors closing behind women
with their gloves, who were going out to see the fete. What was most
admired were two long lamp-stands covered with lanterns, that flanked a
platform on which the authorities were to sit. Besides this there were
against the four columns of the town hall four kinds of poles,
each bearing a small standard of greenish cloth, embellished with
inscriptions in gold letters.
On one was written, "To Commerce"; on the other, "To Agriculture"; on
the third, "To Industry"; and on the fourth, "To the Fine Arts."
But the jubilation that brightened all faces seemed to darken that of
Madame Lefrancois, the innkeeper. Standing on her kitchen-steps she
muttered to herself, "What rubbish! what rubbish! With their canvas
booth! Do they think the prefect will be glad to dine down there under
a tent like a gipsy? They call all this fussing doing good to the place!
Then it wasn't worth while sending to Neufchatel for the keeper of a
cookshop! And for whom? For cowherds! tatterdemalions!"
The druggist was passing. He had on a frock-coat, nankeen trousers,
beaver shoes, and, for a wonder, a hat with a low crown.
"Your servant! Excuse me, I am in a hurry." And as the fat widow asked
where he was going--
"It seems odd to you, doesn't it, I who am always more cooped up in my
laboratory than the man's rat in his cheese."
"What cheese?" asked the landlady.
"Oh, nothing! nothing!" Homais continued. "I merely wished to convey
to you, Madame Lefrancois, that I usually live at home like a recluse.
To-day, however, considering the circumstances, it is necessary--"
"Oh, you're going down there!" she said contemptuously.
"Yes, I am going," replied the druggist, astonished. "Am I not a member
of the consulting commission?"
Mere Lefrancois looked at him for a few moments, and ended by saying
with a smile--
"That's another pair of shoes! But what does agriculture matter to you?
Do you understand anything about it?"
"Certainly I understand it, since I am a druggist--that is to say,
a chemist. And the object of chemistry, Madame Lefrancois, being the
knowledge of the reciprocal and molecular action of all natural bodies,
it follows that agriculture is comprised within its domain. And, in
fact, the composition of the manure, the fermentation of liquids, the
analyses of gases, and the influence of miasmata, what, I ask you, is
all this, if it isn't chemistry, pure and simple?"
The landlady did not answer. Homais went on--
"Do you think that to be an agriculturist it is necessary to have tilled
the earth or fattened fowls oneself? It is necessary rather to know the
composition of the substances in question--the geological strata, the
atmospheric actions, the quality of the soil, the minerals, the waters,
the density of the different bodies, their capillarity, and what not.
And one must be master of all the principles of hygiene in order to
direct, criticize the construction of buildings, the feeding of animals,
the diet of domestics. And, moreover, Madame Lefrancois, one must know
botany, be able to distinguish between plants, you understand, which are
the wholesome and those that are deleterious, which are unproductive
and which nutritive, if it is well to pull them up here and re-sow them
there, to propagate some, destroy others; in brief, one must keep pace
with science by means of pamphlets and public papers, be always on the
alert to find out improvements."
The landlady never took her eyes off the "Cafe Francois" and the chemist
went on--
"Would to God our agriculturists were chemists, or that at least they
would pay more attention to the counsels of science. Thus lately I
myself wrote a considerable tract, a memoir of over seventy-two pages,
entitled, 'Cider, its Manufacture and its Effects, together with some
New Reflections on the Subject,' that I sent to the Agricultural Society
of Rouen, and which even procured me the honour of being received among
its members--Section, Agriculture; Class, Pomological. Well, if my
work had been given to the public--" But the druggist stopped, Madame
Lefrancois seemed so preoccupied.
"Just look at them!" she said. "It's past comprehension! Such a cookshop
as that!" And with a shrug of the shoulders that stretched out over her
breast the stitches of her knitted bodice, she pointed with both hands
at her rival's inn, whence songs were heard issuing. "Well, it won't
last long," she added. "It'll be over before a week."
Homais drew back with stupefaction. She came down three steps and
whispered in his ear--
"What! you didn't know it? There is to be an execution in next week.
It's Lheureux who is selling him out; he has killed him with bills."
"What a terrible catastrophe!" cried the druggist, who always found
expressions in harmony with all imaginable circumstances.
Then the landlady began telling him the story that she had heard from
Theodore, Monsieur Guillaumin's servant, and although she detested
Tellier, she blamed Lheureux. He was "a wheedler, a sneak."
"There!" she said. "Look at him! he is in the market; he is bowing to
Madame Bovary, who's got on a green bonnet. Why, she's taking Monsieur
Boulanger's arm."
"Madame Bovary!" exclaimed Homais. "I must go at once and pay her my
respects. Perhaps she'll be very glad to have a seat in the enclosure
under the peristyle." And, without heeding Madame Lefrancois, who was
calling him back to tell him more about it, the druggist walked off
rapidly with a smile on his lips, with straight knees, bowing copiously
to right and left, and taking up much room with the large tails of his
frock-coat that fluttered behind him in the wind.
Rodolphe, having caught sight of him from afar, hurried on, but Madame
Bovary lost her breath; so he walked more slowly, and, smiling at her,
said in a rough tone--
"It's only to get away from that fat fellow, you know, the druggist."
She pressed his elbow.
"What's the meaning of that?" he asked himself. And he looked at her out
of the corner of his eyes.
Her profile was so calm that one could guess nothing from it. It stood
out in the light from the oval of her bonnet, with pale ribbons on it
like the leaves of weeds. Her eyes with their long curved lashes looked
straight before her, and though wide open, they seemed slightly puckered
by the cheek-bones, because of the blood pulsing gently under the
delicate skin. A pink line ran along the partition between her nostrils.
Her head was bent upon her shoulder, and the pearl tips of her white
teeth were seen between her lips.
"Is she making fun of me?" thought Rodolphe.
Emma's gesture, however, had only been meant for a warning; for Monsieur
Lheureux was accompanying them, and spoke now and again as if to enter
into the conversation.
"What a superb day! Everybody is out! The wind is east!"
And neither Madame Bovary nor Rodolphe answered him, whilst at the
slightest movement made by them he drew near, saying, "I beg your
pardon!" and raised his hat.
When they reached the farrier's house, instead of following the road
up to the fence, Rodolphe suddenly turned down a path, drawing with him
Madame Bovary. He called out--
"Good evening, Monsieur Lheureux! See you again presently."
"How you got rid of him!" she said, laughing.
"Why," he went on, "allow oneself to be intruded upon by others? And as
to-day I have the happiness of being with you--"
Emma blushed. He did not finish his sentence. Then he talked of the fine
weather and of the pleasure of walking on the grass. A few daisies had
sprung up again.
"Here are some pretty Easter daisies," he said, "and enough of them to
furnish oracles to all the amorous maids in the place."
He added, "Shall I pick some? What do you think?"
"Are you in love?" she asked, coughing a little.
"H'm, h'm! who knows?" answered Rodolphe.
The meadow began to fill, and the housewives hustled you with their
great umbrellas, their baskets, and their babies. One had often to get
out of the way of a long file of country folk, servant-maids with blue
stockings, flat shoes, silver rings, and who smelt of milk, when one
passed close to them. They walked along holding one another by the hand,
and thus they spread over the whole field from the row of open trees to
the banquet tent.
But this was the examination time, and the farmers one after the other
entered a kind of enclosure formed by a long cord supported on sticks.
The beasts were there, their noses towards the cord, and making a
confused line with their unequal rumps. Drowsy pigs were burrowing in
the earth with their snouts, calves were bleating, lambs baaing; the
cows, on knees folded in, were stretching their bellies on the grass,
slowly chewing the cud, and blinking their heavy eyelids at the gnats
that buzzed round them. Plough-men with bare arms were holding by the
halter prancing stallions that neighed with dilated nostrils looking
towards the mares. These stood quietly, stretching out their heads and
flowing manes, while their foals rested in their shadow, or now and then
came and sucked them. And above the long undulation of these crowded
animals one saw some white mane rising in the wind like a wave, or some
sharp horns sticking out, and the heads of men running about. Apart,
outside the enclosure, a hundred paces off, was a large black bull,
muzzled, with an iron ring in its nostrils, and who moved no more than
if he had been in bronze. A child in rags was holding him by a rope.
Between the two lines the committee-men were walking with heavy steps,
examining each animal, then consulting one another in a low voice. One
who seemed of more importance now and then took notes in a book as he
walked along. This was the president of the jury, Monsieur Derozerays de
la Panville. As soon as he recognised Rodolphe he came forward quickly,
and smiling amiably, said--
"What! Monsieur Boulanger, you are deserting us?"
Rodolphe protested that he was just coming. But when the president had
disappeared--
"Ma foi!*" said he, "I shall not go. Your company is better than his."
*Upon my word!
And while poking fun at the show, Rodolphe, to move about more easily,
showed the gendarme his blue card, and even stopped now and then in
front of some fine beast, which Madame Bovary did not at all admire.
He noticed this, and began jeering at the Yonville ladies and their
dresses; then he apologised for the negligence of his own. He had that
incongruity of common and elegant in which the habitually vulgar think
they see the revelation of an eccentric existence, of the perturbations
of sentiment, the tyrannies of art, and always a certain contempt for
social conventions, that seduces or exasperates them. Thus his cambric
shirt with plaited cuffs was blown out by the wind in the opening of his
waistcoat of grey ticking, and his broad-striped trousers disclosed at
the ankle nankeen boots with patent leather gaiters.
These were so polished that they reflected the grass. He trampled on
horses's dung with them, one hand in the pocket of his jacket and his
straw hat on one side.
"Besides," added he, "when one lives in the country--"
"It's waste of time," said Emma.
"That is true," replied Rodolphe. "To think that not one of these people
is capable of understanding even the cut of a coat!"
Then they talked about provincial mediocrity, of the lives it crushed,
the illusions lost there.
"And I too," said Rodolphe, "am drifting into depression."
"You!" she said in astonishment; "I thought you very light-hearted."
"Ah! yes. I seem so, because in the midst of the world I know how to
wear the mask of a scoffer upon my face; and yet, how many a time at the
sight of a cemetery by moonlight have I not asked myself whether it were
not better to join those sleeping there!"
"Oh! and your friends?" she said. "You do not think of them."
"My friends! What friends? Have I any? Who cares for me?" And he
accompanied the last words with a kind of whistling of the lips.
But they were obliged to separate from each other because of a great
pile of chairs that a man was carrying behind them. He was so overladen
with them that one could only see the tips of his wooden shoes and the
ends of his two outstretched arms. It was Lestiboudois, the gravedigger,
who was carrying the church chairs about amongst the people. Alive to
all that concerned his interests, he had hit upon this means of turning
the show to account; and his idea was succeeding, for he no longer knew
which way to turn. In fact, the villagers, who were hot, quarreled for
these seats, whose straw smelt of incense, and they leant against the
thick backs, stained with the wax of candles, with a certain veneration.
Madame Bovary again took Rodolphe's arm; he went on as if speaking to
himself--
"Yes, I have missed so many things. Always alone! Ah! if I had some aim
in life, if I had met some love, if I had found someone! Oh, how I would
have spent all the energy of which I am capable, surmounted everything,
overcome everything!"
"Yet it seems to me," said Emma, "that you are not to be pitied."
"Ah! you think so?" said Rodolphe.
"For, after all," she went on, "you are free--" she hesitated, "rich--"
"Do not mock me," he replied.
And she protested that she was not mocking him, when the report of a
cannon resounded. Immediately all began hustling one another pell-mell
towards the village.
It was a false alarm. The prefect seemed not to be coming, and the
members of the jury felt much embarrassed, not knowing if they ought to
begin the meeting or still wait.
At last at the end of the Place a large hired landau appeared, drawn by
two thin horses, which a coachman in a white hat was whipping lustily.
Binet had only just time to shout, "Present arms!" and the colonel to
imitate him. All ran towards the enclosure; everyone pushed forward. A
few even forgot their collars; but the equipage of the prefect seemed
to anticipate the crowd, and the two yoked jades, trapesing in their
harness, came up at a little trot in front of the peristyle of the town
hall at the very moment when the National Guard and firemen deployed,
beating drums and marking time.
"Present!" shouted Binet.
"Halt!" shouted the colonel. "Left about, march."
And after presenting arms, during which the clang of the band, letting
loose, rang out like a brass kettle rolling downstairs, all the guns
were lowered. Then was seen stepping down from the carriage a gentleman
in a short coat with silver braiding, with bald brow, and wearing a tuft
of hair at the back of his head, of a sallow complexion and the most
benign appearance. His eyes, very large and covered by heavy lids, were
half-closed to look at the crowd, while at the same time he raised his
sharp nose, and forced a smile upon his sunken mouth. He recognised the
mayor by his scarf, and explained to him that the prefect was not able
to come. He himself was a councillor at the prefecture; then he added
a few apologies. Monsieur Tuvache answered them with compliments; the
other confessed himself nervous; and they remained thus, face to face,
their foreheads almost touching, with the members of the jury all round,
the municipal council, the notable personages, the National Guard and
the crowd. The councillor pressing his little cocked hat to his
breast repeated his bows, while Tuvache, bent like a bow, also smiled,
stammered, tried to say something, protested his devotion to the
monarchy and the honour that was being done to Yonville.
Hippolyte, the groom from the inn, took the head of the horses from the
coachman, and, limping along with his club-foot, led them to the door
of the "Lion d'Or", where a number of peasants collected to look at the
carriage. The drum beat, the howitzer thundered, and the gentlemen one
by one mounted the platform, where they sat down in red utrecht velvet
arm-chairs that had been lent by Madame Tuvache.
All these people looked alike. Their fair flabby faces, somewhat tanned
by the sun, were the colour of sweet cider, and their puffy whiskers
emerged from stiff collars, kept up by white cravats with broad bows.
All the waist-coats were of velvet, double-breasted; all the watches
had, at the end of a long ribbon, an oval cornelian seal; everyone
rested his two hands on his thighs, carefully stretching the stride of
their trousers, whose unsponged glossy cloth shone more brilliantly than
the leather of their heavy boots.
The ladies of the company stood at the back under the vestibule between
the pillars while the common herd was opposite, standing up or sitting
on chairs. As a matter of fact, Lestiboudois had brought thither all
those that he had moved from the field, and he even kept running back
every minute to fetch others from the church. He caused such confusion
with this piece of business that one had great difficulty in getting to
the small steps of the platform.
"I think," said Monsieur Lheureux to the chemist, who was passing to his
place, "that they ought to have put up two Venetian masts with something
rather severe and rich for ornaments; it would have been a very pretty
effect."
"To be sure," replied Homais; "but what can you expect? The mayor took
everything on his own shoulders. He hasn't much taste. Poor Tuvache! and
he is even completely destitute of what is called the genius of art."
Rodolphe, meanwhile, with Madame Bovary, had gone up to the first
floor of the town hall, to the "council-room," and, as it was empty,
he declared that they could enjoy the sight there more comfortably. He
fetched three stools from the round table under the bust of the monarch,
and having carried them to one of the windows, they sat down by each
other.
There was commotion on the platform, long whisperings, much parleying.
At last the councillor got up. They knew now that his name was Lieuvain,
and in the crowd the name was passed from one to the other. After he had
collated a few pages, and bent over them to see better, he began--
"Gentlemen! May I be permitted first of all (before addressing you on
the object of our meeting to-day, and this sentiment will, I am sure, be
shared by you all), may I be permitted, I say, to pay a tribute to the
higher administration, to the government to the monarch, gentle men, our
sovereign, to that beloved king, to whom no branch of public or private
prosperity is a matter of indifference, and who directs with a hand at
once so firm and wise the chariot of the state amid the incessant perils
of a stormy sea, knowing, moreover, how to make peace respected as well
as war, industry, commerce, agriculture, and the fine arts?"
"I ought," said Rodolphe, "to get back a little further."
"Why?" said Emma.
But at this moment the voice of the councillor rose to an extraordinary
pitch. He declaimed--
"This is no longer the time, gentlemen, when civil discord ensanguined
our public places, when the landlord, the business-man, the working-man
himself, falling asleep at night, lying down to peaceful sleep, trembled
lest he should be awakened suddenly by the noise of incendiary tocsins,
when the most subversive doctrines audaciously sapped foundations."
"Well, someone down there might see me," Rodolphe resumed, "then
I should have to invent excuses for a fortnight; and with my bad
reputation--"
"Oh, you are slandering yourself," said Emma.
"No! It is dreadful, I assure you."
"But, gentlemen," continued the councillor, "if, banishing from my
memory the remembrance of these sad pictures, I carry my eyes back
to the actual situation of our dear country, what do I see there?
Everywhere commerce and the arts are flourishing; everywhere new means
of communication, like so many new arteries in the body of the state,
establish within it new relations. Our great industrial centres have
recovered all their activity; religion, more consolidated, smiles in
all hearts; our ports are full, confidence is born again, and France
breathes once more!"
"Besides," added Rodolphe, "perhaps from the world's point of view they
are right."
"How so?" she asked.
"What!" said he. "Do you not know that there are souls constantly
tormented? They need by turns to dream and to act, the purest passions
and the most turbulent joys, and thus they fling themselves into all
sorts of fantasies, of follies."
Then she looked at him as one looks at a traveller who has voyaged over
strange lands, and went on--
"We have not even this distraction, we poor women!"
"A sad distraction, for happiness isn't found in it."
"But is it ever found?" she asked.
"Yes; one day it comes," he answered.
"And this is what you have understood," said the councillor.
"You, farmers, agricultural labourers! you pacific pioneers of a work
that belongs wholly to civilization! you, men of progress and morality,
you have understood, I say, that political storms are even more
redoubtable than atmospheric disturbances!"
"It comes one day," repeated Rodolphe, "one day suddenly, and when
one is despairing of it. Then the horizon expands; it is as if a voice
cried, 'It is here!' You feel the need of confiding the whole of your
life, of giving everything, sacrificing everything to this being. There
is no need for explanations; they understand one another. They have seen
each other in dreams!"
(And he looked at her.) "In fine, here it is, this treasure so sought
after, here before you. It glitters, it flashes; yet one still doubts,
one does not believe it; one remains dazzled, as if one went out from
darkness into light."
And as he ended Rodolphe suited the action to the word. He passed his
hand over his face, like a man seized with giddiness. Then he let it
fall on Emma's. She took hers away.
"And who would be surprised at it, gentlemen? He only who is so blind,
so plunged (I do not fear to say it), so plunged in the prejudices
of another age as still to misunderstand the spirit of agricultural
populations. Where, indeed, is to be found more patriotism than in the
country, greater devotion to the public welfare, more intelligence, in a
word? And, gentlemen, I do not mean that superficial intelligence,
vain ornament of idle minds, but rather that profound and balanced
intelligence that applies itself above all else to useful objects, thus
contributing to the good of all, to the common amelioration and to
the support of the state, born of respect for law and the practice of
duty--"
"Ah! again!" said Rodolphe. "Always 'duty.' I am sick of the word.
They are a lot of old blockheads in flannel vests and of old women with
foot-warmers and rosaries who constantly drone into our ears 'Duty,
duty!' Ah! by Jove! one's duty is to feel what is great, cherish the
beautiful, and not accept all the conventions of society with the
ignominy that it imposes upon us."
"Yet--yet--" objected Madame Bovary.
"No, no! Why cry out against the passions? Are they not the one
beautiful thing on the earth, the source of heroism, of enthusiasm, of
poetry, music, the arts, of everything, in a word?"
"But one must," said Emma, "to some extent bow to the opinion of the
world and accept its moral code."
"Ah! but there are two," he replied. "The small, the conventional, that
of men, that which constantly changes, that brays out so loudly, that
makes such a commotion here below, of the earth earthly, like the mass
of imbeciles you see down there. But the other, the eternal, that is
about us and above, like the landscape that surrounds us, and the blue
heavens that give us light."
Monsieur Lieuvain had just wiped his mouth with a pocket-handkerchief.
He continued--
"And what should I do here gentlemen, pointing out to you the uses
of agriculture? Who supplies our wants? Who provides our means of
subsistence? Is it not the agriculturist? The agriculturist, gentlemen,
who, sowing with laborious hand the fertile furrows of the country,
brings forth the corn, which, being ground, is made into a powder by
means of ingenious machinery, comes out thence under the name of flour,
and from there, transported to our cities, is soon delivered at the
baker's, who makes it into food for poor and rich alike. Again, is it
not the agriculturist who fattens, for our clothes, his abundant
flocks in the pastures? For how should we clothe ourselves, how nourish
ourselves, without the agriculturist? And, gentlemen, is it even
necessary to go so far for examples? Who has not frequently reflected
on all the momentous things that we get out of that modest animal, the
ornament of poultry-yards, that provides us at once with a soft pillow
for our bed, with succulent flesh for our tables, and eggs? But I should
never end if I were to enumerate one after the other all the different
products which the earth, well cultivated, like a generous mother,
lavishes upon her children. Here it is the vine, elsewhere the apple
tree for cider, there colza, farther on cheeses and flax. Gentlemen, let
us not forget flax, which has made such great strides of late years, and
to which I will more particularly call your attention."
He had no need to call it, for all the mouths of the multitude were wide
open, as if to drink in his words. Tuvache by his side listened to him
with staring eyes. Monsieur Derozerays from time to time softly closed
his eyelids, and farther on the chemist, with his son Napoleon between
his knees, put his hand behind his ear in order not to lose a syllable.
The chins of the other members of the jury went slowly up and down in
their waistcoats in sign of approval. The firemen at the foot of the
platform rested on their bayonets; and Binet, motionless, stood with
out-turned elbows, the point of his sabre in the air. Perhaps he could
hear, but certainly he could see nothing, because of the visor of his
helmet, that fell down on his nose. His lieutenant, the youngest son of
Monsieur Tuvache, had a bigger one, for his was enormous, and shook on
his head, and from it an end of his cotton scarf peeped out. He smiled
beneath it with a perfectly infantine sweetness, and his pale little
face, whence drops were running, wore an expression of enjoyment and
sleepiness.
The square as far as the houses was crowded with people. One saw folk
leaning on their elbows at all the windows, others standing at doors,
and Justin, in front of the chemist's shop, seemed quite transfixed by
the sight of what he was looking at. In spite of the silence Monsieur
Lieuvain's voice was lost in the air. It reached you in fragments of
phrases, and interrupted here and there by the creaking of chairs in the
crowd; then you suddenly heard the long bellowing of an ox, or else the
bleating of the lambs, who answered one another at street corners. In
fact, the cowherds and shepherds had driven their beasts thus far, and
these lowed from time to time, while with their tongues they tore down
some scrap of foliage that hung above their mouths.
Rodolphe had drawn nearer to Emma, and said to her in a low voice,
speaking rapidly--
"Does not this conspiracy of the world revolt you? Is there a single
sentiment it does not condemn? The noblest instincts, the purest
sympathies are persecuted, slandered; and if at length two poor souls do
meet, all is so organised that they cannot blend together. Yet they will
make the attempt; they will flutter their wings; they will call upon
each other. Oh! no matter. Sooner or later, in six months, ten years,
they will come together, will love; for fate has decreed it, and they
are born one for the other."
His arms were folded across his knees, and thus lifting his face towards
Emma, close by her, he looked fixedly at her. She noticed in his eyes
small golden lines radiating from black pupils; she even smelt the
perfume of the pomade that made his hair glossy.
Then a faintness came over her; she recalled the Viscount who had
waltzed with her at Vaubyessard, and his beard exhaled like this air an
odour of vanilla and citron, and mechanically she half-closed her eyes
the better to breathe it in. But in making this movement, as she leant
back in her chair, she saw in the distance, right on the line of the
horizon, the old diligence, the "Hirondelle," that was slowly descending
the hill of Leux, dragging after it a long trail of dust. It was in this
yellow carriage that Leon had so often come back to her, and by this
route down there that he had gone for ever. She fancied she saw him
opposite at his windows; then all grew confused; clouds gathered; it
seemed to her that she was again turning in the waltz under the light of
the lustres on the arm of the Viscount, and that Leon was not far away,
that he was coming; and yet all the time she was conscious of the scent
of Rodolphe's head by her side. This sweetness of sensation pierced
through her old desires, and these, like grains of sand under a gust
of wind, eddied to and fro in the subtle breath of the perfume which
suffused her soul. She opened wide her nostrils several times to drink
in the freshness of the ivy round the capitals. She took off her gloves,
she wiped her hands, then fanned her face with her handkerchief, while
athwart the throbbing of her temples she heard the murmur of the
crowd and the voice of the councillor intoning his phrases. He
said--"Continue, persevere; listen neither to the suggestions of
routine, nor to the over-hasty councils of a rash empiricism.
"Apply yourselves, above all, to the amelioration of the soil, to good
manures, to the development of the equine, bovine, ovine, and porcine
races. Let these shows be to you pacific arenas, where the victor in
leaving it will hold forth a hand to the vanquished, and will fraternise
with him in the hope of better success. And you, aged servants, humble
domestics, whose hard labour no Government up to this day has taken into
consideration, come hither to receive the reward of your silent virtues,
and be assured that the state henceforward has its eye upon you; that it
encourages you, protects you; that it will accede to your just
demands, and alleviate as much as in it lies the burden of your painful
sacrifices."
Monsieur Lieuvain then sat down; Monsieur Derozerays got up, beginning
another speech. His was not perhaps so florid as that of the councillor,
but it recommended itself by a more direct style, that is to say, by
more special knowledge and more elevated considerations. Thus the praise
of the Government took up less space in it; religion and agriculture
more. He showed in it the relations of these two, and how they had
always contributed to civilisation. Rodolphe with Madame Bovary was
talking dreams, presentiments, magnetism. Going back to the cradle of
society, the orator painted those fierce times when men lived on acorns
in the heart of woods. Then they had left off the skins of beasts, had
put on cloth, tilled the soil, planted the vine. Was this a good, and
in this discovery was there not more of injury than of gain? Monsieur
Derozerays set himself this problem. From magnetism little by little
Rodolphe had come to affinities, and while the president was citing
Cincinnatus and his plough, Diocletian, planting his cabbages, and the
Emperors of China inaugurating the year by the sowing of seed, the
young man was explaining to the young woman that these irresistible
attractions find their cause in some previous state of existence.
"Thus we," he said, "why did we come to know one another? What chance
willed it? It was because across the infinite, like two streams that
flow but to unite; our special bents of mind had driven us towards each
other."
And he seized her hand; she did not withdraw it.
"For good farming generally!" cried the president.
"Just now, for example, when I went to your house."
"To Monsieur Bizat of Quincampoix."
"Did I know I should accompany you?"
"Seventy francs."
"A hundred times I wished to go; and I followed you--I remained."
"Manures!"
"And I shall remain to-night, to-morrow, all other days, all my life!"
"To Monsieur Caron of Argueil, a gold medal!"
"For I have never in the society of any other person found so complete a
charm."
"To Monsieur Bain of Givry-Saint-Martin."
"And I shall carry away with me the remembrance of you."
"For a merino ram!"
"But you will forget me; I shall pass away like a shadow."
"To Monsieur Belot of Notre-Dame."
"Oh, no! I shall be something in your thought, in your life, shall I
not?"
"Porcine race; prizes--equal, to Messrs. Leherisse and Cullembourg,
sixty francs!"
Rodolphe was pressing her hand, and he felt it all warm and quivering
like a captive dove that wants to fly away; but, whether she was trying
to take it away or whether she was answering his pressure; she made a
movement with her fingers. He exclaimed--
"Oh, I thank you! You do not repulse me! You are good! You understand
that I am yours! Let me look at you; let me contemplate you!"
A gust of wind that blew in at the window ruffled the cloth on the
table, and in the square below all the great caps of the peasant women
were uplifted by it like the wings of white butterflies fluttering.
"Use of oil-cakes," continued the president. He was hurrying on:
"Flemish manure-flax-growing-drainage-long leases-domestic service."
Rodolphe was no longer speaking. They looked at one another. A supreme
desire made their dry lips tremble, and wearily, without an effort,
their fingers intertwined.
"Catherine Nicaise Elizabeth Leroux, of Sassetot-la-Guerriere, for
fifty-four years of service at the same farm, a silver medal--value,
twenty-five francs!"
"Where is Catherine Leroux?" repeated the councillor.
She did not present herself, and one could hear voices whispering--
"Go up!"
"Don't be afraid!"
"Oh, how stupid she is!"
"Well, is she there?" cried Tuvache.
"Yes; here she is."
"Then let her come up!"
Then there came forward on the platform a little old woman with timid
bearing, who seemed to shrink within her poor clothes. On her feet she
wore heavy wooden clogs, and from her hips hung a large blue apron. Her
pale face framed in a borderless cap was more wrinkled than a withered
russet apple. And from the sleeves of her red jacket looked out two
large hands with knotty joints, the dust of barns, the potash of washing
the grease of wools had so encrusted, roughened, hardened these that
they seemed dirty, although they had been rinsed in clear water; and
by dint of long service they remained half open, as if to bear humble
witness for themselves of so much suffering endured. Something of
monastic rigidity dignified her face. Nothing of sadness or of emotion
weakened that pale look. In her constant living with animals she had
caught their dumbness and their calm. It was the first time that she
found herself in the midst of so large a company, and inwardly scared by
the flags, the drums, the gentlemen in frock-coats, and the order of the
councillor, she stood motionless, not knowing whether to advance or run
away, nor why the crowd was pushing her and the jury were smiling at
her.
Thus stood before these radiant bourgeois this half-century of
servitude.
"Approach, venerable Catherine Nicaise Elizabeth Leroux!" said the
councillor, who had taken the list of prize-winners from the president;
and, looking at the piece of paper and the old woman by turns, he
repeated in a fatherly tone--"Approach! approach!"
"Are you deaf?" said Tuvache, fidgeting in his armchair; and he began
shouting in her ear, "Fifty-four years of service. A silver medal!
Twenty-five francs! For you!"
Then, when she had her medal, she looked at it, and a smile of beatitude
spread over her face; and as she walked away they could hear her
muttering "I'll give it to our cure up home, to say some masses for me!"
"What fanaticism!" exclaimed the chemist, leaning across to the notary.
The meeting was over, the crowd dispersed, and now that the speeches had
been read, each one fell back into his place again, and everything into
the old grooves; the masters bullied the servants, and these struck the
animals, indolent victors, going back to the stalls, a green-crown on
their horns.
The National Guards, however, had gone up to the first floor of the
town hall with buns spitted on their bayonets, and the drummer of the
battalion carried a basket with bottles. Madame Bovary took Rodolphe's
arm; he saw her home; they separated at her door; then he walked about
alone in the meadow while he waited for the time of the banquet.
The feast was long, noisy, ill served; the guests were so crowded that
they could hardly move their elbows; and the narrow planks used for
forms almost broke down under their weight. They ate hugely. Each one
stuffed himself on his own account. Sweat stood on every brow, and a
whitish steam, like the vapour of a stream on an autumn morning, floated
above the table between the hanging lamps. Rodolphe, leaning against
the calico of the tent was thinking so earnestly of Emma that he heard
nothing. Behind him on the grass the servants were piling up the dirty
plates, his neighbours were talking; he did not answer them; they filled
his glass, and there was silence in his thoughts in spite of the growing
noise. He was dreaming of what she had said, of the line of her lips;
her face, as in a magic mirror, shone on the plates of the shakos, the
folds of her gown fell along the walls, and days of love unrolled to all
infinity before him in the vistas of the future.
He saw her again in the evening during the fireworks, but she was with
her husband, Madame Homais, and the druggist, who was worrying about the
danger of stray rockets, and every moment he left the company to go and
give some advice to Binet.
The pyrotechnic pieces sent to Monsieur Tuvache had, through an excess
of caution, been shut up in his cellar, and so the damp powder would
not light, and the principal set piece, that was to represent a dragon
biting his tail, failed completely. Now and then a meagre Roman-candle
went off; then the gaping crowd sent up a shout that mingled with the
cry of the women, whose waists were being squeezed in the darkness. Emma
silently nestled against Charles's shoulder; then, raising her chin, she
watched the luminous rays of the rockets against the dark sky. Rodolphe
gazed at her in the light of the burning lanterns.
They went out one by one. The stars shone out. A few crops of rain began
to fall. She knotted her fichu round her bare head.
At this moment the councillor's carriage came out from the inn.
His coachman, who was drunk, suddenly dozed off, and one could see from
the distance, above the hood, between the two lanterns, the mass of his
body, that swayed from right to left with the giving of the traces.
"Truly," said the druggist, "one ought to proceed most rigorously
against drunkenness! I should like to see written up weekly at the door
of the town hall on a board ad hoc* the names of all those who during
the week got intoxicated on alcohol. Besides, with regard to statistics,
one would thus have, as it were, public records that one could refer to
in case of need. But excuse me!"
*Specifically for that.
And he once more ran off to the captain. The latter was going back to
see his lathe again.
"Perhaps you would not do ill," Homais said to him, "to send one of your
men, or to go yourself--"
"Leave me alone!" answered the tax-collector. "It's all right!"
"Do not be uneasy," said the druggist, when he returned to his friends.
"Monsieur Binet has assured me that all precautions have been taken. No
sparks have fallen; the pumps are full. Let us go to rest."
"Ma foi! I want it," said Madame Homais, yawning at large. "But never
mind; we've had a beautiful day for our fete."
Rodolphe repeated in a low voice, and with a tender look, "Oh, yes! very
beautiful!"
And having bowed to one another, they separated.
Two days later, in the "Final de Rouen," there was a long article on the
show. Homais had composed it with verve the very next morning.
"Why these festoons, these flowers, these garlands? Whither hurries this
crowd like the waves of a furious sea under the torrents of a tropical
sun pouring its heat upon our heads?"
Then he spoke of the condition of the peasants. Certainly the Government
was doing much, but not enough. "Courage!" he cried to it; "a thousand
reforms are indispensable; let us accomplish them!" Then touching on
the entry of the councillor, he did not forget "the martial air of our
militia;" nor "our most merry village maidens;" nor the "bald-headed old
men like patriarchs who were there, and of whom some, the remnants of
our phalanxes, still felt their hearts beat at the manly sound of the
drums." He cited himself among the first of the members of the jury,
and he even called attention in a note to the fact that Monsieur Homais,
chemist, had sent a memoir on cider to the agricultural society.
When he came to the distribution of the prizes, he painted the joy of
the prize-winners in dithyrambic strophes. "The father embraced the son,
the brother the brother, the husband his consort. More than one showed
his humble medal with pride; and no doubt when he got home to his good
housewife, he hung it up weeping on the modest walls of his cot.
"About six o'clock a banquet prepared in the meadow of Monsieur Leigeard
brought together the principal personages of the fete. The greatest
cordiality reigned here. Divers toasts were proposed: Monsieur
Lieuvain, the King; Monsieur Tuvache, the Prefect; Monsieur Derozerays,
Agriculture; Monsieur Homais, Industry and the Fine Arts, those twin
sisters; Monsieur Leplichey, Progress. In the evening some brilliant
fireworks on a sudden illumined the air. One would have called it a
veritable kaleidoscope, a real operatic scene; and for a moment our
little locality might have thought itself transported into the midst of
a dream of the 'Thousand and One Nights.' Let us state that no untoward
event disturbed this family meeting." And he added "Only the absence
of the clergy was remarked. No doubt the priests understand progress in
another fashion. Just as you please, messieurs the followers of Loyola!" | It's a big day for little Yonville - the town fair. Everyone in the town is up early to set up for it. Binet, who doubles as the captain of the fire brigade, is all gussied up. The whole town is looking its best. The only person who's not too thrilled about all of this is Madame Lefrancois. Homais stops to chat with her, and she cheers up a little when she finds out that he's on the fair advisory committee . Homais keeps talking, but his audience is not listening. We follow Madame Lefrancois' gaze and see what has put her in such a foul mood - the town's other tavern, her rival, is full of singing people. These good days won't last too long, though; she tells Homais that she heard that Tellier, the barkeep, was in such great debt to Monsieur Lheureux that the tavern was going to be shut down the following week. From the perspective of these gossiping neighbors, we see Emma and Rodolphe a little ways off, talking to Monsieur Lheureux. Rodolphe is obviously planning on making his move already - unlike Leon, he's a pretty smooth operator. Homais goes over to say hello, but Rodolphe manages to avoid him. He regards Emma as they walk along - he's pleased with what he sees. Monsieur Lheureux attempts to follow them and maintain their conversation, but they get rid of him quickly. Rodolphe immediately launches his attack and starts flirting openly with Emma once they're alone. The townspeople are assembled for various agricultural competitions. Rodolphe is supposed to participate in the judging, but he has other things on his mind. He turns all his attention to Emma, who responds eagerly to him. He knows exactly what buttons to push - they talk about the frustrations of provincial life, the loneliness of existence...basically, all of Emma's favorite subjects. Their conversation is interrupted by the entrance of the fire brigade and the start of the awards ceremony. A government official, Monsieur Lieuvain, arrives to dole out the prizes; he gives a long, long, loooong speech about the government, the country. While this is going on, Emma and Rodolphe continue their intimate conversation. Rodolphe claims that the only true duty is to enjoy what's beautiful about life, and reject the conventions of society. Emma feebly tries to argue that society's moral standards are important, but Rodolphe shoots her down promptly. He's the clear winner here; Emma is toast. Monsieur Lieuvain, in the meanwhile, just keeps talking and talking. He's full of governmental rhetoric, but he's basically not talking about anything. Despite this fact, the whole town is enraptured by him. Rodolphe quickly wins Emma over. All of her feelings about Leon, the Viscount at the ball, and her loneliness come rushing back, and re-focus on Rodolphe. She's smitten. Finally, Monsieur Lieuvain wraps up his speech. Another speech begins, and Rodolphe continues to woo Emma all the while. Agricultural prizes are given for things as diverse as pigs, liquid manure , and drainage. Simultaneously , Rodolphe declares his love for Emma. The prizes, and the wooing, conclude with the awarding of a prize for long service, which is awarded to a confused little old woman. Flaubert describes this woman, Catherine Leroux, with rather excruciating detail; she's obviously been broken down by years of hard work. She says that she will give her prize money to the priest, which offends Homais. Following this ludicrous ceremony, a big feast begins. The townspeople, in a frenzy of communal gluttony, all stuff themselves. Rodolphe isn't interested in the food - he's thinking of Emma and of the pleasure he'll get from her in the future. Emma is off with Charles and the Homais family. The grand finale of the festival is a display of fireworks - unfortunately, they're too damp, and they barely go off. The evening ends rather anti-climactically, and everyone drifts back home. Homais proceeds to write an enthusiastic, over-the-top article about the fiesta, and publish it in a Rouen paper. |
XV. Knitting
There had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-shop of Monsieur
Defarge. As early as six o'clock in the morning, sallow faces peeping
through its barred windows had descried other faces within, bending over
measures of wine. Monsieur Defarge sold a very thin wine at the best
of times, but it would seem to have been an unusually thin wine that
he sold at this time. A sour wine, moreover, or a souring, for its
influence on the mood of those who drank it was to make them gloomy. No
vivacious Bacchanalian flame leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur
Defarge: but, a smouldering fire that burnt in the dark, lay hidden in
the dregs of it.
This had been the third morning in succession, on which there had been
early drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. It had begun
on Monday, and here was Wednesday come. There had been more of early
brooding than drinking; for, many men had listened and whispered and
slunk about there from the time of the opening of the door, who could
not have laid a piece of money on the counter to save their souls. These
were to the full as interested in the place, however, as if they could
have commanded whole barrels of wine; and they glided from seat to seat,
and from corner to corner, swallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy
looks.
Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master of the wine-shop
was not visible. He was not missed; for, nobody who crossed the
threshold looked for him, nobody asked for him, nobody wondered to see
only Madame Defarge in her seat, presiding over the distribution of
wine, with a bowl of battered small coins before her, as much defaced
and beaten out of their original impress as the small coinage of
humanity from whose ragged pockets they had come.
A suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind, were perhaps
observed by the spies who looked in at the wine-shop, as they looked in
at every place, high and low, from the king's palace to the criminal's
gaol. Games at cards languished, players at dominoes musingly built
towers with them, drinkers drew figures on the tables with spilt drops
of wine, Madame Defarge herself picked out the pattern on her sleeve
with her toothpick, and saw and heard something inaudible and invisible
a long way off.
Thus, Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his, until midday. It was
high noontide, when two dusty men passed through his streets and under
his swinging lamps: of whom, one was Monsieur Defarge: the other a
mender of roads in a blue cap. All adust and athirst, the two entered
the wine-shop. Their arrival had lighted a kind of fire in the breast
of Saint Antoine, fast spreading as they came along, which stirred and
flickered in flames of faces at most doors and windows. Yet, no one had
followed them, and no man spoke when they entered the wine-shop, though
the eyes of every man there were turned upon them.
"Good day, gentlemen!" said Monsieur Defarge.
It may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. It elicited
an answering chorus of "Good day!"
"It is bad weather, gentlemen," said Defarge, shaking his head.
Upon which, every man looked at his neighbour, and then all cast down
their eyes and sat silent. Except one man, who got up and went out.
"My wife," said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame Defarge: "I have
travelled certain leagues with this good mender of roads, called
Jacques. I met him--by accident--a day and half's journey out of Paris.
He is a good child, this mender of roads, called Jacques. Give him to
drink, my wife!"
A second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge set wine before the
mender of roads called Jacques, who doffed his blue cap to the company,
and drank. In the breast of his blouse he carried some coarse dark
bread; he ate of this between whiles, and sat munching and drinking near
Madame Defarge's counter. A third man got up and went out.
Defarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine--but, he took less
than was given to the stranger, as being himself a man to whom it was no
rarity--and stood waiting until the countryman had made his breakfast.
He looked at no one present, and no one now looked at him; not even
Madame Defarge, who had taken up her knitting, and was at work.
"Have you finished your repast, friend?" he asked, in due season.
"Yes, thank you."
"Come, then! You shall see the apartment that I told you you could
occupy. It will suit you to a marvel."
Out of the wine-shop into the street, out of the street into a
courtyard, out of the courtyard up a steep staircase, out of the
staircase into a garret--formerly the garret where a white-haired man
sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.
No white-haired man was there now; but, the three men were there who had
gone out of the wine-shop singly. And between them and the white-haired
man afar off, was the one small link, that they had once looked in at
him through the chinks in the wall.
Defarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a subdued voice:
"Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is the witness
encountered by appointment, by me, Jacques Four. He will tell you all.
Speak, Jacques Five!"
The mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swarthy forehead with
it, and said, "Where shall I commence, monsieur?"
"Commence," was Monsieur Defarge's not unreasonable reply, "at the
commencement."
"I saw him then, messieurs," began the mender of roads, "a year ago this
running summer, underneath the carriage of the Marquis, hanging by the
chain. Behold the manner of it. I leaving my work on the road, the sun
going to bed, the carriage of the Marquis slowly ascending the hill, he
hanging by the chain--like this."
Again the mender of roads went through the whole performance; in which
he ought to have been perfect by that time, seeing that it had been
the infallible resource and indispensable entertainment of his village
during a whole year.
Jacques One struck in, and asked if he had ever seen the man before?
"Never," answered the mender of roads, recovering his perpendicular.
Jacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised him then?
"By his tall figure," said the mender of roads, softly, and with his
finger at his nose. "When Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening,
'Say, what is he like?' I make response, 'Tall as a spectre.'"
"You should have said, short as a dwarf," returned Jacques Two.
"But what did I know? The deed was not then accomplished, neither did he
confide in me. Observe! Under those circumstances even, I do not
offer my testimony. Monsieur the Marquis indicates me with his finger,
standing near our little fountain, and says, 'To me! Bring that rascal!'
My faith, messieurs, I offer nothing."
"He is right there, Jacques," murmured Defarge, to him who had
interrupted. "Go on!"
"Good!" said the mender of roads, with an air of mystery. "The tall man
is lost, and he is sought--how many months? Nine, ten, eleven?"
"No matter, the number," said Defarge. "He is well hidden, but at last
he is unluckily found. Go on!"
"I am again at work upon the hill-side, and the sun is again about to
go to bed. I am collecting my tools to descend to my cottage down in the
village below, where it is already dark, when I raise my eyes, and see
coming over the hill six soldiers. In the midst of them is a tall man
with his arms bound--tied to his sides--like this!"
With the aid of his indispensable cap, he represented a man with his
elbows bound fast at his hips, with cords that were knotted behind him.
"I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of stones, to see the soldiers
and their prisoner pass (for it is a solitary road, that, where any
spectacle is well worth looking at), and at first, as they approach, I
see no more than that they are six soldiers with a tall man bound, and
that they are almost black to my sight--except on the side of the sun
going to bed, where they have a red edge, messieurs. Also, I see that
their long shadows are on the hollow ridge on the opposite side of the
road, and are on the hill above it, and are like the shadows of giants.
Also, I see that they are covered with dust, and that the dust moves
with them as they come, tramp, tramp! But when they advance quite near
to me, I recognise the tall man, and he recognises me. Ah, but he would
be well content to precipitate himself over the hill-side once again, as
on the evening when he and I first encountered, close to the same spot!"
He described it as if he were there, and it was evident that he saw it
vividly; perhaps he had not seen much in his life.
"I do not show the soldiers that I recognise the tall man; he does not
show the soldiers that he recognises me; we do it, and we know it, with
our eyes. 'Come on!' says the chief of that company, pointing to the
village, 'bring him fast to his tomb!' and they bring him faster. I
follow. His arms are swelled because of being bound so tight, his wooden
shoes are large and clumsy, and he is lame. Because he is lame, and
consequently slow, they drive him with their guns--like this!"
He imitated the action of a man's being impelled forward by the
butt-ends of muskets.
"As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he falls. They
laugh and pick him up again. His face is bleeding and covered with dust,
but he cannot touch it; thereupon they laugh again. They bring him into
the village; all the village runs to look; they take him past the mill,
and up to the prison; all the village sees the prison gate open in the
darkness of the night, and swallow him--like this!"
He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it with a sounding
snap of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness to mar the effect by
opening it again, Defarge said, "Go on, Jacques."
"All the village," pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe and in a low
voice, "withdraws; all the village whispers by the fountain; all the
village sleeps; all the village dreams of that unhappy one, within the
locks and bars of the prison on the crag, and never to come out of it,
except to perish. In the morning, with my tools upon my shoulder, eating
my morsel of black bread as I go, I make a circuit by the prison, on
my way to my work. There I see him, high up, behind the bars of a lofty
iron cage, bloody and dusty as last night, looking through. He has no
hand free, to wave to me; I dare not call to him; he regards me like a
dead man."
Defarge and the three glanced darkly at one another. The looks of all
of them were dark, repressed, and revengeful, as they listened to the
countryman's story; the manner of all of them, while it was secret, was
authoritative too. They had the air of a rough tribunal; Jacques One
and Two sitting on the old pallet-bed, each with his chin resting on
his hand, and his eyes intent on the road-mender; Jacques Three, equally
intent, on one knee behind them, with his agitated hand always gliding
over the network of fine nerves about his mouth and nose; Defarge
standing between them and the narrator, whom he had stationed in the
light of the window, by turns looking from him to them, and from them to
him.
"Go on, Jacques," said Defarge.
"He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village looks
at him by stealth, for it is afraid. But it always looks up, from a
distance, at the prison on the crag; and in the evening, when the work
of the day is achieved and it assembles to gossip at the fountain, all
faces are turned towards the prison. Formerly, they were turned towards
the posting-house; now, they are turned towards the prison. They
whisper at the fountain, that although condemned to death he will not be
executed; they say that petitions have been presented in Paris, showing
that he was enraged and made mad by the death of his child; they say
that a petition has been presented to the King himself. What do I know?
It is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no."
"Listen then, Jacques," Number One of that name sternly interposed.
"Know that a petition was presented to the King and Queen. All here,
yourself excepted, saw the King take it, in his carriage in the street,
sitting beside the Queen. It is Defarge whom you see here, who, at the
hazard of his life, darted out before the horses, with the petition in
his hand."
"And once again listen, Jacques!" said the kneeling Number Three:
his fingers ever wandering over and over those fine nerves, with a
strikingly greedy air, as if he hungered for something--that was neither
food nor drink; "the guard, horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner,
and struck him blows. You hear?"
"I hear, messieurs."
"Go on then," said Defarge.
"Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain," resumed the
countryman, "that he is brought down into our country to be executed on
the spot, and that he will very certainly be executed. They even whisper
that because he has slain Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the
father of his tenants--serfs--what you will--he will be executed as a
parricide. One old man says at the fountain, that his right hand, armed
with the knife, will be burnt off before his face; that, into wounds
which will be made in his arms, his breast, and his legs, there will be
poured boiling oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur; finally,
that he will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses. That old man
says, all this was actually done to a prisoner who made an attempt on
the life of the late King, Louis Fifteen. But how do I know if he lies?
I am not a scholar."
"Listen once again then, Jacques!" said the man with the restless hand
and the craving air. "The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it was
all done in open day, in the open streets of this city of Paris; and
nothing was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done, than
the crowd of ladies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager
attention to the last--to the last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfall,
when he had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed! And it was
done--why, how old are you?"
"Thirty-five," said the mender of roads, who looked sixty.
"It was done when you were more than ten years old; you might have seen
it."
"Enough!" said Defarge, with grim impatience. "Long live the Devil! Go
on."
"Well! Some whisper this, some whisper that; they speak of nothing else;
even the fountain appears to fall to that tune. At length, on Sunday
night when all the village is asleep, come soldiers, winding down from
the prison, and their guns ring on the stones of the little street.
Workmen dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing; in the morning, by
the fountain, there is raised a gallows forty feet high, poisoning the
water."
The mender of roads looked _through_ rather than _at_ the low ceiling,
and pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky.
"All work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads the cows out,
the cows are there with the rest. At midday, the roll of drums. Soldiers
have marched into the prison in the night, and he is in the midst
of many soldiers. He is bound as before, and in his mouth there is
a gag--tied so, with a tight string, making him look almost as if he
laughed." He suggested it, by creasing his face with his two thumbs,
from the corners of his mouth to his ears. "On the top of the gallows is
fixed the knife, blade upwards, with its point in the air. He is hanged
there forty feet high--and is left hanging, poisoning the water."
They looked at one another, as he used his blue cap to wipe his face,
on which the perspiration had started afresh while he recalled the
spectacle.
"It is frightful, messieurs. How can the women and the children draw
water! Who can gossip of an evening, under that shadow! Under it, have
I said? When I left the village, Monday evening as the sun was going to
bed, and looked back from the hill, the shadow struck across the church,
across the mill, across the prison--seemed to strike across the earth,
messieurs, to where the sky rests upon it!"
The hungry man gnawed one of his fingers as he looked at the other
three, and his finger quivered with the craving that was on him.
"That's all, messieurs. I left at sunset (as I had been warned to do),
and I walked on, that night and half next day, until I met (as I was
warned I should) this comrade. With him, I came on, now riding and now
walking, through the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here
you see me!"
After a gloomy silence, the first Jacques said, "Good! You have acted
and recounted faithfully. Will you wait for us a little, outside the
door?"
"Very willingly," said the mender of roads. Whom Defarge escorted to the
top of the stairs, and, leaving seated there, returned.
The three had risen, and their heads were together when he came back to
the garret.
"How say you, Jacques?" demanded Number One. "To be registered?"
"To be registered, as doomed to destruction," returned Defarge.
"Magnificent!" croaked the man with the craving.
"The chateau, and all the race?" inquired the first.
"The chateau and all the race," returned Defarge. "Extermination."
The hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak, "Magnificent!" and began
gnawing another finger.
"Are you sure," asked Jacques Two, of Defarge, "that no embarrassment
can arise from our manner of keeping the register? Without doubt it is
safe, for no one beyond ourselves can decipher it; but shall we always
be able to decipher it--or, I ought to say, will she?"
"Jacques," returned Defarge, drawing himself up, "if madame my wife
undertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she would not lose
a word of it--not a syllable of it. Knitted, in her own stitches and her
own symbols, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in
Madame Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives,
to erase himself from existence, than to erase one letter of his name or
crimes from the knitted register of Madame Defarge."
There was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then the man who
hungered, asked: "Is this rustic to be sent back soon? I hope so. He is
very simple; is he not a little dangerous?"
"He knows nothing," said Defarge; "at least nothing more than would
easily elevate himself to a gallows of the same height. I charge myself
with him; let him remain with me; I will take care of him, and set him
on his road. He wishes to see the fine world--the King, the Queen, and
Court; let him see them on Sunday."
"What?" exclaimed the hungry man, staring. "Is it a good sign, that he
wishes to see Royalty and Nobility?"
"Jacques," said Defarge; "judiciously show a cat milk, if you wish her
to thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog his natural prey, if you wish
him to bring it down one day."
Nothing more was said, and the mender of roads, being found already
dozing on the topmost stair, was advised to lay himself down on the
pallet-bed and take some rest. He needed no persuasion, and was soon
asleep.
Worse quarters than Defarge's wine-shop, could easily have been found
in Paris for a provincial slave of that degree. Saving for a mysterious
dread of madame by which he was constantly haunted, his life was very
new and agreeable. But, madame sat all day at her counter, so expressly
unconscious of him, and so particularly determined not to perceive that
his being there had any connection with anything below the surface, that
he shook in his wooden shoes whenever his eye lighted on her. For, he
contended with himself that it was impossible to foresee what that lady
might pretend next; and he felt assured that if she should take it
into her brightly ornamented head to pretend that she had seen him do a
murder and afterwards flay the victim, she would infallibly go through
with it until the play was played out.
Therefore, when Sunday came, the mender of roads was not enchanted
(though he said he was) to find that madame was to accompany monsieur
and himself to Versailles. It was additionally disconcerting to have
madame knitting all the way there, in a public conveyance; it was
additionally disconcerting yet, to have madame in the crowd in the
afternoon, still with her knitting in her hands as the crowd waited to
see the carriage of the King and Queen.
"You work hard, madame," said a man near her.
"Yes," answered Madame Defarge; "I have a good deal to do."
"What do you make, madame?"
"Many things."
"For instance--"
"For instance," returned Madame Defarge, composedly, "shrouds."
The man moved a little further away, as soon as he could, and the mender
of roads fanned himself with his blue cap: feeling it mightily close
and oppressive. If he needed a King and Queen to restore him, he was
fortunate in having his remedy at hand; for, soon the large-faced King
and the fair-faced Queen came in their golden coach, attended by the
shining Bull's Eye of their Court, a glittering multitude of laughing
ladies and fine lords; and in jewels and silks and powder and splendour
and elegantly spurning figures and handsomely disdainful faces of both
sexes, the mender of roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary
intoxication, that he cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen,
Long live everybody and everything! as if he had never heard of
ubiquitous Jacques in his time. Then, there were gardens, courtyards,
terraces, fountains, green banks, more King and Queen, more Bull's Eye,
more lords and ladies, more Long live they all! until he absolutely wept
with sentiment. During the whole of this scene, which lasted some three
hours, he had plenty of shouting and weeping and sentimental company,
and throughout Defarge held him by the collar, as if to restrain him
from flying at the objects of his brief devotion and tearing them to
pieces.
"Bravo!" said Defarge, clapping him on the back when it was over, like a
patron; "you are a good boy!"
The mender of roads was now coming to himself, and was mistrustful of
having made a mistake in his late demonstrations; but no.
