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Scaena Secunda.
Enter Prince, Poynes, and Peto.
Poines. Come shelter, shelter, I haue remoued Falstafs
Horse, and he frets like a gum'd Veluet
Prin. Stand close.
Enter Falstaffe.
Fal. Poines, Poines, and be hang'd Poines
Prin. Peace ye fat-kidney'd Rascall, what a brawling
dost thou keepe
Fal. What Poines. Hal?
Prin. He is walk'd vp to the top of the hill, Ile go seek
him
Fal. I am accurst to rob in that Theefe company: that
Rascall hath remoued my Horse, and tied him I know not
where. If I trauell but foure foot by the squire further a
foote, I shall breake my winde. Well, I doubt not but
to dye a faire death for all this, if I scape hanging for killing
that Rogue, I haue forsworne his company hourely
any time this two and twenty yeare, & yet I am bewitcht
with the Rogues company. If the Rascall haue not giuen
me medicines to make me loue him, Ile be hang'd; it could
not be else: I haue drunke Medicines. Poines, Hal, a
Plague vpon you both. Bardolph, Peto: Ile starue ere I
rob a foote further. And 'twere not as good a deede as to
drinke, to turne True-man, and to leaue these Rogues, I
am the veriest Varlet that euer chewed with a Tooth.
Eight yards of vneuen ground, is threescore & ten miles
afoot with me: and the stony-hearted Villaines knowe it
well enough. A plague vpon't, when Theeues cannot be
true one to another.
They Whistle.
Whew: a plague light vpon you all. Giue my Horse you
Rogues: giue me my Horse, and be hang'd
Prin. Peace ye fat guttes, lye downe, lay thine eare
close to the ground, and list if thou can heare the tread of
Trauellers
Fal. Haue you any Leauers to lift me vp again being
downe? Ile not beare mine owne flesh so far afoot again,
for all the coine in thy Fathers Exchequer. What a plague
meane ye to colt me thus?
Prin. Thou ly'st, thou art not colted, thou art vncolted
Fal. I prethee good Prince Hal, help me to my horse,
good Kings sonne
Prin. Out you Rogue, shall I be your Ostler?
Fal. Go hang thy selfe in thine owne heire-apparant-Garters:
If I be tane, Ile peach for this: and I haue not
Ballads made on all, and sung to filthy tunes, let a Cup of
Sacke be my poyson: when a iest is so forward, & a foote
too, I hate it.
Enter Gads-hill.
Gad. Stand
Fal. So I do against my will
Poin. O 'tis our Setter, I know his voyce:
Bardolfe, what newes?
Bar. Case ye, case ye; on with your Vizards, there's
mony of the Kings comming downe the hill, 'tis going
to the Kings Exchequer
Fal. You lie you rogue, 'tis going to the Kings Tauern
Gad. There's enough to make vs all
Fal. To be hang'd
Prin. You foure shall front them in the narrow Lane:
Ned and I, will walke lower; if they scape from your encounter,
then they light on vs
Peto. But how many be of them?
Gad. Some eight or ten
Fal. Will they not rob vs?
Prin. What, a Coward Sir Iohn Paunch?
Fal. Indeed I am not Iohn of Gaunt your Grandfather;
but yet no Coward, Hal
Prin. Wee'l leaue that to the proofe
Poin. Sirra Iacke, thy horse stands behinde the hedg,
when thou need'st him, there thou shalt finde him. Farewell,
and stand fast
Fal. Now cannot I strike him, if I should be hang'd
Prin. Ned, where are our disguises?
Poin. Heere hard by: Stand close
Fal. Now my Masters, happy man be his dole, say I:
euery man to his businesse.
Enter Trauellers
Tra. Come Neighbor: the boy shall leade our Horses
downe the hill: Wee'l walke a-foot a while, and ease our
Legges
Theeues. Stay
Tra. Iesu blesse vs
Fal. Strike down with them, cut the villains throats;
a whorson Caterpillars: Bacon-fed Knaues, they hate vs
youth; downe with them, fleece them
Tra. O, we are vndone, both we and ours for euer
Fal. Hang ye gorbellied knaues, are you vndone? No
ye Fat Chuffes, I would your store were heere. On Bacons,
on, what ye knaues? Yong men must liue, you are
Grand Iurers, are ye? Wee'l iure ye ifaith.
Heere they rob them, and binde them. Enter the Prince and Poines.
Prin. The Theeues haue bound the True-men: Now
could thou and I rob the Theeues, and go merily to London,
it would be argument for a Weeke, Laughter for a
Moneth, and a good iest for euer
Poynes. Stand close, I heare them comming.
Enter Theeues againe.
Fal. Come my Masters, let vs share, and then to horsse
before day: and the Prince and Poynes bee not two arrand
Cowards, there's no equity stirring. There's no moe
valour in that Poynes, than in a wilde Ducke
Prin. Your money
Poin. Villaines.
As they are sharing, the Prince and Poynes set vpon them. They all
run
away, leauing the booty behind them.
Prince. Got with much ease. Now merrily to Horse:
The Theeues are scattred, and possest with fear so strongly,
that they dare not meet each other: each takes his fellow
for an Officer. Away good Ned, Falstaffe sweates to
death, and Lards the leane earth as he walkes along: wer't
not for laughing, I should pitty him
Poin. How the Rogue roar'd.