"You are the fellow we want," said Defarge, in his ear; "you make
these fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, they are the more
insolent, and it is the nearer ended."
"Hey!" cried the mender of roads, reflectively; "that's true."
"These fools know nothing. While they despise your breath, and would
stop it for ever and ever, in you or in a hundred like you rather than
in one of their own horses or dogs, they only know what your breath
tells them. Let it deceive them, then, a little longer; it cannot
deceive them too much."
Madame Defarge looked superciliously at the client, and nodded in
confirmation.
"As to you," said she, "you would shout and shed tears for anything, if
it made a show and a noise. Say! Would you not?"
"Truly, madame, I think so. For the moment."
"If you were shown a great heap of dolls, and were set upon them to
pluck them to pieces and despoil them for your own advantage, you would
pick out the richest and gayest. Say! Would you not?"
"Truly yes, madame."
"Yes. And if you were shown a flock of birds, unable to fly, and were
set upon them to strip them of their feathers for your own advantage,
you would set upon the birds of the finest feathers; would you not?"
"It is true, madame."
"You have seen both dolls and birds to-day," said Madame Defarge, with
a wave of her hand towards the place where they had last been apparent;
"now, go home!"
XVI. Still Knitting
Madame Defarge and monsieur her husband returned amicably to the
bosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a blue cap toiled through the
darkness, and through the dust, and down the weary miles of avenue by
the wayside, slowly tending towards that point of the compass where
the chateau of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to
the whispering trees. Such ample leisure had the stone faces, now,
for listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the few village
scarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat and fragments of dead
stick to burn, strayed within sight of the great stone courtyard and
terrace staircase, had it borne in upon their starved fancy that
the expression of the faces was altered. A rumour just lived in the
village--had a faint and bare existence there, as its people had--that
when the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to
faces of anger and pain; also, that when that dangling figure was hauled
up forty feet above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a cruel
look of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear for ever. In the
stone face over the great window of the bed-chamber where the murder
was done, two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured nose, which
everybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of old; and on the
scarce occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the
crowd to take a hurried peep at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a
skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, before they all
started away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares
who could find a living there.
Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the
stone floor, and the pure water in the village well--thousands of acres
of land--a whole province of France--all France itself--lay under the
night sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does a whole
world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling
star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse
the manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in
the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every
vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it.
The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight,
in their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their
journey naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at the barrier
guardhouse, and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual
examination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two
of the soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate
with, and affectionately embraced.
When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky wings,
and they, having finally alighted near the Saint's boundaries, were
picking their way on foot through the black mud and offal of his
streets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband:
"Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?"
"Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy
commissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that he
can say, but he knows of one."
"Eh well!" said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool
business air. "It is necessary to register him. How do they call that
man?"
"He is English."
"So much the better. His name?"
"Barsad," said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, he had
been so careful to get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect
correctness.
"Barsad," repeated madame. "Good. Christian name?"
"John."
"John Barsad," repeated madame, after murmuring it once to herself.
"Good. His appearance; is it known?"
"Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair;
complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face
thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a
peculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore,
sinister."
"Eh my faith. It is a portrait!" said madame, laughing. "He shall be
registered to-morrow."
They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was midnight),
and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted
the small moneys that had been taken during her absence, examined the
stock, went through the entries in the book, made other entries of
her own, checked the serving man in every possible way, and finally
dismissed him to bed. Then she turned out the contents of the bowl
of money for the second time, and began knotting them up in her
handkerchief, in a chain of separate knots, for safe keeping through the
night. All this while, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked
up and down, complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which
condition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he
walked up and down through life.
The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so foul a
neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge's olfactory sense was
by no means delicate, but the stock of wine smelt much stronger than
it ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He
whiffed the compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe.
"You are fatigued," said madame, raising her glance as she knotted the
money. "There are only the usual odours."
"I am a little tired," her husband acknowledged.
"You are a little depressed, too," said madame, whose quick eyes had
never been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a ray or two for
him. "Oh, the men, the men!"
"But my dear!" began Defarge.
"But my dear!" repeated madame, nodding firmly; "but my dear! You are
faint of heart to-night, my dear!"
"Well, then," said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his
breast, "it _is_ a long time."
"It is a long time," repeated his wife; "and when is it not a long time?
Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule."
"It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning," said
Defarge.
"How long," demanded madame, composedly, "does it take to make and store
the lightning? Tell me."
Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were something in that
too.
"It does not take a long time," said madame, "for an earthquake to
swallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the
earthquake?"
"A long time, I suppose," said Defarge.
"But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything
before it. In the meantime, it is always preparing, though it is not
seen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it."
She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe.
"I tell thee," said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis,
"that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and
coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it
is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world
that we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider
the rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with
more and more of certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock
you."
"My brave wife," returned Defarge, standing before her with his head
a little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and
attentive pupil before his catechist, "I do not question all this. But
it has lasted a long time, and it is possible--you know well, my wife,
it is possible--that it may not come, during our lives."
"Eh well! How then?" demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there
were another enemy strangled.
"Well!" said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug.
"We shall not see the triumph."
"We shall have helped it," returned madame, with her extended hand in
strong action. "Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all
my soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew
certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I
would--"
Then madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed.
"Hold!" cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with
cowardice; "I too, my dear, will stop at nothing."
"Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim
and your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that.
When the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the
time with the tiger and the devil chained--not shown--yet always ready."
Madame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her
little counter with her chain of money as if she knocked its brains
out, and then gathering the heavy handkerchief under her arm in a serene
manner, and observing that it was time to go to bed.
Next noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual place in the
wine-shop, knitting away assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she
now and then glanced at the flower, it was with no infraction of her
usual preoccupied air. There were a few customers, drinking or not
drinking, standing or seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot,
and heaps of flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventurous
perquisitions into all the glutinous little glasses near madame, fell
dead at the bottom. Their decease made no impression on the other flies
out promenading, who looked at them in the coolest manner (as if they
themselves were elephants, or something as far removed), until they met
the same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies are!--perhaps they
thought as much at Court that sunny summer day.
A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she
felt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting, and began to pin her
rose in her head-dress, before she looked at the figure.
It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the
customers ceased talking, and began gradually to drop out of the
wine-shop.
"Good day, madame," said the new-comer.
"Good day, monsieur."
She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her knitting:
"Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black
hair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark,
thin, long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a
peculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister
expression! Good day, one and all!"
"Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a
mouthful of cool fresh water, madame."
Madame complied with a polite air.
"Marvellous cognac this, madame!"
It was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and Madame
Defarge knew enough of its antecedents to know better. She said,
however, that the cognac was flattered, and took up her knitting. The
visitor watched her fingers for a few moments, and took the opportunity
of observing the place in general.
"You knit with great skill, madame."
"I am accustomed to it."
"A pretty pattern too!"
"_You_ think so?" said madame, looking at him with a smile.
"Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?"
"Pastime," said madame, still looking at him with a smile while her
fingers moved nimbly.
"Not for use?"
"That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do--Well," said
madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern kind of
coquetry, "I'll use it!"
It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be
decidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge. Two
men had entered separately, and had been about to order drink, when,
catching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of
looking about as if for some friend who was not there, and went away.
Nor, of those who had been there when this visitor entered, was there
one left. They had all dropped off. The spy had kept his eyes open,
but had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged away in a
poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, quite natural and
unimpeachable.
"_John_," thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted,
and her eyes looked at the stranger. "Stay long enough, and I shall knit
'BARSAD' before you go."
"You have a husband, madame?"
"I have."
"Children?"
"No children."
"Business seems bad?"
"Business is very bad; the people are so poor."
"Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too--as you say."
"As _you_ say," madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an
extra something into his name that boded him no good.
"Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so.
Of course."
"_I_ think?" returned madame, in a high voice. "I and my husband have
enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we
think, here, is how to live. That is the subject _we_ think of, and
it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without
embarrassing our heads concerning others. _I_ think for others? No, no."
The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did
not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but,
stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame
Defarge's little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac.
"A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. Ah! the poor
Gaspard!" With a sigh of great compassion.
"My faith!" returned madame, coolly and lightly, "if people use knives
for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the
price of his luxury was; he has paid the price."
"I believe," said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone
that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary
susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: "I believe there
is much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor
fellow? Between ourselves."
"Is there?" asked madame, vacantly.
"Is there not?"
"--Here is my husband!" said Madame Defarge.
As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted
him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, "Good day,
Jacques!" Defarge stopped short, and stared at him.
"Good day, Jacques!" the spy repeated; with not quite so much
confidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare.
"You deceive yourself, monsieur," returned the keeper of the wine-shop.
"You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge."
"It is all the same," said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: "good
day!"
"Good day!" answered Defarge, drily.
"I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when
you entered, that they tell me there is--and no wonder!--much sympathy
and anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard."
"No one has told me so," said Defarge, shaking his head. "I know nothing
of it."
Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his
hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the
person to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would
have shot with the greatest satisfaction.
The spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious
attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh
water, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it
out for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little song over
it.
"You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, better than I do?"
observed Defarge.
"Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested
in its miserable inhabitants."
"Hah!" muttered Defarge.
"The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me,"
pursued the spy, "that I have the honour of cherishing some interesting
associations with your name."
"Indeed!" said Defarge, with much indifference.
"Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you, his old domestic,
had the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am
informed of the circumstances?"
"Such is the fact, certainly," said Defarge. He had had it conveyed
to him, in an accidental touch of his wife's elbow as she knitted and
warbled, that he would do best to answer, but always with brevity.
"It was to you," said the spy, "that his daughter came; and it was
from your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown
monsieur; how is he called?--in a little wig--Lorry--of the bank of
Tellson and Company--over to England."
"Such is the fact," repeated Defarge.
"Very interesting remembrances!" said the spy. "I have known Doctor
Manette and his daughter, in England."
"Yes?" said Defarge.
"You don't hear much about them now?" said the spy.
"No," said Defarge.
"In effect," madame struck in, looking up from her work and her little
song, "we never hear about them. We received the news of their safe
arrival, and perhaps another letter, or perhaps two; but, since then,
they have gradually taken their road in life--we, ours--and we have held
no correspondence."
"Perfectly so, madame," replied the spy. "She is going to be married."
"Going?" echoed madame. "She was pretty enough to have been married long
ago. You English are cold, it seems to me."
"Oh! You know I am English."
"I perceive your tongue is," returned madame; "and what the tongue is, I
suppose the man is."
He did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made the best
of it, and turned it off with a laugh. After sipping his cognac to the
end, he added:
"Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to
one who, like herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah,
poor Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is
going to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard
was exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the present
Marquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is
Mr. Charles Darnay. D'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family."
Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had a palpable
effect upon her husband. Do what he would, behind the little counter,
as to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe, he was
troubled, and his hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been no
spy if he had failed to see it, or to record it in his mind.
Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might prove to be
worth, and no customers coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad
paid for what he had drunk, and took his leave: taking occasion to say,
in a genteel manner, before he departed, that he looked forward to the
pleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes
after he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the
husband and wife remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should
come back.
"Can it be true," said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife
as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her chair: "what he has
said of Ma'amselle Manette?"
"As he has said it," returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little, "it
is probably false. But it may be true."
"If it is--" Defarge began, and stopped.
"If it is?" repeated his wife.
"--And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph--I hope, for her
sake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France."
"Her husband's destiny," said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure,
"will take him where he is to go, and will lead him to the end that is
to end him. That is all I know."
"But it is very strange--now, at least, is it not very strange"--said
Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it,
"that, after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and herself, her
husband's name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment, by
the side of that infernal dog's who has just left us?"
"Stranger things than that will happen when it does come," answered
madame. "I have them both here, of a certainty; and they are both here
for their merits; that is enough."
She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and presently
took the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her head.
Either Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable
decoration was gone, or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its
disappearance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very
shortly afterwards, and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect.
In the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned
himself inside out, and sat on door-steps and window-ledges, and came
to the corners of vile streets and courts, for a breath of air, Madame
Defarge with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from place
to place and from group to group: a Missionary--there were many like
her--such as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women
knitted. They knitted worthless things; but, the mechanical work was a
mechanical substitute for eating and drinking; the hands moved for the
jaws and the digestive apparatus: if the bony fingers had been still,
the stomachs would have been more famine-pinched.
But, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame
Defarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer
among every little knot of women that she had spoken with, and left
behind.
Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration. "A
great woman," said he, "a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully
grand woman!"
Darkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and
the distant beating of the military drums in the Palace Courtyard, as
the women sat knitting, knitting. Darkness encompassed them. Another
darkness was closing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing
pleasantly in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into
thundering cannon; when the military drums should be beating to drown a
wretched voice, that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty,
Freedom and Life. So much was closing in about the women who sat
knitting, knitting, that they their very selves were closing in around
a structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting,
counting dropping heads. | For three days in a row there has been more than the usual number of early drinkers in the Defarge's wine shop. Monsieur Defarge has been absent for several days but Madame Defarge tends to her customers, many of whom come not to drink but to whisper conspiracies. When known spies for the government enter the conversation ceases and Madame Defarge knits steadily. At noon on the third day Monsieur Defarge enters the shop with the mender of roads from the small village where the Marquis was murdered. All the men refer to each other as "JACQUES." While the mender of roads takes a thin meal of stale bread and wine, various men get up and leave the shop to go to the garret apartment. Eventually Defarge and the road mender join the others. The road mender says that a man the Parisians know to be Gaspard, father of the child run over by the Marquis' carriage, was captured by the soldiers of his village. He was beaten and placed in a cage suspended above the prison and for many days the people in the town witnessed his suffering but could do nothing to help him. The villagers heard that a petition had been presented to the King to spare the man's life but they didn't know if it was true. Two of the Jacques interrupt the story and explain to the road mender that Defarge himself hazarded his own life by stepping in front of the King's carriage and was beaten for presenting the petition. The mender of roads says that the people of the village whispered that in Paris prisoners were horribly tortured before being killed and another of the Jacques affirms this fact. One morning the village awoke to find a gallows erected next to their communal fountain. That afternoon Gaspard was hung and his body left to rot with the murder weapon decorating the gallows. His story finished, the road mender is asked to wait outside while Defarge and the various Jacques confer. They all agree to include the Marquis' entire family and his chateau on their list of those registered for destruction. Defarge assures the men that the authorities will not discover his wife's method of keeping the list, sewn as code into her knitting. Before the road mender returns to his village the Defarge's take him to see a royal procession. The road mender is overcome by the gallantry and reach pageantry of the aristocracy that he cries out his enthusiasm. Later the Defarges commend his zeal and remind him that it will be useful when the time comes to destroy the aristocracy. The road mender returns to his village wiser and for the first time in his simple life, empowered. The Defarge's return to the wine shop and Monsieur Defarge learns from a Jacques of the police that a new spy named John Barsad has started working the Saint Antoine district. As she shuts up the shop for the night Madame Defarge observes that her husband is depressed and he admits that he is sad that the revolution may not come in his lifetime. She reminds him that it could come at any moment and though it may not arrive while they live she is confident they have done much to help bring it to fruition. The next day a man Madame Defarge recognizes as the spy John Barsad comes into the shop and tries to bait her into revealing the district's sympathies for the executed Gaspard. As a signal to the others in the shop she places a flower in her hair and the shop quickly empties. As Barsad tries to bait her, Madame Defarge knits his name into the register. Monsieur Defarge joins them and the spy, knowing that Doctor Manette sheltered with the Defarge's, relates the news that Miss Manette is to marry the nephew of the murdered Marquis who is living under the name Darnay in England. Madame records this information in her register as well. After the spy leaves, Monsieur Defarge expresses his hope that destiny will keep Darnay out of France but his wife observes that fate will do what it will. That evening Monsieur Defarge admires the character of his wife as she goes throughout the street visiting the women. |
Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.
Enter Queene, and Ladies.
Qu. This way the King will come: this is the way
To Iulius C�sars ill-erected Tower:
To whose flint Bosome, my condemned Lord
Is doom'd a Prisoner, by prowd Bullingbrooke.
Here let vs rest, if this rebellious Earth
Haue any resting for her true Kings Queene.
Enter Richard, and Guard.
But soft, but see, or rather doe not see,
My faire Rose wither: yet looke vp; behold,
That you in pittie may dissolue to dew,
And wash him fresh againe with true-loue Teares.
Ah thou, the Modell where old Troy did stand,
Thou Mappe of Honor, thou King Richards Tombe,
And not King Richard: thou most beauteous Inne,
Why should hard-fauor'd Griefe be lodg'd in thee,
When Triumph is become an Ale-house Guest
Rich. Ioyne not with griefe, faire Woman, do not so,
To make my end too sudden: learne good Soule,
To thinke our former State a happie Dreame,
From which awak'd, the truth of what we are,
Shewes vs but this. I am sworne Brother (Sweet)
To grim Necessitie; and hee and I
Will keepe a League till Death. High thee to France,
And Cloyster thee in some Religious House:
Our holy liues must winne a new Worlds Crowne,
Which our prophane houres here haue stricken downe
Qu. What, is my Richard both in shape and minde
Transform'd, and weaken'd? Hath Bullingbrooke
Depos'd thine Intellect? hath he beene in thy Heart?
The Lyon dying, thrusteth forth his Paw,
And wounds the Earth, if nothing else, with rage
To be o're-powr'd: and wilt thou, Pupill-like,
Take thy Correction mildly, kisse the Rodde,
And fawne on Rage with base Humilitie,
Which art a Lyon, and a King of Beasts?
Rich. A King of Beasts indeed: if aught but Beasts,
I had beene still a happy King of Men.
Good (sometime Queene) prepare thee hence for France:
Thinke I am dead, and that euen here thou tak'st,
As from my Death-bed, my last liuing leaue.
In Winters tedious Nights sit by the fire
With good old folkes, and let them tell thee Tales
Of wofull Ages, long agoe betide:
And ere thou bid good-night, to quit their griefe,
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,
And send the hearers weeping to their Beds:
For why? the sencelesse Brands will sympathize
The heauie accent of thy mouing Tongue,
And in compassion, weepe the fire out:
And some will mourne in ashes, some coale-black,
For the deposing of a rightfull King.
Enter Northumberland.
North. My Lord, the mind of Bullingbrooke is chang'd.
You must to Pomfret, not vnto the Tower.
And Madame, there is order ta'ne for you:
With all swift speed, you must away to France
Rich. Northumberland, thou Ladder wherewithall
The mounting Bullingbrooke ascends my Throne,
The time shall not be many houres of age,
More then it is, ere foule sinne, gathering head,
Shall breake into corruption: thou shalt thinke,
Though he diuide the Realme, and giue thee halfe,
It is too little, helping him to all:
He shall thinke, that thou which know'st the way
To plant vnrightfull Kings, wilt know againe,
Being ne're so little vrg'd another way,
To pluck him headlong from the vsurped Throne.
The Loue of wicked friends conuerts to Feare;
That Feare, to Hate; and Hate turnes one, or both,
To worthie Danger, and deserued Death
North. My guilt be on my Head, and there an end:
Take leaue, and part, for you must part forthwith
Rich. Doubly diuorc'd? (bad men) ye violate
A two-fold Marriage; 'twixt my Crowne, and me.
And then betwixt me, and my marryed Wife.
Let me vn-kisse the Oath 'twixt thee, and me;
And yet not so, for with a Kisse 'twas made.
Part vs, Northumberland: I, towards the North,
Where shiuering Cold and Sicknesse pines the Clyme:
My Queene to France: from whence, set forth in pompe,
She came adorned hither like sweet May;
Sent back like Hollowmas, or short'st of day
Qu. And must we be diuided? must we part?
Rich. I, hand from hand (my Loue) and heart fro[m] heart
Qu. Banish vs both, and send the King with me
North. That were some Loue, but little Pollicy
Qu. Then whither he goes, thither let me goe
Rich. So two together weeping, make one Woe.
Weepe thou for me in France; I, for thee heere:
Better farre off, then neere, be ne're the neere.
Goe, count thy Way with Sighes; I, mine with Groanes
Qu. So longest Way shall haue the longest Moanes
Rich. Twice for one step Ile groane, y Way being short,
And peece the Way out with a heauie heart.
Come, come, in wooing Sorrow let's be briefe,
Since wedding it, there is such length in Griefe:
One Kisse shall stop our mouthes, and dumbely part;
Thus giue I mine, and thus take I thy heart
Qu. Giue me mine owne againe: 'twere no good part,
To take on me to keepe, and kill thy heart.
So, now I haue mine owne againe, be gone,
That I may striue to kill it with a groane
Rich. We make Woe wanton with this fond delay:
Once more adieu; the rest, let Sorrow say.
Exeunt. | This scene focuses on Richard's poetic farewell to his queen. Queen Isabel is waiting with her attendants for Richard on a street leading to the "ill-erected tower" of London. When Richard appears, the queen melancholically compares Richard to a "beauteous-inn" whose lodger is "hard-favor'd grief" as "triumph" has "become an ale-house guest" . Richard urges her not to give in to grief and to think of their glorious former state as a "happy dream." He tells her to go away to France and spend the rest of her life in a convent. The queen chides Richard for showing such meekness in adversity. She exclaims in amazement, "What! is my Richard both in shape and mind / Transform'd and weaken'd! Hath Bolingbroke depos'd / Thine intellect?" She tries in vain to rouse his drooping spirits. Richard has given way to despair and no one can help him. He bids her to prepare to leave for France and to think that he has died. Northumberland enters and disrupts their conversation to announce that Richard is to be taken to Pomfret, instead of the Tower of London, while Isabel must return to her native France. Richard denounces Northumberland for acting as the ladder through which "The mounting Bolingbroke ascends throne." He warns him that with the passage of time, "foul sin gathering head / Shall break into corruption." He cautions that the love of wicked friends changes to fear, which divides friends from each other. Richard foresees an era of discord caused by the animosity that is bound to erupt between Northumberland and Bolingbroke. Northumberland merely tells Richard that they must soon leave. Richard's moving parting with his queen follows. Northumberland turns down Isabel's plea to banish both of them and to send Richard with her to France. He also turns down her proposal to allow her to go with Richard to Pomfret. Richard then sorrowfully kisses his wife farewell and bids her to be brief in "wooing sorrow." The scene ends as they part to go their separate ways and the stage is left empty. |
"My dearest Lucy,--
"I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened since we
parted at the railway station at Whitby. Well, my dear, I got to Hull
all right, and caught the boat to Hamburg, and then the train on here. I
feel that I can hardly recall anything of the journey, except that I
knew I was coming to Jonathan, and, that as I should have to do some
nursing, I had better get all the sleep I could.... I found my dear one,
oh, so thin and pale and weak-looking. All the resolution has gone out
of his dear eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in his
face has vanished. He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not
remember anything that has happened to him for a long time past. At
least, he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask. He has had some
terrible shock, and I fear it might tax his poor brain if he were to try
to recall it. Sister Agatha, who is a good creature and a born nurse,
tells me that he raved of dreadful things whilst he was off his head. I
wanted her to tell me what they were; but she would only cross herself,
and say she would never tell; that the ravings of the sick were the
secrets of God, and that if a nurse through her vocation should hear
them, she should respect her trust. She is a sweet, good soul, and the
next day, when she saw I was troubled, she opened up the subject again,
and after saying that she could never mention what my poor dear raved
about, added: 'I can tell you this much, my dear: that it was not about
anything which he has done wrong himself; and you, as his wife to be,
have no cause to be concerned. He has not forgotten you or what he owes
to you. His fear was of great and terrible things, which no mortal can
treat of.' I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous lest my
poor dear should have fallen in love with any other girl. The idea of
_my_ being jealous about Jonathan! And yet, my dear, let me whisper, I
felt a thrill of joy through me when I _knew_ that no other woman was a
cause of trouble. I am now sitting by his bedside, where I can see his
face while he sleeps. He is waking!...
"When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get something
from the pocket; I asked Sister Agatha, and she brought all his things.
I saw that amongst them was his note-book, and was going to ask him to
let me look at it--for I knew then that I might find some clue to his
trouble--but I suppose he must have seen my wish in my eyes, for he sent
me over to the window, saying he wanted to be quite alone for a moment.
Then he called me back, and when I came he had his hand over the
note-book, and he said to me very solemnly:--
"'Wilhelmina'--I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he has
never called me by that name since he asked me to marry him--'you know,
dear, my ideas of the trust between husband and wife: there should be no
secret, no concealment. I have had a great shock, and when I try to
think of what it is I feel my head spin round, and I do not know if it
was all real or the dreaming of a madman. You know I have had brain
fever, and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I do not want to
know it. I want to take up my life here, with our marriage.' For, my
dear, we had decided to be married as soon as the formalities are
complete. 'Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to share my ignorance? Here is
the book. Take it and keep it, read it if you will, but never let me
know; unless, indeed, some solemn duty should come upon me to go back to
the bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here.' He fell
back exhausted, and I put the book under his pillow, and kissed him. I
have asked Sister Agatha to beg the Superior to let our wedding be this
afternoon, and am waiting her reply....
* * * * *
"She has come and told me that the chaplain of the English mission
church has been sent for. We are to be married in an hour, or as soon
after as Jonathan awakes....
* * * * *
"Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very, very
happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was ready, and he
sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He answered his 'I will' firmly
and strongly. I could hardly speak; my heart was so full that even those
words seemed to choke me. The dear sisters were so kind. Please God, I
shall never, never forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities
I have taken upon me. I must tell you of my wedding present. When the
chaplain and the sisters had left me alone with my husband--oh, Lucy, it
is the first time I have written the words 'my husband'--left me alone
with my husband, I took the book from under his pillow, and wrapped it
up in white paper, and tied it with a little bit of pale blue ribbon
which was round my neck, and sealed it over the knot with sealing-wax,
and for my seal I used my wedding ring. Then I kissed it and showed it
to my husband, and told him that I would keep it so, and then it would
be an outward and visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each
other; that I would never open it unless it were for his own dear sake
or for the sake of some stern duty. Then he took my hand in his, and oh,
Lucy, it was the first time he took _his wife's_ hand, and said that it
was the dearest thing in all the wide world, and that he would go
through all the past again to win it, if need be. The poor dear meant to
have said a part of the past, but he cannot think of time yet, and I
shall not wonder if at first he mixes up not only the month, but the
year.
"Well, my dear, what could I say? I could only tell him that I was the
happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I had nothing to give him
except myself, my life, and my trust, and that with these went my love
and duty for all the days of my life. And, my dear, when he kissed me,
and drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it was like a very solemn
pledge between us....
"Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not only because
it is all sweet to me, but because you have been, and are, very dear to
me. It was my privilege to be your friend and guide when you came from
the schoolroom to prepare for the world of life. I want you to see now,
and with the eyes of a very happy wife, whither duty has led me; so that
in your own married life you too may be all happy as I am. My dear,
please Almighty God, your life may be all it promises: a long day of
sunshine, with no harsh wind, no forgetting duty, no distrust. I must
not wish you no pain, for that can never be; but I do hope you will be
_always_ as happy as I am _now_. Good-bye, my dear. I shall post this at
once, and, perhaps, write you very soon again. I must stop, for Jonathan
is waking--I must attend to my husband!
"Your ever-loving
"MINA HARKER."
_Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Harker._
"_Whitby, 30 August._
"My dearest Mina,--
"Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be in your own
home with your husband. I wish you could be coming home soon enough to
stay with us here. The strong air would soon restore Jonathan; it has
quite restored me. I have an appetite like a cormorant, am full of
life, and sleep well. You will be glad to know that I have quite given
up walking in my sleep. I think I have not stirred out of my bed for a
week, that is when I once got into it at night. Arthur says I am getting
fat. By the way, I forgot to tell you that Arthur is here. We have such
walks and drives, and rides, and rowing, and tennis, and fishing
together; and I love him more than ever. He _tells_ me that he loves me
more, but I doubt that, for at first he told me that he couldn't love me
more than he did then. But this is nonsense. There he is, calling to me.
So no more just at present from your loving
"LUCY.
"P. S.--Mother sends her love. She seems better, poor dear. "P. P.
S.--We are to be married on 28 September."
_Dr. Seward's Diary._
_20 August._--The case of Renfield grows even more interesting. He has
now so far quieted that there are spells of cessation from his passion.
For the first week after his attack he was perpetually violent. Then one
night, just as the moon rose, he grew quiet, and kept murmuring to
himself: "Now I can wait; now I can wait." The attendant came to tell
me, so I ran down at once to have a look at him. He was still in the
strait-waistcoat and in the padded room, but the suffused look had gone
from his face, and his eyes had something of their old pleading--I might
almost say, "cringing"--softness. I was satisfied with his present
condition, and directed him to be relieved. The attendants hesitated,
but finally carried out my wishes without protest. It was a strange
thing that the patient had humour enough to see their distrust, for,
coming close to me, he said in a whisper, all the while looking
furtively at them:--
"They think I could hurt you! Fancy _me_ hurting _you_! The fools!"
It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself dissociated
even in the mind of this poor madman from the others; but all the same I
do not follow his thought. Am I to take it that I have anything in
common with him, so that we are, as it were, to stand together; or has
he to gain from me some good so stupendous that my well-being is needful
to him? I must find out later on. To-night he will not speak. Even the
offer of a kitten or even a full-grown cat will not tempt him. He will
only say: "I don't take any stock in cats. I have more to think of now,
and I can wait; I can wait."
After a while I left him. The attendant tells me that he was quiet
until just before dawn, and that then he began to get uneasy, and at
length violent, until at last he fell into a paroxysm which exhausted
him so that he swooned into a sort of coma.
* * * * *
... Three nights has the same thing happened--violent all day then quiet
from moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could get some clue to the cause. It
would almost seem as if there was some influence which came and went.
Happy thought! We shall to-night play sane wits against mad ones. He
escaped before without our help; to-night he shall escape with it. We
shall give him a chance, and have the men ready to follow in case they
are required....
* * * * *
_23 August._--"The unexpected always happens." How well Disraeli knew
life. Our bird when he found the cage open would not fly, so all our
subtle arrangements were for nought. At any rate, we have proved one
thing; that the spells of quietness last a reasonable time. We shall in
future be able to ease his bonds for a few hours each day. I have given
orders to the night attendant merely to shut him in the padded room,
when once he is quiet, until an hour before sunrise. The poor soul's
body will enjoy the relief even if his mind cannot appreciate it. Hark!
The unexpected again! I am called; the patient has once more escaped.
* * * * *
_Later._--Another night adventure. Renfield artfully waited until the
attendant was entering the room to inspect. Then he dashed out past him
and flew down the passage. I sent word for the attendants to follow.
Again he went into the grounds of the deserted house, and we found him
in the same place, pressed against the old chapel door. When he saw me
he became furious, and had not the attendants seized him in time, he
would have tried to kill me. As we were holding him a strange thing
happened. He suddenly redoubled his efforts, and then as suddenly grew
calm. I looked round instinctively, but could see nothing. Then I caught
the patient's eye and followed it, but could trace nothing as it looked
into the moonlit sky except a big bat, which was flapping its silent and
ghostly way to the west. Bats usually wheel and flit about, but this one
seemed to go straight on, as if it knew where it was bound for or had
some intention of its own. The patient grew calmer every instant, and
presently said:--
"You needn't tie me; I shall go quietly!" Without trouble we came back
to the house. I feel there is something ominous in his calm, and shall
not forget this night....
_Lucy Westenra's Diary_
_Hillingham, 24 August._--I must imitate Mina, and keep writing things
down. Then we can have long talks when we do meet. I wonder when it will
be. I wish she were with me again, for I feel so unhappy. Last night I
seemed to be dreaming again just as I was at Whitby. Perhaps it is the
change of air, or getting home again. It is all dark and horrid to me,
for I can remember nothing; but I am full of vague fear, and I feel so
weak and worn out. When Arthur came to lunch he looked quite grieved
when he saw me, and I hadn't the spirit to try to be cheerful. I wonder
if I could sleep in mother's room to-night. I shall make an excuse and
try.
* * * * *
_25 August._--Another bad night. Mother did not seem to take to my
proposal. She seems not too well herself, and doubtless she fears to
worry me. I tried to keep awake, and succeeded for a while; but when the
clock struck twelve it waked me from a doze, so I must have been falling
asleep. There was a sort of scratching or flapping at the window, but I
did not mind it, and as I remember no more, I suppose I must then have
fallen asleep. More bad dreams. I wish I could remember them. This
morning I am horribly weak. My face is ghastly pale, and my throat pains
me. It must be something wrong with my lungs, for I don't seem ever to
get air enough. I shall try to cheer up when Arthur comes, or else I
know he will be miserable to see me so.
_Letter, Arthur Holmwood to Dr. Seward._
"_Albemarle Hotel, 31 August._
"My dear Jack,--
"I want you to do me a favour. Lucy is ill; that is, she has no special
disease, but she looks awful, and is getting worse every day. I have
asked her if there is any cause; I do not dare to ask her mother, for to
disturb the poor lady's mind about her daughter in her present state of
health would be fatal. Mrs. Westenra has confided to me that her doom is
spoken--disease of the heart--though poor Lucy does not know it yet. I
am sure that there is something preying on my dear girl's mind. I am
almost distracted when I think of her; to look at her gives me a pang. I
told her I should ask you to see her, and though she demurred at
first--I know why, old fellow--she finally consented. It will be a
painful task for you, I know, old friend, but it is for _her_ sake, and
I must not hesitate to ask, or you to act. You are to come to lunch at
Hillingham to-morrow, two o'clock, so as not to arouse any suspicion in
Mrs. Westenra, and after lunch Lucy will take an opportunity of being
alone with you. I shall come in for tea, and we can go away together; I
am filled with anxiety, and want to consult with you alone as soon as I
can after you have seen her. Do not fail!
"ARTHUR."
_Telegram, Arthur Holmwood to Seward._
"_1 September._
"Am summoned to see my father, who is worse. Am writing. Write me fully
by to-night's post to Ring. Wire me if necessary."
_Letter from Dr. Seward to Arthur Holmwood._
"_2 September._
"My dear old fellow,--
"With regard to Miss Westenra's health I hasten to let you know at once
that in my opinion there is not any functional disturbance or any malady
that I know of. At the same time, I am not by any means satisfied with
her appearance; she is woefully different from what she was when I saw
her last. Of course you must bear in mind that I did not have full
opportunity of examination such as I should wish; our very friendship
makes a little difficulty which not even medical science or custom can
bridge over. I had better tell you exactly what happened, leaving you to
draw, in a measure, your own conclusions. I shall then say what I have
done and propose doing.
"I found Miss Westenra in seemingly gay spirits. Her mother was present,
and in a few seconds I made up my mind that she was trying all she knew
to mislead her mother and prevent her from being anxious. I have no
doubt she guesses, if she does not know, what need of caution there is.
We lunched alone, and as we all exerted ourselves to be cheerful, we
got, as some kind of reward for our labours, some real cheerfulness
amongst us. Then Mrs. Westenra went to lie down, and Lucy was left with
me. We went into her boudoir, and till we got there her gaiety remained,
for the servants were coming and going. As soon as the door was closed,
however, the mask fell from her face, and she sank down into a chair
with a great sigh, and hid her eyes with her hand. When I saw that her
high spirits had failed, I at once took advantage of her reaction to
make a diagnosis. She said to me very sweetly:--
"'I cannot tell you how I loathe talking about myself.' I reminded her
that a doctor's confidence was sacred, but that you were grievously
anxious about her. She caught on to my meaning at once, and settled that
matter in a word. 'Tell Arthur everything you choose. I do not care for
myself, but all for him!' So I am quite free.
"I could easily see that she is somewhat bloodless, but I could not see
the usual anaemic signs, and by a chance I was actually able to test the
quality of her blood, for in opening a window which was stiff a cord
gave way, and she cut her hand slightly with broken glass. It was a
slight matter in itself, but it gave me an evident chance, and I secured
a few drops of the blood and have analysed them. The qualitative
analysis gives a quite normal condition, and shows, I should infer, in
itself a vigorous state of health. In other physical matters I was quite
satisfied that there is no need for anxiety; but as there must be a
cause somewhere, I have come to the conclusion that it must be something
mental. She complains of difficulty in breathing satisfactorily at
times, and of heavy, lethargic sleep, with dreams that frighten her, but
regarding which she can remember nothing. She says that as a child she
used to walk in her sleep, and that when in Whitby the habit came back,
and that once she walked out in the night and went to East Cliff, where
Miss Murray found her; but she assures me that of late the habit has not
returned. I am in doubt, and so have done the best thing I know of; I
have written to my old friend and master, Professor Van Helsing, of
Amsterdam, who knows as much about obscure diseases as any one in the
world. I have asked him to come over, and as you told me that all things
were to be at your charge, I have mentioned to him who you are and your
relations to Miss Westenra. This, my dear fellow, is in obedience to
your wishes, for I am only too proud and happy to do anything I can for
her. Van Helsing would, I know, do anything for me for a personal
reason, so, no matter on what ground he comes, we must accept his
wishes. He is a seemingly arbitrary man, but this is because he knows
what he is talking about better than any one else. He is a philosopher
and a metaphysician, and one of the most advanced scientists of his day;
and he has, I believe, an absolutely open mind. This, with an iron
nerve, a temper of the ice-brook, an indomitable resolution,
self-command, and toleration exalted from virtues to blessings, and the
kindliest and truest heart that beats--these form his equipment for the
noble work that he is doing for mankind--work both in theory and
practice, for his views are as wide as his all-embracing sympathy. I
tell you these facts that you may know why I have such confidence in
him. I have asked him to come at once. I shall see Miss Westenra
to-morrow again. She is to meet me at the Stores, so that I may not
alarm her mother by too early a repetition of my call.
"Yours always,
"JOHN SEWARD."
_Letter, Abraham Van Helsing, M. D., D. Ph., D. Lit., etc., etc., to Dr.
Seward._
"_2 September._
"My good Friend,--
"When I have received your letter I am already coming to you. By good
fortune I can leave just at once, without wrong to any of those who have
trusted me. Were fortune other, then it were bad for those who have
trusted, for I come to my friend when he call me to aid those he holds
dear. Tell your friend that when that time you suck from my wound so
swiftly the poison of the gangrene from that knife that our other
friend, too nervous, let slip, you did more for him when he wants my
aids and you call for them than all his great fortune could do. But it
is pleasure added to do for him, your friend; it is to you that I come.
Have then rooms for me at the Great Eastern Hotel, so that I may be near
to hand, and please it so arrange that we may see the young lady not too
late on to-morrow, for it is likely that I may have to return here that
night. But if need be I shall come again in three days, and stay longer
if it must. Till then good-bye, my friend John.
"VAN HELSING."
_Letter, Dr. Seward to Hon. Arthur Holmwood._
"_3 September._
"My dear Art,--
"Van Helsing has come and gone. He came on with me to Hillingham, and
found that, by Lucy's discretion, her mother was lunching out, so that
we were alone with her. Van Helsing made a very careful examination of
the patient. He is to report to me, and I shall advise you, for of
course I was not present all the time. He is, I fear, much concerned,
but says he must think. When I told him of our friendship and how you
trust to me in the matter, he said: 'You must tell him all you think.
Tell him what I think, if you can guess it, if you will. Nay, I am not
jesting. This is no jest, but life and death, perhaps more.' I asked
what he meant by that, for he was very serious. This was when we had
come back to town, and he was having a cup of tea before starting on his
return to Amsterdam. He would not give me any further clue. You must not
be angry with me, Art, because his very reticence means that all his
brains are working for her good. He will speak plainly enough when the
time comes, be sure. So I told him I would simply write an account of
our visit, just as if I were doing a descriptive special article for
_The Daily Telegraph_. He seemed not to notice, but remarked that the
smuts in London were not quite so bad as they used to be when he was a
student here. I am to get his report to-morrow if he can possibly make
it. In any case I am to have a letter.
"Well, as to the visit. Lucy was more cheerful than on the day I first
saw her, and certainly looked better. She had lost something of the
ghastly look that so upset you, and her breathing was normal. She was
very sweet to the professor (as she always is), and tried to make him
feel at ease; though I could see that the poor girl was making a hard
struggle for it. I believe Van Helsing saw it, too, for I saw the quick
look under his bushy brows that I knew of old. Then he began to chat of
all things except ourselves and diseases and with such an infinite
geniality that I could see poor Lucy's pretense of animation merge into
reality. Then, without any seeming change, he brought the conversation
gently round to his visit, and suavely said:--
"'My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure because you are so
much beloved. That is much, my dear, ever were there that which I do not
see. They told me you were down in the spirit, and that you were of a
ghastly pale. To them I say: "Pouf!"' And he snapped his fingers at me
and went on: 'But you and I shall show them how wrong they are. How can
he'--and he pointed at me with the same look and gesture as that with
which once he pointed me out to his class, on, or rather after, a
particular occasion which he never fails to remind me of--'know anything
of a young ladies? He has his madams to play with, and to bring them
back to happiness, and to those that love them. It is much to do, and,
oh, but there are rewards, in that we can bestow such happiness. But the
young ladies! He has no wife nor daughter, and the young do not tell
themselves to the young, but to the old, like me, who have known so many
sorrows and the causes of them. So, my dear, we will send him away to
smoke the cigarette in the garden, whiles you and I have little talk all
to ourselves.' I took the hint, and strolled about, and presently the
professor came to the window and called me in. He looked grave, but
said: 'I have made careful examination, but there is no functional
cause. With you I agree that there has been much blood lost; it has
been, but is not. But the conditions of her are in no way anaemic. I have
asked her to send me her maid, that I may ask just one or two question,
that so I may not chance to miss nothing. I know well what she will say.
And yet there is cause; there is always cause for everything. I must go
back home and think. You must send to me the telegram every day; and if
there be cause I shall come again. The disease--for not to be all well
is a disease--interest me, and the sweet young dear, she interest me
too. She charm me, and for her, if not for you or disease, I come.'
"As I tell you, he would not say a word more, even when we were alone.
And so now, Art, you know all I know. I shall keep stern watch. I trust
your poor father is rallying. It must be a terrible thing to you, my
dear old fellow, to be placed in such a position between two people who
are both so dear to you. I know your idea of duty to your father, and
you are right to stick to it; but, if need be, I shall send you word to
come at once to Lucy; so do not be over-anxious unless you hear from
me."
_Dr. Seward's Diary._
_4 September._--Zooephagous patient still keeps up our interest in him.
He had only one outburst and that was yesterday at an unusual time. Just
before the stroke of noon he began to grow restless. The attendant knew
the symptoms, and at once summoned aid. Fortunately the men came at a
run, and were just in time, for at the stroke of noon he became so
violent that it took all their strength to hold him. In about five
minutes, however, he began to get more and more quiet, and finally sank
into a sort of melancholy, in which state he has remained up to now. The
attendant tells me that his screams whilst in the paroxysm were really
appalling; I found my hands full when I got in, attending to some of the
other patients who were frightened by him. Indeed, I can quite
understand the effect, for the sounds disturbed even me, though I was
some distance away. It is now after the dinner-hour of the asylum, and
as yet my patient sits in a corner brooding, with a dull, sullen,
woe-begone look in his face, which seems rather to indicate than to show
something directly. I cannot quite understand it.
* * * * *
_Later._--Another change in my patient. At five o'clock I looked in on
him, and found him seemingly as happy and contented as he used to be. He
was catching flies and eating them, and was keeping note of his capture
by making nail-marks on the edge of the door between the ridges of
padding. When he saw me, he came over and apologised for his bad
conduct, and asked me in a very humble, cringing way to be led back to
his own room and to have his note-book again. I thought it well to
humour him: so he is back in his room with the window open. He has the
sugar of his tea spread out on the window-sill, and is reaping quite a
harvest of flies. He is not now eating them, but putting them into a
box, as of old, and is already examining the corners of his room to find
a spider. I tried to get him to talk about the past few days, for any
clue to his thoughts would be of immense help to me; but he would not
rise. For a moment or two he looked very sad, and said in a sort of
far-away voice, as though saying it rather to himself than to me:--
"All over! all over! He has deserted me. No hope for me now unless I do
it for myself!" Then suddenly turning to me in a resolute way, he said:
"Doctor, won't you be very good to me and let me have a little more
sugar? I think it would be good for me."
"And the flies?" I said.
"Yes! The flies like it, too, and I like the flies; therefore I like
it." And there are people who know so little as to think that madmen do
not argue. I procured him a double supply, and left him as happy a man
as, I suppose, any in the world. I wish I could fathom his mind.
* * * * *
_Midnight._--Another change in him. I had been to see Miss Westenra,
whom I found much better, and had just returned, and was standing at our
own gate looking at the sunset, when once more I heard him yelling. As
his room is on this side of the house, I could hear it better than in
the morning. It was a shock to me to turn from the wonderful smoky
beauty of a sunset over London, with its lurid lights and inky shadows
and all the marvellous tints that come on foul clouds even as on foul
water, and to realise all the grim sternness of my own cold stone
building, with its wealth of breathing misery, and my own desolate heart
to endure it all. I reached him just as the sun was going down, and from
his window saw the red disc sink. As it sank he became less and less
frenzied; and just as it dipped he slid from the hands that held him, an
inert mass, on the floor. It is wonderful, however, what intellectual
recuperative power lunatics have, for within a few minutes he stood up
quite calmly and looked around him. I signalled to the attendants not to
hold him, for I was anxious to see what he would do. He went straight
over to the window and brushed out the crumbs of sugar; then he took his
fly-box, and emptied it outside, and threw away the box; then he shut
the window, and crossing over, sat down on his bed. All this surprised
me, so I asked him: "Are you not going to keep flies any more?"
"No," said he; "I am sick of all that rubbish!" He certainly is a
wonderfully interesting study. I wish I could get some glimpse of his
mind or of the cause of his sudden passion. Stop; there may be a clue
after all, if we can find why to-day his paroxysms came on at high noon
and at sunset. Can it be that there is a malign influence of the sun at
periods which affects certain natures--as at times the moon does others?
We shall see.
_Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam._
"_4 September._--Patient still better to-day."
_Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam._
"_5 September._--Patient greatly improved. Good appetite; sleeps
naturally; good spirits; colour coming back."
_Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam._
"_6 September._--Terrible change for the worse. Come at once; do not
lose an hour. I hold over telegram to Holmwood till have seen you." | The chapter opens with a letter from "Mina Harker" to Lucy, dated August 24 in Budapest. Since Mina's last name has changed, she has clearly married Jonathan already. She tells Lucy that she was shocked when she first arrived at how bad Jonathan was--the nuns tell her that he'd gone through some kind of shock that brought on the brain fever. When Mina spoke to Jonathan for the first time, he handed her his diary and told her that he wasn't sure whether his experiences had been real or not, but that she should keep his diary safe in case they ever needed it for anything. She can read it or not, as she chooses. Mina told him she wouldn't read it unless something happened. After that conversation, a priest came in and married them. Jonathan sat up in bed to say his vows since he still wasn't well enough to go to the church. The chapter continues with Lucy's response to Mina's letter, dated August 30, in Whitby. Lucy congratulates Mina and Jonathan and sends her assurances that she's getting better and stronger every day. Arthur is visiting her in Whitby and they go out fishing and horseback riding every day. She says that her mother, Mrs. Westenra, is getting better, too. Their wedding will take place on September 28. Renfield has calmed down and keeps saying that he can wait. Renfield escapes again, and once more goes back to the chapel of the big house next door. They catch him and bring him right back--this time he doesn't struggle. Lucy is back in London after their trip to Whitby. She feels very weak again and is having trouble sleeping. She's also having weird dreams. Lucy wants her mother to sleep in her bedroom with her, but her mom isn't interested . Lucy remembers hearing a kind of "flapping" noise at the window during the night, but doesn't know what it was from. Probably a bat. She says her face has gotten very pale and she has a sore throat. Arthur asks Dr. Seward to come and visit Lucy because she's sick and he's worried. The letter is followed by a telegram from Arthur to Seward saying that he has to leave Lucy to go see his father, whose illness has gotten worse. Seward tells Arthur that Lucy doesn't have any real official "disease," but that she's certainly not well. He also says that Lucy is trying to keep up appearances and hide her sickness from her mother. He runs a blood test on her , but there's nothing wrong with her blood. She just doesn't seem to have enough of it in her body for some reason. Dr. Seward says he's going to call in an old friend and colleague, Dr. Abraham Van Helsing, who is Dutch and lives in Amsterdam. Van Helsing is an expert in "obscure diseases" and might be able to diagnose Lucy. Van Helsing says he'll come as soon as possible--partly to help Seward's friend and partly to help Seward himself. Apparently Seward saved Van Helsing's life one time. Seward writes again to Arthur to tell him about Van Helsing's visit. He says that Van Helsing was concerned, but didn't make an immediate diagnosis--he said he had to think about it. Van Helsing saw Lucy by herself so that they could speak freely. As a result, Seward can't describe much about their visit. Van Helsing told Seward that he'd come again if needed. Renfield starts getting "restless" in the middle of the day. Later in the afternoon, he says that he has been abandoned and that he must "do it for self" . Then he asks Dr. Seward for more sugar to start collecting flies again. On September 4 and 5, Seward sends a telegram to Van Helsing in Amsterdam to tell him that Lucy has improved, but then on September 6, he sends another saying that she's worse and that he should come at once. |
Actus Quartus. Scoena Prima.
Enter Harrie Hotspurre, Worcester, and Dowglas.
Hot. Well said, my Noble Scot, if speaking truth
In this fine Age, were not thought flatterie,
Such attribution should the Dowglas haue,
As not a Souldiour of this seasons stampe,
Should go so generall currant through the world.
By heauen I cannot flatter: I defie
The Tongues of Soothers. But a Brauer place
In my hearts loue, hath no man then your Selfe.
Nay, taske me to my word: approue me Lord
Dow. Thou art the King of Honor:
No man so potent breathes vpon the ground,
But I will Beard him.
Enter a Messenger.
Hot. Do so, and 'tis well. What letters hast there?
I can but thanke you
Mess. These Letters come from your Father
Hot. Letters from him?
Why comes he not himselfe?
Mes. He cannot come, my Lord,
He is greeuous sicke
Hot. How? haz he the leysure to be sicke now,
In such a iustling time? Who leades his power?
Vnder whose Gouernment come they along?
Mess. His Letters beares his minde, not I his minde
Wor. I prethee tell me, doth he keepe his Bed?
Mess. He did, my Lord, foure dayes ere I set forth:
And at the time of my departure thence,
He was much fear'd by his Physician
Wor. I would the state of time had first beene whole,
Ere he by sicknesse had beene visited:
His health was neuer better worth then now
Hotsp. Sicke now? droope now? this sicknes doth infect
The very Life-blood of our Enterprise,
'Tis catching hither, euen to our Campe.
He writes me here, that inward sicknesse,
And that his friends by deputation
Could not so soone be drawne: nor did he thinke it meet,
To lay so dangerous and deare a trust
On any Soule remou'd, but on his owne.
Yet doth he giue vs bold aduertisement,
That with our small coniunction we should on,
To see how Fortune is dispos'd to vs:
For, as he writes, there is no quailing now,
Because the King is certainely possest
Of all our purposes. What say you to it?
Wor. Your Fathers sicknesse is a mayme to vs
Hotsp. A perillous Gash, a very Limme lopt off:
And yet, in faith, it is not his present want
Seemes more then we shall finde it.
Were it good, to set the exact wealth of all our states
All at one Cast? To set so rich a mayne
On the nice hazard of one doubtfull houre,
It were not good: for therein should we reade
The very Bottome, and the Soule of Hope,
The very List, the very vtmost Bound
Of all our fortunes
Dowg. Faith, and so wee should,
Where now remaines a sweet reuersion.
We may boldly spend, vpon the hope
Of what is to come in:
A comfort of retyrement liues in this
Hotsp. A Randeuous, a Home to flye vnto,
If that the Deuill and Mischance looke bigge
Vpon the Maydenhead of our Affaires
Wor. But yet I would your Father had beene here:
The qualitie and Heire of our Attempt
Brookes no diuision: It will be thought
By some, that know not why he is away,
That wisedome, loyaltie, and meere dislike
Of our proceedings, kept the Earle from hence.
And thinke, how such an apprehension
May turne the tyde of fearefull Faction,
And breede a kinde of question in our cause:
For well you know, wee of the offring side,
Must keepe aloofe from strict arbitrement,
And stop all sight-holes, euery loope, from whence
The eye of reason may prie in vpon vs:
This absence of your Father drawes a Curtaine,
That shewes the ignorant a kinde of feare,
Before not dreamt of
Hotsp. You strayne too farre.
I rather of his absence make this vse:
It lends a Lustre, and more great Opinion,
A larger Dare to your great Enterprize,
Then if the Earle were here: for men must thinke,
If we without his helpe, can make a Head
To push against the Kingdome; with his helpe,
We shall o're-turne it topsie-turuy downe:
Yet all goes well, yet all our ioynts are whole
Dowg. As heart can thinke:
There is not such a word spoke of in Scotland,
At this Dreame of Feare.
Enter Sir Richard Vernon.
Hotsp. My Cousin Vernon, welcome by my Soule
Vern. Pray God my newes be worth a welcome, Lord.
The Earle of Westmerland, seuen thousand strong,
Is marching hither-wards, with Prince Iohn
Hotsp. No harme: what more?
Vern. And further, I haue learn'd,
The King himselfe in person hath set forth,
Or hither-wards intended speedily,
With strong and mightie preparation
Hotsp. He shall be welcome too.
Where is his Sonne,
The nimble-footed Mad-Cap, Prince of Wales,
And his Cumrades, that daft the World aside,
And bid it passe?
Vern. All furnisht, all in Armes,
All plum'd like Estridges, that with the Winde
Bayted like Eagles, hauing lately bath'd,
Glittering in Golden Coates, like Images,
As full of spirit as the Moneth of May,
And gorgeous as the Sunne at Mid-summer,
Wanton as youthfull Goates, wilde as young Bulls.
I saw young Harry with his Beuer on,
His Cushes on his thighes, gallantly arm'd,
Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury,
And vaulted with such ease into his Seat,
As if an Angell dropt downe from the Clouds,
To turne and winde a fierie Pegasus,
And witch the World with Noble Horsemanship
Hotsp. No more, no more,
Worse then the Sunne in March:
This prayse doth nourish Agues: let them come.
They come like Sacrifices in their trimme,
And to the fire-ey'd Maid of smoakie Warre,
All hot, and bleeding, will wee offer them:
The mayled Mars shall on his Altar sit
Vp to the eares in blood. I am on fire,
To heare this rich reprizall is so nigh,
And yet not ours. Come, let me take my Horse,
Who is to beare me like a Thunder-bolt,
Against the bosome of the Prince of Wales.
Harry to Harry, shall not Horse to Horse
Meete, and ne're part, till one drop downe a Coarse?
Oh, that Glendower were come
Ver. There is more newes:
I learned in Worcester, as I rode along,
He cannot draw his Power this fourteene dayes
Dowg. That's the worst Tidings that I heare of
yet
Wor. I by my faith, that beares a frosty sound
Hotsp. What may the Kings whole Battaile reach
vnto?
Ver. To thirty thousand
Hot. Forty let it be,
My Father and Glendower being both away,
The powres of vs, may serue so great a day.
Come, let vs take a muster speedily:
Doomesday is neere; dye all, dye merrily
Dow. Talke not of dying, I am out of feare
Of death, or deaths hand, for this one halfe yeare.
Exeunt. Omnes.
Scaena Secunda.
Enter Falstaffe and Bardolph.
Falst. Bardolph, get thee before to Couentry, fill me a
Bottle of Sack, our Souldiers shall march through: wee'le
to Sutton-cop-hill to Night
Bard. Will you giue me Money, Captaine?
Falst. Lay out, lay out
Bard. This Bottle makes an Angell
Falst. And if it doe, take it for thy labour: and if it
make twentie, take them all, Ile answere the Coynage.
Bid my Lieutenant Peto meete me at the Townes end
Bard. I will Captaine: farewell.
Enter.
Falst. If I be not asham'd of my Souldiers, I am a
sowc't-Gurnet: I haue mis-vs'd the Kings Presse damnably.
I haue got, in exchange of a hundred and fiftie
Souldiers, three hundred and odde Pounds. I presse me
none but good House-holders, Yeomens Sonnes: enquire
me out contracted Batchelers, such as had beene ask'd
twice on the Banes: such a Commoditie of warme slaues,
as had as lieue heare the Deuill, as a Drumme; such as
feare the report of a Caliuer, worse then a struck-Foole,
or a hurt wilde-Ducke. I prest me none but such Tostes
and Butter, with Hearts in their Bellyes no bigger then
Pinnes heads, and they haue bought out their seruices:
And now, my whole Charge consists of Ancients, Corporals,
Lieutenants, Gentlemen of Companies, Slaues as
ragged a Lazarus in the painted Cloth, where the Gluttons
Dogges licked his Sores; and such, as indeed were
neuer Souldiers, but dis-carded vniust Seruingmen, younger
Sonnes to younger Brothers, reuolted Tapsters and
Ostlers, Trade-falne, the Cankers of a calme World, and
long Peace, tenne times more dis-honorable ragged,
then an old-fac'd Ancient; and such haue I to fill vp the
roomes of them that haue bought out their seruices: that
you would thinke, that I had a hundred and fiftie totter'd
Prodigalls, lately come from Swine-keeping, from eating
Draffe and Huskes. A mad fellow met me on the way,
and told me, I had vnloaded all the Gibbets, and prest the
dead bodyes. No eye hath seene such skar-Crowes: Ile
not march through Couentry with them, that's flat. Nay,
and the Villaines march wide betwixt the Legges, as if
they had Gyues on; for indeede, I had the most of them
out of Prison. There's not a Shirt and a halfe in all my
Company: and the halfe Shirt is two Napkins tackt together,
and throwne ouer the shoulders like a Heralds
Coat, without sleeues: and the Shirt, to say the truth,
stolne from my Host of S[aint]. Albones, or the Red-Nose
Inne-keeper of Dauintry. But that's all one, they'le finde
Linnen enough on euery Hedge.
Enter the Prince, and the Lord of Westmerland.
Prince. How now blowne Iack? how now Quilt?
Falst. What Hal? How now mad Wag, what a Deuill
do'st thou in Warwickshire? My good Lord of Westmerland,
I cry you mercy, I thought your Honour had already
beene at Shrewsbury
West. 'Faith, Sir Iohn, 'tis more then time that I were
there, and you too: but my Powers are there alreadie.
The King, I can tell you, lookes for vs all: we must away
all to Night
Falst. Tut, neuer feare me, I am as vigilant as a Cat, to
steale Creame
Prince. I thinke to steale Creame indeed, for thy theft
hath alreadie made thee Butter: but tell me, Iack, whose
fellowes are these that come after?
Falst. Mine, Hal, mine
Prince. I did neuer see such pittifull Rascals
Falst. Tut, tut, good enough to tosse: foode for Powder,
foode for Powder: they'le fill a Pit, as well as better:
tush man, mortall men, mortall men
Westm. I, but Sir Iohn, me thinkes they are exceeding
poore and bare, too beggarly
Falst. Faith, for their pouertie, I know not where they
had that; and for their barenesse, I am sure they neuer
learn'd that of me
Prince. No, Ile be sworne, vnlesse you call three fingers
on the Ribbes bare. But sirra, make haste, Percy is already
in the field
Falst. What, is the King encamp'd?
Westm. Hee is, Sir Iohn, I feare wee shall stay too
long
Falst. Well, to the latter end of a Fray, and the beginning
of a Feast, fits a dull fighter, and a keene Guest.
Exeunt.
Scoena Tertia.
Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Dowglas, and Vernon.
Hotsp. Wee'le fight with him to Night
Worc. It may not be
Dowg. You giue him then aduantage
Vern. Not a whit
Hotsp. Why say you so? lookes he not for supply?
Vern. So doe wee
Hotsp. His is certaine, ours is doubtfull
Worc. Good Cousin be aduis'd, stirre not to night
Vern. Doe not, my Lord
Dowg. You doe not counsaile well:
You speake it out of feare, and cold heart
Vern. Doe me no slander, Dowglas: by my Life,
And I dare well maintaine it with my Life,
If well-respected Honor bid me on,
I hold as little counsaile with weake feare,
As you, my Lord, or any Scot that this day liues.
Let it be seene to morrow in the Battell,
Which of vs feares
Dowg. Yea, or to night
Vern. Content
Hotsp. To night, say I
Vern. Come, come, it may not be.
I wonder much, being me[n] of such great leading as you are
That you fore-see not what impediments
Drag backe our expedition: certaine Horse
Of my Cousin Vernons are not yet come vp,
Your Vnckle Worcesters Horse came but to day,
And now their pride and mettall is asleepe,
Their courage with hard labour tame and dull,
That not a Horse is halfe the halfe of himselfe
Hotsp. So are the Horses of the Enemie
In generall iourney bated, and brought low:
The better part of ours are full of rest
Worc. The number of the King exceedeth ours:
For Gods sake, Cousin, stay till all come in.
The Trumpet sounds a Parley. Enter Sir Walter Blunt.
Blunt. I come with gracious offers from the King,
If you vouchsafe me hearing, and respect
Hotsp. Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt:
And would to God you were of our determination.
Some of vs loue you well: and euen those some
Enuie your great deseruings, and good name,
Because you are not of our qualitie,
But stand against vs like an Enemie
Blunt. And Heauen defend, but still I should stand so,
So long as out of Limit, and true Rule,
You stand against anoynted Maiestie.
But to my Charge.
The King hath sent to know
The nature of your Griefes, and whereupon
You coniure from the Brest of Ciuill Peace,
Such bold Hostilitie, teaching his dutious Land
Audacious Crueltie. If that the King
Haue any way your good Deserts forgot,
Which he confesseth to be manifold,
He bids you name your Griefes, and with all speed
You shall haue your desires, with interest;
And Pardon absolute for your selfe, and these,
Herein mis-led, by your suggestion
Hotsp. The King is kinde:
And well wee know, the King
Knowes at what time to promise, when to pay.
My Father, my Vnckle, and my selfe,
Did giue him that same Royaltie he weares:
And when he was not sixe and twentie strong,
Sicke in the Worlds regard, wretched, and low,
A poore vnminded Out-law, sneaking home,
My Father gaue him welcome to the shore:
And when he heard him sweare, and vow to God,
He came but to be Duke of Lancaster,
To sue his Liuerie, and begge his Peace,
With teares of Innocencie, and tearmes of Zeale;
My Father, in kinde heart and pitty mou'd,
Swore him assistance, and perform'd it too.
Now, when the Lords and Barons of the Realme
Perceiu'd Northumberland did leane to him,
The more and lesse came in with Cap and Knee,
Met him in Boroughs, Cities, Villages,
Attended him on Bridges, stood in Lanes,
Layd Gifts before him, proffer'd him their Oathes,
Gaue him their Heires, as Pages followed him,
Euen at the heeles, in golden multitudes.
He presently, as Greatnesse knowes it selfe,
Step me a little higher then his Vow
Made to my Father, while his blood was poore,
Vpon the naked shore at Rauenspurgh:
And now (forsooth) takes on him to reforme
Some certaine Edicts, and some strait Decrees,
That lay too heauie on the Common-wealth;
Cryes out vpon abuses, seemes to weepe
Ouer his Countries Wrongs: and by this Face,
This seeming Brow of Iustice, did he winne
The hearts of all that hee did angle for.
Proceeded further, cut me off the Heads
Of all the Fauorites, that the absent King
In deputation left behinde him heere,
When hee was personall in the Irish Warre
Blunt. Tut, I came not to hear this
Hotsp. Then to the point.
In short time after, hee depos'd the King.
Soone after that, depriu'd him of his Life:
And in the neck of that, task't the whole State.
To make that worse, suffer'd his Kinsman March,
Who is, if euery Owner were plac'd,
Indeede his King, to be engag'd in Wales,
There, without Ransome, to lye forfeited:
Disgrac'd me in my happie Victories,
Sought to intrap me by intelligence,
Rated my Vnckle from the Councell-Boord,
In rage dismiss'd my Father from the Court,
Broke Oath on Oath, committed Wrong on Wrong,
And in conclusion, droue vs to seeke out
This Head of safetie; and withall, to prie
Into his Title: the which wee finde
Too indirect, for long continuance
Blunt. Shall I returne this answer to the King?
Hotsp. Not so, Sir Walter.
Wee'le with-draw a while:
Goe to the King, and let there be impawn'd
Some suretie for a safe returne againe,
And in the Morning early shall my Vnckle
Bring him our purpose: and so farewell
Blunt. I would you would accept of Grace and Loue
Hotsp. And't may be, so wee shall
Blunt. Pray Heauen you doe.
Exeunt.
Scena Quarta.
Enter the Arch-Bishop of Yorke, and Sir Michell.
Arch. Hie, good Sir Michell, beare this sealed Briefe
With winged haste to the Lord Marshall,
This to my Cousin Scroope, and all the rest
To whom they are directed.
If you knew how much they doe import,
You would make haste
Sir Mich. My good Lord, I guesse their tenor
Arch. Like enough you doe.
To morrow, good Sir Michell, is a day,
Wherein the fortune of ten thousand men
Must bide the touch. For Sir, at Shrewsbury,
As I am truly giuen to vnderstand,
The King, with mightie and quick-raysed Power,
Meetes with Lord Harry: and I feare, Sir Michell,
What with the sicknesse of Northumberland,
Whose Power was in the first proportion;
And what with Owen Glendowers absence thence,
Who with them was rated firmely too,
And comes not in, ouer-rul'd by Prophecies,
I feare the Power of Percy is too weake,
To wage an instant tryall with the King
Sir Mich. Why, my good Lord, you need not feare,
There is Dowglas, and Lord Mortimer
Arch. No, Mortimer is not there
Sir Mic. But there is Mordake, Vernon, Lord Harry Percy,
And there is my Lord of Worcester,
And a Head of gallant Warriors,
Noble Gentlemen
Arch. And so there is, but yet the King hath Drawne
The speciall head of all the Land together:
The Prince of Wales, Lord Iohn of Lancaster,
The Noble Westmerland, and warlike Blunt;
And many moe Corriuals, and deare men
Of estimation, and command in Armes
Sir M. Doubt not my Lord, he shall be well oppos'd
Arch. I hope no lesse? Yet needfull 'tis to feare,
And to preuent the worst, Sir Michell speed;
For if Lord Percy thriue not, ere the King
Dismisse his power, he meanes to visit vs:
For he hath heard of our Confederacie,
And, 'tis but Wisedome to make strong against him:
Therefore make hast, I must go write againe
To other Friends: and so farewell, Sir Michell.
Exeunt. | Scene One At the rebel camp near Shrewsbury, a messenger brings Hotspur news that his father is sick. This bodes poorly for the rebels, since they need the full support of Northumberland to maintain their military force. Additionally, Northumberland is needed to help lead the troops into battle, since his persona is well known and provides inspiration to the men. Hotspur's cousin Vernon arrives with news that the king and young Hal are leading armies against the gathered forces. Hotspur is eager to meet Hal in battle, and comments that when they meet only one of them will survive. However, Vernon has even worse news in that Glyndwr is unable to assemble his army as fast as needed, and will be unlikely to join the rebels at Shrewsbury. Act Four, Scene Two Falstaff has assembled an array of troops who are mostly incompetent. In order to earn money for himself, he conscripted young lovers and men of some wealth who did not want to fight, and who were therefore willing to pay him a fee for being released from duty. The remainder of his infantry is mostly made up of former prisoners and other poor men. Hal arrives, and wonders at the "pitiful rascals" . He tells Falstaff to hurry up and meet the army at Shrewsbury, where the king has already set up camp. Falstaff comments that he will arrive at the end of the fray, yet at the beginning of the feast, implying he will reap the spoils of the war for himself. Act Four, Scene Three Hotspur and Douglas are arguing with Vernon and Worcester about when to lead the battle charge. They want to attack that night already, but Vernon counsels them to wait until the next morning for reinforcements to arrive. Sir Walter Blunt arrives as a messenger from King Henry. He begs the rebels to tell him what their grievance is, and says the king will make amends to them if their complaints are valid. Hotspur tells Blunt that Bolingbroke had only returned to England to reclaim his title to Lancaster, not to overthrow Richard II. Hotspur claims to recognize the claim to the throne made by the Earl of March. Blunt asks if that is the message he should take to Henry IV. Hotspur instead tells Blunt that his uncle Worcester will visit the king the next day, and that he will withdraw for a short while. Act Four, Scene Four The Archbishop of York is afraid that Hotspur will be unable to defeat King Henry. Since he is a part of the rebellion, the Archbishop is scared that Henry will come after him as soon as Hotspur loses. To protect himself, the Archbishop sends Sir Michael with letters to his close friends and noblemen, begging them for military support. |
The Sunday of the next week was a wonderful day, and Chad Newsome had
let his friend know in advance that he had provided for it. There had
already been a question of his taking him to see the great Gloriani,
who was at home on Sunday afternoons and at whose house, for the most
part, fewer bores were to be met than elsewhere; but the project,
through some accident, had not had instant effect, and now revived in
happier conditions. Chad had made the point that the celebrated
sculptor had a queer old garden, for which the weather--spring at last
frank and fair--was propitious; and two or three of his other allusions
had confirmed for Strether the expectation of something special. He
had by this time, for all introductions and adventures, let himself
recklessly go, cherishing the sense that whatever the young man showed
him he was showing at least himself. He could have wished indeed, so
far as this went, that Chad were less of a mere cicerone; for he was
not without the impression--now that the vision of his game, his plan,
his deep diplomacy, did recurrently assert itself--of his taking refuge
from the realities of their intercourse in profusely dispensing, as our
friend mentally phrased et panem et circenses. Our friend continued to
feel rather smothered in flowers, though he made in his other moments
the almost angry inference that this was only because of his odious
ascetic suspicion of any form of beauty. He periodically assured
himself--for his reactions were sharp--that he shouldn't reach the
truth of anything till he had at least got rid of that.
He had known beforehand that Madame de Vionnet and her daughter would
probably be on view, an intimation to that effect having constituted
the only reference again made by Chad to his good friends from the
south. The effect of Strether's talk about them with Miss Gostrey had
been quite to consecrate his reluctance to pry; something in the very
air of Chad's silence--judged in the light of that talk--offered it to
him as a reserve he could markedly match. It shrouded them about with
he scarce knew what, a consideration, a distinction; he was in presence
at any rate--so far as it placed him there--of ladies; and the one
thing that was definite for him was that they themselves should be, to
the extent of his responsibility, in presence of a gentleman. Was it
because they were very beautiful, very clever, or even very good--was
it for one of these reasons that Chad was, so to speak, nursing his
effect? Did he wish to spring them, in the Woollett phrase, with a
fuller force--to confound his critic, slight though as yet the
criticism, with some form of merit exquisitely incalculable? The most
the critic had at all events asked was whether the persons in question
were French; and that enquiry had been but a proper comment on the
sound of their name. "Yes. That is no!" had been Chad's reply; but he
had immediately added that their English was the most charming in the
world, so that if Strether were wanting an excuse for not getting on
with them he wouldn't in the least find one. Never in fact had
Strether--in the mood into which the place had quickly launched
him--felt, for himself, less the need of an excuse. Those he might
have found would have been, at the worst, all for the others, the
people before him, in whose liberty to be as they were he was aware
that he positively rejoiced. His fellow guests were multiplying, and
these things, their liberty, their intensity, their variety, their
conditions at large, were in fusion in the admirable medium of the
scene.
The place itself was a great impression--a small pavilion, clear-faced
and sequestered, an effect of polished parquet, of fine white panel and
spare sallow gilt, of decoration delicate and rare, in the heart of the
Faubourg Saint-Germain and on the edge of a cluster of gardens attached
to old noble houses. Far back from streets and unsuspected by crowds,
reached by a long passage and a quiet court, it was as striking to the
unprepared mind, he immediately saw, as a treasure dug up; giving him
too, more than anything yet, the note of the range of the immeasurable
town and sweeping away, as by a last brave brush, his usual landmarks
and terms. It was in the garden, a spacious cherished remnant, out of
which a dozen persons had already passed, that Chad's host presently
met them while the tall bird-haunted trees, all of a twitter with the
spring and the weather, and the high party-walls, on the other side of
which grave hotels stood off for privacy, spoke of survival,
transmission, association, a strong indifferent persistent order. The
day was so soft that the little party had practically adjourned to the
open air but the open air was in such conditions all a chamber of
state. Strether had presently the sense of a great convent, a convent
of missions, famous for he scarce knew what, a nursery of young
priests, of scattered shade, of straight alleys and chapel-bells, that
spread its mass in one quarter; he had the sense of names in the air,
of ghosts at the windows, of signs and tokens, a whole range of
expression, all about him, too thick for prompt discrimination.
This assault of images became for a moment, in the address of the
distinguished sculptor, almost formidable: Gloriani showed him, in
such perfect confidence, on Chad's introduction of him, a fine worn
handsome face, a face that was like an open letter in a foreign tongue.
With his genius in his eyes, his manners on his lips, his long career
behind him and his honours and rewards all round, the great artist, in
the course of a single sustained look and a few words of delight at
receiving him, affected our friend as a dazzling prodigy of type.
Strether had seen in museums--in the Luxembourg as well as, more
reverently, later on, in the New York of the billionaires--the work of
his hand; knowing too that after an earlier time in his native Rome he
had migrated, in mid-career, to Paris, where, with a personal lustre
almost violent, he shone in a constellation: all of which was more
than enough to crown him, for his guest, with the light, with the
romance, of glory. Strether, in contact with that element as he had
never yet so intimately been, had the consciousness of opening to it,
for the happy instant, all the windows of his mind, of letting this
rather grey interior drink in for once the sun of a clime not marked in
his old geography. He was to remember again repeatedly the medal-like
Italian face, in which every line was an artist's own, in which time
told only as tone and consecration; and he was to recall in especial,
as the penetrating radiance, as the communication of the illustrious
spirit itself, the manner in which, while they stood briefly, in
welcome and response, face to face, he was held by the sculptor's eyes.
He wasn't soon to forget them, was to think of them, all unconscious,
unintending, preoccupied though they were, as the source of the deepest
intellectual sounding to which he had ever been exposed. He was in
fact quite to cherish his vision of it, to play with it in idle hours;
only speaking of it to no one and quite aware he couldn't have spoken
without appearing to talk nonsense. Was what it had told him or what
it had asked him the greater of the mysteries? Was it the most special
flare, unequalled, supreme, of the aesthetic torch, lighting that
wondrous world for ever, or was it above all the long straight shaft
sunk by a personal acuteness that life had seasoned to steel? Nothing
on earth could have been stranger and no one doubtless more surprised
than the artist himself, but it was for all the world to Strether just
then as if in the matter of his accepted duty he had positively been on
trial. The deep human expertness in Gloriani's charming smile--oh the
terrible life behind it!--was flashed upon him as a test of his stuff.
Chad meanwhile, after having easily named his companion, had still more
easily turned away and was already greeting other persons present. He
was as easy, clever Chad, with the great artist as with his obscure
compatriot, and as easy with every one else as with either: this fell
into its place for Strether and made almost a new light, giving him, as
a concatenation, something more he could enjoy. He liked Gloriani, but
should never see him again; of that he was sufficiently sure. Chad
accordingly, who was wonderful with both of them, was a kind of link
for hopeless fancy, an implication of possibilities--oh if everything
had been different! Strether noted at all events that he was thus on
terms with illustrious spirits, and also that--yes, distinctly--he
hadn't in the least swaggered about it. Our friend hadn't come there
only for this figure of Abel Newsome's son, but that presence
threatened to affect the observant mind as positively central. Gloriani
indeed, remembering something and excusing himself, pursued Chad to
speak to him, and Strether was left musing on many things. One of them
was the question of whether, since he had been tested, he had passed.
Did the artist drop him from having made out that he wouldn't do? He
really felt just to-day that he might do better than usual. Hadn't he
done well enough, so far as that went, in being exactly so dazzled? and
in not having too, as he almost believed, wholly hidden from his host
that he felt the latter's plummet? Suddenly, across the garden, he saw
little Bilham approach, and it was a part of the fit that was on him
that as their eyes met he guessed also HIS knowledge. If he had said to
him on the instant what was uppermost he would have said: "HAVE I
passed?--for of course I know one has to pass here." Little Bilham
would have reassured him, have told him that he exaggerated, and have
adduced happily enough the argument of little Bilham's own very
presence; which, in truth, he could see, was as easy a one as
Gloriani's own or as Chad's. He himself would perhaps then after a
while cease to be frightened, would get the point of view for some of
the faces--types tremendously alien, alien to Woollett--that he had
already begun to take in. Who were they all, the dispersed groups and
couples, the ladies even more unlike those of Woollett than the
gentlemen?--this was the enquiry that, when his young friend had
greeted him, he did find himself making.
"Oh they're every one--all sorts and sizes; of course I mean within
limits, though limits down perhaps rather more than limits up. There
are always artists--he's beautiful and inimitable to the cher confrere;
and then gros bonnets of many kinds--ambassadors, cabinet ministers,
bankers, generals, what do I know? even Jews. Above all always some
awfully nice women--and not too many; sometimes an actress, an artist,
a great performer--but only when they're not monsters; and in
particular the right femmes du monde. You can fancy his history on that
side--I believe it's fabulous: they NEVER give him up. Yet he keeps
them down: no one knows how he manages; it's too beautiful and bland.
Never too many--and a mighty good thing too; just a perfect choice. But
there are not in any way many bores; it has always been so; he has some
secret. It's extraordinary. And you don't find it out. He's the same
to every one. He doesn't ask questions.'
"Ah doesn't he?" Strether laughed.
Bilham met it with all his candour. "How then should I be here?
"Oh for what you tell me. You're part of the perfect choice."
Well, the young man took in the scene. "It seems rather good to-day."
Strether followed the direction of his eyes. "Are they all, this time,
femmes du monde?"
Little Bilham showed his competence. "Pretty well."
This was a category our friend had a feeling for; a light, romantic and
mysterious, on the feminine element, in which he enjoyed for a little
watching it. "Are there any Poles?"
His companion considered. "I think I make out a 'Portuguee.' But I've
seen Turks."
Strether wondered, desiring justice. "They seem--all the women--very
harmonious."
"Oh in closer quarters they come out!" And then, while Strether was
aware of fearing closer quarters, though giving himself again to the
harmonies, "Well," little Bilham went on, "it IS at the worst rather
good, you know. If you like it, you feel it, this way, that shows
you're not in the least out But you always know things," he handsomely
added, "immediately."
Strether liked it and felt it only too much; so "I say, don't lay traps
for me!" he rather helplessly murmured.
"Well," his companion returned, "he's wonderfully kind to us."
"To us Americans you mean?"
"Oh no--he doesn't know anything about THAT. That's half the battle
here--that you can never hear politics. We don't talk them. I mean to
poor young wretches of all sorts. And yet it's always as charming as
this; it's as if, by something in the air, our squalor didn't show. It
puts us all back--into the last century."
"I'm afraid," Strether said, amused, "that it puts me rather forward:
oh ever so far!"
"Into the next? But isn't that only," little Bilham asked, "because
you're really of the century before?"
"The century before the last? Thank you!" Strether laughed. "If I ask
you about some of the ladies it can't be then that I may hope, as such
a specimen of the rococo, to please them."
"On the contrary they adore--we all adore here--the rococo, and where
is there a better setting for it than the whole thing, the pavilion and
the garden, together? There are lots of people with collections,"
little Bilham smiled as he glanced round. "You'll be secured!"
It made Strether for a moment give himself again to contemplation.
There were faces he scarce knew what to make of. Were they charming or
were they only strange? He mightn't talk politics, yet he suspected a
Pole or two. The upshot was the question at the back of his head from
the moment his friend had joined him. "Have Madame de Vionnet and her
daughter arrived?"
"I haven't seen them yet, but Miss Gostrey has come. She's in the
pavilion looking at objects. One can see SHE'S a collector," little
Bilham added without offence.
"Oh yes, she's a collector, and I knew she was to come. Is Madame de
Vionnet a collector?" Strether went on.
"Rather, I believe; almost celebrated." The young man met, on it, a
little, his friend's eyes. "I happen to know--from Chad, whom I saw
last night--that they've come back; but only yesterday. He wasn't
sure--up to the last. This, accordingly," little Bilham went on, "will
be--if they ARE here--their first appearance after their return."
Strether, very quickly, turned these things over. "Chad told you last
night? To me, on our way here, he said nothing about it."
"But did you ask him?"
Strether did him the justice. "I dare say not."
"Well," said little Bilham, "you're not a person to whom it's easy to
tell things you don't want to know. Though it is easy, I admit--it's
quite beautiful," he benevolently added, "when you do want to."
Strether looked at him with an indulgence that matched his
intelligence. "Is that the deep reasoning on which--about these
ladies--you've been yourself so silent?"
Little Bilham considered the depth of his reasoning. "I haven't been
silent. I spoke of them to you the other day, the day we sat together
after Chad's tea-party."
Strether came round to it. "They then are the virtuous attachment?"
"I can only tell you that it's what they pass for. But isn't that
enough? What more than a vain appearance does the wisest of us know? I
commend you," the young man declared with a pleasant emphasis, "the
vain appearance."
Strether looked more widely round, and what he saw, from face to face,
deepened the effect of his young friend's words. "Is it so good?"
"Magnificent."
Strether had a pause. "The husband's dead?"
"Dear no. Alive."
"Oh!" said Strether. After which, as his companion laughed: "How then
can it be so good?"
"You'll see for yourself. One does see."
"Chad's in love with the daughter?"
"That's what I mean."
Strether wondered. "Then where's the difficulty?"
"Why, aren't you and I--with our grander bolder ideas?"
"Oh mine--!" Strether said rather strangely. But then as if to
attenuate: "You mean they won't hear of Woollett?"
Little Bilham smiled. "Isn't that just what you must see about?"
It had brought them, as she caught the last words, into relation with
Miss Barrace, whom Strether had already observed--as he had never
before seen a lady at a party--moving about alone. Coming within sound
of them she had already spoken, and she took again, through her
long-handled glass, all her amused and amusing possession. "How much,
poor Mr. Strether, you seem to have to see about! But you can't say,"
she gaily declared, "that I don't do what I can to help you. Mr.
Waymarsh is placed. I've left him in the house with Miss Gostrey."
"The way," little Bilham exclaimed, "Mr. Strether gets the ladies to
work for him! He's just preparing to draw in another; to pounce--don't
you see him?--on Madame de Vionnet."
"Madame de Vionnet? Oh, oh, oh!" Miss Barrace cried in a wonderful
crescendo. There was more in it, our friend made out, than met the
ear. Was it after all a joke that he should be serious about anything?
He envied Miss Barrace at any rate her power of not being. She seemed,
with little cries and protests and quick recognitions, movements like
the darts of some fine high-feathered free-pecking bird, to stand
before life as before some full shop-window. You could fairly hear, as
she selected and pointed, the tap of her tortoise-shell against the
glass. "It's certain that we do need seeing about; only I'm glad it's
not I who have to do it. One does, no doubt, begin that way; then
suddenly one finds that one has given it up. It's too much, it's too
difficult. You're wonderful, you people," she continued to Strether,
"for not feeling those things--by which I mean impossibilities. You
never feel them. You face them with a fortitude that makes it a lesson
to watch you."
"Ah but"--little Bilham put it with discouragement--"what do we achieve
after all? We see about you and report--when we even go so far as
reporting. But nothing's done."
"Oh you, Mr. Bilham," she replied as with an impatient rap on the
glass, "you're not worth sixpence! You come over to convert the
savages--for I know you verily did, I remember you--and the savages
simply convert YOU."
"Not even!" the young man woefully confessed: "they haven't gone
through that form. They've simply--the cannibals!--eaten me; converted
me if you like, but converted me into food. I'm but the bleached bones
of a Christian."
"Well then there we are! Only"--and Miss Barrace appealed again to
Strether--"don't let it discourage you. You'll break down soon enough,
but you'll meanwhile have had your moments. Il faut en avoir. I
always like to see you while you last. And I'll tell you who WILL
last."
"Waymarsh?"--he had already taken her up.
She laughed out as at the alarm of it. "He'll resist even Miss
Gostrey: so grand is it not to understand. He's wonderful."
"He is indeed," Strether conceded. "He wouldn't tell me of this
affair--only said he had an engagement; but with such a gloom, you must
let me insist, as if it had been an engagement to be hanged. Then
silently and secretly he turns up here with you. Do you call THAT
'lasting'?"
"Oh I hope it's lasting!" Miss Barrace said. "But he only, at the
best, bears with me. He doesn't understand--not one little scrap. He's
delightful. He's wonderful," she repeated.
"Michelangelesque!"--little Bilham completed her meaning. "He IS a
success. Moses, on the ceiling, brought down to the floor;
overwhelming, colossal, but somehow portable."
"Certainly, if you mean by portable," she returned, "looking so well in
one's carriage. He's too funny beside me in his comer; he looks like
somebody, somebody foreign and famous, en exil; so that people
wonder--it's very amusing--whom I'm taking about. I show him Paris,
show him everything, and he never turns a hair. He's like the Indian
chief one reads about, who, when he comes up to Washington to see the
Great Father, stands wrapt in his blanket and gives no sign. I might
be the Great Father--from the way he takes everything." She was
delighted at this hit of her identity with that personage--it fitted so
her character; she declared it was the title she meant henceforth to
adopt. "And the way he sits, too, in the corner of my room, only
looking at my visitors very hard and as if he wanted to start
something! They wonder what he does want to start. But he's
wonderful," Miss Barrace once more insisted. "He has never started
anything yet."
It presented him none the less, in truth, to her actual friends, who
looked at each other in intelligence, with frank amusement on Bilham's
part and a shade of sadness on Strether's. Strether's sadness
sprang--for the image had its grandeur--from his thinking how little he
himself was wrapt in his blanket, how little, in marble halls, all too
oblivious of the Great Father, he resembled a really majestic
aboriginal. But he had also another reflexion. "You've all of you here
so much visual sense that you've somehow all 'run' to it. There are
moments when it strikes one that you haven't any other."
"Any moral," little Bilham explained, watching serenely, across the
garden, the several femmes du monde. "But Miss Barrace has a moral
distinction," he kindly continued; speaking as if for Strether's
benefit not less than for her own.
"HAVE you?" Strether, scarce knowing what he was about, asked of her
almost eagerly.
"Oh not a distinction"--she was mightily amused at his tone--"Mr.
Bilham's too good. But I think I may say a sufficiency. Yes, a
sufficiency. Have you supposed strange things of me?"--and she fixed
him again, through all her tortoise-shell, with the droll interest of
it. "You ARE all indeed wonderful. I should awfully disappoint you. I
do take my stand on my sufficiency. But I know, I confess," she went
on, "strange people. I don't know how it happens; I don't do it on
purpose; it seems to be my doom--as if I were always one of their
habits: it's wonderful! I dare say moreover," she pursued with an
interested gravity, "that I do, that we all do here, run too much to
mere eye. But how can it be helped? We're all looking at each
other--and in the light of Paris one sees what things resemble. That's
what the light of Paris seems always to show. It's the fault of the
light of Paris--dear old light!"
"Dear old Paris!" little Bilham echoed.
"Everything, every one shows," Miss Barrace went on.
"But for what they really are?" Strether asked.
"Oh I like your Boston 'reallys'! But sometimes--yes."
"Dear old Paris then!" Strether resignedly sighed while for a moment
they looked at each other. Then he broke out: "Does Madame de Vionnet
do that? I mean really show for what she is?"
Her answer was prompt. "She's charming. She's perfect."
"Then why did you a minute ago say 'Oh, oh, oh!' at her name?"
She easily remembered. "Why just because--! She's wonderful."
"Ah she too?"--Strether had almost a groan.
But Miss Barrace had meanwhile perceived relief. "Why not put your
question straight to the person who can answer it best?"
"No," said little Bilham; "don't put any question; wait, rather--it
will be much more fun--to judge for yourself. He has come to take you
to her." | One week later, Strether goes with Chad to a party at the home of Gloriani, a famous sculptor, in order to meet Madame de Vionnet and her daughter, who will also be there. The home and garden impress Strether very strongly, and he feels under a formidable "assault of images." Gloriani, too, makes a deep impression on him; the sculptor's eyes seem to Strether "the source of the deepest intellectual sounding to which he had ever been exposed." It is in this atmosphere and among people "tremendously alien, alien to Woollett" that Strether asks Bilham if Madame de Vionnet and her daughter are "the virtuous attachment." Bilham acknowledges this and tells Strether that Madame de Vionnet's husband is not dead. Strether assumes, then, that it is the daughter whom Chad loves. Miss Barrace comes up to join the conversation, and they speak further about Madame de Vionnet and Paris. Chad then returns to take Strether to Madame de Vionnet. |
SCENE 5.
The same. A garden.
[Enter LAUNCELOT and JESSICA.]
LAUNCELOT.
Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father are to
be laid upon the children; therefore, I promise you, I fear you.
I was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation of
the matter; therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you are
damn'd. There is but one hope in it that can do you any good, and
that is but a kind of bastard hope neither.
JESSICA.
And what hope is that, I pray thee?
LAUNCELOT.
Marry, you may partly hope that your father got you not,
that you are not the Jew's daughter.
JESSICA.
That were a kind of bastard hope indeed; so the sins of my
mother should be visited upon me.
LAUNCELOT.
Truly then I fear you are damn'd both by father and
mother; thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into
Charybdis, your mother; well, you are gone both ways.
JESSICA.
I shall be saved by my husband; he hath made me a Christian.
LAUNCELOT.
Truly, the more to blame he; we were Christians enow
before, e'en as many as could well live one by another. This
making of Christians will raise the price of hogs; if we grow all
to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on the
coals for money.
JESSICA.
I'll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say; here he comes.
[Enter LORENZO.]
LORENZO.
I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot, if you
thus get my wife into corners.
JESSICA.
Nay, you need nor fear us, Lorenzo; Launcelot and I are
out; he tells me flatly there's no mercy for me in heaven,
because I am a Jew's daughter; and he says you are no good member
of the commonwealth, for in converting Jews to Christians you
raise the price of pork.
LORENZO.
I shall answer that better to the commonwealth than you
can the getting up of the negro's belly; the Moor is with child
by you, Launcelot.
LAUNCELOT.
It is much that the Moor should be more than reason; but
if she be less than an honest woman, she is indeed more than I
took her for.
LORENZO.
How every fool can play upon the word! I think the best
grace of wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow
commendable in none only but parrots. Go in, sirrah; bid them
prepare for dinner.
LAUNCELOT.
That is done, sir; they have all stomachs.
LORENZO.
Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! Then bid them
prepare dinner.
LAUNCELOT.
That is done too, sir, only 'cover' is the word.
LORENZO.
Will you cover, then, sir?
LAUNCELOT.
Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty.
LORENZO.
Yet more quarrelling with occasion! Wilt thou show the
whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray thee understand a
plain man in his plain meaning: go to thy fellows, bid them cover
the table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner.
LAUNCELOT.
For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for the meat,
sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why,
let it be as humours and conceits shall govern.
[Exit.]
LORENZO.
O dear discretion, how his words are suited!
The fool hath planted in his memory
An army of good words; and I do know
A many fools that stand in better place,
Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word
Defy the matter. How cheer'st thou, Jessica?
And now, good sweet, say thy opinion,
How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife?
JESSICA.
Past all expressing. It is very meet
The Lord Bassanio live an upright life,
For, having such a blessing in his lady,
He finds the joys of heaven here on earth;
And if on earth he do not merit it,
In reason he should never come to heaven.
Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match,
And on the wager lay two earthly women,
And Portia one, there must be something else
Pawn'd with the other; for the poor rude world
Hath not her fellow.
LORENZO.
Even such a husband
Hast thou of me as she is for a wife.
JESSICA.
Nay, but ask my opinion too of that.
LORENZO.
I will anon; first let us go to dinner.
JESSICA.
Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach.
LORENZO.
No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk;
Then howsoe'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things
I shall digest it.
JESSICA.
Well, I'll set you forth.
[Exeunt.] | In a garden at Belmont, the jester Launcelot is teasing Jessica that he fears that she is damned because she is a Jew , but she reminds Launcelot that her husband Lorenzo has made her a Christian by marrying her. "The more to blame he," Launcelot jokes: "This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs." Lorenzo joins them then and pretends jealousy on finding his wife alone with Launcelot. He orders Launcelot to go inside and "bid them prepare for dinner." He suddenly turns to Jessica then and asks her, "How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife?" Jessica praises Portia as being without equal on earth. Lorenzo jokingly responds, "Even such a husband / Hast thou of me as she is for a wife." Jessica is ready to comment to his teasing when he urges her to save her comments "for table-talk." So with loving jests, they go in to dinner. |
SCENE IV.
The same. A Room of state in the Palace. A banquet prepared.
[Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords, and
Attendants.]
MACBETH.
You know your own degrees: sit down. At first
And last the hearty welcome.
LORDS.
Thanks to your majesty.
MACBETH.
Ourself will mingle with society,
And play the humble host.
Our hostess keeps her state; but, in best time,
We will require her welcome.
LADY MACBETH.
Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends;
For my heart speaks they are welcome.
MACBETH.
See, they encounter thee with their hearts' thanks.--
Both sides are even: here I'll sit i' the midst:
[Enter first Murderer to the door.]
Be large in mirth; anon we'll drink a measure
The table round.--There's blood upon thy face.
MURDERER.
'Tis Banquo's then.
MACBETH.
'Tis better thee without than he within.
Is he despatch'd?
MURDERER.
My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him.
MACBETH.
Thou art the best o' the cut-throats; yet he's good
That did the like for Fleance: if thou didst it,
Thou art the nonpareil.
MURDERER.
Most royal sir,
Fleance is 'scap'd.
MACBETH.
Then comes my fit again: I had else been perfect;
Whole as the marble, founded as the rock;
As broad and general as the casing air:
But now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in
To saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo's safe?
MURDERER.
Ay, my good lord: safe in a ditch he bides,
With twenty trenched gashes on his head;
The least a death to nature.
MACBETH.
Thanks for that:
There the grown serpent lies; the worm that's fled
Hath nature that in time will venom breed,
No teeth for the present.--Get thee gone; to-morrow
We'll hear, ourselves, again.
[Exit Murderer.]
LADY MACBETH.
My royal lord,
You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold
That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a-making,
'Tis given with welcome; to feed were best at home;
From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony;
Meeting were bare without it.
MACBETH.
Sweet remembrancer!--
Now, good digestion wait on appetite,
And health on both!
LENNOX.
May't please your highness sit.
[The Ghost of Banquo rises, and sits in Macbeth's place.]
MACBETH.
Here had we now our country's honor roof'd,
Were the grac'd person of our Banquo present;
Who may I rather challenge for unkindness
Than pity for mischance!
ROSS.
His absence, sir,
Lays blame upon his promise. Please't your highness
To grace us with your royal company?
MACBETH.
The table's full.
LENNOX.
Here is a place reserv'd, sir.
MACBETH.
Where?
LENNOX.
Here, my good lord. What is't that moves your highness?
MACBETH.
Which of you have done this?
LORDS.
What, my good lord?
MACBETH.
Thou canst not say I did it: never shake
Thy gory locks at me.
ROSS.
Gentlemen, rise; his highness is not well.
LADY MACBETH.
Sit, worthy friends:--my lord is often thus,
And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat;
The fit is momentary; upon a thought
He will again be well: if much you note him,
You shall offend him, and extend his passion:
Feed, and regard him not.--Are you a man?
MACBETH.
Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that
Which might appal the devil.
LADY MACBETH.
O proper stuff!
This is the very painting of your fear:
This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said,
Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws, and starts,--
Impostors to true fear,--would well become
A woman's story at a winter's fire,
Authoriz'd by her grandam. Shame itself!
Why do you make such faces? When all's done,
You look but on a stool.
MACBETH.
Pr'ythee, see there! behold! look! lo! how say you?--
Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too.--
If charnel houses and our graves must send
Those that we bury back, our monuments
Shall be the maws of kites.
[Ghost disappears.]
LADY MACBETH.
What, quite unmann'd in folly?
MACBETH.
If I stand here, I saw him.
LADY MACBETH.
Fie, for shame!
MACBETH.
Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time,
Ere humane statute purg'd the gentle weal;
Ay, and since too, murders have been perform'd
Too terrible for the ear: the time has been,
That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end; but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
And push us from our stools: this is more strange
Than such a murder is.
LADY MACBETH.
My worthy lord,
Your noble friends do lack you.
MACBETH.
I do forget:--
Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends;
I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing
To those that know me. Come, love and health to all;
Then I'll sit down.--Give me some wine, fill full.--
I drink to the general joy o' the whole table,
And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss:
Would he were here! to all, and him, we thirst,
And all to all.
LORDS.
Our duties, and the pledge.
[Ghost rises again.]
MACBETH.
Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which thou dost glare with!
LADY MACBETH.
Think of this, good peers,
But as a thing of custom: 'tis no other,
Only it spoils the pleasure of the time.
MACBETH.
What man dare, I dare:
Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,
The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger;
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves
Shall never tremble: or be alive again,
And dare me to the desert with thy sword;
If trembling I inhabit then, protest me
The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow!
Unreal mockery, hence!
[Ghost disappears.]
Why, so;--being gone,
I am a man again.--Pray you, sit still.
LADY MACBETH.
You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting,
With most admir'd disorder.
MACBETH.
Can such things be,
And overcome us like a summer's cloud,
Without our special wonder? You make me strange
Even to the disposition that I owe,
When now I think you can behold such sights,
And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks,
When mine are blanch'd with fear.
ROSS.
What sights, my lord?
LADY MACBETH.
I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse;
Question enrages him: at once, good-night:--
Stand not upon the order of your going,
But go at once.
LENNOX.
Good-night; and better health
Attend his majesty!
LADY MACBETH.
A kind good-night to all!
[Exeunt all Lords and Atendants.]
MACBETH.
It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood:
Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak;
Augurs, and understood relations, have
By magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth
The secret'st man of blood.--What is the night?
LADY MACBETH.
Almost at odds with morning, which is which.
MACBETH.
How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his person
At our great bidding?
LADY MACBETH.
Did you send to him, sir?
MACBETH.
I hear it by the way; but I will send:
There's not a one of them but in his house
I keep a servant fee'd. I will to-morrow,
(And betimes I will) to the weird sisters:
More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know,
By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good,
All causes shall give way: I am in blood
Step't in so far that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er:
Strange things I have in head, that will to hand;
Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd.
LADY MACBETH.
You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
MACBETH.
Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse
Is the initiate fear that wants hard use:--
We are yet but young in deed.
[Exeunt.] | The banquet has begun and Macbeth warmly invites his guests to sit down and partake of the food. One of the murderers enters the room and tells Macbeth that Banquo is dead but Fleance still lives. Macbeth becomes angry and afraid. He orders the murderer to come back tomorrow to discuss the capture and murder of Fleance. Lady Macbeth urges her husband to come back to the table and be a merry host so that no suspicion is aroused. Macbeth asks the assembly why Banquo is not present, and the noblemen reply that he has broken his promise to attend the feast. At this point, Banquo's ghost enters the room and sits in Macbeth's place. Macbeth turns pale after seeing this apparition and shouts at it to leave. Since only he can see the ghost, the rest of the assembly thinks that Macbeth has gone mad. Lady Macbeth tries to cover up the situation by saying that her husband occasionally has such fits of delirium. She whispers to Macbeth that he should stop shouting lest the noblemen begin to suspect him of the crime. Macbeth, however, is surprised that his wife cannot see the ghost and madly points and gestures at the seemingly empty seat. Banquo's ghost leaves the banquet, but not after creating utter chaos in the castle. Lady Macbeth scolds her husband for disrupting the mirth of the banquet with all of his screaming. Alone after all of his guests have departed, Macbeth tells his wife that he fears for his life now that Banquo's ghost roams the area. In addition, he is troubled that Macduff did not attend the feast. Macbeth has spies in every nobleman's household except that of Macduff. He decides to visit the weird sisters the next day to hear more of their prophecies, whether good or bad |
This wandering race, sever'd from other men,
Boast yet their intercourse with human arts;
The seas, the woods, the deserts, which they haunt,
Find them acquainted with their secret treasures:
And unregarded herbs, and flowers, and blossoms,
Display undreamt-of powers when gather'd by them.
--The Jew
Our history must needs retrograde for the space of a few pages, to
inform the reader of certain passages material to his understanding the
rest of this important narrative. His own intelligence may indeed have
easily anticipated that, when Ivanhoe sunk down, and seemed abandoned by
all the world, it was the importunity of Rebecca which prevailed on her
father to have the gallant young warrior transported from the lists to
the house which for the time the Jews inhabited in the suburbs of Ashby.
It would not have been difficult to have persuaded Isaac to this step in
any other circumstances, for his disposition was kind and grateful. But
he had also the prejudices and scrupulous timidity of his persecuted
people, and those were to be conquered.
"Holy Abraham!" he exclaimed, "he is a good youth, and my heart bleeds
to see the gore trickle down his rich embroidered hacqueton, and his
corslet of goodly price--but to carry him to our house!--damsel, hast
thou well considered?--he is a Christian, and by our law we may not deal
with the stranger and Gentile, save for the advantage of our commerce."
"Speak not so, my dear father," replied Rebecca; "we may not indeed mix
with them in banquet and in jollity; but in wounds and in misery, the
Gentile becometh the Jew's brother."
"I would I knew what the Rabbi Jacob Ben Tudela would opine on it,"
replied Isaac;--"nevertheless, the good youth must not bleed to death.
Let Seth and Reuben bear him to Ashby."
"Nay, let them place him in my litter," said Rebecca; "I will mount one
of the palfreys."
"That were to expose thee to the gaze of those dogs of Ishmael and of
Edom," whispered Isaac, with a suspicious glance towards the crowd of
knights and squires. But Rebecca was already busied in carrying her
charitable purpose into effect, and listed not what he said, until
Isaac, seizing the sleeve of her mantle, again exclaimed, in a hurried
voice--"Beard of Aaron!--what if the youth perish!--if he die in our
custody, shall we not be held guilty of his blood, and be torn to pieces
by the multitude?"
"He will not die, my father," said Rebecca, gently extricating herself
from the grasp of Isaac "he will not die unless we abandon him; and if
so, we are indeed answerable for his blood to God and to man."
"Nay," said Isaac, releasing his hold, "it grieveth me as much to see
the drops of his blood, as if they were so many golden byzants from mine
own purse; and I well know, that the lessons of Miriam, daughter of the
Rabbi Manasses of Byzantium whose soul is in Paradise, have made thee
skilful in the art of healing, and that thou knowest the craft of herbs,
and the force of elixirs. Therefore, do as thy mind giveth thee--thou
art a good damsel, a blessing, and a crown, and a song of rejoicing unto
me and unto my house, and unto the people of my fathers."
The apprehensions of Isaac, however, were not ill founded; and the
generous and grateful benevolence of his daughter exposed her, on her
return to Ashby, to the unhallowed gaze of Brian de Bois-Guilbert. The
Templar twice passed and repassed them on the road, fixing his bold
and ardent look on the beautiful Jewess; and we have already seen the
consequences of the admiration which her charms excited when accident
threw her into the power of that unprincipled voluptuary.
Rebecca lost no time in causing the patient to be transported to their
temporary dwelling, and proceeded with her own hands to examine and
to bind up his wounds. The youngest reader of romances and romantic
ballads, must recollect how often the females, during the dark ages, as
they are called, were initiated into the mysteries of surgery, and how
frequently the gallant knight submitted the wounds of his person to her
cure, whose eyes had yet more deeply penetrated his heart.
But the Jews, both male and female, possessed and practised the medical
science in all its branches, and the monarchs and powerful barons of the
time frequently committed themselves to the charge of some experienced
sage among this despised people, when wounded or in sickness. The aid
of the Jewish physicians was not the less eagerly sought after, though
a general belief prevailed among the Christians, that the Jewish Rabbins
were deeply acquainted with the occult sciences, and particularly with
the cabalistical art, which had its name and origin in the studies of
the sages of Israel. Neither did the Rabbins disown such acquaintance
with supernatural arts, which added nothing (for what could add aught?)
to the hatred with which their nation was regarded, while it diminished
the contempt with which that malevolence was mingled. A Jewish magician
might be the subject of equal abhorrence with a Jewish usurer, but he
could not be equally despised. It is besides probable, considering the
wonderful cures they are said to have performed, that the Jews possessed
some secrets of the healing art peculiar to themselves, and which, with
the exclusive spirit arising out of their condition, they took great
care to conceal from the Christians amongst whom they dwelt.
The beautiful Rebecca had been heedfully brought up in all the knowledge
proper to her nation, which her apt and powerful mind had retained,
arranged, and enlarged, in the course of a progress beyond her years,
her sex, and even the age in which she lived. Her knowledge of medicine
and of the healing art had been acquired under an aged Jewess, the
daughter of one of their most celebrated doctors, who loved Rebecca as
her own child, and was believed to have communicated to her secrets,
which had been left to herself by her sage father at the same time, and
under the same circumstances. The fate of Miriam had indeed been to fall
a sacrifice to the fanaticism of the times; but her secrets had survived
in her apt pupil.
Rebecca, thus endowed with knowledge as with beauty, was universally
revered and admired by her own tribe, who almost regarded her as one of
those gifted women mentioned in the sacred history. Her father himself,
out of reverence for her talents, which involuntarily mingled itself
with his unbounded affection, permitted the maiden a greater liberty
than was usually indulged to those of her sex by the habits of her
people, and was, as we have just seen, frequently guided by her opinion,
even in preference to his own.
When Ivanhoe reached the habitation of Isaac, he was still in a state
of unconsciousness, owing to the profuse loss of blood which had taken
place during his exertions in the lists. Rebecca examined the wound,
and having applied to it such vulnerary remedies as her art prescribed,
informed her father that if fever could be averted, of which the great
bleeding rendered her little apprehensive, and if the healing balsam of
Miriam retained its virtue, there was nothing to fear for his guest's
life, and that he might with safety travel to York with them on the
ensuing day. Isaac looked a little blank at this annunciation. His
charity would willingly have stopped short at Ashby, or at most would
have left the wounded Christian to be tended in the house where he
was residing at present, with an assurance to the Hebrew to whom it
belonged, that all expenses should be duly discharged. To this, however,
Rebecca opposed many reasons, of which we shall only mention two that
had peculiar weight with Isaac. The one was, that she would on no
account put the phial of precious balsam into the hands of another
physician even of her own tribe, lest that valuable mystery should be
discovered; the other, that this wounded knight, Wilfred of Ivanhoe, was
an intimate favourite of Richard Coeur-de-Lion, and that, in case the
monarch should return, Isaac, who had supplied his brother John with
treasure to prosecute his rebellious purposes, would stand in no small
need of a powerful protector who enjoyed Richard's favour.
"Thou art speaking but sooth, Rebecca," said Isaac, giving way to these
weighty arguments--"it were an offending of Heaven to betray the secrets
of the blessed Miriam; for the good which Heaven giveth, is not rashly
to be squandered upon others, whether it be talents of gold and
shekels of silver, or whether it be the secret mysteries of a wise
physician--assuredly they should be preserved to those to whom
Providence hath vouchsafed them. And him whom the Nazarenes of England
call the Lion's Heart, assuredly it were better for me to fall into the
hands of a strong lion of Idumea than into his, if he shall have got
assurance of my dealing with his brother. Wherefore I will lend ear to
thy counsel, and this youth shall journey with us unto York, and our
house shall be as a home to him until his wounds shall be healed. And if
he of the Lion Heart shall return to the land, as is now noised abroad,
then shall this Wilfred of Ivanhoe be unto me as a wall of defence, when
the king's displeasure shall burn high against thy father. And if he
doth not return, this Wilfred may natheless repay us our charges when he
shall gain treasure by the strength of his spear and of his sword, even
as he did yesterday and this day also. For the youth is a good youth,
and keepeth the day which he appointeth, and restoreth that which he
borroweth, and succoureth the Israelite, even the child of my father's
house, when he is encompassed by strong thieves and sons of Belial."
It was not until evening was nearly closed that Ivanhoe was restored to
consciousness of his situation. He awoke from a broken slumber, under
the confused impressions which are naturally attendant on the recovery
from a state of insensibility. He was unable for some time to recall
exactly to memory the circumstances which had preceded his fall in the
lists, or to make out any connected chain of the events in which he had
been engaged upon the yesterday. A sense of wounds and injury, joined
to great weakness and exhaustion, was mingled with the recollection
of blows dealt and received, of steeds rushing upon each other,
overthrowing and overthrown--of shouts and clashing of arms, and all the
heady tumult of a confused fight. An effort to draw aside the curtain of
his couch was in some degree successful, although rendered difficult by
the pain of his wound.
To his great surprise he found himself in a room magnificently
furnished, but having cushions instead of chairs to rest upon, and in
other respects partaking so much of Oriental costume, that he began to
doubt whether he had not, during his sleep, been transported back
again to the land of Palestine. The impression was increased, when,
the tapestry being drawn aside, a female form, dressed in a rich habit,
which partook more of the Eastern taste than that of Europe, glided
through the door which it concealed, and was followed by a swarthy
domestic.
As the wounded knight was about to address this fair apparition, she
imposed silence by placing her slender finger upon her ruby lips, while
the attendant, approaching him, proceeded to uncover Ivanhoe's side, and
the lovely Jewess satisfied herself that the bandage was in its place,
and the wound doing well. She performed her task with a graceful and
dignified simplicity and modesty, which might, even in more civilized
days, have served to redeem it from whatever might seem repugnant to
female delicacy. The idea of so young and beautiful a person engaged in
attendance on a sick-bed, or in dressing the wound of one of a different
sex, was melted away and lost in that of a beneficent being contributing
her effectual aid to relieve pain, and to avert the stroke of death.
Rebecca's few and brief directions were given in the Hebrew language
to the old domestic; and he, who had been frequently her assistant in
similar cases, obeyed them without reply.
The accents of an unknown tongue, however harsh they might have sounded
when uttered by another, had, coming from the beautiful Rebecca,
the romantic and pleasing effect which fancy ascribes to the charms
pronounced by some beneficent fairy, unintelligible, indeed, to the ear,
but, from the sweetness of utterance, and benignity of aspect, which
accompanied them, touching and affecting to the heart. Without making
an attempt at further question, Ivanhoe suffered them in silence to take
the measures they thought most proper for his recovery; and it was not
until those were completed, and this kind physician about to retire,
that his curiosity could no longer be suppressed.--"Gentle maiden," he
began in the Arabian tongue, with which his Eastern travels had rendered
him familiar, and which he thought most likely to be understood by the
turban'd and caftan'd damsel who stood before him--"I pray you, gentle
maiden, of your courtesy---"
But here he was interrupted by his fair physician, a smile which she
could scarce suppress dimpling for an instant a face, whose general
expression was that of contemplative melancholy. "I am of England, Sir
Knight, and speak the English tongue, although my dress and my lineage
belong to another climate."
"Noble damsel,"--again the Knight of Ivanhoe began; and again Rebecca
hastened to interrupt him.
"Bestow not on me, Sir Knight," she said, "the epithet of noble. It is
well you should speedily know that your handmaiden is a poor Jewess, the
daughter of that Isaac of York, to whom you were so lately a good and
kind lord. It well becomes him, and those of his household, to render to
you such careful tendance as your present state necessarily demands."
I know not whether the fair Rowena would have been altogether satisfied
with the species of emotion with which her devoted knight had hitherto
gazed on the beautiful features, and fair form, and lustrous eyes, of
the lovely Rebecca; eyes whose brilliancy was shaded, and, as it were,
mellowed, by the fringe of her long silken eyelashes, and which a
minstrel would have compared to the evening star darting its rays
through a bower of jessamine. But Ivanhoe was too good a Catholic to
retain the same class of feelings towards a Jewess. This Rebecca had
foreseen, and for this very purpose she had hastened to mention her
father's name and lineage; yet--for the fair and wise daughter of Isaac
was not without a touch of female weakness--she could not but sigh
internally when the glance of respectful admiration, not altogether
unmixed with tenderness, with which Ivanhoe had hitherto regarded his
unknown benefactress, was exchanged at once for a manner cold, composed,
and collected, and fraught with no deeper feeling than that which
expressed a grateful sense of courtesy received from an unexpected
quarter, and from one of an inferior race. It was not that Ivanhoe's
former carriage expressed more than that general devotional homage which
youth always pays to beauty; yet it was mortifying that one word should
operate as a spell to remove poor Rebecca, who could not be supposed
altogether ignorant of her title to such homage, into a degraded class,
to whom it could not be honourably rendered.
But the gentleness and candour of Rebecca's nature imputed no fault to
Ivanhoe for sharing in the universal prejudices of his age and religion.
On the contrary the fair Jewess, though sensible her patient now
regarded her as one of a race of reprobation, with whom it was
disgraceful to hold any beyond the most necessary intercourse, ceased
not to pay the same patient and devoted attention to his safety and
convalescence. She informed him of the necessity they were under of
removing to York, and of her father's resolution to transport him
thither, and tend him in his own house until his health should be
restored. Ivanhoe expressed great repugnance to this plan, which he
grounded on unwillingness to give farther trouble to his benefactors.
"Was there not," he said, "in Ashby, or near it, some Saxon franklin,
or even some wealthy peasant, who would endure the burden of a wounded
countryman's residence with him until he should be again able to bear
his armour?--Was there no convent of Saxon endowment, where he could be
received?--Or could he not be transported as far as Burton, where he was
sure to find hospitality with Waltheoff, the Abbot of St Withold's, to
whom he was related?"
"Any, the worst of these harbourages," said Rebecca, with a melancholy
smile, "would unquestionably be more fitting for your residence than the
abode of a despised Jew; yet, Sir Knight, unless you would dismiss your
physician, you cannot change your lodging. Our nation, as you well know,
can cure wounds, though we deal not in inflicting them; and in our own
family, in particular, are secrets which have been handed down since
the days of Solomon, and of which you have already experienced the
advantages. No Nazarene--I crave your forgiveness, Sir Knight--no
Christian leech, within the four seas of Britain, could enable you to
bear your corslet within a month."
"And how soon wilt THOU enable me to brook it?" said Ivanhoe,
impatiently.
"Within eight days, if thou wilt be patient and conformable to my
directions," replied Rebecca.
"By Our Blessed Lady," said Wilfred, "if it be not a sin to name her
here, it is no time for me or any true knight to be bedridden; and if
thou accomplish thy promise, maiden, I will pay thee with my casque full
of crowns, come by them as I may."
"I will accomplish my promise," said Rebecca, "and thou shalt bear thine
armour on the eighth day from hence, if thou will grant me but one boon
in the stead of the silver thou dost promise me."
"If it be within my power, and such as a true Christian knight may yield
to one of thy people," replied Ivanhoe, "I will grant thy boon blithely
and thankfully."
"Nay," answered Rebecca, "I will but pray of thee to believe
henceforward that a Jew may do good service to a Christian, without
desiring other guerdon than the blessing of the Great Father who made
both Jew and Gentile."
"It were sin to doubt it, maiden," replied Ivanhoe; "and I repose myself
on thy skill without further scruple or question, well trusting you will
enable me to bear my corslet on the eighth day. And now, my kind leech,
let me enquire of the news abroad. What of the noble Saxon Cedric and
his household?--what of the lovely Lady--" He stopt, as if unwilling
to speak Rowena's name in the house of a Jew--"Of her, I mean, who was
named Queen of the tournament?"
"And who was selected by you, Sir Knight, to hold that dignity, with
judgment which was admired as much as your valour," replied Rebecca.
The blood which Ivanhoe had lost did not prevent a flush from crossing
his cheek, feeling that he had incautiously betrayed a deep interest in
Rowena by the awkward attempt he had made to conceal it.
"It was less of her I would speak," said he, "than of Prince John; and I
would fain know somewhat of a faithful squire, and why he now attends me
not?"
"Let me use my authority as a leech," answered Rebecca, "and enjoin you
to keep silence, and avoid agitating reflections, whilst I apprize you
of what you desire to know. Prince John hath broken off the tournament,
and set forward in all haste towards York, with the nobles, knights, and
churchmen of his party, after collecting such sums as they could wring,
by fair means or foul, from those who are esteemed the wealthy of the
land. It is said he designs to assume his brother's crown."
"Not without a blow struck in its defence," said Ivanhoe, raising
himself upon the couch, "if there were but one true subject in England I
will fight for Richard's title with the best of them--ay, one or two, in
his just quarrel!"
"But that you may be able to do so," said Rebecca touching his shoulder
with her hand, "you must now observe my directions, and remain quiet."
"True, maiden," said Ivanhoe, "as quiet as these disquieted times will
permit--And of Cedric and his household?"
"His steward came but brief while since," said the Jewess, "panting with
haste, to ask my father for certain monies, the price of wool the growth
of Cedric's flocks, and from him I learned that Cedric and Athelstane
of Coningsburgh had left Prince John's lodging in high displeasure, and
were about to set forth on their return homeward."
"Went any lady with them to the banquet?" said Wilfred.
"The Lady Rowena," said Rebecca, answering the question with more
precision than it had been asked--"The Lady Rowena went not to the
Prince's feast, and, as the steward reported to us, she is now on her
journey back to Rotherwood, with her guardian Cedric. And touching your
faithful squire Gurth---"
"Ha!" exclaimed the knight, "knowest thou his name?--But thou dost," he
immediately added, "and well thou mayst, for it was from thy hand, and,
as I am now convinced, from thine own generosity of spirit, that he
received but yesterday a hundred zecchins."
"Speak not of that," said Rebecca, blushing deeply; "I see how easy it
is for the tongue to betray what the heart would gladly conceal."
"But this sum of gold," said Ivanhoe, gravely, "my honour is concerned
in repaying it to your father."
"Let it be as thou wilt," said Rebecca, "when eight days have passed
away; but think not, and speak not now, of aught that may retard thy
recovery."
"Be it so, kind maiden," said Ivanhoe; "I were most ungrateful to
dispute thy commands. But one word of the fate of poor Gurth, and I have
done with questioning thee."
"I grieve to tell thee, Sir Knight," answered the Jewess, "that he is in
custody by the order of Cedric."--And then observing the distress which
her communication gave to Wilfred, she instantly added, "But the steward
Oswald said, that if nothing occurred to renew his master's displeasure
against him, he was sure that Cedric would pardon Gurth, a faithful
serf, and one who stood high in favour, and who had but committed
this error out of the love which he bore to Cedric's son. And he said,
moreover, that he and his comrades, and especially Wamba the Jester,
were resolved to warn Gurth to make his escape by the way, in case
Cedric's ire against him could not be mitigated."
"Would to God they may keep their purpose!" said Ivanhoe; "but it seems
as if I were destined to bring ruin on whomsoever hath shown kindness to
me. My king, by whom I was honoured and distinguished, thou seest
that the brother most indebted to him is raising his arms to grasp his
crown;--my regard hath brought restraint and trouble on the fairest of
her sex;--and now my father in his mood may slay this poor bondsman
but for his love and loyal service to me!--Thou seest, maiden, what an
ill-fated wretch thou dost labour to assist; be wise, and let me go, ere
the misfortunes which track my footsteps like slot-hounds, shall involve
thee also in their pursuit."
"Nay," said Rebecca, "thy weakness and thy grief, Sir Knight, make thee
miscalculate the purposes of Heaven. Thou hast been restored to thy
country when it most needed the assistance of a strong hand and a true
heart, and thou hast humbled the pride of thine enemies and those of thy
king, when their horn was most highly exalted, and for the evil which
thou hast sustained, seest thou not that Heaven has raised thee a helper
and a physician, even among the most despised of the land?--Therefore,
be of good courage, and trust that thou art preserved for some marvel
which thine arm shall work before this people. Adieu--and having taken
the medicine which I shall send thee by the hand of Reuben, compose
thyself again to rest, that thou mayest be the more able to endure the
journey on the succeeding day."
Ivanhoe was convinced by the reasoning, and obeyed the directions, of
Rebecca. The drought which Reuben administered was of a sedative
and narcotic quality, and secured the patient sound and undisturbed
slumbers. In the morning his kind physician found him entirely free from
feverish symptoms, and fit to undergo the fatigue of a journey.
He was deposited in the horse-litter which had brought him from the
lists, and every precaution taken for his travelling with ease. In one
circumstance only even the entreaties of Rebecca were unable to secure
sufficient attention to the accommodation of the wounded knight. Isaac,
like the enriched traveller of Juvenal's tenth satire, had ever the fear
of robbery before his eyes, conscious that he would be alike accounted
fair game by the marauding Norman noble, and by the Saxon outlaw. He
therefore journeyed at a great rate, and made short halts, and shorter
repasts, so that he passed by Cedric and Athelstane who had several
hours the start of him, but who had been delayed by their protracted
feasting at the convent of Saint Withold's. Yet such was the virtue of
Miriam's balsam, or such the strength of Ivanhoe's constitution, that
he did not sustain from the hurried journey that inconvenience which his
kind physician had apprehended.
In another point of view, however, the Jew's haste proved somewhat more
than good speed. The rapidity with which he insisted on travelling, bred
several disputes between him and the party whom he had hired to attend
him as a guard. These men were Saxons, and not free by any means from
the national love of ease and good living which the Normans stigmatized
as laziness and gluttony. Reversing Shylock's position, they had
accepted the employment in hopes of feeding upon the wealthy Jew, and
were very much displeased when they found themselves disappointed,
by the rapidity with which he insisted on their proceeding. They
remonstrated also upon the risk of damage to their horses by these
forced marches. Finally, there arose betwixt Isaac and his satellites a
deadly feud, concerning the quantity of wine and ale to be allowed for
consumption at each meal. And thus it happened, that when the alarm of
danger approached, and that which Isaac feared was likely to come upon
him, he was deserted by the discontented mercenaries on whose protection
he had relied, without using the means necessary to secure their
attachment.
In this deplorable condition the Jew, with his daughter and her wounded
patient, were found by Cedric, as has already been noticed, and soon
afterwards fell into the power of De Bracy and his confederates.
Little notice was at first taken of the horse-litter, and it might have
remained behind but for the curiosity of De Bracy, who looked into it
under the impression that it might contain the object of his enterprise,
for Rowena had not unveiled herself. But De Bracy's astonishment was
considerable, when he discovered that the litter contained a wounded
man, who, conceiving himself to have fallen into the power of Saxon
outlaws, with whom his name might be a protection for himself and his
friends, frankly avowed himself to be Wilfred of Ivanhoe.
The ideas of chivalrous honour, which, amidst his wildness and levity,
never utterly abandoned De Bracy, prohibited him from doing the knight
any injury in his defenceless condition, and equally interdicted his
betraying him to Front-de-Boeuf, who would have had no scruples to put
to death, under any circumstances, the rival claimant of the fief of
Ivanhoe. On the other hand, to liberate a suitor preferred by the Lady
Rowena, as the events of the tournament, and indeed Wilfred's previous
banishment from his father's house, had made matter of notoriety, was
a pitch far above the flight of De Bracy's generosity. A middle
course betwixt good and evil was all which he found himself capable of
adopting, and he commanded two of his own squires to keep close by the
litter, and to suffer no one to approach it. If questioned, they were
directed by their master to say, that the empty litter of the Lady
Rowena was employed to transport one of their comrades who had been
wounded in the scuffle. On arriving at Torquilstone, while the Knight
Templar and the lord of that castle were each intent upon their own
schemes, the one on the Jew's treasure, and the other on his daughter,
De Bracy's squires conveyed Ivanhoe, still under the name of a wounded
comrade, to a distant apartment. This explanation was accordingly
returned by these men to Front-de-Boeuf, when he questioned them why
they did not make for the battlements upon the alarm.
"A wounded companion!" he replied in great wrath and astonishment. "No
wonder that churls and yeomen wax so presumptuous as even to lay leaguer
before castles, and that clowns and swineherds send defiances to nobles,
since men-at-arms have turned sick men's nurses, and Free Companions are
grown keepers of dying folk's curtains, when the castle is about to be
assailed.--To the battlements, ye loitering villains!" he exclaimed,
raising his stentorian voice till the arches around rung again, "to the
battlements, or I will splinter your bones with this truncheon!"
The men sulkily replied, "that they desired nothing better than to go to
the battlements, providing Front-de-Boeuf would bear them out with their
master, who had commanded them to tend the dying man."
"The dying man, knaves!" rejoined the Baron; "I promise thee we shall
all be dying men an we stand not to it the more stoutly. But I
will relieve the guard upon this caitiff companion of yours.--Here,
Urfried--hag--fiend of a Saxon witch--hearest me not?--tend me this
bedridden fellow since he must needs be tended, whilst these knaves
use their weapons.--Here be two arblasts, comrades, with windlaces and
quarrells [34]--to the barbican with you, and see you drive each bolt
through a Saxon brain."
The men, who, like most of their description, were fond of enterprise
and detested inaction, went joyfully to the scene of danger as they were
commanded, and thus the charge of Ivanhoe was transferred to Urfried,
or Ulrica. But she, whose brain was burning with remembrance of injuries
and with hopes of vengeance, was readily induced to devolve upon Rebecca
the care of her patient. | The narrative returns to the story of how Ivanhoe came to be in the litter transported by Isaac and Rebecca. After Ivanhoe is injured in the tournament, Rebecca persuades her father to allow Ivanhoe to be taken to the house in Ashby where they are staying. There she cares for his wounds, using her knowledge of medicine she learned from an old Jewess. She then persuades Isaac to let Ivanhoe travel with them to York. She tells him that Ivanhoe is in the favor of Richard the Lion-Hearted, and if Richard should return, Isaac will need a powerful advocate. This is because Isaac supplied Richard's brother Prince John with much of the money he needed for his rebellious plans. For the most part in these chapters, Scott is busy creating tension and suspense, setting up the situation for the climax of part two. But he also inserts touches of humor, notably in the challenge to the Normans issued by Wamba and Gurth. This also has a symbolic significance, since it shows that the ordinary Saxon people are capable of challenging the arrogant Normans |
Chapter VI. Smerdyakov
He did in fact find his father still at table. Though there was a dining-
room in the house, the table was laid as usual in the drawing-room, which
was the largest room, and furnished with old-fashioned ostentation. The
furniture was white and very old, upholstered in old, red, silky material.
In the spaces between the windows there were mirrors in elaborate white
and gilt frames, of old-fashioned carving. On the walls, covered with
white paper, which was torn in many places, there hung two large
portraits--one of some prince who had been governor of the district thirty
years before, and the other of some bishop, also long since dead. In the
corner opposite the door there were several ikons, before which a lamp was
lighted at nightfall ... not so much for devotional purposes as to light
the room. Fyodor Pavlovitch used to go to bed very late, at three or four
o'clock in the morning, and would wander about the room at night or sit in
an arm-chair, thinking. This had become a habit with him. He often slept
quite alone in the house, sending his servants to the lodge; but usually
Smerdyakov remained, sleeping on a bench in the hall.
When Alyosha came in, dinner was over, but coffee and preserves had been
served. Fyodor Pavlovitch liked sweet things with brandy after dinner.
Ivan was also at table, sipping coffee. The servants, Grigory and
Smerdyakov, were standing by. Both the gentlemen and the servants seemed
in singularly good spirits. Fyodor Pavlovitch was roaring with laughter.
Before he entered the room, Alyosha heard the shrill laugh he knew so
well, and could tell from the sound of it that his father had only reached
the good-humored stage, and was far from being completely drunk.
"Here he is! Here he is!" yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch, highly delighted at
seeing Alyosha. "Join us. Sit down. Coffee is a lenten dish, but it's hot
and good. I don't offer you brandy, you're keeping the fast. But would you
like some? No; I'd better give you some of our famous liqueur. Smerdyakov,
go to the cupboard, the second shelf on the right. Here are the keys. Look
sharp!"
Alyosha began refusing the liqueur.
"Never mind. If you won't have it, we will," said Fyodor Pavlovitch,
beaming. "But stay--have you dined?"
"Yes," answered Alyosha, who had in truth only eaten a piece of bread and
drunk a glass of kvas in the Father Superior's kitchen. "Though I should
be pleased to have some hot coffee."
"Bravo, my darling! He'll have some coffee. Does it want warming? No, it's
boiling. It's capital coffee: Smerdyakov's making. My Smerdyakov's an
artist at coffee and at fish patties, and at fish soup, too. You must come
one day and have some fish soup. Let me know beforehand.... But, stay;
didn't I tell you this morning to come home with your mattress and pillow
and all? Have you brought your mattress? He he he!"
"No, I haven't," said Alyosha, smiling, too.
"Ah, but you were frightened, you were frightened this morning, weren't
you? There, my darling, I couldn't do anything to vex you. Do you know,
Ivan, I can't resist the way he looks one straight in the face and laughs?
It makes me laugh all over. I'm so fond of him. Alyosha, let me give you
my blessing--a father's blessing."
Alyosha rose, but Fyodor Pavlovitch had already changed his mind.
"No, no," he said. "I'll just make the sign of the cross over you, for
now. Sit still. Now we've a treat for you, in your own line, too. It'll
make you laugh. Balaam's ass has begun talking to us here--and how he
talks! How he talks!"
Balaam's ass, it appeared, was the valet, Smerdyakov. He was a young man
of about four and twenty, remarkably unsociable and taciturn. Not that he
was shy or bashful. On the contrary, he was conceited and seemed to
despise everybody.
But we must pause to say a few words about him now. He was brought up by
Grigory and Marfa, but the boy grew up "with no sense of gratitude," as
Grigory expressed it; he was an unfriendly boy, and seemed to look at the
world mistrustfully. In his childhood he was very fond of hanging cats,
and burying them with great ceremony. He used to dress up in a sheet as
though it were a surplice, and sang, and waved some object over the dead
cat as though it were a censer. All this he did on the sly, with the
greatest secrecy. Grigory caught him once at this diversion and gave him a
sound beating. He shrank into a corner and sulked there for a week. "He
doesn't care for you or me, the monster," Grigory used to say to Marfa,
"and he doesn't care for any one. Are you a human being?" he said,
addressing the boy directly. "You're not a human being. You grew from the
mildew in the bath-house.(2) That's what you are." Smerdyakov, it appeared
afterwards, could never forgive him those words. Grigory taught him to
read and write, and when he was twelve years old, began teaching him the
Scriptures. But this teaching came to nothing. At the second or third
lesson the boy suddenly grinned.
"What's that for?" asked Grigory, looking at him threateningly from under
his spectacles.
"Oh, nothing. God created light on the first day, and the sun, moon, and
stars on the fourth day. Where did the light come from on the first day?"
Grigory was thunderstruck. The boy looked sarcastically at his teacher.
There was something positively condescending in his expression. Grigory
could not restrain himself. "I'll show you where!" he cried, and gave the
boy a violent slap on the cheek. The boy took the slap without a word, but
withdrew into his corner again for some days. A week later he had his
first attack of the disease to which he was subject all the rest of his
life--epilepsy. When Fyodor Pavlovitch heard of it, his attitude to the boy
seemed changed at once. Till then he had taken no notice of him, though he
never scolded him, and always gave him a copeck when he met him.
Sometimes, when he was in good humor, he would send the boy something
sweet from his table. But as soon as he heard of his illness, he showed an
active interest in him, sent for a doctor, and tried remedies, but the
disease turned out to be incurable. The fits occurred, on an average, once
a month, but at various intervals. The fits varied too, in violence: some
were light and some were very severe. Fyodor Pavlovitch strictly forbade
Grigory to use corporal punishment to the boy, and began allowing him to
come upstairs to him. He forbade him to be taught anything whatever for a
time, too. One day when the boy was about fifteen, Fyodor Pavlovitch
noticed him lingering by the bookcase, and reading the titles through the
glass. Fyodor Pavlovitch had a fair number of books--over a hundred--but no
one ever saw him reading. He at once gave Smerdyakov the key of the
bookcase. "Come, read. You shall be my librarian. You'll be better sitting
reading than hanging about the courtyard. Come, read this," and Fyodor
Pavlovitch gave him _Evenings in a Cottage near Dikanka_.
He read a little but didn't like it. He did not once smile, and ended by
frowning.
"Why? Isn't it funny?" asked Fyodor Pavlovitch.
Smerdyakov did not speak.
"Answer, stupid!"
"It's all untrue," mumbled the boy, with a grin.
"Then go to the devil! You have the soul of a lackey. Stay, here's
Smaragdov's _Universal History_. That's all true. Read that."
But Smerdyakov did not get through ten pages of Smaragdov. He thought it
dull. So the bookcase was closed again.
Shortly afterwards Marfa and Grigory reported to Fyodor Pavlovitch that
Smerdyakov was gradually beginning to show an extraordinary
fastidiousness. He would sit before his soup, take up his spoon and look
into the soup, bend over it, examine it, take a spoonful and hold it to
the light.
"What is it? A beetle?" Grigory would ask.
"A fly, perhaps," observed Marfa.
The squeamish youth never answered, but he did the same with his bread,
his meat, and everything he ate. He would hold a piece on his fork to the
light, scrutinize it microscopically, and only after long deliberation
decide to put it in his mouth.
"Ach! What fine gentlemen's airs!" Grigory muttered, looking at him.
When Fyodor Pavlovitch heard of this development in Smerdyakov he
determined to make him his cook, and sent him to Moscow to be trained. He
spent some years there and came back remarkably changed in appearance. He
looked extraordinarily old for his age. His face had grown wrinkled,
yellow, and strangely emasculate. In character he seemed almost exactly
the same as before he went away. He was just as unsociable, and showed not
the slightest inclination for any companionship. In Moscow, too, as we
heard afterwards, he had always been silent. Moscow itself had little
interest for him; he saw very little there, and took scarcely any notice
of anything. He went once to the theater, but returned silent and
displeased with it. On the other hand, he came back to us from Moscow well
dressed, in a clean coat and clean linen. He brushed his clothes most
scrupulously twice a day invariably, and was very fond of cleaning his
smart calf boots with a special English polish, so that they shone like
mirrors. He turned out a first-rate cook. Fyodor Pavlovitch paid him a
salary, almost the whole of which Smerdyakov spent on clothes, pomade,
perfumes, and such things. But he seemed to have as much contempt for the
female sex as for men; he was discreet, almost unapproachable, with them.
Fyodor Pavlovitch began to regard him rather differently. His fits were
becoming more frequent, and on the days he was ill Marfa cooked, which did
not suit Fyodor Pavlovitch at all.
"Why are your fits getting worse?" asked Fyodor Pavlovitch, looking
askance at his new cook. "Would you like to get married? Shall I find you
a wife?"
But Smerdyakov turned pale with anger, and made no reply. Fyodor
Pavlovitch left him with an impatient gesture. The great thing was that he
had absolute confidence in his honesty. It happened once, when Fyodor
Pavlovitch was drunk, that he dropped in the muddy courtyard three
hundred-rouble notes which he had only just received. He only missed them
next day, and was just hastening to search his pockets when he saw the
notes lying on the table. Where had they come from? Smerdyakov had picked
them up and brought them in the day before.
"Well, my lad, I've never met any one like you," Fyodor Pavlovitch said
shortly, and gave him ten roubles. We may add that he not only believed in
his honesty, but had, for some reason, a liking for him, although the
young man looked as morosely at him as at every one and was always silent.
He rarely spoke. If it had occurred to any one to wonder at the time what
the young man was interested in, and what was in his mind, it would have
been impossible to tell by looking at him. Yet he used sometimes to stop
suddenly in the house, or even in the yard or street, and would stand
still for ten minutes, lost in thought. A physiognomist studying his face
would have said that there was no thought in it, no reflection, but only a
sort of contemplation. There is a remarkable picture by the painter
Kramskoy, called "Contemplation." There is a forest in winter, and on a
roadway through the forest, in absolute solitude, stands a peasant in a
torn kaftan and bark shoes. He stands, as it were, lost in thought. Yet he
is not thinking; he is "contemplating." If any one touched him he would
start and look at one as though awakening and bewildered. It's true he
would come to himself immediately; but if he were asked what he had been
thinking about, he would remember nothing. Yet probably he has, hidden
within himself, the impression which had dominated him during the period
of contemplation. Those impressions are dear to him and no doubt he hoards
them imperceptibly, and even unconsciously. How and why, of course, he
does not know either. He may suddenly, after hoarding impressions for many
years, abandon everything and go off to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage for his
soul's salvation, or perhaps he will suddenly set fire to his native
village, and perhaps do both. There are a good many "contemplatives" among
the peasantry. Well, Smerdyakov was probably one of them, and he probably
was greedily hoarding up his impressions, hardly knowing why. | Smerdyakov Alyosha goes to his father's house, where he finds his father drinking. Ivan sits by Fyodor Pavlovich disapprovingly. Smerdyakov and Grigory are arguing, and Ivan and Fyodor Pavlovich are listening in on their argument. Smerdyakov is a sullen and gloomy young man who despises everyone in the house, including his adoptive parents. He works as a cook for Fyodor Pavlovich. Most of the household considers him a responsible person despite his churlish attitude, because once, when Fyodor Pavlovich lost 300 rubles in a drunken stupor, Smerdyakov found and returned the money to him |
It was not till late next day that I spoke to Mrs. Grose; the rigor with
which I kept my pupils in sight making it often difficult to meet
her privately, and the more as we each felt the importance of not
provoking--on the part of the servants quite as much as on that of the
children--any suspicion of a secret flurry or that of a discussion of
mysteries. I drew a great security in this particular from her mere
smooth aspect. There was nothing in her fresh face to pass on to others
my horrible confidences. She believed me, I was sure, absolutely: if she
hadn't I don't know what would have become of me, for I couldn't have
borne the business alone. But she was a magnificent monument to the
blessing of a want of imagination, and if she could see in our little
charges nothing but their beauty and amiability, their happiness and
cleverness, she had no direct communication with the sources of my
trouble. If they had been at all visibly blighted or battered, she would
doubtless have grown, on tracing it back, haggard enough to match them;
as matters stood, however, I could feel her, when she surveyed them,
with her large white arms folded and the habit of serenity in all her
look, thank the Lord's mercy that if they were ruined the pieces would
still serve. Flights of fancy gave place, in her mind, to a steady
fireside glow, and I had already begun to perceive how, with the
development of the conviction that--as time went on without a public
accident--our young things could, after all, look out for themselves,
she addressed her greatest solicitude to the sad case presented by their
instructress. That, for myself, was a sound simplification: I could
engage that, to the world, my face should tell no tales, but it would
have been, in the conditions, an immense added strain to find myself
anxious about hers.
At the hour I now speak of she had joined me, under pressure, on the
terrace, where, with the lapse of the season, the afternoon sun was now
agreeable; and we sat there together while, before us, at a distance,
but within call if we wished, the children strolled to and fro in one
of their most manageable moods. They moved slowly, in unison, below us,
over the lawn, the boy, as they went, reading aloud from a storybook and
passing his arm round his sister to keep her quite in touch. Mrs. Grose
watched them with positive placidity; then I caught the suppressed
intellectual creak with which she conscientiously turned to take from me
a view of the back of the tapestry. I had made her a receptacle of
lurid things, but there was an odd recognition of my superiority--my
accomplishments and my function--in her patience under my pain. She
offered her mind to my disclosures as, had I wished to mix a witch's
broth and proposed it with assurance, she would have held out a large
clean saucepan. This had become thoroughly her attitude by the time
that, in my recital of the events of the night, I reached the point of
what Miles had said to me when, after seeing him, at such a monstrous
hour, almost on the very spot where he happened now to be, I had gone
down to bring him in; choosing then, at the window, with a concentrated
need of not alarming the house, rather that method than a signal more
resonant. I had left her meanwhile in little doubt of my small hope of
representing with success even to her actual sympathy my sense of the
real splendor of the little inspiration with which, after I had got him
into the house, the boy met my final articulate challenge. As soon as I
appeared in the moonlight on the terrace, he had come to me as straight
as possible; on which I had taken his hand without a word and led him,
through the dark spaces, up the staircase where Quint had so hungrily
hovered for him, along the lobby where I had listened and trembled, and
so to his forsaken room.
Not a sound, on the way, had passed between us, and I had wondered--oh,
HOW I had wondered!--if he were groping about in his little mind for
something plausible and not too grotesque. It would tax his invention,
certainly, and I felt, this time, over his real embarrassment, a curious
thrill of triumph. It was a sharp trap for the inscrutable! He couldn't
play any longer at innocence; so how the deuce would he get out of it?
There beat in me indeed, with the passionate throb of this question an
equal dumb appeal as to how the deuce _I_ should. I was confronted at
last, as never yet, with all the risk attached even now to sounding my
own horrid note. I remember in fact that as we pushed into his little
chamber, where the bed had not been slept in at all and the window,
uncovered to the moonlight, made the place so clear that there was no
need of striking a match--I remember how I suddenly dropped, sank upon
the edge of the bed from the force of the idea that he must know how he
really, as they say, "had" me. He could do what he liked, with all his
cleverness to help him, so long as I should continue to defer to the
old tradition of the criminality of those caretakers of the young who
minister to superstitions and fears. He "had" me indeed, and in a cleft
stick; for who would ever absolve me, who would consent that I should go
unhung, if, by the faintest tremor of an overture, I were the first to
introduce into our perfect intercourse an element so dire? No, no: it
was useless to attempt to convey to Mrs. Grose, just as it is scarcely
less so to attempt to suggest here, how, in our short, stiff brush in
the dark, he fairly shook me with admiration. I was of course thoroughly
kind and merciful; never, never yet had I placed on his little shoulders
hands of such tenderness as those with which, while I rested against the
bed, I held him there well under fire. I had no alternative but, in form
at least, to put it to him.
"You must tell me now--and all the truth. What did you go out for? What
were you doing there?"
I can still see his wonderful smile, the whites of his beautiful eyes,
and the uncovering of his little teeth shine to me in the dusk. "If I
tell you why, will you understand?" My heart, at this, leaped into my
mouth. WOULD he tell me why? I found no sound on my lips to press it,
and I was aware of replying only with a vague, repeated, grimacing nod.
He was gentleness itself, and while I wagged my head at him he stood
there more than ever a little fairy prince. It was his brightness indeed
that gave me a respite. Would it be so great if he were really going to
tell me? "Well," he said at last, "just exactly in order that you should
do this."
"Do what?"
"Think me--for a change--BAD!" I shall never forget the sweetness and
gaiety with which he brought out the word, nor how, on top of it, he
bent forward and kissed me. It was practically the end of everything.
I met his kiss and I had to make, while I folded him for a minute in my
arms, the most stupendous effort not to cry. He had given exactly the
account of himself that permitted least of my going behind it, and it
was only with the effect of confirming my acceptance of it that, as I
presently glanced about the room, I could say--
"Then you didn't undress at all?"
He fairly glittered in the gloom. "Not at all. I sat up and read."
"And when did you go down?"
"At midnight. When I'm bad I AM bad!"
"I see, I see--it's charming. But how could you be sure I would know
it?"
"Oh, I arranged that with Flora." His answers rang out with a readiness!
"She was to get up and look out."
"Which is what she did do." It was I who fell into the trap!
"So she disturbed you, and, to see what she was looking at, you also
looked--you saw."
"While you," I concurred, "caught your death in the night air!"
He literally bloomed so from this exploit that he could afford radiantly
to assent. "How otherwise should I have been bad enough?" he asked.
Then, after another embrace, the incident and our interview closed on my
recognition of all the reserves of goodness that, for his joke, he had
been able to draw upon. | Late the next day, the Governess meets up with Mrs. Grose to reveal what she saw the previous night. Their meetings have been made more difficult by the Governess's constant watch over the children, but the younger woman still draws comfort from them. She speaks rather condescendingly of Mrs. Grose's complete lack of imagination, which is apparently a good thing in this context - it saves her from worrying about the children as much as she could. Mrs. Grose listens as the Governess relates the event of the last night. Here goes... The Governess went out to fetch Miles after she saw him from the window. He came to her willingly, and she took him silently inside, back to his room. The Governess admits to feeling a little thrill of triumph at this moment; how could he possibly make up a plausible excuse for this action? The Governess was suddenly struck with the fear that perhaps Miles had her under his control; she felt a kind of admiration for him. With nothing else to do, the Governess asked Miles straight up what he was doing out on the lawn. He cunningly told her that he wanted to get her to think that he was a bad boy for once. He claims that he stayed up late reading, and went down to the lawn at midnight. He and Flora had planned earlier for the little girl to wake up so that the Governess would notice her at the window, and in turn notice Miles outside. He made it out to be a playful trap that the Governess walked right into. What are we to make of all this? We're not quite sure yet. |
Small heart had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour before her
friend called for her at Mrs. Goddard's, her evil stars had led her
to the very spot where, at that moment, a trunk, directed to _The Rev.
Philip Elton, White-Hart, Bath_, was to be seen under the operation of
being lifted into the butcher's cart, which was to convey it to where
the coaches past; and every thing in this world, excepting that trunk
and the direction, was consequently a blank.
She went, however; and when they reached the farm, and she was to be
put down, at the end of the broad, neat gravel walk, which led between
espalier apple-trees to the front door, the sight of every thing which
had given her so much pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to
revive a little local agitation; and when they parted, Emma observed her
to be looking around with a sort of fearful curiosity, which determined
her not to allow the visit to exceed the proposed quarter of an hour.
She went on herself, to give that portion of time to an old servant who
was married, and settled in Donwell.
The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white gate again;
and Miss Smith receiving her summons, was with her without delay, and
unattended by any alarming young man. She came solitarily down the
gravel walk--a Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with
her seemingly with ceremonious civility.
Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account. She was
feeling too much; but at last Emma collected from her enough to
understand the sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating.
She had seen only Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received her
doubtingly, if not coolly; and nothing beyond the merest commonplace had
been talked almost all the time--till just at last, when Mrs. Martin's
saying, all of a sudden, that she thought Miss Smith was grown, had
brought on a more interesting subject, and a warmer manner. In that very
room she had been measured last September, with her two friends. There
were the pencilled marks and memorandums on the wainscot by the window.
_He_ had done it. They all seemed to remember the day, the hour,
the party, the occasion--to feel the same consciousness, the same
regrets--to be ready to return to the same good understanding; and they
were just growing again like themselves, (Harriet, as Emma must suspect,
as ready as the best of them to be cordial and happy,) when the carriage
reappeared, and all was over. The style of the visit, and the shortness
of it, were then felt to be decisive. Fourteen minutes to be given
to those with whom she had thankfully passed six weeks not six months
ago!--Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they might
resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad business. She
would have given a great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had
the Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving, that a
_little_ higher should have been enough: but as it was, how could she
have done otherwise?--Impossible!--She could not repent. They must be
separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process--so much
to herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little
consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to
procure it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The
refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary.
It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that neither
"master nor mistress was at home;" they had both been out some time; the
man believed they were gone to Hartfield.
"This is too bad," cried Emma, as they turned away. "And now we shall
just miss them; too provoking!--I do not know when I have been so
disappointed." And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her
murmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both--such being
the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage
stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were
standing to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight of
them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound--for Mr. Weston
immediately accosted her with,
"How d'ye do?--how d'ye do?--We have been sitting with your father--glad
to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow--I had a letter this
morning--we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty--he is at
Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be
so. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I
was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have
just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall
enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could
wish."
There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the
influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed as it all was
by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not
less to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming certain was
enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in
their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits.
The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in
the rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now
be talked of no more.
Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which
allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command,
as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened,
and smiled, and congratulated.
"I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion.
Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his
wife.
"We had better move on, Mr. Weston," said she, "we are detaining the
girls."
"Well, well, I am ready;"--and turning again to Emma, "but you must
not be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only
had _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing
extraordinary:"--though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were
speaking a very different conviction.
Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a
manner that appropriated nothing.
"Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock," was Mrs.
Weston's parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only
for her.
"Four o'clock!--depend upon it he will be here by three," was Mr.
Weston's quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting.
Emma's spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore
a different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as
before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least
must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw
something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there.
"Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?"--was a
question, however, which did not augur much.
But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma
was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time.
The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston's faithful
pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o'clock, that
she was to think of her at four.
"My dear, dear anxious friend,"--said she, in mental soliloquy, while
walking downstairs from her own room, "always overcareful for every
body's comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets,
going again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right."
The clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. "'Tis twelve;
I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this
time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the
possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him
soon."
She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her
father--Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few
minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank's
being a day before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his
very civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared, to have her
share of surprize, introduction, and pleasure.
The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was actually
before her--he was presented to her, and she did not think too much had
been said in his praise; he was a _very_ good looking young man; height,
air, address, all were unexceptionable, and his countenance had a great
deal of the spirit and liveliness of his father's; he looked quick and
sensible. She felt immediately that she should like him; and there was
a well-bred ease of manner, and a readiness to talk, which convinced her
that he came intending to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted
they soon must be.
He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased with the
eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel
earlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day.
"I told you yesterday," cried Mr. Weston with exultation, "I told you
all that he would be here before the time named. I remembered what I
used to do myself. One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help
getting on faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in
upon one's friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal
more than any little exertion it needs."
"It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it," said the young
man, "though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far;
but in coming _home_ I felt I might do any thing."
The word _home_ made his father look on him with fresh complacency.
Emma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the
conviction was strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased
with Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly
allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to
Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself
to have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but
one's _own_ country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That
he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before,
passed suspiciously through Emma's brain; but still, if it were a
falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner had
no air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if in a
state of no common enjoyment.
Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening
acquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,--"Was she a
horsewoman?--Pleasant rides?--Pleasant walks?--Had they a large
neighbourhood?--Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?--There were
several very pretty houses in and about it.--Balls--had they balls?--Was
it a musical society?"
But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance
proportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while
their two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his
mother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so much
warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his
father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an additional
proof of his knowing how to please--and of his certainly thinking it
worth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word of praise
beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but,
undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He understood
what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. "His father's
marriage," he said, "had been the wisest measure, every friend must
rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a blessing
must be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on
him."
He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits,
without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it
was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's
character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if
resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its
object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of
her person.
"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for," said he; "but I
confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a
very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that
I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston."
"You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings,"
said Emma; "were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen with
pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using such
words. Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty
young woman."
"I hope I should know better," he replied; "no, depend upon it, (with a
gallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom
I might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my
terms."
Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from
their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind,
had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be considered
as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see more
of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they were
agreeable.
She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick
eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy
expression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she was
confident that he was often listening.
Her own father's perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the
entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion,
was a most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from
approving matrimony than from foreseeing it.--Though always objecting
to every marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from
the apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of
any two persons' understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it
were proved against them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could
now, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a
glance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all
his natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr.
Frank Churchill's accommodation on his journey, through the sad evils
of sleeping two nights on the road, and express very genuine unmixed
anxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching cold--which,
however, he could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself till
after another night.
A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.--"He must be going.
He had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands for
Mrs. Weston at Ford's, but he need not hurry any body else." His son,
too well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying,
"As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity
of paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other, and therefore
may as well be paid now. I have the honour of being acquainted with
a neighbour of yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near
Highbury; a family of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty,
I suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not
the proper name--I should rather say Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any
family of that name?"
"To be sure we do," cried his father; "Mrs. Bates--we passed her
house--I saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are acquainted
with Miss Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl
she is. Call upon her, by all means."
"There is no necessity for my calling this morning," said the young man;
"another day would do as well; but there was that degree of acquaintance
at Weymouth which--"
"Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is right to be done
cannot be done too soon. And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank;
any want of attention to her _here_ should be carefully avoided. You saw
her with the Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she mixed
with, but here she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely enough
to live on. If you do not call early it will be a slight."
The son looked convinced.
"I have heard her speak of the acquaintance," said Emma; "she is a very
elegant young woman."
He agreed to it, but with so quiet a "Yes," as inclined her almost to
doubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct sort
of elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought
only ordinarily gifted with it.
"If you were never particularly struck by her manners before," said she,
"I think you will to-day. You will see her to advantage; see her and
hear her--no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has an
aunt who never holds her tongue."
"You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are you?" said Mr.
Woodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation; "then give
me leave to assure you that you will find her a very agreeable young
lady. She is staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very
worthy people; I have known them all my life. They will be extremely
glad to see you, I am sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to
shew you the way."
"My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father can direct me."
"But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the Crown,
quite on the other side of the street, and there are a great many
houses; you might be very much at a loss, and it is a very dirty walk,
unless you keep on the footpath; but my coachman can tell you where you
had best cross the street."
Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as he could,
and his father gave his hearty support by calling out, "My good friend,
this is quite unnecessary; Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees
it, and as to Mrs. Bates's, he may get there from the Crown in a hop,
step, and jump."
They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod from one, and a
graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave. Emma remained
very well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and could now
engage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day, with full
confidence in their comfort. | When Emma calls for Harriet at the Abbey Farm, the excited girl tells Emma that she has visited with Martin's mother and two sisters. On the way home, Emma decides to stop at the Westons and is disappointed to find they are not home. As she turns to leave, the Westons arrive in their carriage. They inform Emma that Frank Churchill will be arriving the next day and staying for a fortnight. They assure Emma that they will bring Frank to Hartfield. The next day Mr. Weston and Frank call at Woodhouse. Emma finds Frank to be a very good-looking gentleman of well-bred manners; she is also impressed by his lively spirit. He praises Mrs. Weston for her pretty looks and elegant manners. Emma immediately likes Frank and imaginatively concludes that Frank also has an interest in her. She barely notices that he plans to call on Jane Fairfax next since he already knows her. |
SCENE III
MADAME PERNELLE, ORGON, ELMIRE, CLEANTE, MARIANE, DAMIS, DORINE
MADAME PERNELLE
What's this? I hear of fearful mysteries!
ORGON
Strange things indeed, for my own eyes to witness;
You see how I'm requited for my kindness,
I zealously receive a wretched beggar,
I lodge him, entertain him like my brother,
Load him with benefactions every day,
Give him my daughter, give him all my fortune:
And he meanwhile, the villain, rascal, wretch,
Tries with black treason to suborn my wife,
And not content with such a foul design,
He dares to menace me with my own favours,
And would make use of those advantages
Which my too foolish kindness armed him with,
To ruin me, to take my fortune from me,
And leave me in the state I saved him from.
DORINE
Poor man!
MADAME PERNELLE
My son, I cannot possibly
Believe he could intend so black a deed.
ORGON
What?
MADAME PERNELLE
Worthy men are still the sport of envy.
ORGON
Mother, what do you mean by such a speech?
MADAME PERNELLE
There are strange goings-on about your house,
And everybody knows your people hate him.
ORGON
What's that to do with what I tell you now?
MADAME PERNELLE
I always said, my son, when you were little:
That virtue here below is hated ever;
The envious may die, but envy never.
ORGON
What's that fine speech to do with present facts?
MADAME PERNELLE
Be sure, they've forged a hundred silly lies ...
ORGON
I've told you once, I saw it all myself.
MADAME PERNELLE
For slanderers abound in calumnies ...
ORGON
Mother, you'd make me damn my soul. I tell you
I saw with my own eyes his shamelessness.
MADAME PERNELLE
Their tongues for spitting venom never lack,
There's nothing here below they'll not attack.
ORGON
Your speech has not a single grain of sense.
I saw it, harkee, saw it, with these eyes
I saw--d'ye know what saw means?--must I say it
A hundred times, and din it in your ears?
MADAME PERNELLE
My dear, appearances are oft deceiving,
And seeing shouldn't always be believing.
ORGON
I'll go mad.
MADAME PERNELLE
False suspicions may delude,
And good to evil oft is misconstrued.
ORGON
Must I construe as Christian charity
The wish to kiss my wife!
MADAME PERNELLE
You must, at least,
Have just foundation for accusing people,
And wait until you see a thing for sure.
ORGON
The devil! How could I see any surer?
Should I have waited till, before my eyes,
He ... No, you'll make me say things quite improper.
MADAME PERNELLE
In short, 'tis known too pure a zeal inflames him;
And so, I cannot possibly conceive
That he should try to do what's charged against him.
ORGON
If you were not my mother, I should say
Such things! ... I know not what, I'm so enraged!
DORINE (to Orgon)
Fortune has paid you fair, to be so doubted;
You flouted our report, now yours is flouted.
CLEANTE
We're wasting time here in the merest trifling,
Which we should rather use in taking measures
To guard ourselves against the scoundrel's threats.
DAMIS
You think his impudence could go far?
ELMIRE
For one, I can't believe it possible;
Why, his ingratitude would be too patent.
CLEANTE
Don't trust to that; he'll find abundant warrant
To give good colour to his acts against you;
And for less cause than this, a strong cabal
Can make one's life a labyrinth of troubles.
I tell you once again: armed as he is
You never should have pushed him quite so far.
ORGON
True; yet what could I do? The rascal's pride
Made me lose all control of my resentment.
CLEANTE
I wish with all my heart that some pretence
Of peace could be patched up between you two
ELMIRE
If I had known what weapons he was armed with,
I never should have raised such an alarm,
And my ...
ORGON (to Dorine, seeing Mr. Loyal come in)
Who's coming now? Go quick, find out.
I'm in a fine state to receive a visit! | Madame Pernelle, Mariane, Elmire, and Dorine show up. Madame Pernelle can't believe the stuff she's been hearing. Orgon gets his mom up to speed on what's happened. He tells her how Tartuffe duped him, took his stuff, and tried to seduce his wife. Madame Pernelle still can't believe what she's hearing and she tells Orgon as much. Orgon is flabbergasted - he doesn't know how she can't see Tartuffe for what he is after hearing all that. Orgon and his mother argue for a while; she insists that Tartuffe is good, and that he, Orgon, doesn't have enough proof of his guilt. This is what some people call "getting a taste of your own medicine." Finally, Cleante tells them to cut it out. Tartuffe, they have to remember, is planning to take control of Orgon's estate. Damis and Elmire don't think that Tartuffe has the guts to follow through, but Cleante isn't so sure. He, Orgon, and Elmire are talking things through when... |
When the chambermaid tapped at my door at eight o'clock, and informed
me that my shaving-water was outside, I felt severely the having no
occasion for it, and blushed in my bed. The suspicion that she laughed
too, when she said it, preyed upon my mind all the time I was dressing;
and gave me, I was conscious, a sneaking and guilty air when I passed
her on the staircase, as I was going down to breakfast. I was so
sensitively aware, indeed, of being younger than I could have wished,
that for some time I could not make up my mind to pass her at all, under
the ignoble circumstances of the case; but, hearing her there with
a broom, stood peeping out of window at King Charles on horseback,
surrounded by a maze of hackney-coaches, and looking anything but regal
in a drizzling rain and a dark-brown fog, until I was admonished by the
waiter that the gentleman was waiting for me.
It was not in the coffee-room that I found Steerforth expecting me, but
in a snug private apartment, red-curtained and Turkey-carpeted, where
the fire burnt bright, and a fine hot breakfast was set forth on a table
covered with a clean cloth; and a cheerful miniature of the room, the
fire, the breakfast, Steerforth, and all, was shining in the little
round mirror over the sideboard. I was rather bashful at first,
Steerforth being so self-possessed, and elegant, and superior to me in
all respects (age included); but his easy patronage soon put that to
rights, and made me quite at home. I could not enough admire the change
he had wrought in the Golden Cross; or compare the dull forlorn state
I had held yesterday, with this morning's comfort and this morning's
entertainment. As to the waiter's familiarity, it was quenched as if it
had never been. He attended on us, as I may say, in sackcloth and ashes.
'Now, Copperfield,' said Steerforth, when we were alone, 'I should like
to hear what you are doing, and where you are going, and all about you.
I feel as if you were my property.' Glowing with pleasure to find that
he had still this interest in me, I told him how my aunt had proposed
the little expedition that I had before me, and whither it tended.
'As you are in no hurry, then,' said Steerforth, 'come home with me to
Highgate, and stay a day or two. You will be pleased with my mother--she
is a little vain and prosy about me, but that you can forgive her--and
she will be pleased with you.'
'I should like to be as sure of that, as you are kind enough to say you
are,' I answered, smiling.
'Oh!' said Steerforth, 'everyone who likes me, has a claim on her that
is sure to be acknowledged.'
'Then I think I shall be a favourite,' said I.
'Good!' said Steerforth. 'Come and prove it. We will go and see the
lions for an hour or two--it's something to have a fresh fellow like you
to show them to, Copperfield--and then we'll journey out to Highgate by
the coach.'
I could hardly believe but that I was in a dream, and that I should wake
presently in number forty-four, to the solitary box in the coffee-room
and the familiar waiter again. After I had written to my aunt and told
her of my fortunate meeting with my admired old schoolfellow, and my
acceptance of his invitation, we went out in a hackney-chariot, and saw
a Panorama and some other sights, and took a walk through the Museum,
where I could not help observing how much Steerforth knew, on an
infinite variety of subjects, and of how little account he seemed to
make his knowledge.
'You'll take a high degree at college, Steerforth,' said I, 'if you have
not done so already; and they will have good reason to be proud of you.'
'I take a degree!' cried Steerforth. 'Not I! my dear Daisy--will you
mind my calling you Daisy?'
'Not at all!' said I.
'That's a good fellow! My dear Daisy,' said Steerforth, laughing. 'I
have not the least desire or intention to distinguish myself in that
way. I have done quite sufficient for my purpose. I find that I am heavy
company enough for myself as I am.'
'But the fame--' I was beginning.
'You romantic Daisy!' said Steerforth, laughing still more heartily:
'why should I trouble myself, that a parcel of heavy-headed fellows may
gape and hold up their hands? Let them do it at some other man. There's
fame for him, and he's welcome to it.'
I was abashed at having made so great a mistake, and was glad to change
the subject. Fortunately it was not difficult to do, for Steerforth
could always pass from one subject to another with a carelessness and
lightness that were his own.
Lunch succeeded to our sight-seeing, and the short winter day wore away
so fast, that it was dusk when the stage-coach stopped with us at an
old brick house at Highgate on the summit of the hill. An elderly lady,
though not very far advanced in years, with a proud carriage and
a handsome face, was in the doorway as we alighted; and greeting
Steerforth as 'My dearest James,' folded him in her arms. To this lady
he presented me as his mother, and she gave me a stately welcome.
It was a genteel old-fashioned house, very quiet and orderly. From the
windows of my room I saw all London lying in the distance like a great
vapour, with here and there some lights twinkling through it. I had only
time, in dressing, to glance at the solid furniture, the framed pieces
of work (done, I supposed, by Steerforth's mother when she was a girl),
and some pictures in crayons of ladies with powdered hair and bodices,
coming and going on the walls, as the newly-kindled fire crackled and
sputtered, when I was called to dinner.
There was a second lady in the dining-room, of a slight short figure,
dark, and not agreeable to look at, but with some appearance of good
looks too, who attracted my attention: perhaps because I had not
expected to see her; perhaps because I found myself sitting opposite
to her; perhaps because of something really remarkable in her. She had
black hair and eager black eyes, and was thin, and had a scar upon her
lip. It was an old scar--I should rather call it seam, for it was not
discoloured, and had healed years ago--which had once cut through her
mouth, downward towards the chin, but was now barely visible across
the table, except above and on her upper lip, the shape of which it had
altered. I concluded in my own mind that she was about thirty years
of age, and that she wished to be married. She was a little
dilapidated--like a house--with having been so long to let; yet had, as
I have said, an appearance of good looks. Her thinness seemed to be the
effect of some wasting fire within her, which found a vent in her gaunt
eyes.
She was introduced as Miss Dartle, and both Steerforth and his mother
called her Rosa. I found that she lived there, and had been for a long
time Mrs. Steerforth's companion. It appeared to me that she never said
anything she wanted to say, outright; but hinted it, and made a great
deal more of it by this practice. For example, when Mrs. Steerforth
observed, more in jest than earnest, that she feared her son led but a
wild life at college, Miss Dartle put in thus:
'Oh, really? You know how ignorant I am, and that I only ask for
information, but isn't it always so? I thought that kind of life was
on all hands understood to be--eh?' 'It is education for a very grave
profession, if you mean that, Rosa,' Mrs. Steerforth answered with some
coldness.
'Oh! Yes! That's very true,' returned Miss Dartle. 'But isn't it,
though?--I want to be put right, if I am wrong--isn't it, really?'
'Really what?' said Mrs. Steerforth.
'Oh! You mean it's not!' returned Miss Dartle. 'Well, I'm very glad to
hear it! Now, I know what to do! That's the advantage of asking. I shall
never allow people to talk before me about wastefulness and profligacy,
and so forth, in connexion with that life, any more.'
'And you will be right,' said Mrs. Steerforth. 'My son's tutor is a
conscientious gentleman; and if I had not implicit reliance on my son, I
should have reliance on him.'
'Should you?' said Miss Dartle. 'Dear me! Conscientious, is he? Really
conscientious, now?'
'Yes, I am convinced of it,' said Mrs. Steerforth.
'How very nice!' exclaimed Miss Dartle. 'What a comfort! Really
conscientious? Then he's not--but of course he can't be, if he's really
conscientious. Well, I shall be quite happy in my opinion of him, from
this time. You can't think how it elevates him in my opinion, to know
for certain that he's really conscientious!'
Her own views of every question, and her correction of everything that
was said to which she was opposed, Miss Dartle insinuated in the same
way: sometimes, I could not conceal from myself, with great power,
though in contradiction even of Steerforth. An instance happened before
dinner was done. Mrs. Steerforth speaking to me about my intention
of going down into Suffolk, I said at hazard how glad I should be, if
Steerforth would only go there with me; and explaining to him that I was
going to see my old nurse, and Mr. Peggotty's family, I reminded him of
the boatman whom he had seen at school.
'Oh! That bluff fellow!' said Steerforth. 'He had a son with him, hadn't
he?'
'No. That was his nephew,' I replied; 'whom he adopted, though, as
a son. He has a very pretty little niece too, whom he adopted as a
daughter. In short, his house--or rather his boat, for he lives in one,
on dry land--is full of people who are objects of his generosity and
kindness. You would be delighted to see that household.'
'Should I?' said Steerforth. 'Well, I think I should. I must see what
can be done. It would be worth a journey (not to mention the pleasure of
a journey with you, Daisy), to see that sort of people together, and to
make one of 'em.'
My heart leaped with a new hope of pleasure. But it was in reference
to the tone in which he had spoken of 'that sort of people', that Miss
Dartle, whose sparkling eyes had been watchful of us, now broke in
again.
'Oh, but, really? Do tell me. Are they, though?' she said.
'Are they what? And are who what?' said Steerforth.
'That sort of people.---Are they really animals and clods, and beings of
another order? I want to know SO much.'
'Why, there's a pretty wide separation between them and us,' said
Steerforth, with indifference. 'They are not to be expected to be
as sensitive as we are. Their delicacy is not to be shocked, or hurt
easily. They are wonderfully virtuous, I dare say--some people contend
for that, at least; and I am sure I don't want to contradict them--but
they have not very fine natures, and they may be thankful that, like
their coarse rough skins, they are not easily wounded.'
'Really!' said Miss Dartle. 'Well, I don't know, now, when I have been
better pleased than to hear that. It's so consoling! It's such a delight
to know that, when they suffer, they don't feel! Sometimes I have been
quite uneasy for that sort of people; but now I shall just dismiss the
idea of them, altogether. Live and learn. I had my doubts, I confess,
but now they're cleared up. I didn't know, and now I do know, and that
shows the advantage of asking--don't it?'
I believed that Steerforth had said what he had, in jest, or to draw
Miss Dartle out; and I expected him to say as much when she was gone,
and we two were sitting before the fire. But he merely asked me what I
thought of her.
'She is very clever, is she not?' I asked.
'Clever! She brings everything to a grindstone,' said Steerforth, and
sharpens it, as she has sharpened her own face and figure these years
past. She has worn herself away by constant sharpening. She is all
edge.'
'What a remarkable scar that is upon her lip!' I said.
Steerforth's face fell, and he paused a moment.
'Why, the fact is,' he returned, 'I did that.'
'By an unfortunate accident!'
'No. I was a young boy, and she exasperated me, and I threw a hammer at
her. A promising young angel I must have been!' I was deeply sorry to
have touched on such a painful theme, but that was useless now.
'She has borne the mark ever since, as you see,' said Steerforth; 'and
she'll bear it to her grave, if she ever rests in one--though I can
hardly believe she will ever rest anywhere. She was the motherless child
of a sort of cousin of my father's. He died one day. My mother, who was
then a widow, brought her here to be company to her. She has a couple of
thousand pounds of her own, and saves the interest of it every year, to
add to the principal. There's the history of Miss Rosa Dartle for you.'
'And I have no doubt she loves you like a brother?' said I.
'Humph!' retorted Steerforth, looking at the fire. 'Some brothers are
not loved over much; and some love--but help yourself, Copperfield!
We'll drink the daisies of the field, in compliment to you; and the
lilies of the valley that toil not, neither do they spin, in compliment
to me--the more shame for me!' A moody smile that had overspread his
features cleared off as he said this merrily, and he was his own frank,
winning self again.
I could not help glancing at the scar with a painful interest when we
went in to tea. It was not long before I observed that it was the most
susceptible part of her face, and that, when she turned pale, that mark
altered first, and became a dull, lead-coloured streak, lengthening out
to its full extent, like a mark in invisible ink brought to the fire.
There was a little altercation between her and Steerforth about a cast
of the dice at back gammon--when I thought her, for one moment, in a
storm of rage; and then I saw it start forth like the old writing on the
wall.
It was no matter of wonder to me to find Mrs. Steerforth devoted to her
son. She seemed to be able to speak or think about nothing else. She
showed me his picture as an infant, in a locket, with some of his
baby-hair in it; she showed me his picture as he had been when I first
knew him; and she wore at her breast his picture as he was now. All the
letters he had ever written to her, she kept in a cabinet near her own
chair by the fire; and she would have read me some of them, and I should
have been very glad to hear them too, if he had not interposed, and
coaxed her out of the design.
'It was at Mr. Creakle's, my son tells me, that you first became
acquainted,' said Mrs. Steerforth, as she and I were talking at one
table, while they played backgammon at another. 'Indeed, I recollect his
speaking, at that time, of a pupil younger than himself who had taken
his fancy there; but your name, as you may suppose, has not lived in my
memory.'
'He was very generous and noble to me in those days, I assure you,
ma'am,' said I, 'and I stood in need of such a friend. I should have
been quite crushed without him.'
'He is always generous and noble,' said Mrs. Steerforth, proudly.
I subscribed to this with all my heart, God knows. She knew I did; for
the stateliness of her manner already abated towards me, except when she
spoke in praise of him, and then her air was always lofty.
'It was not a fit school generally for my son,' said she; 'far from it;
but there were particular circumstances to be considered at the time, of
more importance even than that selection. My son's high spirit made
it desirable that he should be placed with some man who felt its
superiority, and would be content to bow himself before it; and we found
such a man there.'
I knew that, knowing the fellow. And yet I did not despise him the more
for it, but thought it a redeeming quality in him if he could be allowed
any grace for not resisting one so irresistible as Steerforth.
'My son's great capacity was tempted on, there, by a feeling of
voluntary emulation and conscious pride,' the fond lady went on to say.
'He would have risen against all constraint; but he found himself the
monarch of the place, and he haughtily determined to be worthy of his
station. It was like himself.'
I echoed, with all my heart and soul, that it was like himself.
'So my son took, of his own will, and on no compulsion, to the course
in which he can always, when it is his pleasure, outstrip every
competitor,' she pursued. 'My son informs me, Mr. Copperfield, that
you were quite devoted to him, and that when you met yesterday you made
yourself known to him with tears of joy. I should be an affected woman
if I made any pretence of being surprised by my son's inspiring such
emotions; but I cannot be indifferent to anyone who is so sensible of
his merit, and I am very glad to see you here, and can assure you that
he feels an unusual friendship for you, and that you may rely on his
protection.'
Miss Dartle played backgammon as eagerly as she did everything else.
If I had seen her, first, at the board, I should have fancied that her
figure had got thin, and her eyes had got large, over that pursuit, and
no other in the world. But I am very much mistaken if she missed a
word of this, or lost a look of mine as I received it with the utmost
pleasure, and honoured by Mrs. Steerforth's confidence, felt older than
I had done since I left Canterbury.
When the evening was pretty far spent, and a tray of glasses and
decanters came in, Steerforth promised, over the fire, that he would
seriously think of going down into the country with me. There was no
hurry, he said; a week hence would do; and his mother hospitably said
the same. While we were talking, he more than once called me Daisy;
which brought Miss Dartle out again.
'But really, Mr. Copperfield,' she asked, 'is it a nickname? And
why does he give it you? Is it--eh?--because he thinks you young and
innocent? I am so stupid in these things.'
I coloured in replying that I believed it was.
'Oh!' said Miss Dartle. 'Now I am glad to know that! I ask for
information, and I am glad to know it. He thinks you young and innocent;
and so you are his friend. Well, that's quite delightful!'
She went to bed soon after this, and Mrs. Steerforth retired too.
Steerforth and I, after lingering for half-an-hour over the fire,
talking about Traddles and all the rest of them at old Salem House, went
upstairs together. Steerforth's room was next to mine, and I went in to
look at it. It was a picture of comfort, full of easy-chairs, cushions
and footstools, worked by his mother's hand, and with no sort of thing
omitted that could help to render it complete. Finally, her handsome
features looked down on her darling from a portrait on the wall, as if
it were even something to her that her likeness should watch him while
he slept.
I found the fire burning clear enough in my room by this time, and the
curtains drawn before the windows and round the bed, giving it a very
snug appearance. I sat down in a great chair upon the hearth to meditate
on my happiness; and had enjoyed the contemplation of it for some time,
when I found a likeness of Miss Dartle looking eagerly at me from above
the chimney-piece.
It was a startling likeness, and necessarily had a startling look. The
painter hadn't made the scar, but I made it; and there it was, coming
and going; now confined to the upper lip as I had seen it at dinner, and
now showing the whole extent of the wound inflicted by the hammer, as I
had seen it when she was passionate.
I wondered peevishly why they couldn't put her anywhere else instead
of quartering her on me. To get rid of her, I undressed quickly,
extinguished my light, and went to bed. But, as I fell asleep, I could
not forget that she was still there looking, 'Is it really, though?
I want to know'; and when I awoke in the night, I found that I was
uneasily asking all sorts of people in my dreams whether it really was
or not--without knowing what I meant. | The next morning, a chamber-maid knocks on David's door to tell him there's water for shaving outside his door. David blushes: he doesn't need to shave yet, and he's sure the chamber-maid knows it and is laughing at him. Steerforth is waiting for David in a private dining room. David feels rather shy in front of Steerforth, who is so much grander than David is. Steerforth asks David all about him. David is pleased that Steerforth is so interested. He tells Steerforth his plans to visit Yarmouth. Steerforth hears that David is not in a hurry and invites David to his mother's house in Highgate to stay for a few days. David is delighted to accept. He's so excited: he writes to his aunt to tell her of his change of plans, and then David and Steerforth see some of the sights of London. They go to a museum, and David is impressed with Steerforth's knowledge of everything. David comments that Steerforth will certainly get a graduate degree out of his higher education. Steerforth laughs yet again and says that he has no intention of pursuing further education. Steerforth wonders why he should bother with fame or acclaim when he's satisfied with what he has? David is embarrassed at his misstep and changes the subject. Finally, they travel out to Mrs. Steerforth's house, where Steerforth's mother greets them. The house is old-fashioned, quiet, and neat. There is a second lady in the dining room: she is thin and sharp looking, about 30, with a scar on her mouth that slightly changes the shape of her upper lip. This is Miss Rosa Dartle. Miss Dartle has an odd way of speaking: she never comes out and says anything straight, but she hints quite broadly. For example, she hints that Steerforth is living a wild life at college and not learning anything. This happens a second time when David mentions that he plans to visit the Peggottys, whom Steerforth has met. David explains the Mr. Peggotty has adopted Ham and little Emily, so his house is full of people who Mr. Peggotty has been kind to. Steerforth comments that they seem worth his attention. Miss Dartle chimes in to ask if they really seem worth his notice, as though they were animals or beings of another order? Steerforth clarifies that he thinks there is a difference between them and us - they may be very good people, but they can't be expected to be as sensitive or fine as people with better breeding. Miss Dartle thanks him for making her feel better: she had been worried that poor people suffer, but now she knows that they don't really feel things the way better people do. David thinks that Steerforth can't mean what he says, and that he must have made his comments about poor people to draw Miss Dartle out. Once they are alone, Steerforth asks David what he thinks of Miss Dartle. David comments that she seems very clever, and Steerforth agrees: she is so sharp that she seems all edge to Steerforth. David remarks on Miss Dartle's scar. Steerforth admits that he gave it to her: when he was a little boy, she irritated him and he threw a hammer at her. David is sorry to have brought it up, since it must be painful for Steerforth. Steerforth continues: Miss Dartle is an orphan of a cousin of Steerforth's father's who Mrs. Steerforth brought to live with her as a companion once Mr. Steerforth died. David comments that Miss Dartle must love Steerforth like a brother. Steerforth hems and haws a bit, and then changes the subject. The next day, David keeps glancing at Miss Dartle's scar. He notices that, when she gets angry, it flushes dark and stands out clearly on her face. Mrs. Steerforth shows David all of Steerforth's old letters to her, his baby pictures, and a lock of his hair. David tells Mrs. Steerforth that Steerforth practically saved his life at Mr. Creakle's school, and that he has always been generous and noble to David. Mrs. Steerforth agrees that Salem House was not good enough for her son, but Steerforth needed to go there because they had trouble finding a teacher who would "be content to bow himself" before Steerforth's superior character. Steerforth's mother adds that her son had to go to a school where he could be the acknowledged king of the place. Mrs. Steerforth is delighted that David is so devoted to her son, but she also finds it only natural that her son should inspire such feelings in his fellow men. During this conversation, Miss Dartle is busy playing backgammon with Steerforth, but David is certain that she doesn't miss a word of any of this. Later on, Steerforth calls David Daisy again, and Miss Dartle jumps on it. She asks if it means that David is young and innocent. She comments that Steerforth thinks David is innocent, and so he is willing to be friends with him. Miss Dartle goes to bed soon after, and Steerforth and David stay up late and talk about old school times. When David goes to bed, he notices that there is a portrait of Miss Dartle on his wall. He finds it disturbing, and starts having uneasy dreams filled with doubts about the people around him. |
'And so it was you that was your own friend, was it?' asked Mr.
Claypole, otherwise Bolter, when, by virtue of the compact entered into
between them, he had removed next day to Fagin's house. ''Cod, I
thought as much last night!'
'Every man's his own friend, my dear,' replied Fagin, with his most
insinuating grin. 'He hasn't as good a one as himself anywhere.'
'Except sometimes,' replied Morris Bolter, assuming the air of a man of
the world. 'Some people are nobody's enemies but their own, yer know.'
'Don't believe that,' said Fagin. 'When a man's his own enemy, it's
only because he's too much his own friend; not because he's careful for
everybody but himself. Pooh! pooh! There ain't such a thing in
nature.'
'There oughn't to be, if there is,' replied Mr. Bolter.
'That stands to reason. Some conjurers say that number three is the
magic number, and some say number seven. It's neither, my friend,
neither. It's number one.
'Ha! ha!' cried Mr. Bolter. 'Number one for ever.'
'In a little community like ours, my dear,' said Fagin, who felt it
necessary to qualify this position, 'we have a general number one,
without considering me too as the same, and all the other young people.'
'Oh, the devil!' exclaimed Mr. Bolter.
'You see,' pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this interruption, 'we
are so mixed up together, and identified in our interests, that it must
be so. For instance, it's your object to take care of number
one--meaning yourself.'
'Certainly,' replied Mr. Bolter. 'Yer about right there.'
'Well! You can't take care of yourself, number one, without taking
care of me, number one.'
'Number two, you mean,' said Mr. Bolter, who was largely endowed with
the quality of selfishness.
'No, I don't!' retorted Fagin. 'I'm of the same importance to you, as
you are to yourself.'
'I say,' interrupted Mr. Bolter, 'yer a very nice man, and I'm very
fond of yer; but we ain't quite so thick together, as all that comes
to.'
'Only think,' said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders, and stretching out
his hands; 'only consider. You've done what's a very pretty thing, and
what I love you for doing; but what at the same time would put the
cravat round your throat, that's so very easily tied and so very
difficult to unloose--in plain English, the halter!'
Mr. Bolter put his hand to his neckerchief, as if he felt it
inconveniently tight; and murmured an assent, qualified in tone but not
in substance.
'The gallows,' continued Fagin, 'the gallows, my dear, is an ugly
finger-post, which points out a very short and sharp turning that has
stopped many a bold fellow's career on the broad highway. To keep in
the easy road, and keep it at a distance, is object number one with
you.'
'Of course it is,' replied Mr. Bolter. 'What do yer talk about such
things for?'
'Only to show you my meaning clearly,' said the Jew, raising his
eyebrows. 'To be able to do that, you depend upon me. To keep my
little business all snug, I depend upon you. The first is your number
one, the second my number one. The more you value your number one, the
more careful you must be of mine; so we come at last to what I told you
at first--that a regard for number one holds us all together, and must
do so, unless we would all go to pieces in company.'
'That's true,' rejoined Mr. Bolter, thoughtfully. 'Oh! yer a cunning
old codger!'
Mr. Fagin saw, with delight, that this tribute to his powers was no
mere compliment, but that he had really impressed his recruit with a
sense of his wily genius, which it was most important that he should
entertain in the outset of their acquaintance. To strengthen an
impression so desirable and useful, he followed up the blow by
acquainting him, in some detail, with the magnitude and extent of his
operations; blending truth and fiction together, as best served his
purpose; and bringing both to bear, with so much art, that Mr. Bolter's
respect visibly increased, and became tempered, at the same time, with
a degree of wholesome fear, which it was highly desirable to awaken.
'It's this mutual trust we have in each other that consoles me under
heavy losses,' said Fagin. 'My best hand was taken from me, yesterday
morning.'
'You don't mean to say he died?' cried Mr. Bolter.
'No, no,' replied Fagin, 'not so bad as that. Not quite so bad.'
'What, I suppose he was--'
'Wanted,' interposed Fagin. 'Yes, he was wanted.'
'Very particular?' inquired Mr. Bolter.
'No,' replied Fagin, 'not very. He was charged with attempting to pick
a pocket, and they found a silver snuff-box on him,--his own, my dear,
his own, for he took snuff himself, and was very fond of it. They
remanded him till to-day, for they thought they knew the owner. Ah! he
was worth fifty boxes, and I'd give the price of as many to have him
back. You should have known the Dodger, my dear; you should have known
the Dodger.'
'Well, but I shall know him, I hope; don't yer think so?' said Mr.
Bolter.
'I'm doubtful about it,' replied Fagin, with a sigh. 'If they don't
get any fresh evidence, it'll only be a summary conviction, and we
shall have him back again after six weeks or so; but, if they do, it's
a case of lagging. They know what a clever lad he is; he'll be a
lifer. They'll make the Artful nothing less than a lifer.'
'What do you mean by lagging and a lifer?' demanded Mr. Bolter. 'What's
the good of talking in that way to me; why don't yer speak so as I can
understand yer?'
Fagin was about to translate these mysterious expressions into the
vulgar tongue; and, being interpreted, Mr. Bolter would have been
informed that they represented that combination of words,
'transportation for life,' when the dialogue was cut short by the entry
of Master Bates, with his hands in his breeches-pockets, and his face
twisted into a look of semi-comical woe.
'It's all up, Fagin,' said Charley, when he and his new companion had
been made known to each other.
'What do you mean?'
'They've found the gentleman as owns the box; two or three more's a
coming to 'dentify him; and the Artful's booked for a passage out,'
replied Master Bates. 'I must have a full suit of mourning, Fagin, and
a hatband, to wisit him in, afore he sets out upon his travels. To
think of Jack Dawkins--lummy Jack--the Dodger--the Artful Dodger--going
abroad for a common twopenny-halfpenny sneeze-box! I never thought
he'd a done it under a gold watch, chain, and seals, at the lowest.
Oh, why didn't he rob some rich old gentleman of all his walables, and
go out as a gentleman, and not like a common prig, without no honour
nor glory!'
With this expression of feeling for his unfortunate friend, Master
Bates sat himself on the nearest chair with an aspect of chagrin and
despondency.
'What do you talk about his having neither honour nor glory for!'
exclaimed Fagin, darting an angry look at his pupil. 'Wasn't he always
the top-sawyer among you all! Is there one of you that could touch him
or come near him on any scent! Eh?'
'Not one,' replied Master Bates, in a voice rendered husky by regret;
'not one.'
'Then what do you talk of?' replied Fagin angrily; 'what are you
blubbering for?'
''Cause it isn't on the rec-ord, is it?' said Charley, chafed into
perfect defiance of his venerable friend by the current of his regrets;
''cause it can't come out in the 'dictment; 'cause nobody will never
know half of what he was. How will he stand in the Newgate Calendar?
P'raps not be there at all. Oh, my eye, my eye, wot a blow it is!'
'Ha! ha!' cried Fagin, extending his right hand, and turning to Mr.
Bolter in a fit of chuckling which shook him as though he had the
palsy; 'see what a pride they take in their profession, my dear. Ain't
it beautiful?'
Mr. Bolter nodded assent, and Fagin, after contemplating the grief of
Charley Bates for some seconds with evident satisfaction, stepped up to
that young gentleman and patted him on the shoulder.
'Never mind, Charley,' said Fagin soothingly; 'it'll come out, it'll be
sure to come out. They'll all know what a clever fellow he was; he'll
show it himself, and not disgrace his old pals and teachers. Think how
young he is too! What a distinction, Charley, to be lagged at his time
of life!'
'Well, it is a honour that is!' said Charley, a little consoled.
'He shall have all he wants,' continued the Jew. 'He shall be kept in
the Stone Jug, Charley, like a gentleman. Like a gentleman! With his
beer every day, and money in his pocket to pitch and toss with, if he
can't spend it.'
'No, shall he though?' cried Charley Bates.
'Ay, that he shall,' replied Fagin, 'and we'll have a big-wig, Charley:
one that's got the greatest gift of the gab: to carry on his defence;
and he shall make a speech for himself too, if he likes; and we'll read
it all in the papers--"Artful Dodger--shrieks of laughter--here the
court was convulsed"--eh, Charley, eh?'
'Ha! ha!' laughed Master Bates, 'what a lark that would be, wouldn't
it, Fagin? I say, how the Artful would bother 'em wouldn't he?'
'Would!' cried Fagin. 'He shall--he will!'
'Ah, to be sure, so he will,' repeated Charley, rubbing his hands.
'I think I see him now,' cried the Jew, bending his eyes upon his pupil.
'So do I,' cried Charley Bates. 'Ha! ha! ha! so do I. I see it all
afore me, upon my soul I do, Fagin. What a game! What a regular game!
All the big-wigs trying to look solemn, and Jack Dawkins addressing of
'em as intimate and comfortable as if he was the judge's own son making
a speech arter dinner--ha! ha! ha!'
In fact, Mr. Fagin had so well humoured his young friend's eccentric
disposition, that Master Bates, who had at first been disposed to
consider the imprisoned Dodger rather in the light of a victim, now
looked upon him as the chief actor in a scene of most uncommon and
exquisite humour, and felt quite impatient for the arrival of the time
when his old companion should have so favourable an opportunity of
displaying his abilities.
'We must know how he gets on to-day, by some handy means or other,'
said Fagin. 'Let me think.'
'Shall I go?' asked Charley.
'Not for the world,' replied Fagin. 'Are you mad, my dear, stark mad,
that you'd walk into the very place where--No, Charley, no. One is
enough to lose at a time.'
'You don't mean to go yourself, I suppose?' said Charley with a
humorous leer.
'That wouldn't quite fit,' replied Fagin shaking his head.
'Then why don't you send this new cove?' asked Master Bates, laying his
hand on Noah's arm. 'Nobody knows him.'
'Why, if he didn't mind--' observed Fagin.
'Mind!' interposed Charley. 'What should he have to mind?'
'Really nothing, my dear,' said Fagin, turning to Mr. Bolter, 'really
nothing.'
'Oh, I dare say about that, yer know,' observed Noah, backing towards
the door, and shaking his head with a kind of sober alarm. 'No,
no--none of that. It's not in my department, that ain't.'
'Wot department has he got, Fagin?' inquired Master Bates, surveying
Noah's lank form with much disgust. 'The cutting away when there's
anything wrong, and the eating all the wittles when there's everything
right; is that his branch?'
'Never mind,' retorted Mr. Bolter; 'and don't yer take liberties with
yer superiors, little boy, or yer'll find yerself in the wrong shop.'
Master Bates laughed so vehemently at this magnificent threat, that it
was some time before Fagin could interpose, and represent to Mr. Bolter
that he incurred no possible danger in visiting the police-office;
that, inasmuch as no account of the little affair in which he had
engaged, nor any description of his person, had yet been forwarded to
the metropolis, it was very probable that he was not even suspected of
having resorted to it for shelter; and that, if he were properly
disguised, it would be as safe a spot for him to visit as any in
London, inasmuch as it would be, of all places, the very last, to which
he could be supposed likely to resort of his own free will.
Persuaded, in part, by these representations, but overborne in a much
greater degree by his fear of Fagin, Mr. Bolter at length consented,
with a very bad grace, to undertake the expedition. By Fagin's
directions, he immediately substituted for his own attire, a waggoner's
frock, velveteen breeches, and leather leggings: all of which articles
the Jew had at hand. He was likewise furnished with a felt hat well
garnished with turnpike tickets; and a carter's whip. Thus equipped,
he was to saunter into the office, as some country fellow from Covent
Garden market might be supposed to do for the gratification of his
curiousity; and as he was as awkward, ungainly, and raw-boned a fellow
as need be, Mr. Fagin had no fear but that he would look the part to
perfection.
These arrangements completed, he was informed of the necessary signs
and tokens by which to recognise the Artful Dodger, and was conveyed by
Master Bates through dark and winding ways to within a very short
distance of Bow Street. Having described the precise situation of the
office, and accompanied it with copious directions how he was to walk
straight up the passage, and when he got into the side, and pull off
his hat as he went into the room, Charley Bates bade him hurry on
alone, and promised to bide his return on the spot of their parting.
Noah Claypole, or Morris Bolter as the reader pleases, punctually
followed the directions he had received, which--Master Bates being
pretty well acquainted with the locality--were so exact that he was
enabled to gain the magisterial presence without asking any question,
or meeting with any interruption by the way.
He found himself jostled among a crowd of people, chiefly women, who
were huddled together in a dirty frowsy room, at the upper end of which
was a raised platform railed off from the rest, with a dock for the
prisoners on the left hand against the wall, a box for the witnesses in
the middle, and a desk for the magistrates on the right; the awful
locality last named, being screened off by a partition which concealed
the bench from the common gaze, and left the vulgar to imagine (if they
could) the full majesty of justice.
There were only a couple of women in the dock, who were nodding to
their admiring friends, while the clerk read some depositions to a
couple of policemen and a man in plain clothes who leant over the
table. A jailer stood reclining against the dock-rail, tapping his
nose listlessly with a large key, except when he repressed an undue
tendency to conversation among the idlers, by proclaiming silence; or
looked sternly up to bid some woman 'Take that baby out,' when the
gravity of justice was disturbed by feeble cries, half-smothered in the
mother's shawl, from some meagre infant. The room smelt close and
unwholesome; the walls were dirt-discoloured; and the ceiling
blackened. There was an old smoky bust over the mantel-shelf, and a
dusty clock above the dock--the only thing present, that seemed to go
on as it ought; for depravity, or poverty, or an habitual acquaintance
with both, had left a taint on all the animate matter, hardly less
unpleasant than the thick greasy scum on every inanimate object that
frowned upon it.
Noah looked eagerly about him for the Dodger; but although there were
several women who would have done very well for that distinguished
character's mother or sister, and more than one man who might be
supposed to bear a strong resemblance to his father, nobody at all
answering the description given him of Mr. Dawkins was to be seen. He
waited in a state of much suspense and uncertainty until the women,
being committed for trial, went flaunting out; and then was quickly
relieved by the appearance of another prisoner who he felt at once
could be no other than the object of his visit.
It was indeed Mr. Dawkins, who, shuffling into the office with the big
coat sleeves tucked up as usual, his left hand in his pocket, and his
hat in his right hand, preceded the jailer, with a rolling gait
altogether indescribable, and, taking his place in the dock, requested
in an audible voice to know what he was placed in that 'ere disgraceful
sitivation for.
'Hold your tongue, will you?' said the jailer.
'I'm an Englishman, ain't I?' rejoined the Dodger. 'Where are my
priwileges?'
'You'll get your privileges soon enough,' retorted the jailer, 'and
pepper with 'em.'
'We'll see wot the Secretary of State for the Home Affairs has got to
say to the beaks, if I don't,' replied Mr. Dawkins. 'Now then! Wot is
this here business? I shall thank the madg'strates to dispose of this
here little affair, and not to keep me while they read the paper, for
I've got an appointment with a genelman in the City, and as I am a man
of my word and wery punctual in business matters, he'll go away if I
ain't there to my time, and then pr'aps ther won't be an action for
damage against them as kep me away. Oh no, certainly not!'
At this point, the Dodger, with a show of being very particular with a
view to proceedings to be had thereafter, desired the jailer to
communicate 'the names of them two files as was on the bench.' Which
so tickled the spectators, that they laughed almost as heartily as
Master Bates could have done if he had heard the request.
'Silence there!' cried the jailer.
'What is this?' inquired one of the magistrates.
'A pick-pocketing case, your worship.'
'Has the boy ever been here before?'
'He ought to have been, a many times,' replied the jailer. 'He has been
pretty well everywhere else. _I_ know him well, your worship.'
'Oh! you know me, do you?' cried the Artful, making a note of the
statement. 'Wery good. That's a case of deformation of character, any
way.'
Here there was another laugh, and another cry of silence.
'Now then, where are the witnesses?' said the clerk.
'Ah! that's right,' added the Dodger. 'Where are they? I should like
to see 'em.'
This wish was immediately gratified, for a policeman stepped forward
who had seen the prisoner attempt the pocket of an unknown gentleman in
a crowd, and indeed take a handkerchief therefrom, which, being a very
old one, he deliberately put back again, after trying it on his own
countenance. For this reason, he took the Dodger into custody as soon
as he could get near him, and the said Dodger, being searched, had upon
his person a silver snuff-box, with the owner's name engraved upon the
lid. This gentleman had been discovered on reference to the Court
Guide, and being then and there present, swore that the snuff-box was
his, and that he had missed it on the previous day, the moment he had
disengaged himself from the crowd before referred to. He had also
remarked a young gentleman in the throng, particularly active in making
his way about, and that young gentleman was the prisoner before him.
'Have you anything to ask this witness, boy?' said the magistrate.
'I wouldn't abase myself by descending to hold no conversation with
him,' replied the Dodger.
'Have you anything to say at all?'
'Do you hear his worship ask if you've anything to say?' inquired the
jailer, nudging the silent Dodger with his elbow.
'I beg your pardon,' said the Dodger, looking up with an air of
abstraction. 'Did you redress yourself to me, my man?'
'I never see such an out-and-out young wagabond, your worship,'
observed the officer with a grin. 'Do you mean to say anything, you
young shaver?'
'No,' replied the Dodger, 'not here, for this ain't the shop for
justice: besides which, my attorney is a-breakfasting this morning
with the Wice President of the House of Commons; but I shall have
something to say elsewhere, and so will he, and so will a wery numerous
and 'spectable circle of acquaintance as'll make them beaks wish they'd
never been born, or that they'd got their footmen to hang 'em up to
their own hat-pegs, afore they let 'em come out this morning to try it
on upon me. I'll--'
'There! He's fully committed!' interposed the clerk. 'Take him away.'
'Come on,' said the jailer.
'Oh ah! I'll come on,' replied the Dodger, brushing his hat with the
palm of his hand. 'Ah! (to the Bench) it's no use your looking
frightened; I won't show you no mercy, not a ha'porth of it. _You'll_
pay for this, my fine fellers. I wouldn't be you for something! I
wouldn't go free, now, if you was to fall down on your knees and ask
me. Here, carry me off to prison! Take me away!'
With these last words, the Dodger suffered himself to be led off by the
collar; threatening, till he got into the yard, to make a parliamentary
business of it; and then grinning in the officer's face, with great
glee and self-approval.
Having seen him locked up by himself in a little cell, Noah made the
best of his way back to where he had left Master Bates. After waiting
here some time, he was joined by that young gentleman, who had
prudently abstained from showing himself until he had looked carefully
abroad from a snug retreat, and ascertained that his new friend had not
been followed by any impertinent person.
The two hastened back together, to bear to Mr. Fagin the animating news
that the Dodger was doing full justice to his bringing-up, and
establishing for himself a glorious reputation. | Noah meets Fagin at his home. The Artful Dodger has been arrested for attempting to pick a pocket. Noah's first job is to go to the police station to watch the Dodger's trial. The Dodger, joking all the while, is convicted and sentenced to transportation. Noah hurries back to tell Fagin |
SCENE IV.
_Another part of the forest._
_Enter VALENTINE._
_Val._ How use doth breed a habit in a man!
This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,
I better brook than flourishing peopled towns:
Here can I sit alone, unseen of any,
And to the nightingale's complaining notes 5
Tune my distresses and record my woes.
O thou that dost inhabit in my breast,
Leave not the mansion so long tenantless,
Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall,
And leave no memory of what it was! 10
Repair me with thy presence, Silvia;
Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain!
What halloing and what stir is this to-day?
These are my mates, that make their wills their law,
Have some unhappy passenger in chase. 15
They love me well; yet I have much to do
To keep them from uncivil outrages.
Withdraw thee, Valentine: who's this comes here?
_Enter PROTEUS, SILVIA, and JULIA._
_Pro._ Madam, this service I have done for you,
Though you respect not aught your servant doth, 20
To hazard life, and rescue you from him
That would have forced your honour and your love;
Vouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look;
A smaller boon than this I cannot beg,
And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give. 25
_Val._ [_Aside_] How like a dream is this I see and hear!
Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile.
_Sil._ O miserable, unhappy that I am!
_Pro._ Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came;
But by my coming I have made you happy. 30
_Sil._ By thy approach thou makest me most unhappy.
_Jul._ [_Aside_] And me, when he approacheth to your presence.
_Sil._ Had I been seized by a hungry lion,
I would have been a breakfast to the beast,
Rather than have false Proteus rescue me. 35
O, Heaven be judge how I love Valentine,
Whose life's as tender to me as my soul!
And full as much, for more there cannot be,
I do detest false perjured Proteus.
Therefore be gone; solicit me no more. 40
_Pro._ What dangerous action, stood it next to death,
Would I not undergo for one calm look!
O, 'tis the curse in love, and still approved,
When women cannot love where they're beloved!
_Sil._ When Proteus cannot love where he's beloved. 45
Read over Julia's heart, thy first, best love,
For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith
Into a thousand oaths; and all those oaths
Descended into perjury, to love me.
Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou'dst two, 50
And that's far worse than none; better have none
Than plural faith which is too much by one:
Thou counterfeit to thy true friend!
_Pro._ In love
Who respects friend?
_Sil._ All men but Proteus.
_Pro._ Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words 55
Can no way change you to a milder form,
I'll woo you like a soldier, at arms' end,
And love you 'gainst the nature of love,--force ye.
_Sil._ O heaven!
_Pro._ I'll force thee yield to my desire.
_Val._ Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch, 60
Thou friend of an ill fashion!
_Pro._ Valentine!
_Val._ Thou common friend, that's without faith or love,
For such is a friend now; treacherous man!
Thou hast beguiled my hopes; nought but mine eye
Could have persuaded me: now I dare not say 65
I have one friend alive; thou wouldst disprove me.
Who should be trusted now, when one's right hand
Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus,
I am sorry I must never trust thee more,
But count the world a stranger for thy sake. 70
The private wound is deepest: O time most accurst,
'Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst!
_Pro._ My shame and guilt confounds me.
Forgive me, Valentine: if hearty sorrow
Be a sufficient ransom for offence, 75
I tender 't here; I do as truly suffer
As e'er I did commit.
_Val._ Then I am paid;
And once again I do receive thee honest.
Who by repentance is not satisfied
Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleased. 80
By penitence the Eternal's wrath's appeased:
And, that my love may appear plain and free,
All that was mine in Silvia I give thee.
_Jul._ O me unhappy! [_Swoons._
_Pro._ Look to the boy. 85
_Val._ Why, boy! why, wag! how now! what's the matter?
Look up; speak.
_Jul._ O good sir, my master charged me to deliver
a ring to Madam Silvia, which, out of my neglect, was never
done. 90
_Pro._ Where is that ring, boy?
_Jul._ Here 'tis; this is it.
_Pro._ How! let me see:
Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia.
_Jul._ O, cry you mercy, sir, I have mistook:
This is the ring you sent to Silvia. 95
_Pro._ But how camest thou by this ring? At my depart
I gave this unto Julia.
_Jul._ And Julia herself did give it me;
And Julia herself hath brought it hither.
_Pro._ How! Julia! 100
_Jul._ Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths,
And entertain'd 'em deeply in her heart.
How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root!
O Proteus, let this habit make thee blush!
Be thou ashamed that I have took upon me 105
Such an immodest raiment, if shame live
In a disguise of love:
It is the lesser blot, modesty finds,
Women to change their shapes than men their minds.
_Pro._ Than men their minds! 'tis true. O heaven, were man 110
But constant, he were perfect! That one error
Fills him with faults; makes him run through all the sins:
Inconstancy falls off ere it begins.
What is in Silvia's face, but I may spy
More fresh in Julia's with a constant eye? 115
_Val._ Come, come, a hand from either:
Let me be blest to make this happy close;
'Twere pity two such friends should be long foes.
_Pro._ Bear witness, Heaven, I have my wish for ever.
_Jul._ And I mine. 120
_Enter _Outlaws_, with DUKE and THURIO._
_Outlaws._ A prize, a prize, a prize!
_Val._ Forbear, forbear, I say! it is my lord the duke.
Your Grace is welcome to a man disgraced,
Banished Valentine.
_Duke._ Sir Valentine!
_Thu._ Yonder is Silvia; and Silvia's mine. 125
_Val._ Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death;
Come not within the measure of my wrath;
Do not name Silvia thine; if once again,
Verona shall not hold thee. Here she stands:
Take but possession of her with a touch: 130
I dare thee but to breathe upon my love.
_Thu._ Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I:
I hold him but a fool that will endanger
His body for a girl that loves him not:
I claim her not, and therefore she is thine. 135
_Duke._ The more degenerate and base art thou,
To make such means for her as thou hast done,
And leave her on such slight conditions.
Now, by the honour of my ancestry,
I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, 140
And think thee worthy of an empress' love:
Know, then, I here forget all former griefs,
Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again,
Plead a new state in thy unrival'd merit,
To which I thus subscribe: Sir Valentine, 145
Thou art a gentleman, and well derived;
Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserved her.
_Val._ I thank your grace; the gift hath made me happy.
I now beseech you, for your daughter's sake,
To grant one boon that I shall ask of you. 150
_Duke._ I grant it, for thine own, whate'er it be.
_Val._ These banish'd men that I have kept withal
Are men endued with worthy qualities:
Forgive them what they have committed here,
And let them be recall'd from their exile: 155
They are reformed, civil, full of good,
And fit for great employment, worthy lord.
_Duke._ Thou hast prevail'd; I pardon them and thee:
Dispose of them as thou know'st their deserts.
Come, let us go: we will include all jars 160
With triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity.
_Val._ And, as we walk along, I dare be bold
With our discourse to make your Grace to smile.
What think you of this page, my lord?
_Duke._ I think the boy hath grace in him; he blushes. 165
_Val._ I warrant you, my lord, more grace than boy.
_Duke._ What mean you by that saying?
_Val._ Please you, I'll tell you as we pass along,
That you will wonder what hath fortuned.
Come, Proteus; 'tis your penance but to hear 170
The story of your loves discovered:
That done, our day of marriage shall be yours;
One feast, one house, one mutual happiness. [_Exeunt._
Notes: V, 4.
SCENE IV. Another ... forest.] Capell. The outlaw's cave in the
forest. Theobald.
2: _This shadowy desert,_] _These shadowy, desert,_ Collier MS.
8: _so_] _too_ Collier MS.
14: _are my_] _my rude_ Collier MS.
18: [Steps aside. Johnson.
19: _I have_] F1 F2 F3. _have I_ F4. _having_ Collier MS.
25: _I am_] _I'm_ Pope.
26, 32: [Aside] Theobald.
26: _is this I see and hear!_] Theobald. _is this? I see and hear:_
Ff.
43: _and still approved_] _for ever prov'd_ Pope.
49: _to love me_] F1. _to deceive me_ F2 F3 F4.
57: _woo_] _wooe_ F1. _move_ F2 F3 F4.
58: _ye_] Ff. _you_ Warburton.
63: _treacherous man_] F1. _Thou treacherous man_ F2. _Though
treacherous man_ F3. _Tho treacherous man_ F4.
65: _now_] om. Pope.
67: _trusted now, when one's_] F2 F3 F4. _trusted, when one's_ F1.
_trusted, when one's own_ Johnson. _trusted now, when the_ Pope.
69: _I am_] _I'm_ Pope.
71: _O time most accurst_] _O time accurst_ Hanmer. _O time most
curst_ Johnson. _O spite accurst_ S. Verges conj.
72: _all foes that a friend_] _all my foes a friend_ Collier MS.
73: _confounds_] _confound_ Rowe.
_My ... confounds me_] _My shame and desperate guilt at once
confound me_ Collier MS.
82, 83: Blackstone proposes to transfer these lines to the end of
Thurio's speech, line 135.
84: [Swoons.] Pope.
86-90: Printed by Capell as four verses ending _matter ... me ...
Silvia ... done._
86: _what's_] _what is_ Capell.
88: _to deliver_] _Deliver_ Steevens conj.
92: _see_] _see it_ Steevens conj. suggesting that lines 92-97
should end at _ring ... sir ... sent ... this?_ (om. _ring_)
_... Julia._
93: _Why, this is_] _This is_ Pope. _Why, 'tis_ S. Verges conj.
96: _But_] om. Pope.
102: _'em_] _them_ Capell.
103: _root_] _root on't_ Hanmer.
112: _all the sins_] _all th' sins_ Ff. _all sins_ Pope.
118: _be long_] _long be_ Pope.
120: _And I mine_] _And I have mine_ Steevens (Ritson conj.).
[embracing. Capell.
121: SCENE V. Pope.
122: _Forbear, forbear, I say!_] _Forbear, I say!_ Capell.
_Forbear, forbear!_ Pope.
124: _Banished_] _The banish'd_ Pope.
129: _Verona shall not hold_] _Milan shall not behold_ Theobald.
_And Milan shall not hold_ Hanmer. _Milano shall not hold_
Collier MS. See note (VII).
143: _again,_] _again._ Steevens (Tyrwhitt conj.).
144: _unrival'd_] F1. _arrival'd_ F2 F3 F4.
160: _include_] _conclude_ Hanmer.
161: _rare_] F1. _all_ F2 F3 F4.
164: _page_] _stripling page_ Collier MS.
167: _saying?_] _saying, Valentine?_ Collier MS.
171: _loves discovered_] _love discovered_ Pope. _love's discoverer_
Collier MS.
172: _That done, our ... yours_] _Our day of marriage shall be
yours no less_ Collier MS. | A solitary Valentine muses on his present condition: Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, And to the nightingale's complaining notes Tune my distresses and record my woes. Abruptly interrupted by the spectacle of his friend Proteus in hot pursuit of Silvia, Valentine doubts his very senses: "How like a dream is this I see and hear!" Valentine remains mute until the moment when Proteus threatens violence. Proteus: In love, Who respects friend? Silvia: All men but Proteus. Proteus: Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words Can no way change you to a milder form, I'll woo you like a soldier, at arms' end, And love you 'gainst the nature of love, -- force ye. Silvia: O heaven! Proteus: I'll force thee yield to my desire. Valentine: Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch, Thou friend of an ill fashion! Confronted by his friend, Proteus apologizes and is forgiven at once by Valentine. Silvia remains silent. When Julia faints, trying to cover up her emotional turmoil by telling Proteus that she was upset at not delivering the ring to Silvia as promised, it is discovered that she is indeed Proteus's former lover. She hands him the wrong ring, the one he had given her as a keepsake. The two reconcile. When Thurio is confronted by an angry Valentine, he gives up claim to Silvia, causing the Duke to change heart: I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, And think thee worthy of an empress' love. Valentine accepts and asks the Duke to "grant one boon," a general amnesty for the band of gentlemen-thieves he has been leading these past months, That done, all retire to soothe the bad feelings "with triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity." |
It will be generally admitted that Beethoven's Fifth Symphony is the
most sublime noise that has ever penetrated into the ear of man. All
sorts and conditions are satisfied by it. Whether you are like Mrs.
Munt, and tap surreptitiously when the tunes come--of course, not so as
to disturb the others--or like Helen, who can see heroes and shipwrecks
in the music's flood; or like Margaret, who can only see the music; or
like Tibby, who is profoundly versed in counterpoint, and holds the full
score open on his knee; or like their cousin, Fraulein Mosebach, who
remembers all the time that Beethoven is echt Deutsch; or like Fraulein
Mosebach's young man, who can remember nothing but Fraulein Mosebach: in
any case, the passion of your life becomes more vivid, and you are bound
to admit that such a noise is cheap at two shillings. It is cheap, even
if you hear it in the Queen's Hall, dreariest music-room in London,
though not as dreary as the Free Trade Hall, Manchester; and even if
you sit on the extreme left of that hall, so that the brass bumps at you
before the rest of the orchestra arrives, it is still cheap.
"Whom is Margaret talking to?" said Mrs. Munt, at the conclusion of the
first movement. She was again in London on a visit to Wickham Place.
Helen looked down the long line of their party, and said that she did
not know.
"Would it be some young man or other whom she takes an interest in?"
"I expect so," Helen replied. Music enwrapped her, and she could not
enter into the distinction that divides young men whom one takes an
interest in from young men whom one knows.
"You girls are so wonderful in always having--Oh dear! one mustn't
talk."
For the Andante had begun--very beautiful, but bearing a family likeness
to all the other beautiful Andantes that Beethoven had written, and,
to Helen's mind, rather disconnecting the heroes and shipwrecks of the
first movement from the heroes and goblins of the third. She heard the
tune through once, and then her attention wandered, and she gazed at the
audience, or the organ, or the architecture. Much did she censure
the attenuated Cupids who encircle the ceiling of the Queen's
Hall, inclining each to each with vapid gesture, and clad in sallow
pantaloons, on which the October sunlight struck. "How awful to marry a
man like those Cupids!" thought Helen. Here Beethoven started decorating
his tune, so she heard him through once more, and then she smiled at
her Cousin Frieda. But Frieda, listening to Classical Music, could not
respond. Herr Liesecke, too, looked as if wild horses could not make him
inattentive; there were lines across his forehead, his lips were parted,
his pince-nez at right angles to his nose, and he had laid a thick,
white hand on either knee. And next to her was Aunt Juley, so British,
and wanting to tap. How interesting that row of people was! What diverse
influences had gone to the making! Here Beethoven, after humming and
hawing with great sweetness, said "Heigho," and the Andante came to an
end. Applause, and a round of "wunderschoning" and pracht volleying from
the German contingent. Margaret started talking to her new young man;
Helen said to her aunt: "Now comes the wonderful movement: first of all
the goblins, and then a trio of elephants dancing"; and Tibby implored
the company generally to look out for the transitional passage on the
drum.
"On the what, dear?"
"On the drum, Aunt Juley."
"No; look out for the part where you think you have done with the
goblins and they come back," breathed Helen, as the music started with
a goblin walking quietly over the universe, from end to end. Others
followed him. They were not aggressive creatures; it was that that made
them so terrible to Helen. They merely observed in passing that there
was no such thing as splendour or heroism in the world. After the
interlude of elephants dancing, they returned and made the observation
for the second time. Helen could not contradict them, for, once at all
events, she had felt the same, and had seen the reliable walls of youth
collapse. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! The goblins were
right. Her brother raised his finger; it was the transitional passage on
the drum.
For, as if things were going too far, Beethoven took hold of the goblins
and made them do what he wanted. He appeared in person. He gave them
a little push, and they began to walk in a major key instead of in a
minor, and then--he blew with his mouth and they were scattered! Gusts
of splendour, gods and demigods contending with vast swords, colour
and fragrance broadcast on the field of battle, magnificent victory,
magnificent death! Oh, it all burst before the girl, and she even
stretched out her gloved hands as if it was tangible. Any fate was
titanic; any contest desirable; conqueror and conquered would alike be
applauded by the angels of the utmost stars.
And the goblins--they had not really been there at all? They were only
the phantoms of cowardice and unbelief? One healthy human impulse would
dispel them? Men like the Wilcoxes, or ex-President Roosevelt, would
say yes. Beethoven knew better. The goblins really had been there. They
might return--and they did. It was as if the splendour of life might
boil over and waste to steam and froth. In its dissolution one heard the
terrible, ominous note, and a goblin, with increased malignity, walked
quietly over the universe from end to end. Panic and emptiness! Panic
and emptiness! Even the flaming ramparts of the world might fall.
Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He built the ramparts up.
He blew with his mouth for the second time, and again the goblins were
scattered. He brought back the gusts of splendour, the heroism, the
youth, the magnificence of life and of death, and, amid vast roarings of
a superhuman joy, he led his Fifth Symphony to its conclusion. But the
goblins were there. They could return. He had said so bravely, and that
is why one can trust Beethoven when he says other things.
Helen pushed her way out during the applause. She desired to be alone.
The music had summed up to her all that had happened or could happen in
her career.
She read it as a tangible statement, which could never be superseded.
The notes meant this and that to her, and they could have no other
meaning, and life could have no other meaning. She pushed right out of
the building and walked slowly down the outside staircase, breathing the
autumnal air, and then she strolled home.
"Margaret," called Mrs. Munt, "is Helen all right?"
"Oh yes."
"She is always going away in the middle of a programme," said Tibby.
"The music has evidently moved her deeply," said Fraulein Mosebach.
"Excuse me," said Margaret's young man, who had for some time been
preparing a sentence, "but that lady has, quite inadvertently, taken my
umbrella."
"Oh, good gracious me!--I am so sorry. Tibby, run after Helen."
"I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do."
"Tibby, love, you must go."
"It isn't of any consequence," said the young man, in truth a little
uneasy about his umbrella.
"But of course it is. Tibby! Tibby!"
Tibby rose to his feet, and wilfully caught his person on the backs of
the chairs. By the time he had tipped up the seat and had found his
hat, and had deposited his full score in safety, it was "too late" to
go after Helen. The Four Serious Songs had begun, and one could not move
during their performance.
"My sister is so careless," whispered Margaret.
"Not at all," replied the young man; but his voice was dead and cold.
"If you would give me your address--"
"Oh, not at all, not at all;" and he wrapped his greatcoat over his
knees.
Then the Four Serious Songs rang shallow in Margaret's ears. Brahms, for
all his grumbling and grizzling, had never guessed what it felt like
to be suspected of stealing an umbrella. For this fool of a young man
thought that she and Helen and Tibby had been playing the confidence
trick on him, and that if he gave his address they would break into
his rooms some midnight or other and steal his walking-stick too. Most
ladies would have laughed, but Margaret really minded, for it gave her
a glimpse into squalor. To trust people is a luxury in which only the
wealthy can indulge; the poor cannot afford it. As soon as Brahms had
grunted himself out, she gave him her card and said, "That is where
we live; if you preferred, you could call for the umbrella after the
concert, but I didn't like to trouble you when it has all been our
fault."
His face brightened a little when he saw that Wickham Place was W. It
was sad to see him corroded with suspicion, and yet not daring to be
impolite, in case these well-dressed people were honest after all. She
took it as a good sign that he said to her, "It's a fine programme
this afternoon, is it not?" for this was the remark with which he had
originally opened, before the umbrella intervened.
"The Beethoven's fine," said Margaret, who was not a female of the
encouraging type. "I don't like the Brahms, though, nor the Mendelssohn
that came first and ugh! I don't like this Elgar that's coming."
"What, what?" called Herr Liesecke, overhearing. "The 'Pomp and
Circumstance' will not be fine?"
"Oh, Margaret, you tiresome girl!" cried her aunt.
"Here have I been persuading Herr Liesecke to stop for 'Pomp and
Circumstance,' and you are undoing all my work. I am so anxious for him
to hear what WE are doing in music. Oh,--you musn't run down our English
composers, Margaret."
"For my part, I have heard the composition at Stettin," said Fraulein
Mosebach, "on two occasions. It is dramatic, a little."
"Frieda, you despise English music. You know you do. And English art.
And English literature, except Shakespeare, and he's a German. Very
well, Frieda, you may go."
The lovers laughed and glanced at each other. Moved by a common impulse,
they rose to their feet and fled from "Pomp and Circumstance."
"We have this call to pay in Finsbury Circus, it is true," said Herr
Liesecke, as he edged past her and reached the gangway just as the music
started.
"Margaret--" loudly whispered by Aunt Juley.
"Margaret, Margaret! Fraulein Mosebach has left her beautiful little bag
behind her on the seat."
Sure enough, there was Frieda's reticule, containing her address book,
her pocket dictionary, her map of London, and her money.
"Oh, what a bother--what a family we are! Fr--frieda!"
"Hush!" said all those who thought the music fine.
"But it's the number they want in Finsbury Circus."
"Might I--couldn't I--" said the suspicious young man, and got very red.
"Oh, I would be so grateful."
He took the bag--money clinking inside it--and slipped up the gangway
with it. He was just in time to catch them at the swing-door, and he
received a pretty smile from the German girl and a fine bow from her
cavalier. He returned to his seat upsides with the world. The trust that
they had reposed in him was trivial, but he felt that it cancelled his
mistrust for them, and that probably he would not be "had" over his
umbrella. This young man had been "had" in the past badly, perhaps
overwhelmingly--and now most of his energies went in defending himself
against the unknown. But this afternoon--perhaps on account of music--he
perceived that one must slack off occasionally or what is the good
of being alive? Wickham Place, W., though a risk, was as safe as most
things, and he would risk it.
So when the concert was over and Margaret said, "We live quite near; I
am going there now. Could you walk round with me, and we'll find your
umbrella?" he said, "Thank you," peaceably, and followed her out of
the Queen's Hall. She wished that he was not so anxious to hand a lady
downstairs, or to carry a lady's programme for her--his class was near
enough her own for its manners to vex her. But she found him interesting
on the whole--every one interested the Schlegels on the whole at that
time--and while her lips talked culture, her heart was planning to
invite him to tea.
"How tired one gets after music!" she began.
"Do you find the atmosphere of Queen's Hall oppressive?"
"Yes, horribly."
"But surely the atmosphere of Covent Garden is even more oppressive."
"Do you go there much?"
"When my work permits, I attend the gallery for the Royal Opera."
Helen would have exclaimed, "So do I. I love the gallery," and thus
have endeared herself to the young man. Helen could do these things. But
Margaret had an almost morbid horror of "drawing people out," of "making
things go." She had been to the gallery at Covent Garden, but she did
not "attend" it, preferring the more expensive seats; still less did she
love it. So she made no reply.
"This year I have been three times--to 'Faust,' 'Tosca,' and--" Was it
"Tannhouser" or "Tannhoyser"? Better not risk the word.
Margaret disliked "Tosca" and "Faust." And so, for one reason and
another, they walked on in silence, chaperoned by the voice of Mrs.
Munt, who was getting into difficulties with her nephew.
"I do in a WAY remember the passage, Tibby, but when every instrument is
so beautiful, it is difficult to pick out one thing rather than another.
I am sure that you and Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not a
dull note from beginning to end. I only wish that our German friends had
stayed till it finished."
"But surely you haven't forgotten the drum steadily beating on the low
C, Aunt Juley?" came Tibby's voice. "No one could. It's unmistakable."
"A specially loud part?" hazarded Mrs. Munt. "Of course I do not go
in for being musical," she added, the shot failing. "I only care for
music--a very different thing. But still I will say this for myself--I
do know when I like a thing and when I don't. Some people are the same
about pictures. They can go into a picture gallery--Miss Conder can--and
say straight off what they feel, all round the wall. I never could do
that. But music is so different from pictures, to my mind. When it comes
to music I am as safe as houses, and I assure you, Tibby, I am by no
means pleased by everything. There was a thing--something about a faun
in French--which Helen went into ecstasies over, but I thought it most
tinkling and superficial, and said so, and I held to my opinion too."
"Do you agree?" asked Margaret. "Do you think music is so different from
pictures?"
"I--I should have thought so, kind of," he said.
"So should I. Now, my sister declares they're just the same. We have
great arguments over it. She says I'm dense; I say she's sloppy."
Getting under way, she cried: "Now, doesn't it seem absurd to you? What
is the good of the Arts if they 're interchangeable? What is the good
of the ear if it tells you the same as the eye? Helen's one aim is to
translate tunes into the language of painting, and pictures into the
language of music. It's very ingenious, and she says several pretty
things in the process, but what's gained, I'd like to know? Oh, it's
all rubbish, radically false. If Monet's really Debussy, and Debussy's
really Monet, neither gentleman is worth his salt--that's my opinion."
Evidently these sisters quarrelled.
"Now, this very symphony that we've just been having--she won't let it
alone. She labels it with meanings from start to finish; turns it into
literature. I wonder if the day will ever return when music will be
treated as music. Yet I don't know. There's my brother--behind us. He
treats music as music, and oh, my goodness! He makes me angrier than any
one, simply furious. With him I daren't even argue."
An unhappy family, if talented.
"But, of course, the real villain is Wagner. He has done more than any
man in the nineteenth century towards the muddling of the arts. I
do feel that music is in a very serious state just now, though
extraordinarily interesting. Every now and then in history there do
come these terrible geniuses, like Wagner, who stir up all the wells of
thought at once. For a moment it's splendid. Such a splash as never
was. But afterwards--such a lot of mud; and the wells--as it were, they
communicate with each other too easily now, and not one of them will run
quite clear. That's what Wagner's done."
Her speeches fluttered away from the young man like birds. If only he
could talk like this, he would have caught the world. Oh, to acquire
culture! Oh, to pronounce foreign names correctly! Oh, to be well
informed, discoursing at ease on every subject that a lady started! But
it would take one years. With an hour at lunch and a few shattered hours
in the evening, how was it possible to catch up with leisured women,
who had been reading steadily from childhood? His brain might be full
of names, he might have even heard of Monet and Debussy; the trouble
was that he could not string them together into a sentence, he could not
make them "tell," he could not quite forget about his stolen umbrella.
Yes, the umbrella was the real trouble. Behind Monet and Debussy the
umbrella persisted, with the steady beat of a drum. "I suppose my
umbrella will be all right," he was thinking. "I don't really mind about
it. I will think about music instead. I suppose my umbrella will be all
right." Earlier in the afternoon he had worried about seats. Ought he
to have paid as much as two shillings? Earlier still he had wondered,
"Shall I try to do without a programme?" There had always been something
to worry him ever since he could remember, always something that
distracted him in the pursuit of beauty. For he did pursue beauty, and,
therefore, Margaret's speeches did flutter away from him like birds.
Margaret talked ahead, occasionally saying, "Don't you think so? don't
you feel the same?" And once she stopped, and said, "Oh, do interrupt
me!" which terrified him. She did not attract him, though she filled him
with awe. Her figure was meagre, her face seemed all teeth and eyes, her
references to her sister and her brother were uncharitable. For all
her cleverness and culture, she was probably one of those soulless,
atheistical women who have been so shown up by Miss Corelli. It was
surprising (and alarming) that she should suddenly say, "I do hope that
you'll come in and have some tea. We should be so glad. I have dragged
you so far out of your way."
They had arrived at Wickham Place. The sun had set, and the backwater,
in deep shadow, was filling with a gentle haze. To the right the
fantastic sky-line of the flats towered black against the hues of
evening; to the left the older houses raised a square-cut, irregular
parapet against the grey. Margaret fumbled for her latch-key. Of course
she had forgotten it. So, grasping her umbrella by its ferrule, she
leant over the area and tapped at the dining-room window.
"Helen! Let us in!"
"All right," said a voice.
"You've been taking this gentleman's umbrella."
"Taken a what?" said Helen, opening the door. "Oh, what's that? Do come
in! How do you do?"
"Helen, you must not be so ramshackly. You took this gentleman's
umbrella away from Queen's Hall, and he has had the trouble of coming
round for it."
"Oh, I am so sorry!" cried Helen, all her hair flying. She had pulled
off her hat as soon as she returned, and had flung herself into the
big dining-room chair. "I do nothing but steal umbrellas. I am so very
sorry! Do come in and choose one. Is yours a hooky or a nobbly? Mine's a
nobbly--at least, I THINK it is."
The light was turned on, and they began to search the hall, Helen, who
had abruptly parted with the Fifth Symphony, commenting with shrill
little cries.
"Don't you talk, Meg! You stole an old gentleman's silk top-hat. Yes,
she did, Aunt Juley. It is a positive fact. She thought it was a muff.
Oh, heavens! I've knocked the In-and-Out card down. Where's Frieda?
Tibby, why don't you ever--No, I can't remember what I was going to say.
That wasn't it, but do tell the maids to hurry tea up. What about this
umbrella?" She opened it. "No, it's all gone along the seams. It's an
appalling umbrella. It must be mine."
But it was not.
He took it from her, murmured a few words of thanks, and then fled, with
the lilting step of the clerk.
"But if you will stop--" cried Margaret. "Now, Helen, how stupid you've
been!"
"Whatever have I done?"
"Don't you see that you've frightened him away? I meant him to stop to
tea. You oughtn't to talk about stealing or holes in an umbrella. I saw
his nice eyes getting so miserable. No, it's not a bit of good now." For
Helen had darted out into the street, shouting, "Oh, do stop!"
"I dare say it is all for the best," opined Mrs. Munt. "We know nothing
about the young man, Margaret, and your drawing-room is full of very
tempting little things."
But Helen cried: "Aunt Juley, how can you! You make me more and more
ashamed. I'd rather he had been a thief and taken all the apostle spoons
than that I--Well, I must shut the front-door, I suppose. One more
failure for Helen."
"Yes, I think the apostle spoons could have gone as rent," said
Margaret. Seeing that her aunt did not understand, she added: "You
remember 'rent'? It was one of father's words--Rent to the ideal, to his
own faith in human nature. You remember how he would trust strangers,
and if they fooled him he would say, 'It's better to be fooled than to
be suspicious'--that the confidence trick is the work of man, but the
want-of-confidence trick is the work of the devil."
"I remember something of the sort now," said Mrs. Munt, rather tartly,
for she longed to add, "It was lucky that your father married a wife
with money." But this was unkind, and she contented herself with, "Why,
he might have stolen the little Ricketts picture as well."
"Better that he had," said Helen stoutly.
"No, I agree with Aunt Juley," said Margaret. "I'd rather mistrust
people than lose my little Ricketts. There are limits."
Their brother, finding the incident commonplace, had stolen upstairs to
see whether there were scones for tea. He warmed the teapot--almost too
deftly--rejected the orange pekoe that the parlour-maid had provided,
poured in five spoonfuls of a superior blend, filled up with really
boiling water, and now called to the ladies to be quick or they would
lose the aroma.
"All right, Auntie Tibby," called Heien, while Margaret, thoughtful
again, said: "In a way, I wish we had a real boy in the house--the kind
of boy who cares for men. It would make entertaining so much easier."
"So do I," said her sister. "Tibby only cares for cultured females
singing Brahms." And when they joined him she said rather sharply: "Why
didn't you make that young man welcome, Tibby? You must do the host a
little, you know. You ought to have taken his hat and coaxed him into
stopping, instead of letting him be swamped by screaming women."
Tibby sighed, and drew a long strand of hair over his forehead.
"Oh, it's no good looking superior. I mean what I say."
"Leave Tibby alone!" said Margaret, who could not bear her brother to be
scolded.
"Here's the house a regular hen-coop!" grumbled Helen.
"Oh, my dear!" protested Mrs. Munt. "How can you say such dreadful
things! The number of men you get here has always astonished me. If
there is any danger it's the other way round."
"Yes, but it's the wrong sort of men, Helen means."
"No, I don't," corrected Helen. "We get the right sort of man, but the
wrong side of him, and I say that's Tibby's fault. There ought to be a
something about the house--an--I don't know what."
"A touch of the W's, perhaps?"
Helen put out her tongue.
"Who are the W's?" asked Tibby.
"The W's are things I and Meg and Aunt Juley know about and you don't,
so there!"
"I suppose that ours is a female house," said Margaret, "and one must
just accept it. No, Aunt Juley, I don't mean that this house is full of
women. I am trying to say something much more clever. I mean that it
was irrevocably feminine, even in father's time. Now I'm sure you
understand! Well, I'll give you another example. It'll shock you, but
I don't care. Suppose Queen Victoria gave a dinner-party, and that
the guests had been Leighton, Millais, Swinburne, Rossetti, Meredith,
Fitzgerald, etc. Do you suppose that the atmosphere of that dinner would
have been artistic? Heavens, no! The very chairs on which they sat would
have seen to that. So with out house--it must be feminine, and all we
can do is to see that it isn't effeminate. Just as another house that
I can mention, but won't, sounded irrevocably masculine, and all its
inmates can do is to see that it isn't brutal."
"That house being the W's house, I presume," said Tibby.
"You're not going to be told about the W's, my child," Helen cried, "so
don't you think it. And on the other hand, I don't the least mind if
you find out, so don't you think you've done anything clever, in either
case. Give me a cigarette."
"You do what you can for the house," said Margaret. "The drawing-room
reeks of smoke."
"If you smoked too, the house might suddenly turn masculine. Atmosphere
is probably a question of touch and go. Even at Queen Victoria's
dinner-party--if something had been just a little Different--perhaps if
she'd worn a clinging Liberty tea-gown instead of a magenta satin."
"With an India shawl over her shoulders--"
"Fastened at the bosom with a Cairngorm-pin."
Bursts of disloyal laughter--you must remember that they are half
German--greeted these suggestions, and Margaret said pensively, "How
inconceivable it would be if the Royal Family cared about Art." And the
conversation drifted away and away, and Helen's cigarette turned to
a spot in the darkness, and the great flats opposite were sown with
lighted windows which vanished and were refit again, and vanished
incessantly. Beyond them the thoroughfare roared gently--a tide that
could never be quiet, while in the east, invisible behind the smokes of
Wapping, the moon was rising.
"That reminds me, Margaret. We might have taken that young man into
the dining-room, at all events. Only the majolica plate--and that is so
firmly set in the wall. I am really distressed that he had no tea."
For that little incident had impressed the three women more than might
be supposed. It remained as a goblin footfall, as a hint that all is not
for the best in the best of all possible worlds, and that beneath these
superstructures of wealth and art there wanders an ill-fed boy, who has
recovered his umbrella indeed, but who has left no address behind him,
and no name. | The chapter opens on the scene of the extended Schlegel family attentively listening to a performance of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, each in their own way. Helen romantically infuses the music with her own imagination, and sees a whole fantastical string of images that accompany it. Margaret hears only the music. Tibby, always academic, knowledgeably ponders the musical score as he listens. They are accompanied by their cousin Frieda Mosebach, her "young man," Herr Liesecke, and Aunt Juley. In between movements, Aunt Juley notices Margaret talking to an unknown young man, about whom she asks Helen. They're interrupted by the start of the second movement, the Andante. We are treated to the narrator's observations of these various listeners, all of whom have different ways of responding to the music. To whimsical Helen, the movement speaks of pessimistic goblins walking around the world, only to be blown away by Beethoven's ending . Helen is overcome by the music, and she escapes during the applause to go home alone. The young man Margaret's speaking to pipes up, noticing that Helen has stolen his umbrella in her quick escape. Margaret tries to make Tibby run after Helen to fetch it, but he refuses. The next piece, the Four Serious Songs by Brahms, prevents anyone from going anywhere. When the Brahms ends, Margaret gives her calling card to the young man, in case he'd like to come by and pick up his umbrella after the concert. The two of them make small talk, and Margaret comments that she doesn't like the next piece in the concert program, Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance. At this, Frieda and Herr Liesecke dash away to go meet up with some friends, to Aunt Juley's dismay. Frieda leaves her bag behind, and the young man dashes out to give it to her. He feels good about the fact that Margaret trusted him with Frieda's purse, and decides to go with the Schlegels to pick up his umbrella from their house after the concert. Margaret finds the young man quite intriguing, despite the fact that his over-eager manners make her feel their class difference , and she wants to invite him to tea. As they walk, they further discuss music, and Tibby and Aunt Juley steal the show, arguing about the music they've just heard. The discussion spreads to Margaret, who asks whether or not music and other art forms are the same or different. Helen, apparently, believes them to be the same, while Margaret maintains that there's a difference. The young man is intrigued by these odd siblings in turn. Margaret goes on, trash talking German composer Richard Wagner for blending all of the arts together. The young man, meanwhile, is overwhelmed by this high-flown discussion. He can't imagine what it must be like to be as cultured and knowledgeable as Margaret. He then begins to worry about his umbrella - apparently, he's quite a worrier. The party arrives at Wickham Place, and Margaret asks the young man to come in and have some tea. He's distraught by this crazy family. Helen flies downstairs to let them into the house, and apologizes for taking the man's umbrella. Apparently, the inadvertent theft of other people's hats and umbrellas is pretty commonplace for Margaret and Helen. She finds a particularly ratty umbrella in their collection, and, though she says it must be hers, it's actually the young man's. He takes it and dashes off. Margaret blames Helen for scaring the stranger off, and she runs out to try and stop him, but it's no use. Aunt Juley thinks it's a good thing he left - after all, she reasons, he might have stolen some of the valuable knickknacks lying about the house, including a precious picture by the painter Charles Ricketts. Tibby is bored by this and goes upstairs to tend to the tea and scones. He's obviously an expert at this duty. On their way upstairs to join their brother, Helen remarks that she wishes they had a "real" boy in the house, not just the opera-loving Tibby. When they get to him, Margaret accuses Tibby of not making their visitor feel at home enough; the house, in her opinion, is too full of "screaming women." Tibby has no defense. They argue over what kind of man they should have around the house - Margaret teases Helen that they might be better off with some men like the "W."s . Margaret comes to the conclusion that their home is irrevocably feminine, but they should try and keep it from being effeminate, a fine distinction. The sisters laugh about the idea of stuffy Queen Victoria hosting a dinner party full of Pre-Raphaelite artists, and the conversation is derailed. Though they move onto other subjects, it's clear that the young man of the stolen umbrella left quite an impression. |
ACT THE FOURTH. SCENE 1.
_A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.
_Enter_ OLIVIA _and_ MARIA.
_Oli._ I have sent after him:--He says, he'll come.
How shall I feast him? what bestow on him?
I speak too loud.----
Where is Malvolio?
_Mar._ He's coming, madam;
But in strange manner. He is sure possessed.
_Oli._ Why, what's the matter? does he rave?
_Mar._ No, madam,
He does nothing but smile: your ladyship
Were best have guard about you, if he come;
For, sure, the man is tainted in his wits.
_Oli._ Go call him hither. [_Exit_ MARIA.
I'm as mad as he,
If sad and merry madness equal be.--
_Enter_ MALVOLIO, _in yellow Stockings, cross-garter'd, and_ MARIA.
How now, Malvolio?
_Mal._ Sweet lady, ho, ho. [_Smiles fantastically._
_Oli._ Smilest thou?
I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.
_Mal._ Sad, lady? I could be sad: This does make some obstruction in
the blood, this cross-gartering: But what of that? if it please the eye
of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is: _Please one, and
please all_.
_Oli._ Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter with thee?
_Mal._ Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs.--It did come
to his hands, and commands shall be executed. I think, we do know the
sweet Roman hand.
_Oli._ Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?
_Mal._ To bed!--Ay, sweet-heart; and I'll come to thee.
_Oli._ Heaven comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy
hand so oft?
_Mar._ How do you, Malvolio?
_Mal._ At your request? Yes; Nightingales answer daws.
_Mar._ Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?
_Mal._ _Be not afraid of greatness_:--'Twas well writ.
_Oli._ What mean'st thou by that, Malvolio?
_Mal._ _Some are born great_,--
_Oli._ Ha?
_Mal._ _Some achieve greatness_,--
_Oli._ What say'st thou?
_Mal._ _ And some have greatness thrust upon them._
_Oli._ Heaven restore thee!
_Mal._ _Remember who commended thy yellow stockings_;--
_Oli._ Thy yellow stockings?
_Mal_ _And wished to see thee cross-garter'd._
_Oli._ Cross-garter'd?
_Mal._ _Go to: thou art made, if thou desirest to be so_;--
_Oli._ Am I made?
_Mal._ _If not, let me see thee a servant still._
_Oli._ Why, this is very Midsummer madness.
_Enter_ FABIAN.
_Fab._ Madam, the young gentleman of the Duke Orsino's is returned;
I could hardly entreat him back: he attends your ladyship's pleasure.
_Oli._ I'll come to him. Good Maria, let this fellow be look'd
to.--Call my uncle Toby. [_Exit_ FABIAN.
Let some of my people have a special care of him; I would not have him
miscarry for the half of my dowry. [_Exeunt_ OLIVIA _and_ MARIA.
_Mal._ Oh, ho! do you come near me now? No worse man than Sir Toby
to look to me? She sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to
him; for she incites me to that in the letter. I have limed her.--And,
when she went away now, _Let this fellow be looked to_:--Fellow! not
Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow. Why, every thing adheres
together.--Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be
thanked.
_Sir To._ [_Without_] Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If
all the devils in hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possessed
him, yet I'll speak to him.
_Enter_ FABIAN, SIR TOBY, _and_ MARIA.
_Fab._ Here he is, here he is:--How is't with you, sir? how is't
with you, man?
_Mal._ Go off, I discard you; let me enjoy my private; go off.
_Mar._ Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not I tell
you?--Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him.
_Mal._ Ah, ha! does she so?
_Sir To._ Go to, go to; we must deal gently with him. How do you,
Malvolio? how is't with you? What, man! defy the devil: consider, he's
an enemy to mankind.
_Mal._ Do you know what you say?
_Mar._ La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at
heart! Pray, heaven, he be not bewitch'd.
_Fab._ Carry his water to the wise woman.
_Sir To._ Pr'ythee, hold thy peace; do you not see, you move him?
let me alone with him.
_Fab._ No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is rough,
and will not be roughly used.
_Sir To._ Why, how now, my bawcock? how dost thou, chuck?
_Mal._ Sir?
_Sir To._ Ay, Biddy, come with me.--What, man! 'tis not for gravity
to play at cherry-pit with Satan: Hang him, foul collier!
_Mar._ Get him to say his prayers, Sir Toby.
_Mal._ My prayers, minx?
_Mar._ No, I warrant you, he'll not hear of godliness.
_Mal._ Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow things: I am
not of your element; you shall know more hereafter. Begone. Ha! ha!
ha! [_Exit_ MALVOLIO.
_Omnes._ Ha! ha! ha!
_Sir To._ Is't possible?
_Fab._ If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as
an improbable fiction.
_Sir To._ His very genius hath taken the infection of the device,
man.
_Mar._ Nay, pursue him now; lest the device take air, and taint.
_Fab._ Why, we shall make him mad, indeed.
_Mar._ The house will be the quieter.
_Sir To._ Come, we'll have him in a dark room, and bound.--Follow
him, and let him not from thy sight. [_Exit_ MARIA.
But see, but see.
_Fab._ More matter for a May morning.
_Enter_ SIR ANDREW, _with a Letter_.
_Sir And._ Here's the challenge, read it; I warrant, there's vinegar
and pepper in't.
_Fab._ Is't so saucy?
_Sir And._ Ay, is it, I warrant him: do but read.
_Sir To._ Give me.--[_Reads._] _Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art
but a scurvy fellow._
_Fab._ Good and valiant.
_Sir To._ _Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call
thee so, for I will show thee no reason for't._
_Fab._ A good note; that keeps you from the blow of the law.
_Sir To._ _Thou comest to the Lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses
thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat, that is not the matter I
challenge thee for._
_Fab._ Very brief, and exceeding good sense-less.
_Sir To._ _I will way-lay thee going home; where if it be thy chance
to kill me_,--
_Fab._ Good.
_Sir To._ _Thou killest me like a rogue and a villain._
_Fab._ Still you keep o' the windy side of the law: Good.
_Sir To._ _Fare thee well; and heaven have mercy upon one of our
souls! He may have mercy upon mine; but my hope is better, and so look
to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy_, ANDREW
AGUECHEEK.--If this letter move him not, his legs cannot: I'll give't
him.
_Fab._ You may have very fit occasion for't; he is now in some
commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart.
_Sir To._ Go, Sir Andrew; scout me for him at the corner of the
garden, like a bum-bailiff; so soon as ever thou seest him, draw; and,
as thou draw'st, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft, that a
terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twang'd off, gives
manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him.
Away.
_Sir And._ Nay, let me alone for swearing. [_Exit_ SIR ANDREW.
_Sir To._ Now will not I deliver his letter: for the behaviour of
the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding;
therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no
terror in the youth, he will find it comes from a clodpole. But, sir, I
will deliver his challenge by word of mouth; set upon Ague-cheek a
notable report of valour; and drive the gentleman, (as, I know, his
youth will aptly receive it,) into a most hideous opinion of his rage,
skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so fright them both, that they
will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices.
_Fab._ Here he comes with your niece: give them way, till he take
leave, and presently after him.
_Sir To._ I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a
challenge. [_Exeunt_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN.
_Enter_ VIOLA _and_ OLIVIA.
_Oli._ I have said too much unto a heart of stone,
And laid mine honour too unchary out:
There's something in me, that reproves my fault;
But such a headstrong potent fault it is,
That it but mocks reproof.
_Vio._ With the same 'haviour that your passion bears,
Go on my master's griefs.
_Oli._ Here, wear this jewel for me, 'tis my picture;
Refuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex you:
And, I beseech you, come again to-morrow.
What shall you ask of me, that I'll deny;
That honour, saved, may upon asking give?
_Vio._ Nothing but this, your true love for my master.
_Oli._ How with mine honour may I give him that
Which I have given to you?
_Vio._ I will acquit you.
_Oli._ Well, come again to-morrow: Fare thee well!
[_Exit_ OLIVIA.
_Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN.
_Sir To._ Gentleman, heaven save thee.
_Vio._ And you, sir.
_Sir To._ That defence thou hast, betake thee to't: of what nature
the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not; but thy intercepter, full
of despight, bloody as the hunter, attends thee: dismount thy tuck, be
yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and
deadly.
_Vio._ You mistake, sir; I am sure, no man hath any quarrel to me;
my remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to
any man.
_Sir To._ You'll find it otherwise, I assure you: therefore, if you
hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard; for your opposite
hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath, can furnish man
withal.
_Vio._ I pray you, sir, what is he?
_Sir To._ He is knight, dubb'd with unhack'd rapier, and on carpet
consideration: but he is a devil in private brawl: souls and bodies hath
he divorced three; and his incensement at this moment is so implacable,
that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre: hob,
nob, is his word; give 't or take 't.
_Vio._ I will return, and desire some conduct of the lady. I am no
fighter.
_Sir To._ Back you shall not, unless you undertake that with me,
which with as much safety you might answer him: therefore, on; or strip
your sword stark naked, (for meddle you must, that's certain,) or
forswear to wear iron about you.
_Vio._ This is as uncivil, as strange. I beseech you, do me this
courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is; it
is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose.
_Sir To._ I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman
till my return. [_Exit_ SIR TOBY.
_Vio._ 'Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?
_Fab._ I know, the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal
arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more.
_Vio._ I beseech you, what manner of man is he?
_Fab._ Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form,
as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is, indeed,
sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you could
possibly have found in any part of Illyria: Will you walk towards him? I
will make your peace with him, if I can.
_Vio._ I shall be much bound to you for't: I am one, that would
rather go with sir priest, than sir knight: I care not who knows so much
of my mettle.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
OLIVIA'S _Garden_.
_Enter_ SIR TOBY, _with_ SIR ANDREW, _in a great fright_.
_Sir To._ Why, man, he's a very devil;--
_Sir And._ Oh!
_Sir To._ I have not seen such a virago. I had a pass with
him,--rapier, scabbard, and all,--and he gives me the stuck-in,----
_Sir And._ Oh!
_Sir To._ With such a mortal motion, that it is inevitable: they
say, he has been fencer to the Sophy.
_Sir And._ Plague on't, I'll not meddle with him.
_Sir To._ Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce
hold him yonder.
_Sir And._ Plague on't; an I thought he had been valiant, and so
cunning in fence, I'd have seen him damn'd ere I had challenged him. Let
him let the matter slip, and I'll give him my horse, grey Capilet.
_Sir To._ I'll make the motion: Stand here, make a good show
on't.--[_Aside._] Marry, I'll ride your horse as well as I ride you.
_Enter_ FABIAN _and_ VIOLA.
I have his horse [_To_ FABIAN.] to take up the quarrel; I have persuaded
him, the youth's a devil.
_Fab._ [_To_ SIR TOBY.] He is as horribly conceited of him; and
pants, as if a bear were at his heels.
_Sir To._ [_To_ VIOLA.] There's no remedy, sir; he will fight with
you for his oath sake: marry, he hath better bethought him of his
quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of: therefore
draw, for the supportance of his vow; he protests, he will not hurt you.
_Vio._ [_Draws her Sword._] Pray heaven defend me!--[_Aside._] A
little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man.
_Fab._ [_To_ VIOLA.] Give ground, if you see him furious.
_Sir To._ Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman will,
for his honour's sake, have one bout with you: he cannot by the duello
avoid it: but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he
will not hurt you. Come on; to 't.
_Sir And._ [_Draws._] Pray heaven, he keep his oath!
_Vio._ I do assure you, 'tis against my will.
[_They fight._--SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN _urge on_ SIR ANDREW _and_ VIOLA.
_Enter_ ANTONIO, _who runs between_ SIR ANDREW _and_ VIOLA.
_Ant._ Put up your sword;--If this young gentleman
Have done offence, I take the fault on me;
If you offend him, I for him defy you.
_Sir To._ You, sir? Why, what are you?
_Ant._ [_Draws._] One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more
Than you have heard him brag to you he will.
_Sir To._ [_Draws._] Nay, if you be an undertaker, I
am for you.
[SIR TOBY _and_ ANTONIO _fight_.]
[SIR ANDREW _hides himself behind the Trees_.--VIOLA _retires a
little_.]
_Fab._ [_Parts them._] O good Sir Toby, hold; here come the
officers.
_Sir To._ [_To_ ANTONIO.] I'll be with you anon. [ANTONIO _shows
great alarm_--SIR TOBY _sheathes his sword_.]--Sir knight,--Sir
Andrew,--
_Sir And._ Here I am.
_Sir To._ What, man!--Come on. [_Brings_ SIR ANDREW _forward_.]
_Vio._ [_Advances._] 'Pray, sir, [_To_ SIR ANDREW.] put up your
sword, if you please.
_Sir And._ Marry, will I, sir;--and, for that I promised you, I'll
be as good as my word: He will bear you easily, and reins well.
_Enter two Officers of Justice._
_1 Off._ This is the man; do thy office.
_2 Off._ Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit
Of Duke Orsino.
_Ant._ You do mistake me, sir.
_1 Off._ No, sir, no jot; I know your favour well.--
Take him away; he knows, I know him well.
_Ant._ I must obey.--This comes with seeking you;
But there's no remedy.
Now my necessity
Makes me to ask you for my purse: It grieves me
Much more, for what I cannot do for you,
Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed;
But be of comfort.
_1 Off._ Come, sir, away.
_Ant._ I must entreat of you some of that money.
_Vio._ What money, sir?
For the fair kindness you have showed me here,
And, part, being prompted by your present trouble,
Out of my lean and low ability
I'll lend you something: my having is not much;
I'll make division of my present with you;
Hold, there is half my coffer.
_Ant._ Will you deny me now?
Is't possible, that my deserts to you
Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery;
Lest that it make me so unsound a man,
As to upbraid you with those kindnesses
That I have done for you.
_Vio._ I know of none;
Nor know I you by voice, or any feature.
_Ant._ O heavens themselves!
_1 Off._ Come, sir, I pray you, go.
_Ant._ Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here,
I snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death;
And to his image, which, methought, did promise
Most venerable worth, did I devotion.
But, O, how vile an idol proves this god!--
Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.--
In nature there's no blemish, but the mind;
None can be call'd deform'd, but the unkind:
Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous-evil
Are empty trunks, o'erflourish'd by the devil.
[_Exeunt_ ANTONIO _and Officers_.
_Sir To._ Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian.
[_They retire together._
_Vio._ He named Sebastian; I my brother know
Yet living in my glass; even such, and so,
In favour was my brother; and he went
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament;
For him I imitate: O, if it prove,
Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love!
[_Exit_ VIOLA.
[_They advance._]
_Sir To._ A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a
hare; his dishonesty appears, in leaving his friend here in necessity,
and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian.
_Fab._ A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.
_Sir And._ 'Slid, I'll after him again, and beat him.
_Sir To._ Do, cuff him soundly;--but never draw thy sword.
_Sir And._ An I do not!-- [_Exeunt._
SCENE III.
_The Street before_ OLIVIA'S _House_.
_Enter_ SEBASTIAN _and_ CLOWN.
_Clo._ Will you make me believe, that I am not sent for you?
_Seb._ Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow; Let me be clear of
thee.
_Clo._ Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; nor I am not
sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is
not Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither:--Nothing, that is so, is
so.
_Seb._ I pr'ythee, vent thy folly somewhere else;--Thou know'st not
me.
_Clo._ Vent my folly! He has heard that word of some great man, and
now applies it to a fool.--I pr'ythee, tell me what I shall vent to my
lady; Shall I vent to her, that thou art coming?
_Seb._ I pr'ythee, foolish Greek, depart from me; There's money for
thee; if you tarry longer, I shall give worse payment.
_Clo._ By my troth, thou hast an open hand:--These wise men, that
give fools money, get themselves a good report after fourteen years'
purchase.
_Enter_ SIR ANDREW.
_Sir And._ Now, sir, have I met you again? There's for you.
[_Striking_ SEBASTIAN.
_Seb._ [_Draws his sword._] Why, there's for thee, and there, and
there:--Are all the people mad?
[_Beating_ SIR ANDREW.
_Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ FABIAN.
_Sir To._ Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house.
_Clo._ This will I tell my lady straight--I would not be in some of
your coats for two-pence.
[_Exit_ CLOWN.
_Sir To._ Come on, sir; hold. [_Holding_ SEBASTIAN.
_Sir And._ Nay, let him alone. I'll go another way to work with him;
I'll have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in
Illyria: though I struck him first, yet it's no matter for that.
_Seb._ Let go thy hand.
_Sir To._ Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier,
put up your iron: you are well flesh'd; come on.
_Seb._ [_Disengages himself._] I will be free from thee.
--What would'st thou now?
If thou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword.
_Sir To._ What, what?--[_Draws._]--Nay, then I must have an ounce or
two of this malapert blood from you. [_They fight._
_Enter_ OLIVIA, _and two Servants_.
_Fab._ Hold, good Sir Toby, hold:--my lady here!
[_Exit_ FABIAN.
_Oli._ Hold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee, hold.
_Sir To._ Madam?
_Oli._ Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch,
Fit for the mountains, and the barbarous caves,
Where manners ne'er were preach'd! out of my sight!
Be not offended, dear Cesario:----
Rudesby, be gone!--
_Sir To._ Come along, knight. [_Exit_ SIR TOBY.
_Oli._ And you, sir, follow him.
_Sir And._ Oh, oh!--Sir Toby,--
[_Exit_ SIR ANDREW.
_Oli._ I pr'ythee, gentle friend,
Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway
In this uncivil and unjust extent
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house;
And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks
This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby
May'st smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go;
Do not deny.
_Seb._ What relish is in this? how runs the stream?
Or I am mad, or else this is a dream:--
Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!
_Oli._ Nay, come, I pr'ythee: 'Would thou'dst be ruled by me!
_Seb._ Madam, I will.
_Oli._ O, say so, and so be! [_Exeunt._
SCENE IV.
_A Gallery in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.
_Enter_ MARIA, _with a black Gown and Hood, and_ CLOWN.
_Mar._ Nay, I pr'ythee, put on this gown and hood; make him believe,
thou art Sir Topas the curate; do it quickly: I'll call Sir Toby the
whilst.
[_Exit_ MARIA.
_Clo._ Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in't; and I
would I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown.
_Enter_ SIR TOBY _and_ MARIA.
_Sir To._ Jove bless thee, master parson.
_Clo._ _Bonos dies_, Sir Toby: for as the old hermit of Prague, that
never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc,
_That, that is, is_; so I, being master parson, am master parson: For
what is that, but that? and is, but is?
_Sir To._ To him, Sir Topas.
_Clo._ [_Opens the door of an inner Room_] What, hoa, I say,--Peace
in this prison!
_Sir To._ The knave counterfeits well; a good knave.
_Mal._ [_In the inner Room._] Who calls there?
_Clo._ Sir Topas, the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the
lunatic.
_Mal._ Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady.
_Clo._ Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man? talkest
thou nothing but of ladies?
_Sir To._ Well said, master parson.
_Mal._ Sir Topas, never was man thus wrong'd; good Sir Topas, do not
think I am mad; they have bound me, hand and foot, and laid me here in
hideous darkness.
_Clo._ Say'st thou, that house is dark?
_Mal._ As hell, Sir Topas.
_Clo._ Madman, thou errest: I say, there is no darkness, but
ignorance; in which thou art more puzzled, than the Egyptians in their
fog.
_Mal._ I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance
were as dark as hell; and I say, there was never man thus abused: I am
no more mad than you are; make the trial of it in any constant question.
_Clo._ What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild-fowl?
_Mal._ That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.
_Clo._ What thinkest thou of his opinion?
_Mal._ I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion.
_Clo._ Fare thee well: Remain thou still in darkness: thou shalt
hold the opinion of Pythagoras, ere I will allow of thy wits; and fear
to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare
thee well.
_Mal._ Sir Topas, Sir Topas,--
_Sir To._ My most exquisite Sir Topas,--
_Clo._ Nay, I am for all waters. [_Takes off the gown and hood, and
gives them to_ MARIA.]
_Mar._ Thou might'st have done this without thy hood and gown; he
sees thee not.
_Sir To._ To him in thine own voice, and bring us word how thou
find'st him: Come by and by to my chamber.
[_Exeunt_ SIR TOBY _and_ MARIA.
_Clo._ [_Sings._] _Hey Robin, jolly Robin,
Tell me how thy lady does._
_Mal._ Fool,--fool,--good fool,--
_Clo._ Who calls, ha?
_Mal._ As ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to a
candle, and pen, ink, and paper; as I am a gentleman, I will live to be
thankful to thee for't.
_Clo._ Master Malvolio!
_Mal_. Ay, good fool.
_Clo._ Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?
_Mal._ Fool, there was never man so notoriously abused: I am as well
in my wits, fool, as thou art.
_Clo._ But as well! then you are mad, indeed, if you be no better in
your wits than a fool.
_Mal._ Good fool, some ink, paper, and light, and convey what I will
set down to my lady; it shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing
of letter did.
_Clo._ I will help you to't. But tell me true, are you not mad,
indeed? or do you but counterfeit?
_Mal._ Believe me, I am not: I tell thee true.
_Clo._ Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman, till I see his brains. I
will fetch you light, and paper, and ink.
_Mal._ Fool, I'll requite it in the highest degree. I pr'ythee, be
gone.
_Clo._ [_Shuts the door of the inner Room, and sings._]
_I am gone, sir,
And anon, sir,
I'll be with you again, &c._ [_Exit._
SCENE V.
OLIVIA'S _Garden_.
_Enter_ SEBASTIAN.
_Seb._ This is the air; that is the glorious sun;
This pearl she gave me, I do feel't, and see't:
And though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus,
Yet 'tis not madness. Where's Antonio then?
I could not find him at the Elephant;
His counsel now might do me golden service:
For though my soul disputes well with my sense,
That this may be some error, but no madness,
Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune
So far exceed all instance, all discourse,
That I am ready to distrust mine eyes,
And wrangle with my reason, that persuades me
To any other trust, but that I am mad,
Or else the lady's mad.--But here she comes.
_Enter_ OLIVIA, _and a_ FRIAR.
_Oli._ Blame not this haste of mine:--If you mean well,
Now go with me, and with this holy man,
Into the chantry by: there, before him,
And underneath that consecrated roof,
Plight me the full assurance of your faith;
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul
May live at peace: He shall conceal it,
Whiles you are willing it shall come to note;
What time we will our celebration keep
According to my birth.--What do you say?
_Seb._ I'll follow this good man, and go with you;
And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.
_Oli._ Then lead the way, good father: [_Exit_ FRIAR.
And heavens so shine,
That they may fairly note this act of mine! [_Exeunt._ | Feste approaches Sebastian, thinking that Sebastian is 'Cesario'; when Sebastian tells Feste that he does not know him, nor Olivia, whom Feste tells him to meet, Feste becomes rather upset, and accuses Sebastian of "strangeness". Then Sir Andrew comes, and strikes Sebastian out of anger, as if he were Cesario; Sir Toby and Sebastian come close to getting in a duel of their own, when Olivia finds them, and charges them to stop. Olivia dismisses Sir Toby, and asks Sebastian "would thou'dst be ruled by me," thinking that he is Cesario, due to his great resemblance to his sister. Sebastian decides to go along with it, struck by Olivia's beauty, thinking it all a pleasant dream from which he hopes he will not awaken. Scene 2: Maria and Feste conspire to present Feste as Sir Topaz, the curate, to Malvolio, who is hidden from view. Feste tries to convince that Malvolio that he is crazy, and Malvolio continues to insist that he is not, that he has been wrongly incarcerated. Feste then confronts Malvolio as himself, and torments him some more; he fakes a conversation with himself as Feste and Sir Topaz, and Malvolio begs for paper and ink so that he can send a message to Olivia. Feste promises to fetch these things, and exits with a song. Scene 3: Sebastian debates with himself whether he is mad, or whether it is the Lady Olivia; but, he recognizes that is cannot be her, since she is able to command a large household, and therefore would have to be sane and coherent. Olivia asks him to come with her to the parson and be married to her; Sebastian, though he does not know her and cannot figure out exactly what is going on, says he will marry her, and leaves with her. |
ACT II SCENE I
ARICIA, ISMENE
ARICIA
Hippolytus request to see me here!
Hippolytus desire to bid farewell!
Is't true, Ismene? Are you not deceived?
ISMENE
This is the first result of Theseus' death.
Prepare yourself to see from every side.
Hearts turn towards you that were kept away
By Theseus. Mistress of her lot at last,
Aricia soon shall find all Greece fall low,
To do her homage.
ARICIA
'Tis not then, Ismene,
An idle tale? Am I no more a slave?
Have I no enemies?
ISMENE
The gods oppose
Your peace no longer, and the soul of Theseus
Is with your brothers.
ARICIA
Does the voice of fame
Tell how he died?
ISMENE
Rumours incredible
Are spread. Some say that, seizing a new bride,
The faithless husband by the waves was swallow'd.
Others affirm, and this report prevails,
That with Pirithous to the world below
He went, and saw the shores of dark Cocytus,
Showing himself alive to the pale ghosts;
But that he could not leave those gloomy realms,
Which whoso enters there abides for ever.
ARICIA
Shall I believe that ere his destined hour
A mortal may descend into the gulf
Of Hades? What attraction could o'ercome
Its terrors?
ISMENE
He is dead, and you alone
Doubt it. The men of Athens mourn his loss.
Troezen already hails Hippolytus
As King. And Phaedra, fearing for her son,
Asks counsel of the friends who share her trouble,
Here in this palace.
ARICIA
Will Hippolytus,
Think you, prove kinder than his sire, make light
My chains, and pity my misfortunes?
ISMENE
Yes,
I think so, Madam.
ARICIA
Ah, you know him not
Or you would never deem so hard a heart
Can pity feel, or me alone except
From the contempt in which he holds our sex.
Has he not long avoided every spot
Where we resort?
ISMENE
I know what tales are told
Of proud Hippolytus, but I have seen
Him near you, and have watch'd with curious eye
How one esteem'd so cold would bear himself.
Little did his behavior correspond
With what I look'd for; in his face confusion
Appear'd at your first glance, he could not turn
His languid eyes away, but gazed on you.
Love is a word that may offend his pride,
But what the tongue disowns, looks can betray.
ARICIA
How eagerly my heart hears what you say,
Tho' it may be delusion, dear Ismene!
Did it seem possible to you, who know me,
That I, sad sport of a relentless Fate,
Fed upon bitter tears by night and day,
Could ever taste the maddening draught of love?
The last frail offspring of a royal race,
Children of Earth, I only have survived
War's fury. Cut off in the flow'r of youth,
Mown by the sword, six brothers have I lost,
The hope of an illustrious house, whose blood
Earth drank with sorrow, near akin to his
Whom she herself produced. Since then, you know
How thro' all Greece no heart has been allow'd
To sigh for me, lest by a sister's flame
The brothers' ashes be perchance rekindled.
You know, besides, with what disdain I view'd
My conqueror's suspicions and precautions,
And how, oppos'd as I have ever been
To love, I often thank'd the King's injustice
Which happily confirm'd my inclination.
But then I never had beheld his son.
Not that, attracted merely by the eye, I
love him for his beauty and his grace,
Endowments which he owes to Nature's bounty,
Charms which he seems to know not or to scorn.
I love and prize in him riches more rare,
The virtues of his sire, without his faults.
I love, as I must own, that generous pride
Which ne'er has stoop'd beneath the amorous yoke.
Phaedra reaps little glory from a lover
So lavish of his sighs; I am too proud
To share devotion with a thousand others,
Or enter where the door is always open.
But to make one who ne'er has stoop'd before
Bend his proud neck, to pierce a heart of stone,
To bind a captive whom his chains astonish,
Who vainly 'gainst a pleasing yoke rebels,--
That piques my ardour, and I long for that.
'Twas easier to disarm the god of strength
Than this Hippolytus, for Hercules
Yielded so often to the eyes of beauty,
As to make triumph cheap. But, dear Ismene,
I take too little heed of opposition
Beyond my pow'r to quell, and you may hear me,
Humbled by sore defeat, upbraid the pride
I now admire. What! Can he love? and I
Have had the happiness to bend--
ISMENE
He comes
Yourself shall hear him. | Aricia has just been told by her companion, Ismene, that Hippolytus wishes to see her, that Theseus is dead, and that she is no longer a prisoner. Aricia finds it hard to credit so much good news at once. She is disinclined to believe the story of Theseus' death -- that he descended alive into hell and was unable to return -- and she does not see why Theseus' son should be kinder to her than his father. Ismene, however, does. Curious about Hippolytus and his renowned chastity, she has studied him closely and believes he is in love with Aricia. For Aricia, this is the best of all possible news. Her life has not been a happy one. When her six brothers were killed fighting Theseus, she was left alone in the world surrounded by political enemies, forbidden even to marry and make herself a home. This last prohibition, however, troubled her little; She had no interest in love -- until she met Hippolytus. She admired him not only for his grace and beauty, but for his qualities of character: To her, he was Theseus without Theseus' flaws. More important still, perhaps, she was piqued and challenged by his lack of interest in love. But perhaps Ismene is mistaken about his feelings for her, and she is rejoicing too soon. |
"It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original aera of
my being: all the events of that period appear confused and indistinct.
A strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard,
and smelt, at the same time; and it was, indeed, a long time before I
learned to distinguish between the operations of my various senses. By
degrees, I remember, a stronger light pressed upon my nerves, so that I
was obliged to shut my eyes. Darkness then came over me, and troubled
me; but hardly had I felt this, when, by opening my eyes, as I now
suppose, the light poured in upon me again. I walked, and, I believe,
descended; but I presently found a great alteration in my sensations.
Before, dark and opaque bodies had surrounded me, impervious to my touch
or sight; but I now found that I could wander on at liberty, with no
obstacles which I could not either surmount or avoid. The light became
more and more oppressive to me; and, the heat wearying me as I walked, I
sought a place where I could receive shade. This was the forest near
Ingolstadt; and here I lay by the side of a brook resting from my
fatigue, until I felt tormented by hunger and thirst. This roused me
from my nearly dormant state, and I ate some berries which I found
hanging on the trees, or lying on the ground. I slaked my thirst at the
brook; and then lying down, was overcome by sleep.
"It was dark when I awoke; I felt cold also, and half-frightened as it
were instinctively, finding myself so desolate. Before I had quitted
your apartment, on a sensation of cold, I had covered myself with some
clothes; but these were insufficient to secure me from the dews of
night. I was a poor, helpless, miserable wretch; I knew, and could
distinguish, nothing; but, feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat
down and wept.
"Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens, and gave me a sensation of
pleasure. I started up, and beheld a radiant form rise from among the
trees. I gazed with a kind of wonder. It moved slowly, but it
enlightened my path; and I again went out in search of berries. I was
still cold, when under one of the trees I found a huge cloak, with which
I covered myself, and sat down upon the ground. No distinct ideas
occupied my mind; all was confused. I felt light, and hunger, and
thirst, and darkness; innumerable sounds rung in my ears, and on all
sides various scents saluted me: the only object that I could
distinguish was the bright moon, and I fixed my eyes on that with
pleasure.
"Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb of night had
greatly lessened when I began to distinguish my sensations from each
other. I gradually saw plainly the clear stream that supplied me with
drink, and the trees that shaded me with their foliage. I was delighted
when I first discovered that a pleasant sound, which often saluted my
ears, proceeded from the throats of the little winged animals who had
often intercepted the light from my eyes. I began also to observe, with
greater accuracy, the forms that surrounded me, and to perceive the
boundaries of the radiant roof of light which canopied me. Sometimes I
tried to imitate the pleasant songs of the birds, but was unable.
Sometimes I wished to express my sensations in my own mode, but the
uncouth and inarticulate sounds which broke from me frightened me into
silence again.
"The moon had disappeared from the night, and again, with a lessened
form, shewed itself, while I still remained in the forest. My sensations
had, by this time, become distinct, and my mind received every day
additional ideas. My eyes became accustomed to the light, and to
perceive objects in their right forms; I distinguished the insect from
the herb, and, by degrees, one herb from another. I found that the
sparrow uttered none but harsh notes, whilst those of the blackbird and
thrush were sweet and enticing.
"One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire which had been
left by some wandering beggars, and was overcome with delight at the
warmth I experienced from it. In my joy I thrust my hand into the live
embers, but quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain. How strange, I
thought, that the same cause should produce such opposite effects! I
examined the materials of the fire, and to my joy found it to be
composed of wood. I quickly collected some branches; but they were wet,
and would not burn. I was pained at this, and sat still watching the
operation of the fire. The wet wood which I had placed near the heat
dried, and itself became inflamed. I reflected on this; and, by touching
the various branches, I discovered the cause, and busied myself in
collecting a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it, and have a
plentiful supply of fire. When night came on, and brought sleep with it,
I was in the greatest fear lest my fire should be extinguished. I
covered it carefully with dry wood and leaves, and placed wet branches
upon it; and then, spreading my cloak, I lay on the ground, and sunk
into sleep.
"It was morning when I awoke, and my first care was to visit the fire. I
uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame. I
observed this also, and contrived a fan of branches, which roused the
embers when they were nearly extinguished. When night came again, I
found, with pleasure, that the fire gave light as well as heat; and that
the discovery of this element was useful to me in my food; for I found
some of the offals that the travellers had left had been roasted, and
tasted much more savoury than the berries I gathered from the trees. I
tried, therefore, to dress my food in the same manner, placing it on the
live embers. I found that the berries were spoiled by this operation,
and the nuts and roots much improved.
"Food, however, became scarce; and I often spent the whole day searching
in vain for a few acorns to assuage the pangs of hunger. When I found
this, I resolved to quit the place that I had hitherto inhabited, to
seek for one where the few wants I experienced would be more easily
satisfied. In this emigration, I exceedingly lamented the loss of the
fire which I had obtained through accident, and knew not how to
re-produce it. I gave several hours to the serious consideration of
this difficulty; but I was obliged to relinquish all attempt to supply
it; and, wrapping myself up in my cloak, I struck across the wood
towards the setting sun. I passed three days in these rambles, and at
length discovered the open country. A great fall of snow had taken place
the night before, and the fields were of one uniform white; the
appearance was disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by the cold
damp substance that covered the ground.
"It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food and
shelter; at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground, which
had doubtless been built for the convenience of some shepherd. This was
a new sight to me; and I examined the structure with great curiosity.
Finding the door open, I entered. An old man sat in it, near a fire,
over which he was preparing his breakfast. He turned on hearing a noise;
and, perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and, quitting the hut, ran across
the fields with a speed of which his debilitated form hardly appeared
capable. His appearance, different from any I had ever before seen, and
his flight, somewhat surprised me. But I was enchanted by the appearance
of the hut: here the snow and rain could not penetrate; the ground was
dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite and divine a retreat as
Pandaemonium appeared to the daemons of hell after their sufferings in the
lake of fire. I greedily devoured the remnants of the shepherd's
breakfast, which consisted of bread, cheese, milk, and wine; the
latter, however, I did not like. Then overcome by fatigue, I lay down
among some straw, and fell asleep.
"It was noon when I awoke; and, allured by the warmth of the sun, which
shone brightly on the white ground, I determined to recommence my
travels; and, depositing the remains of the peasant's breakfast in a
wallet I found, I proceeded across the fields for several hours, until
at sunset I arrived at a village. How miraculous did this appear! the
huts, the neater cottages, and stately houses, engaged my admiration by
turns. The vegetables in the gardens, the milk and cheese that I saw
placed at the windows of some of the cottages, allured my appetite. One
of the best of these I entered; but I had hardly placed my foot within
the door, before the children shrieked, and one of the women fainted.
The whole village was roused; some fled, some attacked me, until,
grievously bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile weapons, I
escaped to the open country, and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel,
quite bare, and making a wretched appearance after the palaces I had
beheld in the village. This hovel, however, joined a cottage of a neat
and pleasant appearance; but, after my late dearly-bought experience, I
dared not enter it. My place of refuge was constructed of wood, but so
low, that I could with difficulty sit upright in it. No wood, however,
was placed on the earth, which formed the floor, but it was dry; and
although the wind entered it by innumerable chinks, I found it an
agreeable asylum from the snow and rain.
"Here then I retreated, and lay down, happy to have found a shelter,
however miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more
from the barbarity of man.
"As soon as morning dawned, I crept from my kennel, that I might view
the adjacent cottage, and discover if I could remain in the habitation I
had found. It was situated against, the back of the cottage, and
surrounded on the sides which were exposed by a pig-stye and a clear
pool of water. One part was open, and by that I had crept in; but now I
covered every crevice by which I might be perceived with stones and
wood, yet in such a manner that I might move them on occasion to pass
out: all the light I enjoyed came through the stye, and that was
sufficient for me.
"Having thus arranged my dwelling, and carpeted it with clean straw, I
retired; for I saw the figure of a man at a distance, and I remembered
too well my treatment the night before, to trust myself in his power. I
had first, however, provided for my sustenance for that day, by a loaf
of coarse bread, which I purloined, and a cup with which I could drink,
more conveniently than from my hand, of the pure water which flowed by
my retreat. The floor was a little raised, so that it was kept perfectly
dry, and by its vicinity to the chimney of the cottage it was tolerably
warm.
"Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel, until
something should occur which might alter my determination. It was indeed
a paradise, compared to the bleak forest, my former residence, the
rain-dropping branches, and dank earth. I ate my breakfast with
pleasure, and was about to remove a plank to procure myself a little
water, when I heard a step, and, looking through a small chink, I beheld
a young creature, with a pail on her head, passing before my hovel. The
girl was young and of gentle demeanour, unlike what I have since found
cottagers and farm-house servants to be. Yet she was meanly dressed, a
coarse blue petticoat and a linen jacket being her only garb; her fair
hair was plaited, but not adorned; she looked patient, yet sad. I lost
sight of her; and in about a quarter of an hour she returned, bearing
the pail, which was now partly filled with milk. As she walked along,
seemingly incommoded by the burden, a young man met her, whose
countenance expressed a deeper despondence. Uttering a few sounds with
an air of melancholy, he took the pail from her head, and bore it to the
cottage himself. She followed, and they disappeared. Presently I saw the
young man again, with some tools in his hand, cross the field behind the
cottage; and the girl was also busied, sometimes in the house, and
sometimes in the yard.
"On examining my dwelling, I found that one of the windows of the
cottage had formerly occupied a part of it, but the panes had been
filled up with wood. In one of these was a small and almost
imperceptible chink, through which the eye could just penetrate. Through
this crevice, a small room was visible, white-washed and clean, but very
bare of furniture. In one corner, near a small fire, sat an old man,
leaning his head on his hands in a disconsolate attitude. The young girl
was occupied in arranging the cottage; but presently she took something
out of a drawer, which employed her hands, and she sat down beside the
old man, who, taking up an instrument, began to play, and to produce
sounds, sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the nightingale. It was
a lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch! who had never beheld aught
beautiful before. The silver hair and benevolent countenance of the aged
cottager, won my reverence; while the gentle manners of the girl enticed
my love. He played a sweet mournful air, which I perceived drew tears
from the eyes of his amiable companion, of which the old man took no
notice, until she sobbed audibly; he then pronounced a few sounds, and
the fair creature, leaving her work, knelt at his feet. He raised her,
and smiled with such kindness and affection, that I felt sensations of a
peculiar and over-powering nature: they were a mixture of pain and
pleasure, such as I had never before experienced, either from hunger or
cold, warmth or food; and I withdrew from the window, unable to bear
these emotions.
"Soon after this the young man returned, bearing on his shoulders a load
of wood. The girl met him at the door, helped to relieve him of his
burden, and, taking some of the fuel into the cottage, placed it on the
fire; then she and the youth went apart into a nook of the cottage, and
he shewed her a large loaf and a piece of cheese. She seemed pleased;
and went into the garden for some roots and plants, which she placed in
water, and then upon the fire. She afterwards continued her work, whilst
the young man went into the garden, and appeared busily employed in
digging and pulling up roots. After he had been employed thus about an
hour, the young woman joined him, and they entered the cottage together.
"The old man had, in the mean time, been pensive; but, on the appearance
of his companions, he assumed a more cheerful air, and they sat down to
eat. The meal was quickly dispatched. The young woman was again occupied
in arranging the cottage; the old man walked before the cottage in the
sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of the youth. Nothing could
exceed in beauty the contrast between these two excellent creatures. One
was old, with silver hairs and a countenance beaming with benevolence
and love: the younger was slight and graceful in his figure, and his
features were moulded with the finest symmetry; yet his eyes and
attitude expressed the utmost sadness and despondency. The old man
returned to the cottage; and the youth, with tools different from those
he had used in the morning, directed his steps across the fields.
"Night quickly shut in; but, to my extreme wonder, I found that the
cottagers had a means of prolonging light, by the use of tapers, and was
delighted to find, that the setting of the sun did not put an end to the
pleasure I experienced in watching my human neighbours. In the evening,
the young girl and her companion were employed in various occupations
which I did not understand; and the old man again took up the
instrument, which produced the divine sounds that had enchanted me in
the morning. So soon as he had finished, the youth began, not to play,
but to utter sounds that were monotonous, and neither resembling the
harmony of the old man's instrument or the songs of the birds; I since
found that he read aloud, but at that time I knew nothing of the science
of words or letters.
"The family, after having been thus occupied for a short time,
extinguished their lights, and retired, as I conjectured, to rest."
"I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought of the occurrences
of the day. What chiefly struck me was the gentle manners of these
people; and I longed to join them, but dared not. I remembered too well
the treatment I had suffered the night before from the barbarous
villagers, and resolved, whatever course of conduct I might hereafter
think it right to pursue, that for the present I would remain quietly in
my hovel, watching, and endeavouring to discover the motives which
influenced their actions.
"The cottagers arose the next morning before the sun. The young woman
arranged the cottage, and prepared the food; and the youth departed
after the first meal.
"This day was passed in the same routine as that which preceded it. The
young man was constantly employed out of doors, and the girl in various
laborious occupations within. The old man, whom I soon perceived to be
blind, employed his leisure hours on his instrument, or in
contemplation. Nothing could exceed the love and respect which the
younger cottagers exhibited towards their venerable companion. They
performed towards him every little office of affection and duty with
gentleness; and he rewarded them by his benevolent smiles.
"They were not entirely happy. The young man and his companion often
went apart, and appeared to weep. I saw no cause for their unhappiness;
but I was deeply affected by it. If such lovely creatures were
miserable, it was less strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being,
should be wretched. Yet why were these gentle beings unhappy? They
possessed a delightful house (for such it was in my eyes), and every
luxury; they had a fire to warm them when chill, and delicious viands
when hungry; they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still more,
they enjoyed one another's company and speech, interchanging each day
looks of affection and kindness. What did their tears imply? Did they
really express pain? I was at first unable to solve these questions; but
perpetual attention, and time, explained to me many appearances which
were at first enigmatic.
"A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes of
the uneasiness of this amiable family; it was poverty: and they suffered
that evil in a very distressing degree. Their nourishment consisted
entirely of the vegetables of their garden, and the milk of one cow, who
gave very little during the winter, when its masters could scarcely
procure food to support it. They often, I believe, suffered the pangs of
hunger very poignantly, especially the two younger cottagers; for
several times they placed food before the old man, when they reserved
none for themselves.
"This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been accustomed,
during the night, to steal a part of their store for my own consumption;
but when I found that in doing this I inflicted pain on the cottagers, I
abstained, and satisfied myself with berries, nuts, and roots, which I
gathered from a neighbouring wood.
"I discovered also another means through which I was enabled to assist
their labours. I found that the youth spent a great part of each day in
collecting wood for the family fire; and, during the night, I often took
his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered, and brought home
firing sufficient for the consumption of several days.
"I remember, the first time that I did this, the young woman, when she
opened the door in the morning, appeared greatly astonished on seeing a
great pile of wood on the outside. She uttered some words in a loud
voice, and the youth joined her, who also expressed surprise. I
observed, with pleasure, that he did not go to the forest that day, but
spent it in repairing the cottage, and cultivating the garden.
"By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found that
these people possessed a method of communicating their experience and
feelings to one another by articulate sounds. I perceived that the words
they spoke sometimes produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness, in
the minds and countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike
science, and I ardently desired to become acquainted with it. But I was
baffled in every attempt I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation
was quick; and the words they uttered, not having any apparent connexion
with visible objects, I was unable to discover any clue by which I could
unravel the mystery of their reference. By great application, however,
and after having remained during the space of several revolutions of the
moon in my hovel, I discovered the names that were given to some of the
most familiar objects of discourse: I learned and applied the words
_fire_, _milk_, _bread_, and _wood_. I learned also the names of the
cottagers themselves. The youth and his companion had each of them
several names, but the old man had only one, which was _father_. The
girl was called _sister_, or _Agatha_; and the youth _Felix_, _brother_,
or _son_. I cannot describe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas
appropriated to each of these sounds, and was able to pronounce them. I
distinguished several other words, without being able as yet to
understand or apply them; such as _good_, _dearest_, _unhappy_.
"I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners and beauty of the
cottagers greatly endeared them to me: when they were unhappy, I felt
depressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathized in their joys. I saw few
human beings beside them; and if any other happened to enter the
cottage, their harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced to me the
superior accomplishments of my friends. The old man, I could perceive,
often endeavoured to encourage his children, as sometimes I found that
he called them, to cast off their melancholy. He would talk in a
cheerful accent, with an expression of goodness that bestowed pleasure
even upon me. Agatha listened with respect, her eyes sometimes filled
with tears, which she endeavoured to wipe away unperceived; but I
generally found that her countenance and tone were more cheerful after
having listened to the exhortations of her father. It was not thus with
Felix. He was always the saddest of the groupe; and, even to my
unpractised senses, he appeared to have suffered more deeply than his
friends. But if his countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was more
cheerful than that of his sister, especially when he addressed the old
man.
"I could mention innumerable instances, which, although slight, marked
the dispositions of these amiable cottagers. In the midst of poverty and
want, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister the first little white
flower that peeped out from beneath the snowy ground. Early in the
morning before she had risen, he cleared away the snow that obstructed
her path to the milk-house, drew water from the well, and brought the
wood from the out-house, where, to his perpetual astonishment, he found
his store always replenished by an invisible hand. In the day, I
believe, he worked sometimes for a neighbouring farmer, because he often
went forth, and did not return until dinner, yet brought no wood with
him. At other times he worked in the garden; but, as there was little to
do in the frosty season, he read to the old man and Agatha.
"This reading had puzzled me extremely at first; but, by degrees, I
discovered that he uttered many of the same sounds when he read as when
he talked. I conjectured, therefore, that he found on the paper signs
for speech which he understood, and I ardently longed to comprehend
these also; but how was that possible, when I did not even understand
the sounds for which they stood as signs? I improved, however, sensibly
in this science, but not sufficiently to follow up any kind of
conversation, although I applied my whole mind to the endeavour: for I
easily perceived that, although I eagerly longed to discover myself to
the cottagers, I ought not to make the attempt until I had first become
master of their language; which knowledge might enable me to make them
overlook the deformity of my figure; for with this also the contrast
perpetually presented to my eyes had made me acquainted.
"I had admired the perfect forms of my cottagers--their grace, beauty,
and delicate complexions: but how was I terrified, when I viewed myself
in a transparent pool! At first I started back, unable to believe that
it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and when I became fully
convinced that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was filled with
the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification. Alas! I did
not yet entirely know the fatal effects of this miserable deformity.
"As the sun became warmer, and the light of day longer, the snow
vanished, and I beheld the bare trees and the black earth. From this
time Felix was more employed; and the heart-moving indications of
impending famine disappeared. Their food, as I afterwards found, was
coarse, but it was wholesome; and they procured a sufficiency of it.
Several new kinds of plants sprung up in the garden, which they dressed;
and these signs of comfort increased daily as the season advanced.
"The old man, leaning on his son, walked each day at noon, when it did
not rain, as I found it was called when the heavens poured forth its
waters. This frequently took place; but a high wind quickly dried the
earth, and the season became far more pleasant than it had been.
"My mode of life in my hovel was uniform. During the morning I attended
the motions of the cottagers; and when they were dispersed in various
occupations, I slept: the remainder of the day was spent in observing my
friends. When they had retired to rest, if there was any moon, or the
night was star-light, I went into the woods, and collected my own food
and fuel for the cottage. When I returned, as often as it was necessary,
I cleared their path from the snow, and performed those offices that I
had seen done by Felix. I afterwards found that these labours, performed
by an invisible hand, greatly astonished them; and once or twice I heard
them, on these occasions, utter the words _good spirit_, _wonderful_;
but I did not then understand the signification of these terms.
"My thoughts now became more active, and I longed to discover the
motives and feelings of these lovely creatures; I was inquisitive to
know why Felix appeared so miserable, and Agatha so sad. I thought
(foolish wretch!) that it might be in my power to restore happiness to
these deserving people. When I slept, or was absent, the forms of the
venerable blind father, the gentle Agatha, and the excellent Felix,
flitted before me. I looked upon them as superior beings, who would be
the arbiters of my future destiny. I formed in my imagination a thousand
pictures of presenting myself to them, and their reception of me. I
imagined that they would be disgusted, until, by my gentle demeanour and
conciliating words, I should first win their favour, and afterwards
their love.
"These thoughts exhilarated me, and led me to apply with fresh ardour to
the acquiring the art of language. My organs were indeed harsh, but
supple; and although my voice was very unlike the soft music of their
tones, yet I pronounced such words as I understood with tolerable ease.
It was as the ass and the lap-dog; yet surely the gentle ass, whose
intentions were affectionate, although his manners were rude, deserved
better treatment than blows and execration.
"The pleasant showers and genial warmth of spring greatly altered the
aspect of the earth. Men, who before this change seemed to have been hid
in caves, dispersed themselves, and were employed in various arts of
cultivation. The birds sang in more cheerful notes, and the leaves
began to bud forth on the trees. Happy, happy earth! fit habitation for
gods, which, so short a time before, was bleak, damp, and unwholesome.
My spirits were elevated by the enchanting appearance of nature; the
past was blotted from my memory, the present was tranquil, and the
future gilded by bright rays of hope, and anticipations of joy."
"I now hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shall relate events
that impressed me with feelings which, from what I was, have made me
what I am.
"Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became fine, and the skies
cloudless. It surprised me, that what before was desert and gloomy
should now bloom with the most beautiful flowers and verdure. My senses
were gratified and refreshed by a thousand scents of delight, and a
thousand sights of beauty.
"It was on one of these days, when my cottagers periodically rested from
labour--the old man played on his guitar, and the children listened to
him--I observed that the countenance of Felix was melancholy beyond
expression: he sighed frequently; and once his father paused in his
music, and I conjectured by his manner that he inquired the cause of his
son's sorrow. Felix replied in a cheerful accent, and the old man was
recommencing his music, when some one tapped at the door.
"It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a countryman as a guide. The
lady was dressed in a dark suit, and covered with a thick black veil.
Agatha asked a question; to which the stranger only replied by
pronouncing, in a sweet accent, the name of Felix. Her voice was
musical, but unlike that of either of my friends. On hearing this word,
Felix came up hastily to the lady; who, when she saw him, threw up her
veil, and I beheld a countenance of angelic beauty and expression. Her
hair of a shining raven black, and curiously braided; her eyes were
dark, but gentle, although animated; her features of a regular
proportion, and her complexion wondrously fair, each cheek tinged with a
lovely pink.
"Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw her, every trait of
sorrow vanished from his face, and it instantly expressed a degree of
ecstatic joy, of which I could hardly have believed it capable; his eyes
sparkled, as his cheek flushed with pleasure; and at that moment I
thought him as beautiful as the stranger. She appeared affected by
different feelings; wiping a few tears from her lovely eyes, she held
out her hand to Felix, who kissed it rapturously, and called her, as
well as I could distinguish, his sweet Arabian. She did not appear to
understand him, but smiled. He assisted her to dismount, and, dismissing
her guide, conducted her into the cottage. Some conversation took place
between him and his father; and the young stranger knelt at the old
man's feet, and would have kissed his hand, but he raised her, and
embraced her affectionately.
"I soon perceived, that although the stranger uttered articulate sounds,
and appeared to have a language of her own, she was neither understood
by, or herself understood, the cottagers. They made many signs which I
did not comprehend; but I saw that her presence diffused gladness
through the cottage, dispelling their sorrow as the sun dissipates the
morning mists. Felix seemed peculiarly happy, and with smiles of delight
welcomed his Arabian. Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed the hands
of the lovely stranger; and, pointing to her brother, made signs which
appeared to me to mean that he had been sorrowful until she came. Some
hours passed thus, while they, by their countenances, expressed joy, the
cause of which I did not comprehend. Presently I found, by the frequent
recurrence of one sound which the stranger repeated after them, that she
was endeavouring to learn their language; and the idea instantly
occurred to me, that I should make use of the same instructions to the
same end. The stranger learned about twenty words at the first lesson,
most of them indeed were those which I had before understood, but I
profited by the others.
"As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early. When they
separated, Felix kissed the hand of the stranger, and said, 'Good night,
sweet Safie.' He sat up much longer, conversing with his father; and, by
the frequent repetition of her name, I conjectured that their lovely
guest was the subject of their conversation. I ardently desired to
understand them, and bent every faculty towards that purpose, but found
it utterly impossible.
"The next morning Felix went out to his work; and, after the usual
occupations of Agatha were finished, the Arabian sat at the feet of the
old man, and, taking his guitar, played some airs so entrancingly
beautiful, that they at once drew tears of sorrow and delight from my
eyes. She sang, and her voice flowed in a rich cadence, swelling or
dying away, like a nightingale of the woods.
"When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha, who at first
declined it. She played a simple air, and her voice accompanied it in
sweet accents, but unlike the wondrous strain of the stranger. The old
man appeared enraptured, and said some words, which Agatha endeavoured
to explain to Safie, and by which he appeared to wish to express that
she bestowed on him the greatest delight by her music.
"The days now passed as peaceably as before, with the sole alteration,
that joy had taken place of sadness in the countenances of my friends.
Safie was always gay and happy; she and I improved rapidly in the
knowledge of language, so that in two months I began to comprehend most
of the words uttered by my protectors.
"In the meanwhile also the black ground was covered with herbage, and
the green banks interspersed with innumerable flowers, sweet to the
scent and the eyes, stars of pale radiance among the moonlight woods;
the sun became warmer, the nights clear and balmy; and my nocturnal
rambles were an extreme pleasure to me, although they were considerably
shortened by the late setting and early rising of the sun; for I never
ventured abroad during daylight, fearful of meeting with the same
treatment as I had formerly endured in the first village which I
entered.
"My days were spent in close attention, that I might more speedily
master the language; and I may boast that I improved more rapidly than
the Arabian, who understood very little, and conversed in broken
accents, whilst I comprehended and could imitate almost every word that
was spoken.
"While I improved in speech, I also learned the science of letters, as it
was taught to the stranger; and this opened before me a wide field for
wonder and delight.
"The book from which Felix instructed Safie was Volney's _Ruins of
Empires_. I should not have understood the purport of this book, had not
Felix, in reading it, given very minute explanations. He had chosen this
work, he said, because the declamatory style was framed in imitation of
the eastern authors. Through this work I obtained a cursory knowledge of
history, and a view of the several empires at present existing in the
world; it gave me an insight into the manners, governments, and
religions of the different nations of the earth. I heard of the slothful
Asiatics; of the stupendous genius and mental activity of the Grecians;
of the wars and wonderful virtue of the early Romans--of their
subsequent degeneration--of the decline of that mighty empire; of
chivalry, Christianity, and kings. I heard of the discovery of the
American hemisphere, and wept with Safie over the hapless fate of its
original inhabitants.
"These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings. Was man,
indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous, and magnificent, yet so
vicious and base? He appeared at one time a mere scion of the evil
principle, and at another as all that can be conceived of noble and
godlike. To be a great and virtuous man appeared the highest honour that
can befall a sensitive being; to be base and vicious, as many on record
have been, appeared the lowest degradation, a condition more abject than
that of the blind mole or harmless worm. For a long time I could not
conceive how one man could go forth to murder his fellow, or even why
there were laws and governments; but when I heard details of vice and
bloodshed, my wonder ceased, and I turned away with disgust and
loathing.
"Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new wonders to me. While
I listened to the instructions which Felix bestowed upon the Arabian,
the strange system of human society was explained to me. I heard of the
division of property, of immense wealth and squalid poverty; of rank,
descent, and noble blood.
"The words induced me to turn towards myself. I learned that the
possessions most esteemed by your fellow-creatures were, high and
unsullied descent united with riches. A man might be respected with only
one of these acquisitions; but without either he was considered, except
in very rare instances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his
powers for the profit of the chosen few. And what was I? Of my creation
and creator I was absolutely ignorant; but I knew that I possessed no
money, no friends, no kind of property. I was, besides, endowed with a
figure hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even of the same
nature as man. I was more agile than they, and could subsist upon
coarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to
my frame; my stature far exceeded their's. When I looked around, I saw
and heard of none like me. Was I then a monster, a blot upon the earth,
from which all men fled, and whom all men disowned?
"I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections inflicted
upon me; I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with
knowledge. Oh, that I had for ever remained in my native wood, nor known
or felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat!
"Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind, when it
has once seized on it, like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes to
shake off all thought and feeling; but I learned that there was but one
means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death--a state
which I feared yet did not understand. I admired virtue and good
feelings, and loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my
cottagers; but I was shut out from intercourse with them, except through
means which I obtained by stealth, when I was unseen and unknown, and
which rather increased than satisfied the desire I had of becoming one
among my fellows. The gentle words of Agatha, and the animated smiles of
the charming Arabian, were not for me. The mild exhortations of the old
man, and the lively conversation of the loved Felix, were not for me.
Miserable, unhappy wretch!
"Other lessons were impressed upon me even more deeply. I heard of the
difference of sexes; of the birth and growth of children; how the father
doated on the smiles of the infant, and the lively sallies of the older
child; how all the life and cares of the mother were wrapt up in the
precious charge; how the mind of youth expanded and gained knowledge; of
brother, sister, and all the various relationships which bind one human
being to another in mutual bonds.
"But where were my friends and relations? No father had watched my
infant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses; or if
they had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy in which I
distinguished nothing. From my earliest remembrance I had been as I then
was in height and proportion. I had never yet seen a being resembling
me, or who claimed any intercourse with me. What was I? The question
again recurred, to be answered only with groans.
"I will soon explain to what these feelings tended; but allow me now to
return to the cottagers, whose story excited in me such various feelings
of indignation, delight, and wonder, but which all terminated in
additional love and reverence for my protectors (for so I loved, in an
innocent, half painful self-deceit, to call them)." | The monster now begins to narrate his tale. In the beginning he tries to familiarize himself with his surroundings. He begins to understand his senses and gets used to the idea of being a human. At first he only wanders around looking for shelter. He is surrounded by nature. He enjoys the sights and sounds and tries to imitate the latter, but the sound of his own voice discourages him. He comes across fire and uses it to roast nuts and roots. He starts to wander again, and early one morning, he finds a small hut "meant for a shepherd. " As he enters it, the old man who occupies the hut runs out, terrified. The monster has some food and falls asleep. The next morning he sets out again and arrives at a village at sunset. The children shriek and the women faint on seeing him. The villagers begin to attack him until he is forced to leave, all bruised and battered. He seeks refuge in a low hovel, which is close to a cottage. The next day he creeps out and sees a man outside but decides to stay there. He then sees a young girl with a pail on her head and a young man who takes the pail from her and carries it to the cottage. The monster finds a place in the cottage and remains there, unseen by any of the inhabitants. He observes them: there is an old blind man who plays the guitar excellently, a young girl who is busy cleaning the cottage and a young man who does the outdoor tasks. Later he reads aloud to the old man. But the monster cannot understand, as he is not yet familiar with language. The next day the monster finds them at their daily chores. But he sees they are unhappy and later attributes it to their poverty. The monster steals some of their food, but he stops himself when he sees that they are hungry. Moreover, the monster also chops wood and, unseen, performs other tasks for them. He learns a few words, like "bread," "fire," "milk" and "wood," as well as the names of the boy and the girl: Felix and Agatha. He spends the winter and the beginning of spring there. Chapter 13 marks the arrival of Safie, a friend of the family's. She is apparently a foreigner, an Arabian, who does not speak their language. So Felix's attempts to teach her their language prove to be useful to the monster, too. As the nights grow shorter, the monster cannot ramble about much in the dark. He is still afraid of meeting humans. The monster gains knowledge in the meanwhile from Volney's Ruins of Empires, from which Felix reads to Safie. He learns a great deal about being a human. |
Barton Park was about half a mile from the cottage. The ladies had
passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from
their view at home by the projection of a hill. The house was large
and handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality
and elegance. The former was for Sir John's gratification, the latter
for that of his lady. They were scarcely ever without some friends
staying with them in the house, and they kept more company of every
kind than any other family in the neighbourhood. It was necessary to
the happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward
behaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of
talent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with
such as society produced, within a very narrow compass. Sir John was a
sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother. He hunted and shot, and she
humoured her children; and these were their only resources. Lady
Middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the
year round, while Sir John's independent employments were in existence
only half the time. Continual engagements at home and abroad, however,
supplied all the deficiencies of nature and education; supported the
good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise to the good breeding of his
wife.
Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of
all her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her
greatest enjoyment in any of their parties. But Sir John's
satisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting
about him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier
they were the better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the
juvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever
forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter
his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who was not
suffering under the unsatiable appetite of fifteen.
The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy
to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants
he had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The Miss Dashwoods were
young, pretty, and unaffected. It was enough to secure his good
opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to
make her mind as captivating as her person. The friendliness of his
disposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation
might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate. In
showing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction
of a good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his
cottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman,
though he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is
not often desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a
residence within his own manor.
Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by
Sir John, who welcomed them to Barton Park with unaffected sincerity;
and as he attended them to the drawing room repeated to the young
ladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day
before, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them. They
would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a
particular friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither very
young nor very gay. He hoped they would all excuse the smallness of
the party, and could assure them it should never happen so again. He
had been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some
addition to their number, but it was moonlight and every body was full
of engagements. Luckily Lady Middleton's mother had arrived at Barton
within the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable woman,
he hoped the young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might
imagine. The young ladies, as well as their mother, were perfectly
satisfied with having two entire strangers of the party, and wished for
no more.
Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry,
fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and
rather vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner
was over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and
husbands; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex,
and pretended to see them blush whether they did or not. Marianne was
vexed at it for her sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor
to see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave
Elinor far more pain than could arise from such common-place raillery
as Mrs. Jennings's.
Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by
resemblance of manner to be his friend, than Lady Middleton was to be
his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton's mother. He was
silent and grave. His appearance however was not unpleasing, in spite
of his being in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret an absolute old
bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but though
his face was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his
address was particularly gentlemanlike.
There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as
companions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton
was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of
Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his
mother-in-law was interesting. Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to
enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner,
who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of
discourse except what related to themselves.
In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was
invited to play. The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to
be charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their request went
through the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into
the family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in
the same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated
that event by giving up music, although by her mother's account, she
had played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.
Marianne's performance was highly applauded. Sir John was loud in his
admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation
with the others while every song lasted. Lady Middleton frequently
called him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be diverted
from music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular song
which Marianne had just finished. Colonel Brandon alone, of all the
party, heard her without being in raptures. He paid her only the
compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him on the
occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless
want of taste. His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that
ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was
estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the
others; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and
thirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every
exquisite power of enjoyment. She was perfectly disposed to make every
allowance for the colonel's advanced state of life which humanity
required. | The following day, at Sir John's invitation, the Dashwood women go to dinner at Barton Park. The sociable Sir John is delighted with his new tenants. He is pleased that they are an all-female family, as a man might hunt the birds and animals on his estate, and he wants to keep all the hunting for himself. Also present are Mrs. Jennings, who is Lady Middleton's mother, and Colonel Brandon, who is a friend of Sir John. Marianne is invited to play the piano. Colonel Brandon is the only person who does not go into raptures about her performance, only listening with quiet attention. Marianne excuses him his lack of ecstasy on the grounds of his advanced age |
Mrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her
mother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors.
As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by
her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody
beyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really pressed them,
with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as no
plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she
could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his
invitation was accepted.
A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former
delight, was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness,
no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater
degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness
itself. But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy,
and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.
Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended
to do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the fortune
of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most
dreadful degree. She begged him to think again on the subject. How
could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too,
of so large a sum? And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods,
who were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no
relationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount. It
was very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist
between the children of any man by different marriages; and why was he
to ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all his
money to his half sisters?
"It was my father's last request to me," replied her husband, "that I
should assist his widow and daughters."
"He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he
was light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he
could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half
your fortune from your own child."
"He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only
requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their
situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps it
would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He could
hardly suppose I should neglect them. But as he required the promise,
I could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the time.
The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed. Something
must be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new
home."
"Well, then, LET something be done for them; but THAT something need
not be three thousand pounds. Consider," she added, "that when the
money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will
marry, and it will be gone for ever. If, indeed, it could be restored
to our poor little boy--"
"Why, to be sure," said her husband, very gravely, "that would make
great difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that so
large a sum was parted with. If he should have a numerous family, for
instance, it would be a very convenient addition."
"To be sure it would."
"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were
diminished one half.--Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious
increase to their fortunes!"
"Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half so
much for his sisters, even if REALLY his sisters! And as it is--only
half blood!--But you have such a generous spirit!"
"I would not wish to do any thing mean," he replied. "One had rather,
on such occasions, do too much than too little. No one, at least, can
think I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly
expect more."
"There is no knowing what THEY may expect," said the lady, "but we are
not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can
afford to do."
"Certainly--and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds
a-piece. As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have
about three thousand pounds on their mother's death--a very comfortable
fortune for any young woman."
"To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no
addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst
them. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do
not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten
thousand pounds."
"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the
whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother
while she lives, rather than for them--something of the annuity kind I
mean.--My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself.
A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable."
His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this
plan.
"To be sure," said she, "it is better than parting with fifteen hundred
pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years
we shall be completely taken in."
"Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that
purchase."
"Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when
there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy,
and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over
and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You are not
aware of what you are doing. I have known a great deal of the trouble
of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to
old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how
disagreeable she found it. Twice every year these annuities were to be
paid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and then
one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be
no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her income was not her
own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more
unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been
entirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever. It
has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would
not pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world."
"It is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied Mr. Dashwood, "to have
those kind of yearly drains on one's income. One's fortune, as your
mother justly says, is NOT one's own. To be tied down to the regular
payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it
takes away one's independence."
"Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. They think
themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises
no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done at
my own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them any
thing yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a
hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses."
"I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should
be no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will
be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they
would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger
income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the
year. It will certainly be much the best way. A present of fifty
pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for
money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my father."
"To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within
myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at
all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might
be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a
comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things,
and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they
are in season. I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed,
it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but consider,
my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law
and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds,
besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which
brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will
pay their mother for their board out of it. Altogether, they will have
five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want
for more than that?--They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will
be nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly
any servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of
any kind! Only conceive how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a
year! I am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as
to your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will
be much more able to give YOU something."
"Upon my word," said Mr. Dashwood, "I believe you are perfectly right.
My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than
what you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil
my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you
have described. When my mother removes into another house my services
shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can. Some little
present of furniture too may be acceptable then."
"Certainly," returned Mrs. John Dashwood. "But, however, ONE thing
must be considered. When your father and mother moved to Norland,
though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and
linen was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will
therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it."
"That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy
indeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant
addition to our own stock here."
"Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what
belongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for
any place THEY can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is.
Your father thought only of THEM. And I must say this: that you owe no
particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very
well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the
world to THEM."
This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of
decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be
absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the
widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as
his own wife pointed out. | Installed in Norland Park, Mrs. John Dashwood treated her mother-in-law and sisters-in-law with "quiet civility" while determined to defeat any attempt to provide for them financially. John Dashwood, still moved by the memory of his father's death, begged them to consider Norland Park their home until they could find a suitable house. Aghast at his proposal to give his half-sisters a thousand pounds apiece, Fanny began to offer her husband persuasive arguments to make him pare the sum down -- first to five hundred pounds and finally to nothing. She first made him think of their poor son, of whom they would be depriving the money. Then, after he had divided the sum in half, she appealed to the fact that the girls really didn't need so much money -- as their social life would be limited, their expenses would be negligible. When John decided on giving them only some furniture, Fanny returned with the argument that the linen and china left them by their father should amply furnish their new quarters. She finally got him to believe that he owed no gratitude to his father at all: "Your father thought only of them. . . . e very well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the world to them." This rationale made John's ultimate decision an easy one. He decided that he need do no more for his stepmother and half-sisters than send them occasional gifts of fish and game, a very generous thought, he believed, all considered. |
XLII. ALL ALONE.
It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in
another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example; but when
the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved
presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then Jo
found her promise very hard to keep. How could she "comfort father and
mother," when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her
sister; how could she "make the house cheerful," when all its light and
warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old home
for the new; and where in all the world could she "find some useful,
happy work to do," that would take the place of the loving service which
had been its own reward? She tried in a blind, hopeless way to do her
duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it seemed unjust
that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made heavier, and life
get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some people seemed to get all
sunshine, and some all shadow; it was not fair, for she tried more than
Amy to be good, but never got any reward, only disappointment, trouble,
and hard work.
Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came
over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house,
devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that never
seemed to grow any easier. "I can't do it. I wasn't meant for a life
like this, and I know I shall break away and do something desperate if
somebody don't come and help me," she said to herself, when her first
efforts failed, and she fell into the moody, miserable state of mind
which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the inevitable.
But some one did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize her good
angels at once, because they wore familiar shapes, and used the simple
spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up at night,
thinking Beth called her; and when the sight of the little empty bed
made her cry with the bitter cry of an unsubmissive sorrow, "O Beth,
come back! come back!" she did not stretch out her yearning arms in
vain; for, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her
sister's faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with
words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears
that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo's, and broken
whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went
hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to
heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing,
which chastened grief and strengthened love. Feeling this, Jo's burden
seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more
endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother's arms.
When aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found
help; for one day she went to the study, and, leaning over the good gray
head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said, very
humbly,--
"Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did, for
I'm all wrong."
"My dear, nothing can comfort me like this," he answered, with a falter
in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he, too, needed help, and
did not fear to ask it.
[Illustration: Jo and her father]
Then, sitting in Beth's little chair close beside him, Jo told her
troubles,--the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that
discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all
the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire
confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation
in the act; for the time had come when they could talk together not only
as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to serve
each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy,
thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called "the church of
one member," and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered
cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit; for the parents who had
taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach
another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its
beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power.
Other helps had Jo,--humble, wholesome duties and delights that would
not be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned to
see and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful as
they once had been, for Beth had presided over both; and something of
her housewifely spirit seemed to linger round the little mop and the old
brush, that was never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself
humming the songs Beth used to hum, imitating Beth's orderly ways, and
giving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and
cosey, which was the first step toward making home happy, though she
didn't know it, till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the
hand,--
"You thoughtful creter, you're determined we sha'n't miss that dear lamb
ef you can help it. We don't say much, but we see it, and the Lord will
bless you for't, see ef He don't."
As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister
Meg was; how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly
impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and
children, and how much they were all doing for each other.
"Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should blossom
out half as well as you have, if I tried it?" said Jo, as she
constructed a kite for Demi, in the topsy-turvy nursery.
"It's just what you need to bring out the tender, womanly half of your
nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut-burr, prickly outside, but
silky-soft within, and a sweet kernel, if one can only get at it. Love
will make you show your heart some day, and then the rough burr will
fall off."
"Frost opens chestnut-burrs, ma'am, and it takes a good shake to bring
them down. Boys go nutting, and I don't care to be bagged by them,"
returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would
ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob.
Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo's old spirit, but
she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her
power; and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of
Meg's most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly.
Grief is the best opener for some hearts, and Jo's was nearly ready for
the bag: a little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy's
impatient shake, but a man's hand reached up to pick it gently from the
burr, and find the kernel sound and sweet. If she had suspected this,
she would have shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever;
fortunately she wasn't thinking about herself, so, when the time came,
down she dropped.
Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral story-book, she ought at
this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the
world, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in
her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn't a heroine; she was only a struggling
human girl, like hundreds of others, and she just acted out her nature,
being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood suggested. It's
highly virtuous to say we'll be good, but we can't do it all at once,
and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together,
before some of us even get our feet set in the right way. Jo had got so
far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if she did
not; but to do it cheerfully--ah, that was another thing! She had often
said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard; and now
she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to devote her
life to father and mother, trying to make home as happy to them as they
had to her? And, if difficulties were necessary to increase the splendor
of the effort, what could be harder for a restless, ambitious girl than
to give up her own hopes, plans, and desires, and cheerfully live for
others?
Providence had taken her at her word; here was the task, not what she
had expected, but better, because self had no part in it: now, could she
do it? She decided that she would try; and, in her first attempt, she
found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given her, and she
took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the
refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed
the hill called Difficulty.
"Why don't you write? That always used to make you happy," said her
mother, once, when the desponding fit overshadowed Jo.
"I've no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things."
"We do; write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world.
Try it, dear; I'm sure it would do you good, and please us very much."
"Don't believe I can;" but Jo got out her desk, and began to overhaul
her half-finished manuscripts.
An hour afterward her mother peeped in, and there she was, scratching
away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which
caused Mrs. March to smile, and slip away, well pleased with the success
of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it happened, but something got into
that story that went straight to the hearts of those who read it; for,
when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it, much
against her will, to one of the popular magazines, and, to her utter
surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested. Letters from
several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the appearance of the
little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as friends
admired it. For a small thing it was a great success; and Jo was more
astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned all at once.
"I don't understand it. What _can_ there be in a simple little story
like that, to make people praise it so?" she said, quite bewildered.
"There is truth in it, Jo, that's the secret; humor and pathos make it
alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no thought
of fame or money, and put your heart into it, my daughter; you have had
the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow as happy as we
are in your success."
"If there _is_ anything good or true in what I write, it isn't mine; I
owe it all to you and mother and to Beth," said Jo, more touched by her
father's words than by any amount of praise from the world.
So, taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent
them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very
charitable world to such humble wanderers; for they were kindly
welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like dutiful
children whom good fortune overtakes.
When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that Jo
would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon set
at rest; for, though Jo looked grave at first, she took it very quietly,
and was full of hopes and plans for "the children" before she read the
letter twice. It was a sort of written duet, wherein each glorified the
other in lover-like fashion, very pleasant to read and satisfactory to
think of, for no one had any objection to make.
"You like it, mother?" said Jo, as they laid down the closely written
sheets, and looked at one another.
"Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused
Fred. I felt sure then that something better than what you call the
'mercenary spirit' had come over her, and a hint here and there in her
letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day."
"How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to
me."
"Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have
girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head, lest
you should write and congratulate them before the thing was settled."
"I'm not the scatter-brain I was; you may trust me, I'm sober and
sensible enough for any one's _confidante_ now."
"So you are, dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied it
might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved any one else."
"Now, mother, did you really think I could be so silly and selfish,
after I'd refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?"
"I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he
came back, and asked again, you might, perhaps, feel like giving another
answer. Forgive me, dear, I can't help seeing that you are very lonely,
and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to my heart;
so I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he tried now."
"No, mother, it is better as it is, and I'm glad Amy has learned to love
him. But you are right in one thing: I _am_ lonely, and perhaps if Teddy
had tried again, I might have said 'Yes,' not because I love him any
more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away."
"I'm glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are
plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with father and mother,
sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all
comes to give you your reward."
"Mothers are the _best_ lovers in the world; but I don't mind whispering
to Marmee that I'd like to try all kinds. It's very curious, but the
more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections, the
more I seem to want. I'd no idea hearts could take in so many; mine is
so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite contented
with my family. I don't understand it."
"I do;" and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the
leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie.
"It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me; he isn't
sentimental, doesn't say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he
says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don't seem
to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and tender
he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it full of
noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know it's
mine. He says he feels as if he 'could make a prosperous voyage now
with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast.' I pray he may,
and try to be all he believes me, for I love my gallant captain with all
my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while God lets
us be together. O mother, I never knew how much like heaven this world
could be, when two people love and live for one another!"
"And that's our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work
miracles. How very, very happy they must be!" And Jo laid the rustling
sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a
lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he
finds himself alone in the work-a-day world again.
By and by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not
walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again,
not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one
sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true;
she knew that, and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for
affection was strong, and Amy's happiness woke the hungry longing for
some one to "love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them
be together."
Up in the garret, where Jo's unquiet wanderings ended, stood four little
wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owner's name, and each
filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended now for all. Jo
glanced into them, and when she came to her own, leaned her chin on the
edge, and stared absently at the chaotic collection, till a bundle of
old exercise-books caught her eye. She drew them out, turned them over,
and re-lived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs. Kirke's. She had smiled
at first, then she looked thoughtful, next sad, and when she came to a
little message written in the Professor's hand, her lips began to
tremble, the books slid out of her lap, and she sat looking at the
friendly words, as if they took a new meaning, and touched a tender spot
in her heart.
"Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely
come."
"Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me always; my
dear old Fritz, I didn't value him half enough when I had him, but now
how I should love to see him, for every one seems going away from me,
and I'm all alone."
And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be
fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag-bag, and cried, as
if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof.
[Illustration: Jo laid her head on a comfortable rag-bag and cried]
Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? or was it the waking
up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its inspirer?
Who shall say?
[Illustration: A substantial lifelike ghost leaning over her] | In the wake of Beth's death, Jo finds it difficult to keep her promise to comfort her parents and take her sister's place in the home. Jo often wakes up in the night and cries, grieving for Beth. Her mother hears her and comes to comfort her each time. During the day, Jo has long conversations with her father. She tells him how difficult it is for her to cope with losing her sister and with resigning herself to her domestic tasks. He consoles and counsels her. They're finally able to talk about things as equal adults, as well as father and daughter. Jo is also comforted by doing simple domestic chores and thinking of the way that Beth did them. Hannah thanks Jo for taking Beth's place as a housekeeper. One day, Jo and Meg are sitting together and sewing. Jo realizes how much Meg has grown as a person after her marriage. Another day, Jo is helping Meg in the nursery, making kite for Demi. She asks Meg if marriage would suit her, too. Meg thinks that marriage would be great for Jo and that it would help bring out her softer, more feminine side. She thinks Jo is like a chestnut burr - prickly on the outside, but soft on the inside. Jo and Meg continue to have lots of sisterly chats about marriage and children. As Jo watches Meg's domestic life, she starts to wish that she were also married and that she could have kids of her own. The narrator notes that, if Jo was a heroine in a moral story, then at this point she'd do everything perfectly and be happy and content. But she's not a heroine - she's a regular person, and so things are more difficult for her. Marmee suggests that Jo take up writing again, because it always made her happy in the past. Jo agrees to try writing, although she intends to write something personal this time, not for a wider audience. The story that Jo writes is published in a magazine and receives rave reviews. She doesn't understand why, and her father says it's because the story is so true to life. Jo thinks that her life experiences - her love for Beth, her grief at Beth's death, and her closer connection to her parents - have made her a better writer. She keeps writing stories and they continue to be received well. Amy and Laurie write to the Marches to announce that they are engaged. Marmee worries that Jo will be upset by this, but she's pleasantly surprised to discover that Jo is happy for them. Jo says that she can be happy with the kinds of love in her life - love from her parents, friends, and family - but that she wouldn't mind a romance, too. Jo and Marmee read Amy's description of the selfless love that she and Laurie feel for one another. They feel very happy for the young couple, and Jo hopes to experience that kind of love herself one day. Jo feels restless and goes up into the attic. She rummages through her possessions and comes across some notebooks from the winter she spent in New York. In one of the notebooks, she finds a message from Mr. Bhaer, saying that he is going to be late but will eventually come. Originally, it was just a note to let her know he'd be late for something in New York, but now it seems like foreshadowing! Jo, full of complicated feelings, begins to cry. |
The China, in leaving, seemed to have carried off Phileas Fogg's last
hope. None of the other steamers were able to serve his projects. The
Pereire, of the French Transatlantic Company, whose admirable steamers
are equal to any in speed and comfort, did not leave until the 14th;
the Hamburg boats did not go directly to Liverpool or London, but to
Havre; and the additional trip from Havre to Southampton would render
Phileas Fogg's last efforts of no avail. The Inman steamer did not
depart till the next day, and could not cross the Atlantic in time to
save the wager.
Mr. Fogg learned all this in consulting his Bradshaw, which gave him
the daily movements of the trans-Atlantic steamers.
Passepartout was crushed; it overwhelmed him to lose the boat by
three-quarters of an hour. It was his fault, for, instead of helping
his master, he had not ceased putting obstacles in his path! And when
he recalled all the incidents of the tour, when he counted up the sums
expended in pure loss and on his own account, when he thought that the
immense stake, added to the heavy charges of this useless journey,
would completely ruin Mr. Fogg, he overwhelmed himself with bitter
self-accusations. Mr. Fogg, however, did not reproach him; and, on
leaving the Cunard pier, only said: "We will consult about what is best
to-morrow. Come."
The party crossed the Hudson in the Jersey City ferryboat, and drove in
a carriage to the St. Nicholas Hotel, on Broadway. Rooms were engaged,
and the night passed, briefly to Phileas Fogg, who slept profoundly,
but very long to Aouda and the others, whose agitation did not permit
them to rest.
The next day was the 12th of December. From seven in the morning of
the 12th to a quarter before nine in the evening of the 21st there were
nine days, thirteen hours, and forty-five minutes. If Phileas Fogg had
left in the China, one of the fastest steamers on the Atlantic, he
would have reached Liverpool, and then London, within the period agreed
upon.
Mr. Fogg left the hotel alone, after giving Passepartout instructions
to await his return, and inform Aouda to be ready at an instant's
notice. He proceeded to the banks of the Hudson, and looked about
among the vessels moored or anchored in the river, for any that were
about to depart. Several had departure signals, and were preparing to
put to sea at morning tide; for in this immense and admirable port
there is not one day in a hundred that vessels do not set out for every
quarter of the globe. But they were mostly sailing vessels, of which,
of course, Phileas Fogg could make no use.
He seemed about to give up all hope, when he espied, anchored at the
Battery, a cable's length off at most, a trading vessel, with a screw,
well-shaped, whose funnel, puffing a cloud of smoke, indicated that she
was getting ready for departure.
Phileas Fogg hailed a boat, got into it, and soon found himself on
board the Henrietta, iron-hulled, wood-built above. He ascended to the
deck, and asked for the captain, who forthwith presented himself. He
was a man of fifty, a sort of sea-wolf, with big eyes, a complexion of
oxidised copper, red hair and thick neck, and a growling voice.
"The captain?" asked Mr. Fogg.
"I am the captain."
"I am Phileas Fogg, of London."
"And I am Andrew Speedy, of Cardiff."
"You are going to put to sea?"
"In an hour."
"You are bound for--"
"Bordeaux."
"And your cargo?"
"No freight. Going in ballast."
"Have you any passengers?"
"No passengers. Never have passengers. Too much in the way."
"Is your vessel a swift one?"
"Between eleven and twelve knots. The Henrietta, well known."
"Will you carry me and three other persons to Liverpool?"
"To Liverpool? Why not to China?"
"I said Liverpool."
"No!"
"No?"
"No. I am setting out for Bordeaux, and shall go to Bordeaux."
"Money is no object?"
"None."
The captain spoke in a tone which did not admit of a reply.
"But the owners of the Henrietta--" resumed Phileas Fogg.
"The owners are myself," replied the captain. "The vessel belongs to
me."
"I will freight it for you."
"No."
"I will buy it of you."
"No."
Phileas Fogg did not betray the least disappointment; but the situation
was a grave one. It was not at New York as at Hong Kong, nor with the
captain of the Henrietta as with the captain of the Tankadere. Up to
this time money had smoothed away every obstacle. Now money failed.
Still, some means must be found to cross the Atlantic on a boat, unless
by balloon--which would have been venturesome, besides not being
capable of being put in practice. It seemed that Phileas Fogg had an
idea, for he said to the captain, "Well, will you carry me to Bordeaux?"
"No, not if you paid me two hundred dollars."
"I offer you two thousand."
"Apiece?"
"Apiece."
"And there are four of you?"
"Four."
Captain Speedy began to scratch his head. There were eight thousand
dollars to gain, without changing his route; for which it was well
worth conquering the repugnance he had for all kinds of passengers.
Besides, passengers at two thousand dollars are no longer passengers,
but valuable merchandise. "I start at nine o'clock," said Captain
Speedy, simply. "Are you and your party ready?"
"We will be on board at nine o'clock," replied, no less simply, Mr.
Fogg.
It was half-past eight. To disembark from the Henrietta, jump into a
hack, hurry to the St. Nicholas, and return with Aouda, Passepartout,
and even the inseparable Fix was the work of a brief time, and was
performed by Mr. Fogg with the coolness which never abandoned him.
They were on board when the Henrietta made ready to weigh anchor.
When Passepartout heard what this last voyage was going to cost, he
uttered a prolonged "Oh!" which extended throughout his vocal gamut.
As for Fix, he said to himself that the Bank of England would certainly
not come out of this affair well indemnified. When they reached
England, even if Mr. Fogg did not throw some handfuls of bank-bills
into the sea, more than seven thousand pounds would have been spent! | Foggs last hope seemed to have gone with the China, the boat that leaves for Liverpool from New York. Passepartout is crushed by the fact that the boat has been missed because of him. Fogg merely says that they will decide the next day, on what needs to be done. They stay the night at a Hotel and the next day, Fogg leaves the hotel alone, in order to look for a ship. He sees a trading vessel of fine lines-the Henrietta and goes to meet the Captain. Fogg wants to know, whether the Captain-Andrew Speedy-will take passengers to Liverpool. The latter refuses but Fogg manages to strike a deal, for a journey to Bordeaux. He offers two thousand dollars for each person and there are four. Thus, the foursome-Fogg, Aouda, Passepartout and Fix board the ship-Henrietta-for Bordeaux. |
60 IN FRANCE
The first fear of the King of England, Charles I, on learning of the
death of the duke, was that such terrible news might discourage the
Rochellais; he tried, says Richelieu in his Memoirs, to conceal it from
them as long as possible, closing all the ports of his kingdom, and
carefully keeping watch that no vessel should sail until the army which
Buckingham was getting together had gone, taking upon himself, in
default of Buckingham, to superintend the departure.
He carried the strictness of this order so far as to detain in England
the ambassadors of Denmark, who had taken their leave, and the regular
ambassador of Holland, who was to take back to the port of Flushing the
Indian merchantmen of which Charles I had made restitution to the United
Provinces.
But as he did not think of giving this order till five hours after the
event--that is to say, till two o'clock in the afternoon--two vessels
had already left the port, the one bearing, as we know, Milady, who,
already anticipating the event, was further confirmed in that belief by
seeing the black flag flying at the masthead of the admiral's ship.
As to the second vessel, we will tell hereafter whom it carried, and how
it set sail.
During this time nothing new occurred in the camp at La Rochelle; only
the king, who was bored, as always, but perhaps a little more so in camp
than elsewhere, resolved to go incognito and spend the festival of St.
Louis at St. Germain, and asked the cardinal to order him an escort of
only twenty Musketeers. The cardinal, who sometimes became weary of the
king, granted this leave of absence with great pleasure to his royal
lieutenant, who promised to return about the fifteenth of September.
M de Treville, being informed of this by his Eminence, packed his
portmanteau; and as without knowing the cause he knew the great desire
and even imperative need which his friends had of returning to Paris, it
goes without saying that he fixed upon them to form part of the escort.
The four young men heard the news a quarter of an hour after M. de
Treville, for they were the first to whom he communicated it. It was
then that d'Artagnan appreciated the favor the cardinal had conferred
upon him in making him at last enter the Musketeers--for without that
circumstance he would have been forced to remain in the camp while his
companions left it.
It goes without saying that this impatience to return toward Paris had
for a cause the danger which Mme. Bonacieux would run of meeting at the
convent of Bethune with Milady, her mortal enemy. Aramis therefore had
written immediately to Marie Michon, the seamstress at Tours who had
such fine acquaintances, to obtain from the queen authority for Mme.
Bonacieux to leave the convent, and to retire either into Lorraine or
Belgium. They had not long to wait for an answer. Eight or ten days
afterward Aramis received the following letter:
"My Dear Cousin,
"Here is the authorization from my sister to withdraw our little servant
from the convent of Bethune, the air of which you think is bad for her.
My sister sends you this authorization with great pleasure, for she is
very partial to the little girl, to whom she intends to be more
serviceable hereafter.
"I salute you,
"MARIE MICHON"
To this letter was added an order, conceived in these terms:
"At the Louvre, August 10, 1628
"The superior of the convent of Bethune will place in the hands of the
person who shall present this note to her the novice who entered the
convent upon my recommendation and under my patronage.
"ANNE"
It may be easily imagined how the relationship between Aramis and a
seamstress who called the queen her sister amused the young men; but
Aramis, after having blushed two or three times up to the whites of his
eyes at the gross pleasantry of Porthos, begged his friends not to
revert to the subject again, declaring that if a single word more was
said to him about it, he would never again implore his cousins to
interfere in such affairs.
There was no further question, therefore, about Marie Michon among the
four Musketeers, who besides had what they wanted: that was, the order
to withdraw Mme. Bonacieux from the convent of the Carmelites of
Bethune. It was true that this order would not be of great use to them
while they were in camp at La Rochelle; that is to say, at the other end
of France. Therefore d'Artagnan was going to ask leave of absence of M.
de Treville, confiding to him candidly the importance of his departure,
when the news was transmitted to him as well as to his three friends
that the king was about to set out for Paris with an escort of twenty
Musketeers, and that they formed part of the escort.
Their joy was great. The lackeys were sent on before with the baggage,
and they set out on the morning of the sixteenth.
The cardinal accompanied his Majesty from Surgeres to Mauzes; and there
the king and his minister took leave of each other with great
demonstrations of friendship.
The king, however, who sought distraction, while traveling as fast as
possible--for he was anxious to be in Paris by the twenty-third--stopped
from time to time to fly the magpie, a pastime for which the taste had
been formerly inspired in him by de Luynes, and for which he had always
preserved a great predilection. Out of the twenty Musketeers sixteen,
when this took place, rejoiced greatly at this relaxation; but the other
four cursed it heartily. D'Artagnan, in particular, had a perpetual
buzzing in his ears, which Porthos explained thus: "A very great lady
has told me that this means that somebody is talking of you somewhere."
At length the escort passed through Paris on the twenty-third, in the
night. The king thanked M. de Treville, and permitted him to distribute
furloughs for four days, on condition that the favored parties should
not appear in any public place, under penalty of the Bastille.
The first four furloughs granted, as may be imagined, were to our four
friends. Still further, Athos obtained of M. de Treville six days
instead of four, and introduced into these six days two more nights--for
they set out on the twenty-fourth at five o'clock in the evening, and as
a further kindness M. de Treville post-dated the leave to the morning of
the twenty-fifth.
"Good Lord!" said d'Artagnan, who, as we have often said, never stumbled
at anything. "It appears to me that we are making a great trouble of a
very simple thing. In two days, and by using up two or three horses
(that's nothing; I have plenty of money), I am at Bethune. I present my
letter from the queen to the superior, and I bring back the dear
treasure I go to seek--not into Lorraine, not into Belgium, but to
Paris, where she will be much better concealed, particularly while the
cardinal is at La Rochelle. Well, once returned from the country, half
by the protection of her cousin, half through what we have personally
done for her, we shall obtain from the queen what we desire. Remain,
then, where you are, and do not exhaust yourselves with useless fatigue.
Myself and Planchet are all that such a simple expedition requires."
To this Athos replied quietly: "We also have money left--for I have not
yet drunk all my share of the diamond, and Porthos and Aramis have not
eaten all theirs. We can therefore use up four horses as well as one.
But consider, d'Artagnan," added he, in a tone so solemn that it made
the young man shudder, "consider that Bethune is a city where the
cardinal has given rendezvous to a woman who, wherever she goes, brings
misery with her. If you had only to deal with four men, d'Artagnan, I
would allow you to go alone. You have to do with that woman! We four
will go; and I hope to God that with our four lackeys we may be in
sufficient number."
"You terrify me, Athos!" cried d'Artagnan. "My God! what do you fear?"
"Everything!" replied Athos.
D'Artagnan examined the countenances of his companions, which, like that
of Athos, wore an impression of deep anxiety; and they continued their
route as fast as their horses could carry them, but without adding
another word.
On the evening of the twenty-fifth, as they were entering Arras, and as
d'Artagnan was dismounting at the inn of the Golden Harrow to drink a
glass of wine, a horseman came out of the post yard, where he had just
had a relay, started off at a gallop, and with a fresh horse took the
road to Paris. At the moment he passed through the gateway into the
street, the wind blew open the cloak in which he was wrapped, although
it was in the month of August, and lifted his hat, which the traveler
seized with his hand the moment it had left his head, pulling it eagerly
over his eyes.
D'Artagnan, who had his eyes fixed upon this man, became very pale, and
let his glass fall.
"What is the matter, monsieur?" said Planchet. "Oh, come, gentlemen, my
master is ill!"
The three friends hastened toward d'Artagnan, who, instead of being ill,
ran toward his horse. They stopped him at the door.
"Well, where the devil are you going now?" cried Athos.
"It is he!" cried d'Artagnan, pale with anger, and with the sweat on his
brow, "it is he! let me overtake him!"
"He? What he?" asked Athos.
"He, that man!"
"What man?"
"That cursed man, my evil genius, whom I have always met with when
threatened by some misfortune, he who accompanied that horrible woman
when I met her for the first time, he whom I was seeking when I offended
our Athos, he whom I saw on the very morning Madame Bonacieux was
abducted. I have seen him; that is he! I recognized him when the wind
blew upon his cloak."
"The devil!" said Athos, musingly.
"To saddle, gentlemen! to saddle! Let us pursue him, and we shall
overtake him!"
"My dear friend," said Aramis, "remember that he goes in an opposite
direction from that in which we are going, that he has a fresh horse,
and ours are fatigued, so that we shall disable our own horses without
even a chance of overtaking him. Let the man go, d'Artagnan; let us save
the woman."
"Monsieur, monsieur!" cried a hostler, running out and looking after the
stranger, "monsieur, here is a paper which dropped out of your hat! Eh,
monsieur, eh!"
"Friend," said d'Artagnan, "a half-pistole for that paper!"
"My faith, monsieur, with great pleasure! Here it is!"
The hostler, enchanted with the good day's work he had done, returned to
the yard. D'Artagnan unfolded the paper.
"Well?" eagerly demanded all his three friends.
"Nothing but one word!" said d'Artagnan.
"Yes," said Aramis, "but that one word is the name of some town or
village."
"Armentieres," read Porthos; "Armentieres? I don't know such a place."
"And that name of a town or village is written in her hand!" cried
Athos.
"Come on, come on!" said d'Artagnan; "let us keep that paper carefully,
perhaps I have not thrown away my half-pistole. To horse, my friends, to
horse!"
And the four friends flew at a gallop along the road to Bethune. | King Charles I of England tries to conceal the death of the Duke of Buckingham from the Rochellais for as long as possible. He orders the ports closed as soon as the death was announced, but two ships manages to leave before then--the first, bearing Milady's flag. Meanwhile, at camp in La Rochelle, King Louis XIII of France is getting bored of the siege and wants to go back to Paris. He takes twenty Musketeers with him; among them are Porthos, Aramis, Athos, and D'Artagnan. Aramis receives a letter from his seamstress friend that contains an authorization from the Queen for the bearer to remove Constance Bonacieux from the convent. The men are overjoyed that they can finally rescue Constance! Upon reaching Paris, the King thanks Treville and gives permission to grant leaves of absences. The first of these goes to our young heroes, who promptly take off for Bethune. Just as the men are dismounting to stop at an inn, a horseman rides past whom D'Artagnan recognizes as the man from Meung! The Musketeer wants to chase after his mystery man, but is held back by his friends. Athos also points out that the man is traveling in the opposite direction. Suddenly, a servant comes running out of the inn after the man from Meung, calling that he had dropped a slip of paper. D'Artagnan pays the servant for the note, which has the word, "Armentieres" written on it in Milady's handwriting. The four friends fly off to Bethune. |
_Same day, 11 o'clock p. m._--Oh, but I am tired! If it were not that I
had made my diary a duty I should not open it to-night. We had a lovely
walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing, I think, to some
dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to the lighthouse,
and frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgot everything
except, of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the slate clean
and give us a fresh start. We had a capital "severe tea" at Robin Hood's
Bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow-window right over
the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I believe we should have
shocked the "New Woman" with our appetites. Men are more tolerant, bless
them! Then we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to rest,
and with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls. Lucy was
really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as we could.
The young curate came in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked him to stay
for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the dusty miller; I
know it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite heroic. I think that
some day the bishops must get together and see about breeding up a new
class of curates, who don't take supper, no matter how they may be
pressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. Lucy is asleep and
breathing softly. She has more colour in her cheeks than usual, and
looks, oh, so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in love with her seeing her
only in the drawing-room, I wonder what he would say if he saw her now.
Some of the "New Women" writers will some day start an idea that men and
women should be allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or
accepting. But I suppose the New Woman won't condescend in future to
accept; she will do the proposing herself. And a nice job she will make
of it, too! There's some consolation in that. I am so happy to-night,
because dear Lucy seems better. I really believe she has turned the
corner, and that we are over her troubles with dreaming. I should be
quite happy if I only knew if Jonathan.... God bless and keep him.
_11 August, 3 a. m._--Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write.
I am too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such an
agonising experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my diary....
Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense of fear
upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me. The room was dark,
so I could not see Lucy's bed; I stole across and felt for her. The bed
was empty. I lit a match and found that she was not in the room. The
door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared to wake her
mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw on some
clothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the room it
struck me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to her
dreaming intention. Dressing-gown would mean house; dress, outside.
Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. "Thank God," I said
to myself, "she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress." I ran
downstairs and looked in the sitting-room. Not there! Then I looked in
all the other open rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear
chilling my heart. Finally I came to the hall door and found it open. It
was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. The people
of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so I feared that
Lucy must have gone out as she was. There was no time to think of what
might happen; a vague, overmastering fear obscured all details. I took a
big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking one as I was in the
Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ran along the North
Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figure which I expected. At
the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked across the harbour to
the East Cliff, in the hope or fear--I don't know which--of seeing Lucy
in our favourite seat. There was a bright full moon, with heavy black,
driving clouds, which threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of
light and shade as they sailed across. For a moment or two I could see
nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary's Church and all
around it. Then as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey
coming into view; and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as
a sword-cut moved along, the church and the churchyard became gradually
visible. Whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, for
there, on our favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck a
half-reclining figure, snowy white. The coming of the cloud was too
quick for me to see much, for shadow shut down on light almost
immediately; but it seemed to me as though something dark stood behind
the seat where the white figure shone, and bent over it. What it was,
whether man or beast, I could not tell; I did not wait to catch another
glance, but flew down the steep steps to the pier and along by the
fish-market to the bridge, which was the only way to reach the East
Cliff. The town seemed as dead, for not a soul did I see; I rejoiced
that it was so, for I wanted no witness of poor Lucy's condition. The
time and distance seemed endless, and my knees trembled and my breath
came laboured as I toiled up the endless steps to the abbey. I must have
gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weighted with
lead, and as though every joint in my body were rusty. When I got almost
to the top I could see the seat and the white figure, for I was now
close enough to distinguish it even through the spells of shadow. There
was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over the
half-reclining white figure. I called in fright, "Lucy! Lucy!" and
something raised a head, and from where I was I could see a white face
and red, gleaming eyes. Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the
entrance of the churchyard. As I entered, the church was between me and
the seat, and for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came in
view again the cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly
that I could see Lucy half reclining with her head lying over the back
of the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not a sign of any living
thing about.
When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips
were parted, and she was breathing--not softly as usual with her, but in
long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at every
breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled the
collar of her nightdress close around her throat. Whilst she did so
there came a little shudder through her, as though she felt the cold. I
flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight round her neck,
for I dreaded lest she should get some deadly chill from the night air,
unclad as she was. I feared to wake her all at once, so, in order to
have my hands free that I might help her, I fastened the shawl at her
throat with a big safety-pin; but I must have been clumsy in my anxiety
and pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her breathing
became quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and moaned. When I
had her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her feet and then began
very gently to wake her. At first she did not respond; but gradually she
became more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing
occasionally. At last, as time was passing fast, and, for many other
reasons, I wished to get her home at once, I shook her more forcibly,
till finally she opened her eyes and awoke. She did not seem surprised
to see me, as, of course, she did not realise all at once where she was.
Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body must
have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at waking
unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. She
trembled a little, and clung to me; when I told her to come at once with
me home she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child. As we
passed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince. She
stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes; but I would not.
However, when we got to the pathway outside the churchyard, where there
was a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet with
mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went home, no
one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare feet.
Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we saw
a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front of
us; but we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such as
there are here, steep little closes, or "wynds," as they call them in
Scotland. My heart beat so loud all the time that sometimes I thought I
should faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for her
health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her reputation
in case the story should get wind. When we got in, and had washed our
feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her into
bed. Before falling asleep she asked--even implored--me not to say a
word to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walking adventure. I
hesitated at first to promise; but on thinking of the state of her
mother's health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her,
and thinking, too, of how such a story might become distorted--nay,
infallibly would--in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do
so. I hope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied to
my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping
soundly; the reflex of the dawn is high and far over the sea....
* * * * *
_Same day, noon._--All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her and seemed
not to have even changed her side. The adventure of the night does not
seem to have harmed her; on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she
looks better this morning than she has done for weeks. I was sorry to
notice that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it might
have been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced. I must have
pinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for there are
two little red points like pin-pricks, and on the band of her nightdress
was a drop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned about it, she
laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it. Fortunately it
cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.
* * * * *
_Same day, night._--We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and the
sun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to Mulgrave
Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by the
cliff-path and joining her at the gate. I felt a little sad myself, for
I could not but feel how _absolutely_ happy it would have been had
Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only be patient. In the evening
we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some good music by Spohr
and Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seems more restful than she
has been for some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall lock the door
and secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect any
trouble to-night.
* * * * *
_12 August._--My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I
was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in her sleep, to
be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed
under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds
chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and, I was glad to see,
was even better than on the previous morning. All her old gaiety of
manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me
and told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was about
Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded
somewhat, for, though sympathy can't alter facts, it can help to make
them more bearable.
* * * * *
_13 August._--Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as
before. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed,
still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and pulling
aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the soft
effect of the light over the sea and sky--merged together in one great,
silent mystery--was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the moonlight
flitted a great bat, coming and going in great whirling circles. Once or
twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose, frightened at seeing me,
and flitted away across the harbour towards the abbey. When I came back
from the window Lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping peacefully.
She did not stir again all night.
* * * * *
_14 August._--On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy seems
to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard to
get her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or
dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home for
dinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier and
stopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting sun, low
down in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness; the red light was
thrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe
everything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, and
suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself:--
"His red eyes again! They are just the same." It was such an odd
expression, coming _apropos_ of nothing, that it quite startled me. I
slewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to stare
at her, and saw that she was in a half-dreamy state, with an odd look on
her face that I could not quite make out; so I said nothing, but
followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our own seat,
whereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was a little startled myself,
for it seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes like
burning flames; but a second look dispelled the illusion. The red
sunlight was shining on the windows of St. Mary's Church behind our
seat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the
refraction and reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. I
called Lucy's attention to the peculiar effect, and she became herself
with a start, but she looked sad all the same; it may have been that she
was thinking of that terrible night up there. We never refer to it; so I
said nothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went
early to bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll myself;
I walked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet
sadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home--it was then
bright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the
Crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen--I threw a glance
up at our window, and saw Lucy's head leaning out. I thought that
perhaps she was looking out for me, so I opened my handkerchief and
waved it. She did not notice or make any movement whatever. Just then,
the moonlight crept round an angle of the building, and the light fell
on the window. There distinctly was Lucy with her head lying up against
the side of the window-sill and her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, and
by her, seated on the window-sill, was something that looked like a
good-sized bird. I was afraid she might get a chill, so I ran upstairs,
but as I came into the room she was moving back to her bed, fast
asleep, and breathing heavily; she was holding her hand to her throat,
as though to protect it from cold.
I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly; I have taken care that the
door is locked and the window securely fastened.
She looks so sweet as she sleeps; but she is paler than is her wont, and
there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do not like. I
fear she is fretting about something. I wish I could find out what it
is.
* * * * *
_15 August._--Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired, and
slept on after we had been called. We had a happy surprise at breakfast.
Arthur's father is better, and wants the marriage to come off soon. Lucy
is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorry at once. Later on
in the day she told me the cause. She is grieved to lose Lucy as her
very own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon to have some one to
protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided to me that she has got
her death-warrant. She has not told Lucy, and made me promise secrecy;
her doctor told her that within a few months, at most, she must die, for
her heart is weakening. At any time, even now, a sudden shock would be
almost sure to kill her. Ah, we were wise to keep from her the affair of
the dreadful night of Lucy's sleep-walking.
* * * * *
_17 August._--No diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart to
write. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our happiness.
No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst her
mother's hours are numbering to a close. I do not understand Lucy's
fading away as she is doing. She eats well and sleeps well, and enjoys
the fresh air; but all the time the roses in her cheeks are fading, and
she gets weaker and more languid day by day; at night I hear her gasping
as if for air. I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at
night, but she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the open
window. Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up, and when I
tried to wake her I could not; she was in a faint. When I managed to
restore her she was as weak as water, and cried silently between long,
painful struggles for breath. When I asked her how she came to be at the
window she shook her head and turned away. I trust her feeling ill may
not be from that unlucky prick of the safety-pin. I looked at her throat
just now as she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds seem not to have healed.
They are still open, and, if anything, larger than before, and the
edges of them are faintly white. They are like little white dots with
red centres. Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on the
doctor seeing about them.
_Letter, Samuel F. Billington & Son, Solicitors, Whitby, to Messrs.
Carter, Paterson & Co., London._
"_17 August._
"Dear Sirs,--
"Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern
Railway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately
on receipt at goods station King's Cross. The house is at present empty,
but enclosed please find keys, all of which are labelled.
"You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the
consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the house
and marked 'A' on rough diagram enclosed. Your agent will easily
recognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The
goods leave by the train at 9:30 to-night, and will be due at King's
Cross at 4:30 to-morrow afternoon. As our client wishes the delivery
made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams ready
at King's Cross at the time named and forthwith conveying the goods to
destination. In order to obviate any delays possible through any routine
requirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose cheque
herewith for ten pounds (L10), receipt of which please acknowledge.
Should the charge be less than this amount, you can return balance; if
greater, we shall at once send cheque for difference on hearing from
you. You are to leave the keys on coming away in the main hall of the
house, where the proprietor may get them on his entering the house by
means of his duplicate key.
"Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy in
pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.
_"We are, dear Sirs,
"Faithfully yours,
"SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON."_
_Letter, Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co., London, to Messrs. Billington &
Son, Whitby._
"_21 August._
"Dear Sirs,--
"We beg to acknowledge L10 received and to return cheque L1 17s. 9d,
amount of overplus, as shown in receipted account herewith. Goods are
delivered in exact accordance with instructions, and keys left in parcel
in main hall, as directed.
"We are, dear Sirs,
"Yours respectfully.
"_Pro_ CARTER, PATERSON & CO."
_Mina Murray's Journal._
_18 August._--I am happy to-day, and write sitting on the seat in the
churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept well all
night, and did not disturb me once. The roses seem coming back already
to her cheeks, though she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. If she
were in any way anaemic I could understand it, but she is not. She is in
gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness. All the morbid reticence
seems to have passed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if I
needed any reminding, of _that_ night, and that it was here, on this
very seat, I found her asleep. As she told me she tapped playfully with
the heel of her boot on the stone slab and said:--
"My poor little feet didn't make much noise then! I daresay poor old Mr.
Swales would have told me that it was because I didn't want to wake up
Geordie." As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she
had dreamed at all that night. Before she answered, that sweet, puckered
look came into her forehead, which Arthur--I call him Arthur from her
habit--says he loves; and, indeed, I don't wonder that he does. Then she
went on in a half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to
herself:--
"I didn't quite dream; but it all seemed to be real. I only wanted to be
here in this spot--I don't know why, for I was afraid of something--I
don't know what. I remember, though I suppose I was asleep, passing
through the streets and over the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by, and
I leaned over to look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling--the
whole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once--as
I went up the steps. Then I had a vague memory of something long and
dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very
sweet and very bitter all around me at once; and then I seemed sinking
into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have
heard there is to drowning men; and then everything seemed passing away
from me; my soul seemed to go out from my body and float about the air.
I seem to remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under me,
and then there was a sort of agonising feeling, as if I were in an
earthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you do
it before I felt you."
Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I
listened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought it
better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to other
subjects, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got home the
fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more
rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very
happy evening together.
* * * * *
_19 August._--Joy, joy, joy! although not all joy. At last, news of
Jonathan. The dear fellow has been ill; that is why he did not write. I
am not afraid to think it or say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins sent
me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh, so kindly. I am to leave in the
morning and go over to Jonathan, and to help to nurse him if necessary,
and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a bad thing if
we were to be married out there. I have cried over the good Sister's
letter till I can feel it wet against my bosom, where it lies. It is of
Jonathan, and must be next my heart, for he is _in_ my heart. My journey
is all mapped out, and my luggage ready. I am only taking one change of
dress; Lucy will bring my trunk to London and keep it till I send for
it, for it may be that ... I must write no more; I must keep it to say
to Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and touched must
comfort me till we meet.
_Letter, Sister Agatha, Hospital of St. Joseph and Ste. Mary,
Buda-Pesth, to Miss Wilhelmina Murray._
"_12 August._
"Dear Madam,--
"I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not strong
enough to write, though progressing well, thanks to God and St. Joseph
and Ste. Mary. He has been under our care for nearly six weeks,
suffering from a violent brain fever. He wishes me to convey his love,
and to say that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter Hawkins,
Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry for his
delay, and that all of his work is completed. He will require some few
weeks' rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but will then return. He
wishes me to say that he has not sufficient money with him, and that he
would like to pay for his staying here, so that others who need shall
not be wanting for help.
"Believe me,
"Yours, with sympathy and all blessings,
"SISTER AGATHA.
"P. S.--My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know something
more. He has told me all about you, and that you are shortly to be his
wife. All blessings to you both! He has had some fearful shock--so says
our doctor--and in his delirium his ravings have been dreadful; of
wolves and poison and blood; of ghosts and demons; and I fear to say of
what. Be careful with him always that there may be nothing to excite him
of this kind for a long time to come; the traces of such an illness as
his do not lightly die away. We should have written long ago, but we
knew nothing of his friends, and there was on him nothing that any one
could understand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the guard
was told by the station-master there that he rushed into the station
shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanour that
he was English, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the
way thither that the train reached.
"Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by his
sweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting on well, and I have no
doubt will in a few weeks be all himself. But be careful of him for
safety's sake. There are, I pray God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary, many,
many, happy years for you both."
_Dr. Seward's Diary._
_19 August._--Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night. About
eight o'clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a dog does when
setting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my interest
in him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually respectful to the
attendant and at times servile; but to-night, the man tells me, he was
quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk with him at all. All he
would say was:--
"I don't want to talk to you: you don't count now; the Master is at
hand."
The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which has
seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man with
homicidal and religious mania at once might be dangerous. The
combination is a dreadful one. At nine o'clock I visited him myself. His
attitude to me was the same as that to the attendant; in his sublime
self-feeling the difference between myself and attendant seemed to him
as nothing. It looks like religious mania, and he will soon think that
he himself is God. These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man
are too paltry for an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves
away! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall; but the God created
from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow. Oh,
if men only knew!
For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and
greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept strict
observation all the same. All at once that shifty look came into his
eyes which we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and with it
the shifty movement of the head and back which asylum attendants come to
know so well. He became quite quiet, and went and sat on the edge of his
bed resignedly, and looked into space with lack-lustre eyes. I thought I
would find out if his apathy were real or only assumed, and tried to
lead him to talk of his pets, a theme which had never failed to excite
his attention. At first he made no reply, but at length said testily:--
"Bother them all! I don't care a pin about them."
"What?" I said. "You don't mean to tell me you don't care about
spiders?" (Spiders at present are his hobby and the note-book is filling
up with columns of small figures.) To this he answered enigmatically:--
"The bride-maidens rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of the bride;
but when the bride draweth nigh, then the maidens shine not to the eyes
that are filled."
He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated on his bed
all the time I remained with him.
I am weary to-night and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, and
how different things might have been. If I don't sleep at once, chloral,
the modern Morpheus--C_{2}HCl_{3}O. H_{2}O! I must be careful not to let
it grow into a habit. No, I shall take none to-night! I have thought of
Lucy, and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. If need be,
to-night shall be sleepless....
* * * * *
_Later._--Glad I made the resolution; gladder that I kept to it. I had
lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the
night-watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield
had escaped. I threw on my clothes and ran down at once; my patient is
too dangerous a person to be roaming about. Those ideas of his might
work out dangerously with strangers. The attendant was waiting for me.
He said he had seen him not ten minutes before, seemingly asleep in his
bed, when he had looked through the observation-trap in the door. His
attention was called by the sound of the window being wrenched out. He
ran back and saw his feet disappear through the window, and had at once
sent up for me. He was only in his night-gear, and cannot be far off.
The attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he should
go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting out
of the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn't get through
the window. I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost,
and, as we were only a few feet above ground, landed unhurt. The
attendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had taken a
straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got through the belt
of trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates our
grounds from those of the deserted house.
I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men
immediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our friend
might be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the wall,
dropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield's figure just
disappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after him. On the
far side of the house I found him pressed close against the old
ironbound oak door of the chapel. He was talking, apparently to some
one, but I was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was saying, lest
I might frighten him, and he should run off. Chasing an errant swarm of
bees is nothing to following a naked lunatic, when the fit of escaping
is upon him! After a few minutes, however, I could see that he did not
take note of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to
him--the more so as my men had now crossed the wall and were closing him
in. I heard him say:--
"I am here to do Your bidding, Master. I am Your slave, and You will
reward me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped You long and afar
off. Now that You are near, I await Your commands, and You will not pass
me by, will You, dear Master, in Your distribution of good things?"
He _is_ a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and fishes
even when he believes he is in a Real Presence. His manias make a
startling combination. When we closed in on him he fought like a tiger.
He is immensely strong, for he was more like a wild beast than a man. I
never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before; and I hope I
shall not again. It is a mercy that we have found out his strength and
his danger in good time. With strength and determination like his, he
might have done wild work before he was caged. He is safe now at any
rate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn't get free from the strait-waistcoat
that keeps him restrained, and he's chained to the wall in the padded
room. His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow are
more deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and movement.
Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time:--
"I shall be patient, Master. It is coming--coming--coming!"
So I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to sleep, but this
diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep to-night. | Taken from the August 8th, August 11th, August 12th, August 13th, August 14th, August 15th, and August 17th entries of Mina Murray's journal. Also includes correspondence between Samuel F. Billington and Son, Whitby solicitors, and Messrs. Carter, Patterson, and Company, of London, in business letters dated August 17th and August 21st. Taken again from the August 18th and August 19th entries of Mina Murray's journal. Also contains the letter from Sister Agatha to Mina Murray, dated August 12th. Closes with the August 19th entry of Dr. Seward's diary. In the middle of the night, Mina wakes up with a sense of dread and finds Lucy's bed empty. Frantically Mina searches for him, first through the house and then outside. She goes to the Church, thinking that Lucy might be at their favorite seat in the graveyard. From a distance, Mina sees her there: Lucy is half-reclining, while a shadowy figure with red eyes bends over her. When Mina reaches her, Lucy is alone, asleep, and breathing with difficulty. Later, Mina discovers puncture wounds on Lucy's throat, but she believes the wounds were caused by her own clumsiness while fastening Lucy's shawl. The next few nights, Mina locks their door so that the sleepwalking Lucy cannot get out. One day, while the two women are out on a walk, Lucy murmurs, "His red eyes again. They are just the same. Looking out at the graveyard spot where Mina found Lucy, Mina thinks she sees a shadow with red glowing eyes, but after a moment it seems to be a trick of the light. That night, Mina comes home and from outside sees Lucy asleep at their window, sitting on the sill with the window wide open and something like a large bird sitting next to her. By the time Mina gets upstairs to their room, Lucy is sleepwalking back to bed, clutching at her own throat. Mina continues to worry: as the days pass, Lucy grows paler and weaker. Mina also learns that Lucy's mother is dyingMrs. Westenra reveals to Mina that her heart is weakening, but asks that Lucy not be told. Mina continues to find Lucy sitting on the sill at night, and the puncture wounds on Lucy's throat grow larger. Letters between solicitors in London and Whitby reveal that the fifty boxes of earth are to be delivered to Carfax. They are to be placed in the old ruined chapel of the mansion. In Mina's journal, she reports that Lucy grows more haggard, although her spirits are high. Lucy even speaks of the night that Mina found her in the graveyard, telling Mina that she had an out-of-body experience and a strange, blissful feeling. And finally, Mina hears news of Jonathan. Sister Agatha of the Hospital of St. Joseph and St. Mary in Budapest sends a letter to Mina, reporting that Jonathan has been found and has been terribly sick with brain fever. He made it to Budapest by train, but has been ill and has ranted constantly of demons and wolves. Mina goes to join Jonathan and to help him return to England. Dr. Seward reports that Renfield's behavior has been even more bizarre. He speaks constantly of a coming "Master," in cryptic phrases that parallel many of the statements about Christ made in the New Testament. On a night when Dr. Seward, still depressed by Lucy's rejection of him, is contemplating taking chloral hydrate to help him sleep, Renfield escapes. He is found at nearby Carfax, pressed against the door of the ruined chapel, pledging allegiance to his Master. They return him to his cell after a vicious fight. Amazed by Renfield's ferocity and strength, Dr. Seward orders that he be chained and put in a straitjacket. |
Alexandria. Another Room in CLEOPATRA'S palace.
[Enter CHARMIAN, IRAS, ALEXAS, and a Soothsayer.]
CHARMIAN.
Lord Alexas, sweet Alexas, most anything Alexas, almost
most absolute Alexas, where's the soothsayer that you praised so
to the queen? O that I knew this husband, which you say must
charge his horns with garlands!
ALEXAS.
Soothsayer,--
SOOTHSAYER.
Your will?
CHARMIAN.
Is this the man?--Is't you, sir, that know things?
SOOTHSAYER.
In nature's infinite book of secrecy
A little I can read.
ALEXAS.
Show him your hand.
[Enter ENOBARBUS.]
ENOBARBUS.
Bring in the banquet quickly; wine enough
Cleopatra's health to drink.
CHARMIAN.
Good, sir, give me good fortune.
SOOTHSAYER.
I make not, but foresee.
CHARMIAN.
Pray, then, foresee me one.
SOOTHSAYER.
You shall be yet far fairer than you are.
CHARMIAN.
He means in flesh.
IRAS.
No, you shall paint when you are old.
CHARMIAN.
Wrinkles forbid!
ALEXAS.
Vex not his prescience; be attentive.
CHARMIAN.
Hush!
SOOTHSAYER.
You shall be more beloving than beloved.
CHARMIAN.
I had rather heat my liver with drinking.
ALEXAS.
Nay, hear him.
CHARMIAN.
Good now, some excellent fortune! Let me be married to three
kings in a forenoon, and widow them all: let me have a child at
fifty, to whom Herod of Jewry may do homage: find me to marry me
with Octavius Caesar, and companion me with my mistress.
SOOTHSAYER.
You shall outlive the lady whom you serve.
CHARMIAN.
O, excellent! I love long life better than figs.
SOOTHSAYER.
You have seen and prov'd a fairer former fortune
Than that which is to approach.
CHARMIAN.
Then belike my children shall have no names:--pr'ythee, how many
boys and wenches must I have?
SOOTHSAYER.
If every of your wishes had a womb,
And fertile every wish, a million.
CHARMIAN.
Out, fool! I forgive thee for a witch.
ALEXAS.
You think none but your sheets are privy to your wishes.
CHARMIAN.
Nay, come, tell Iras hers.
ALEXAS.
We'll know all our fortunes.
ENOBARBUS.
Mine, and most of our fortunes, to-night, shall be--
drunk to bed.
IRAS.
There's a palm presages chastity, if nothing else.
CHARMIAN.
E'en as the o'erflowing Nilus presageth famine.
IRAS.
Go, you wild bedfellow, you cannot soothsay.
CHARMIAN.
Nay, if an oily palm be not a fruitful prognostication, I cannot
scratch mine ear.--Pr'ythee, tell her but worky-day fortune.
SOOTHSAYER.
Your fortunes are alike.
IRAS.
But how, but how? give me particulars.
SOOTHSAYER.
I have said.
IRAS.
Am I not an inch of fortune better than she?
CHARMIAN.
Well, if you were but an inch of fortune better than I, where
would you choose it?
IRAS.
Not in my husband's nose.
CHARMIAN.
Our worser thoughts heavens mend!--Alexas,--come, his fortune!
his fortune!--O, let him marry a woman that cannot go, sweet
Isis, I beseech thee! And let her die too, and give him a worse!
and let worse follow worse, till the worst of all follow him
laughing to his grave, fiftyfold a cuckold! Good Isis, hear me
this prayer, though thou deny me a matter of more weight; good
Isis, I beseech thee!
IRAS.
Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer of the people! for, as it is
a heartbreaking to see a handsome man loose-wived, so it is a
deadly sorrow to behold a foul knave uncuckolded: therefore, dear
Isis, keep decorum, and fortune him accordingly!
CHARMIAN.
Amen.
ALEXAS.
Lo now, if it lay in their hands to make me a cuckold, they would
make themselves whores but they'd do't!
ENOBARBUS.
Hush! Here comes Antony.
CHARMIAN.
Not he; the queen.
[Enter CLEOPATRA.]
CLEOPATRA.
Saw you my lord?
ENOBARBUS.
No, lady.
CLEOPATRA.
Was he not here?
CHARMIAN.
No, madam.
CLEOPATRA.
He was dispos'd to mirth; but on the sudden
A Roman thought hath struck him.--Enobarbus,--
ENOBARBUS.
Madam?
CLEOPATRA.
Seek him, and bring him hither.--Where's Alexas?
ALEXAS.
Here, at your service.--My lord approaches.
CLEOPATRA.
We will not look upon him: go with us.
[Exeunt CLEOPATRA, ENOBARBUS, CHAR., IRAS, ALEX., and
Soothsayer.]
[Enter ANTONY, with a MESSENGER and Attendants.]
MESSENGER.
Fulvia thy wife first came into the field.
ANTONY.
Against my brother Lucius.
MESSENGER.
Ay:
But soon that war had end, and the time's state
Made friends of them, jointing their force 'gainst Caesar;
Whose better issue in the war, from Italy
Upon the first encounter, drave them.
ANTONY.
Well, what worst?
MESSENGER.
The nature of bad news infects the teller.
ANTONY.
When it concerns the fool or coward.--On:--
Things that are past are done with me.--'Tis thus;
Who tells me true, though in his tale lie death,
I hear him as he flatter'd.
MESSENGER.
Labienus,--
This is stiff news,--hath, with his Parthian force,
Extended Asia from Euphrates;
His conquering banner shook from Syria
To Lydia and to Ionia;
Whilst,--
ANTONY.
Antony, thou wouldst say,--
MESSENGER.
O, my lord!
ANTONY.
Speak to me home, mince not the general tongue:
Name Cleopatra as she is call'd in Rome;
Rail thou in Fulvia's phrase; and taunt my faults
With such full licence as both truth and malice
Have power to utter. O, then we bring forth weeds
When our quick minds lie still; and our ills told us
Is as our earing. Fare thee well awhile.
MESSENGER.
At your noble pleasure.
[Exit.]
ANTONY.
From Sicyon, ho, the news! Speak there!
FIRST ATTENDANT.
The man from Sicyon--is there such an one?
SECOND ATTENDANT.
He stays upon your will.
ANTONY.
Let him appear.--
These strong Egyptian fetters I must break,
Or lose myself in dotage.--
[Enter another MESSENGER.]
What are you?
SECOND MESSENGER.
Fulvia thy wife is dead.
ANTONY.
Where died she?
SECOND MESSENGER.
In Sicyon:
Her length of sickness, with what else more serious
Importeth thee to know, this bears. [Gives a letter.]
ANTONY.
Forbear me.
[Exit MESSENGER.]
There's a great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it:
What our contempts doth often hurl from us,
We wish it ours again; the present pleasure,
By revolution lowering, does become
The opposite of itself: she's good, being gone;
The hand could pluck her back that shov'd her on.
I must from this enchanting queen break off:
Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know,
My idleness doth hatch--ho, Enobarbus!
[Re-enter ENOBARBUS.]
ENOBARBUS.
What's your pleasure, sir?
ANTONY.
I must with haste from hence.
ENOBARBUS.
Why, then we kill all our women: we see how mortal an unkindness
is to them; if they suffer our departure, death's the word.
ANTONY.
I must be gone.
ENOBARBUS.
Under a compelling occasion, let women die: it were pity to cast
them away for nothing; though, between them and a great cause
they should be esteemed nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the
least noise of this, dies instantly; I have seen her die twenty
times upon far poorer moment: I do think there is mettle in
death, which commits some loving act upon her, she hath such a
celerity in dying.
ANTONY.
She is cunning past man's thought.
ENOBARBUS.
Alack, sir, no: her passions are made of nothing but the finest
part of pure love: we cannot call her winds and waters, sighs and
tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can
report: this cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a
shower of rain as well as Jove.
ANTONY.
Would I had never seen her!
ENOBARBUS.
O sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece of work; which
not to have been blest withal would have discredited your travel.
ANTONY.
Fulvia is dead.
ENOBARBUS.
Sir?
ANTONY.
Fulvia is dead.
ENOBARBUS.
Fulvia?
ANTONY.
Dead.
ENOBARBUS.
Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. When it pleaseth
their deities to take the wife of a man from him, it shows to
man the tailors of the earth; comforting therein that when old
robes are worn out there are members to make new. If there were
no more women but Fulvia, then had you indeed a cut, and the case
to be lamented: this grief is crown'd with consolation; your old
smock brings forth a new petticoat:--and, indeed, the tears live
in an onion that should water this sorrow.
ANTONY.
The business she hath broached in the state
Cannot endure my absence.
ENOBARBUS.
And the business you have broached here cannot be without you;
especially that of Cleopatra's, which wholly depends on your
abode.
ANTONY.
No more light answers. Let our officers
Have notice what we purpose. I shall break
The cause of our expedience to the queen,
And get her leave to part. For not alone
The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches,
Do strongly speak to us; but the letters too
Of many our contriving friends in Rome
Petition us at home: Sextus Pompeius
Hath given the dare to Caesar, and commands
The empire of the sea; our slippery people,--
Whose love is never link'd to the deserver
Till his deserts are past,--begin to throw
Pompey the Great, and all his dignities,
Upon his son; who, high in name and power,
Higher than both in blood and life, stands up
For the main soldier: whose quality, going on,
The sides o' the world may danger: much is breeding
Which, like the courser's hair, hath yet but life
And not a serpent's poison. Say, our pleasure
To such whose place is under us, requires
Our quick remove from hence.
ENOBARBUS.
I shall do't.
[Exeunt.] | Cleopatra's attendants ask a soothsayer, or fortune-teller, to reveal their futures. The Soothsayer tells Charmian and Iras, the queen's maids, that their fortunes are the same: their pasts will prove better than their futures, and they shall outlive the queen whom they serve. Cleopatra joins them, complaining that Antony has suddenly turned his mind toward Rome again. She sends Antony's follower Enobarbus to fetch his master, but changes her mind, and as Antony approaches, she leaves to avoid seeing him. A messenger reports to Antony that Fulvia and Lucius, Antony's brother, have mounted an army against Caesar but have lost their battle. When the messenger hesitantly suggests that this event would not have happened had Antony been in Rome, Antony invites the man to speak openly, to "taunt faults / With such full licence as both truth and malice / Have power to utter". Another messenger arrives to report that Fulvia is dead. Antony comments that he long desired his wife's death but now wishes her alive again. Enobarbus arrives and tries to comfort Antony with the thought that Fulvia's death was an event that should be welcomed rather than mourned. Worried that his idleness and devotion to Cleopatra are responsible for these events, as well as a battle being waged by Sextus Pompeius, who is currently attempting to take control of the seas from the triumvirs, Antony decides to break away from Cleopatra and return to Rome |
The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a
hard thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways
and corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad: which,
as if expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it
savagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies,
scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night
for the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fire and thank God
they were at home; and for the homeless, starving wretch to lay him
down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare
streets, at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may,
can hardly open them in a more bitter world.
Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs. Corney, the
matron of the workhouse to which our readers have been already
introduced as the birthplace of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a
cheerful fire in her own little room, and glanced, with no small degree
of complacency, at a small round table: on which stood a tray of
corresponding size, furnished with all necessary materials for the most
grateful meal that matrons enjoy. In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to
solace herself with a cup of tea. As she glanced from the table to the
fireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles was singing a
small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently
increased,--so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled.
'Well!' said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking
reflectively at the fire; 'I'm sure we have all on us a great deal to
be grateful for! A great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!'
Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental
blindness of those paupers who did not know it; and thrusting a silver
spoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin
tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea.
How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The
black teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs.
Corney was moralising; and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney's
hand.
'Drat the pot!' said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on
the hob; 'a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups!
What use is it of, to anybody! Except,' said Mrs. Corney, pausing,
'except to a poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!'
With these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more
resting her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The
small teapot, and the single cup, had awakened in her mind sad
recollections of Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more than
five-and-twenty years); and she was overpowered.
'I shall never get another!' said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; 'I shall
never get another--like him.'
Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is
uncertain. It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it
as she spoke; and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first
cup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door.
'Oh, come in with you!' said Mrs. Corney, sharply. 'Some of the old
women dying, I suppose. They always die when I'm at meals. Don't stand
there, letting the cold air in, don't. What's amiss now, eh?'
'Nothing, ma'am, nothing,' replied a man's voice.
'Dear me!' exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, 'is that Mr.
Bumble?'
'At your service, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping
outside to rub his shoes clean, and to shake the snow off his coat; and
who now made his appearance, bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a
bundle in the other. 'Shall I shut the door, ma'am?'
The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any
impropriety in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors.
Mr. Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold
himself, shut it without permission.
'Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,' said the matron.
'Hard, indeed, ma'am,' replied the beadle. 'Anti-porochial weather
this, ma'am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a
matter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half, this very
blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented.'
'Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?' said the matron,
sipping her tea.
'When, indeed, ma'am!' rejoined Mr. Bumble. 'Why here's one man that,
in consideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and
a good pound of cheese, full weight. Is he grateful, ma'am? Is he
grateful? Not a copper farthing's worth of it! What does he do,
ma'am, but ask for a few coals; if it's only a pocket handkerchief
full, he says! Coals! What would he do with coals? Toast his cheese
with 'em and then come back for more. That's the way with these
people, ma'am; give 'em a apron full of coals to-day, and they'll come
back for another, the day after to-morrow, as brazen as alabaster.'
The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible
simile; and the beadle went on.
'I never,' said Mr. Bumble, 'see anything like the pitch it's got to.
The day afore yesterday, a man--you have been a married woman, ma'am,
and I may mention it to you--a man, with hardly a rag upon his back
(here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer's door
when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be
relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn't go away, and shocked the company
very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a
pint of oatmeal. "My heart!" says the ungrateful villain, "what's the
use of _this_ to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron
spectacles!" "Very good," says our overseer, taking 'em away again,
"you won't get anything else here." "Then I'll die in the streets!"
says the vagrant. "Oh no, you won't," says our overseer.'
'Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?'
interposed the matron. 'Well, Mr. Bumble?'
'Well, ma'am,' rejoined the beadle, 'he went away; and he _did_ die in
the streets. There's a obstinate pauper for you!'
'It beats anything I could have believed,' observed the matron
emphatically. 'But don't you think out-of-door relief a very bad
thing, any way, Mr. Bumble? You're a gentleman of experience, and
ought to know. Come.'
'Mrs. Corney,' said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious
of superior information, 'out-of-door relief, properly managed:
properly managed, ma'am: is the porochial safeguard. The great
principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what
they don't want; and then they get tired of coming.'
'Dear me!' exclaimed Mrs. Corney. 'Well, that is a good one, too!'
'Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma'am,' returned Mr. Bumble, 'that's the
great principle; and that's the reason why, if you look at any cases
that get into them owdacious newspapers, you'll always observe that
sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That's the
rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however,' said the
beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, 'these are official secrets,
ma'am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may say, among the porochial
officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma'am, that the
board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only
out of the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!'
Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to
test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of
drawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it
carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go.
'You'll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble,' said the matron.
'It blows, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar,
'enough to cut one's ears off.'
The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was
moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to
bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether--whether he wouldn't
take a cup of tea?
Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat
and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he
slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon
the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.
Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she
sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle;
she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again
Mr. Bumble coughed--louder this time than he had coughed yet.
'Sweet? Mr. Bumble?' inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin.
'Very sweet, indeed, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on
Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr.
Bumble was that beadle at that moment.
The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a
handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the
splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these
amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had
no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather
seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department.
'You have a cat, ma'am, I see,' said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who,
in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; 'and kittens
too, I declare!'
'I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think,' replied the
matron. 'They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that
they are quite companions for me.'
'Very nice animals, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; 'so very
domestic.'
'Oh, yes!' rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; 'so fond of their home
too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure.'
'Mrs. Corney, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time
with his teaspoon, 'I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten,
that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be
a ass, ma'am.'
'Oh, Mr. Bumble!' remonstrated Mrs. Corney.
'It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, slowly
flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him
doubly impressive; 'I would drown it myself, with pleasure.'
'Then you're a cruel man,' said the matron vivaciously, as she held out
her hand for the beadle's cup; 'and a very hard-hearted man besides.'
'Hard-hearted, ma'am?' said Mr. Bumble. 'Hard?' Mr. Bumble resigned
his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as
she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced
waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little
morsel farther from the fire.
It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been
sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and
fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from
the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance
between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers
will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great
heroism on Mr. Bumble's part: he being in some sort tempted by time,
place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings,
which however well they may become the lips of the light and
thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the
land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other
great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the
stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be
the sternest and most inflexible among them all.
Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were
of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before
remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble,
moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the
distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel
round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close
to that in which the matron was seated.
Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble
stopped.
Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have
been scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen
into Mr. Bumble's arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt
foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where she was,
and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea.
'Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?' said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and
looking up into the matron's face; 'are _you_ hard-hearted, Mrs.
Corney?'
'Dear me!' exclaimed the matron, 'what a very curious question from a
single man. What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?'
The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast;
whisked the crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately
kissed the matron.
'Mr. Bumble!' cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the fright was
so great, that she had quite lost her voice, 'Mr. Bumble, I shall
scream!' Mr. Bumble made no reply; but in a slow and dignified manner,
put his arm round the matron's waist.
As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would
have screamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion was
rendered unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door: which was no
sooner heard, than Mr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine
bottles, and began dusting them with great violence: while the matron
sharply demanded who was there.
It is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the efficacy
of a sudden surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that
her voice had quite recovered all its official asperity.
'If you please, mistress,' said a withered old female pauper, hideously
ugly: putting her head in at the door, 'Old Sally is a-going fast.'
'Well, what's that to me?' angrily demanded the matron. 'I can't keep
her alive, can I?'
'No, no, mistress,' replied the old woman, 'nobody can; she's far
beyond the reach of help. I've seen a many people die; little babes
and great strong men; and I know when death's a-coming, well enough.
But she's troubled in her mind: and when the fits are not on her,--and
that's not often, for she is dying very hard,--she says she has got
something to tell, which you must hear. She'll never die quiet till
you come, mistress.'
At this intelligence, the worthy Mrs. Corney muttered a variety of
invectives against old women who couldn't even die without purposely
annoying their betters; and, muffling herself in a thick shawl which
she hastily caught up, briefly requested Mr. Bumble to stay till she
came back, lest anything particular should occur. Bidding the
messenger walk fast, and not be all night hobbling up the stairs, she
followed her from the room with a very ill grace, scolding all the way.
Mr. Bumble's conduct on being left to himself, was rather inexplicable.
He opened the closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs,
closely inspected a silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the
genuine metal, and, having satisfied his curiosity on these points, put
on his cocked hat corner-wise, and danced with much gravity four
distinct times round the table.
Having gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off
the cocked hat again, and, spreading himself before the fire with his
back towards it, seemed to be mentally engaged in taking an exact
inventory of the furniture. | Mr. Bumble visits Mrs. Corney, the widowed matron of the workhouse, to deliver some wine. Mrs. Corney offers him tea. Mr. Bumble slowly moves his chair closer to Mrs. Corney's and kisses her on the lips. An old pauper woman interrupts them to report that Old Sally, a woman under Mrs. Corney's care, is close to death and wishes to tell Mrs. Corney something. Irritated, Mrs. Corney leaves. Alone in Mrs. Corney's room, Mr. Bumble takes "an exact inventory of the furniture |
It was a chill, damp, windy night, when the Jew: buttoning his
great-coat tight round his shrivelled body, and pulling the collar up
over his ears so as completely to obscure the lower part of his face:
emerged from his den. He paused on the step as the door was locked and
chained behind him; and having listened while the boys made all secure,
and until their retreating footsteps were no longer audible, slunk down
the street as quickly as he could.
The house to which Oliver had been conveyed, was in the neighborhood of
Whitechapel. The Jew stopped for an instant at the corner of the
street; and, glancing suspiciously round, crossed the road, and struck
off in the direction of the Spitalfields.
The mud lay thick upon the stones, and a black mist hung over the
streets; the rain fell sluggishly down, and everything felt cold and
clammy to the touch. It seemed just the night when it befitted such a
being as the Jew to be abroad. As he glided stealthily along, creeping
beneath the shelter of the walls and doorways, the hideous old man
seemed like some loathsome reptile, engendered in the slime and
darkness through which he moved: crawling forth, by night, in search of
some rich offal for a meal.
He kept on his course, through many winding and narrow ways, until he
reached Bethnal Green; then, turning suddenly off to the left, he soon
became involved in a maze of the mean and dirty streets which abound in
that close and densely-populated quarter.
The Jew was evidently too familiar with the ground he traversed to be
at all bewildered, either by the darkness of the night, or the
intricacies of the way. He hurried through several alleys and streets,
and at length turned into one, lighted only by a single lamp at the
farther end. At the door of a house in this street, he knocked; having
exchanged a few muttered words with the person who opened it, he walked
upstairs.
A dog growled as he touched the handle of a room-door; and a man's
voice demanded who was there.
'Only me, Bill; only me, my dear,' said the Jew looking in.
'Bring in your body then,' said Sikes. 'Lie down, you stupid brute!
Don't you know the devil when he's got a great-coat on?'
Apparently, the dog had been somewhat deceived by Mr. Fagin's outer
garment; for as the Jew unbuttoned it, and threw it over the back of a
chair, he retired to the corner from which he had risen: wagging his
tail as he went, to show that he was as well satisfied as it was in his
nature to be.
'Well!' said Sikes.
'Well, my dear,' replied the Jew.--'Ah! Nancy.'
The latter recognition was uttered with just enough of embarrassment to
imply a doubt of its reception; for Mr. Fagin and his young friend had
not met, since she had interfered in behalf of Oliver. All doubts upon
the subject, if he had any, were speedily removed by the young lady's
behaviour. She took her feet off the fender, pushed back her chair,
and bade Fagin draw up his, without saying more about it: for it was a
cold night, and no mistake.
'It is cold, Nancy dear,' said the Jew, as he warmed his skinny hands
over the fire. 'It seems to go right through one,' added the old man,
touching his side.
'It must be a piercer, if it finds its way through your heart,' said
Mr. Sikes. 'Give him something to drink, Nancy. Burn my body, make
haste! It's enough to turn a man ill, to see his lean old carcase
shivering in that way, like a ugly ghost just rose from the grave.'
Nancy quickly brought a bottle from a cupboard, in which there were
many: which, to judge from the diversity of their appearance, were
filled with several kinds of liquids. Sikes pouring out a glass of
brandy, bade the Jew drink it off.
'Quite enough, quite, thankye, Bill,' replied the Jew, putting down the
glass after just setting his lips to it.
'What! You're afraid of our getting the better of you, are you?'
inquired Sikes, fixing his eyes on the Jew. 'Ugh!'
With a hoarse grunt of contempt, Mr. Sikes seized the glass, and threw
the remainder of its contents into the ashes: as a preparatory ceremony
to filling it again for himself: which he did at once.
The Jew glanced round the room, as his companion tossed down the second
glassful; not in curiousity, for he had seen it often before; but in a
restless and suspicious manner habitual to him. It was a meanly
furnished apartment, with nothing but the contents of the closet to
induce the belief that its occupier was anything but a working man; and
with no more suspicious articles displayed to view than two or three
heavy bludgeons which stood in a corner, and a 'life-preserver' that
hung over the chimney-piece.
'There,' said Sikes, smacking his lips. 'Now I'm ready.'
'For business?' inquired the Jew.
'For business,' replied Sikes; 'so say what you've got to say.'
'About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?' said the Jew, drawing his chair
forward, and speaking in a very low voice.
'Yes. Wot about it?' inquired Sikes.
'Ah! you know what I mean, my dear,' said the Jew. 'He knows what I
mean, Nancy; don't he?'
'No, he don't,' sneered Mr. Sikes. 'Or he won't, and that's the same
thing. Speak out, and call things by their right names; don't sit
there, winking and blinking, and talking to me in hints, as if you
warn't the very first that thought about the robbery. Wot d'ye mean?'
'Hush, Bill, hush!' said the Jew, who had in vain attempted to stop
this burst of indignation; 'somebody will hear us, my dear. Somebody
will hear us.'
'Let 'em hear!' said Sikes; 'I don't care.' But as Mr. Sikes DID care,
on reflection, he dropped his voice as he said the words, and grew
calmer.
'There, there,' said the Jew, coaxingly. 'It was only my caution,
nothing more. Now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to
be done, Bill, eh? When is it to be done? Such plate, my dear, such
plate!' said the Jew: rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in
a rapture of anticipation.
'Not at all,' replied Sikes coldly.
'Not to be done at all!' echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair.
'No, not at all,' rejoined Sikes. 'At least it can't be a put-up job,
as we expected.'
'Then it hasn't been properly gone about,' said the Jew, turning pale
with anger. 'Don't tell me!'
'But I will tell you,' retorted Sikes. 'Who are you that's not to be
told? I tell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place
for a fortnight, and he can't get one of the servants in line.'
'Do you mean to tell me, Bill,' said the Jew: softening as the other
grew heated: 'that neither of the two men in the house can be got
over?'
'Yes, I do mean to tell you so,' replied Sikes. 'The old lady has had
'em these twenty years; and if you were to give 'em five hundred pound,
they wouldn't be in it.'
'But do you mean to say, my dear,' remonstrated the Jew, 'that the
women can't be got over?'
'Not a bit of it,' replied Sikes.
'Not by flash Toby Crackit?' said the Jew incredulously. 'Think what
women are, Bill,'
'No; not even by flash Toby Crackit,' replied Sikes. 'He says he's
worn sham whiskers, and a canary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he's
been loitering down there, and it's all of no use.'
'He should have tried mustachios and a pair of military trousers, my
dear,' said the Jew.
'So he did,' rejoined Sikes, 'and they warn't of no more use than the
other plant.'
The Jew looked blank at this information. After ruminating for some
minutes with his chin sunk on his breast, he raised his head and said,
with a deep sigh, that if flash Toby Crackit reported aright, he feared
the game was up.
'And yet,' said the old man, dropping his hands on his knees, 'it's a
sad thing, my dear, to lose so much when we had set our hearts upon it.'
'So it is,' said Mr. Sikes. 'Worse luck!'
A long silence ensued; during which the Jew was plunged in deep
thought, with his face wrinkled into an expression of villainy
perfectly demoniacal. Sikes eyed him furtively from time to time.
Nancy, apparently fearful of irritating the housebreaker, sat with her
eyes fixed upon the fire, as if she had been deaf to all that passed.
'Fagin,' said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed;
'is it worth fifty shiners extra, if it's safely done from the outside?'
'Yes,' said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself.
'Is it a bargain?' inquired Sikes.
'Yes, my dear, yes,' rejoined the Jew; his eyes glistening, and every
muscle in his face working, with the excitement that the inquiry had
awakened.
'Then,' said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew's hand, with some disdain,
'let it come off as soon as you like. Toby and me were over the
garden-wall the night afore last, sounding the panels of the door and
shutters. The crib's barred up at night like a jail; but there's one
part we can crack, safe and softly.'
'Which is that, Bill?' asked the Jew eagerly.
'Why,' whispered Sikes, 'as you cross the lawn--'
'Yes?' said the Jew, bending his head forward, with his eyes almost
starting out of it.
'Umph!' cried Sikes, stopping short, as the girl, scarcely moving her
head, looked suddenly round, and pointed for an instant to the Jew's
face. 'Never mind which part it is. You can't do it without me, I
know; but it's best to be on the safe side when one deals with you.'
'As you like, my dear, as you like' replied the Jew. 'Is there no help
wanted, but yours and Toby's?'
'None,' said Sikes. 'Cept a centre-bit and a boy. The first we've
both got; the second you must find us.'
'A boy!' exclaimed the Jew. 'Oh! then it's a panel, eh?'
'Never mind wot it is!' replied Sikes. 'I want a boy, and he musn't be
a big 'un. Lord!' said Mr. Sikes, reflectively, 'if I'd only got that
young boy of Ned, the chimbley-sweeper's! He kept him small on
purpose, and let him out by the job. But the father gets lagged; and
then the Juvenile Delinquent Society comes, and takes the boy away from
a trade where he was earning money, teaches him to read and write, and
in time makes a 'prentice of him. And so they go on,' said Mr. Sikes,
his wrath rising with the recollection of his wrongs, 'so they go on;
and, if they'd got money enough (which it's a Providence they haven't,)
we shouldn't have half a dozen boys left in the whole trade, in a year
or two.'
'No more we should,' acquiesced the Jew, who had been considering
during this speech, and had only caught the last sentence. 'Bill!'
'What now?' inquired Sikes.
The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the
fire; and intimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave
the room. Sikes shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought
the precaution unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting
Miss Nancy to fetch him a jug of beer.
'You don't want any beer,' said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining
her seat very composedly.
'I tell you I do!' replied Sikes.
'Nonsense,' rejoined the girl coolly, 'Go on, Fagin. I know what he's
going to say, Bill; he needn't mind me.'
The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some
surprise.
'Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?' he asked at length.
'You've known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil's in it. She
ain't one to blab. Are you Nancy?'
'_I_ should think not!' replied the young lady: drawing her chair up
to the table, and putting her elbows upon it.
'No, no, my dear, I know you're not,' said the Jew; 'but--' and again
the old man paused.
'But wot?' inquired Sikes.
'I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know,
my dear, as she was the other night,' replied the Jew.
At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing
a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst
into sundry exclamations of 'Keep the game a-going!' 'Never say die!'
and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both
gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and
resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise.
'Now, Fagin,' said Nancy with a laugh. 'Tell Bill at once, about
Oliver!'
'Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!' said
the Jew, patting her on the neck. 'It WAS about Oliver I was going to
speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!'
'What about him?' demanded Sikes.
'He's the boy for you, my dear,' replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper;
laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully.
'He!' exclaimed Sikes.
'Have him, Bill!' said Nancy. 'I would, if I was in your place. He
mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you
want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe
one, Bill.'
'I know he is,' rejoined Fagin. 'He's been in good training these last
few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the
others are all too big.'
'Well, he is just the size I want,' said Mr. Sikes, ruminating.
'And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear,' interposed the Jew;
'he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough.'
'Frighten him!' echoed Sikes. 'It'll be no sham frightening, mind you.
If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in
for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin.
Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!' said the robber,
poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead.
'I've thought of it all,' said the Jew with energy. 'I've--I've had my
eye upon him, my dears, close--close. Once let him feel that he is one
of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and
he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about
better! The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his
head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy.
'Ours!' said Sikes. 'Yours, you mean.'
'Perhaps I do, my dear,' said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. 'Mine, if
you like, Bill.'
'And wot,' said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, 'wot
makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know
there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you
might pick and choose from?'
'Because they're of no use to me, my dear,' replied the Jew, with some
confusion, 'not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they
get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed,
my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides,'
said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, 'he has us now if he
could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with
us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over
him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better
this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the
way--which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides.'
'When is it to be done?' asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent
exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with
which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity.
'Ah, to be sure,' said the Jew; 'when is it to be done, Bill?'
'I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow,' rejoined Sikes in a
surly voice, 'if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy.'
'Good,' said the Jew; 'there's no moon.'
'No,' rejoined Sikes.
'It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?' asked the Jew.
Sikes nodded.
'And about--'
'Oh, ah, it's all planned,' rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. 'Never
mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I
shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your
tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to
do.'
After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was
decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the
night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily
observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would
be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in
his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor
Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be
unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes;
and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought
fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or
evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to
render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by
Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and
corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash
Toby Crackit.
These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a
furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner;
yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song,
mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional
enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools:
which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of
explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it
contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he
fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.
'Good-night, Nancy,' said the Jew, muffling himself up as before.
'Good-night.'
Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no
flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as
Toby Crackit himself could be.
The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the
prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped
downstairs.
'Always the way!' muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward.
'The worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call
up some long-forgotten feeling; and, the best of them is, that it never
lasts. Ha! ha! The man against the child, for a bag of gold!'
Beguiling the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr. Fagin wended
his way, through mud and mire, to his gloomy abode: where the Dodger
was sitting up, impatiently awaiting his return.
'Is Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him,' was his first remark as
they descended the stairs.
'Hours ago,' replied the Dodger, throwing open a door. 'Here he is!'
The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale
with anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he
looked like death; not death as it shows in shroud and coffin, but in
the guise it wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle
spirit has, but an instant, fled to Heaven, and the gross air of the
world has not had time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed.
'Not now,' said the Jew, turning softly away. 'To-morrow. To-morrow.' | Fagin left the house where the boys slept and went to visit Mr. Sikes. Upon arrival, he found Nancy along with the other thief. He was not happy she was there just because he was afraid she would go nuts on him again. Sikes and he discussed a job they had been planning, and Sikes said it was doomed to fail because their "flash" man, Toby Crackit, could get no one to open the door for them. They then decided that they would use a small boy to enter the house and open the door for them. Nancy guesses that Fagin means to use Oliver for the job. Fagin tells her she's correct, and says Oliver will eventually make them a fortune because of his innocent looking face. They decide to do the job the night after the next day, and Fagin agrees that Oliver will be ready to deliver. The Jew returns home to prepare Oliver for the task, but instead of waking him, he lets him sleep |