Exeunt. | On the highway near Gadshill, Falstaff frets because Poins has hidden his horse away somewhere. He complains to Prince Hal, who teases him about it. Bardolph and Gadshill enter and announce that the travelers who are to be robbed are approaching down the hill. The Prince and Poins make an excuse to separate themselves from the others, saying they will act as back-up if the travelers manage to escape the first attack. Poins tells Falstaff where he can find his horse; he has hidden it behind a hedge. Poins and the Prince exit. The robbery takes place. Then, following their plan, the disguised Prince and Poins waylay the robbers, who all run away, leaving the spoils of the robbery behind. Falstaff manages one or two blows, and then he also runs away. The Prince and Poins laugh uproariously at the success of their joke. |
Why does the slave ever love? Why allow the tendrils of the heart to twine
around objects which may at any moment be wrenched away by the hand of
violence? When separations come by the hand of death, the pious soul can
bow in resignation, and say, "Not my will, but thine be done, O Lord!" But
when the ruthless hand of man strikes the blow, regardless of the misery he
causes, it is hard to be submissive. I did not reason thus when I was a
young girl. Youth will be youth. I loved and I indulged the hope that the
dark clouds around me would turn out a bright lining. I forgot that in the
land of my birth the shadows are too dense for light to penetrate. A land
Where laughter is not mirth; nor thought the mind;
Nor words a language; nor e'en men mankind.
Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows,
And each is tortured in his separate hell.
There was in the neighborhood a young colored carpenter; a free born man.
We had been well acquainted in childhood, and frequently met together
afterwards. We became mutually attached, and he proposed to marry me. I
loved him with all the ardor of a young girl's first love. But when I
reflected that I was a slave, and that the laws gave no sanction to the
marriage of such, my heart sank within me. My lover wanted to buy me; but I
knew that Dr. Flint was too willful and arbitrary a man to consent to that
arrangement. From him, I was sure of experiencing all sort of opposition,
and I had nothing to hope from my mistress. She would have been delighted
to have got rid of me, but not in that way. It would have relieved her mind
of a burden if she could have seen me sold to some distant state, but if I
was married near home I should be just as much in her husband's power as I
had previously been,--for the husband of a slave has no power to protect
her. Moreover, my mistress, like many others, seemed to think that slaves
had no right to any family ties of their own; that they were created merely
to wait upon the family of the mistress. I once heard her abuse a young
slave girl, who told her that a colored man wanted to make her his wife. "I
will have you peeled and pickled, my lady," said she, "if I ever hear you
mention that subject again. Do you suppose that I will have you tending
_my_ children with the children of that nigger?" The girl to whom she said
this had a mulatto child, of course not acknowledged by its father. The
poor black man who loved her would have been proud to acknowledge his
helpless offspring.
Many and anxious were the thoughts I revolved in my mind. I was at a loss
what to do. Above all things, I was desirous to spare my lover the insults
that had cut so deeply into my own soul. I talked with my grandmother about
it, and partly told her my fears. I did not dare to tell her the worst. She
had long suspected all was not right, and if I confirmed her suspicions I
knew a storm would rise that would prove the overthrow of all my hopes.
This love-dream had been my support through many trials; and I could not
bear to run the risk of having it suddenly dissipated. There was a lady in
the neighborhood, a particular friend of Dr. Flint's, who often visited the
house. I had a great respect for her, and she had always manifested a
friendly interest in me. Grandmother thought she would have great influence
with the doctor. I went to this lady, and told her my story. I told her I
was aware that my lover's being a free-born man would prove a great
objection; but he wanted to buy me; and if Dr. Flint would consent to that
arrangement, I felt sure he would be willing to pay any reasonable price.
She knew that Mrs. Flint disliked me; therefore, I ventured to suggest that
perhaps my mistress would approve of my being sold, as that would rid her
of me. The lady listened with kindly sympathy, and promised to do her
utmost to promote my wishes. She had an interview with the doctor, and I
believe she pleaded my cause earnestly; but it was all to no purpose.
How I dreaded my master now! Every minute I expected to be summoned to his
presence; but the day passed, and I heard nothing from him. The next
morning, a message was brought to me: "Master wants you in his study." I
found the door ajar, and I stood a moment gazing at the hateful man who
claimed a right to rule me, body and soul. I entered, and tried to appear
calm. I did not want him to know how my heart was bleeding. He looked
fixedly at me, with an expression which seemed to say, "I have half a mind
to kill you on the spot." At last he broke the silence, and that was a
relief to both of us.
"So you want to be married, do you?" said he, "and to a free nigger."
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I'll soon convince you whether I am your master, or the nigger
fellow you honor so highly. If you _must_ have a husband, you may take up
with one of my slaves."
What a situation I should be in, as the wife of one of _his_ slaves, even
if my heart had been interested!
I replied, "Don't you suppose, sir, that a slave can have some preference
about marrying? Do you suppose that all men are alike to her?"
"Do you love this nigger?" said he, abruptly.
"Yes, sir."
"How dare you tell me so!" he exclaimed, in great wrath. After a slight
pause, he added, "I supposed you thought more of yourself; that you felt
above the insults of such puppies."
I replied, "If he is a puppy, I am a puppy, for we are both of the negro
race. It is right and honorable for us to love each other. The man you call
a puppy never insulted me, sir; and he would not love me if he did not
believe me to be a virtuous woman."
He sprang upon me like a tiger, and gave me a stunning blow. It was the
first time he had ever struck me; and fear did not enable me to control my
anger. When I had recovered a little from the effects, I exclaimed, "You
have struck me for answering you honestly. How I despise you!"
There was silence for some minutes. Perhaps he was deciding what should be
my punishment; or, perhaps, he wanted to give me time to reflect on what I
had said, and to whom I had said it. Finally, he asked, "Do you know what
you have said?"
"Yes, sir; but your treatment drove me to it."
"Do you know that I have a right to do as I like with you,--that I can kill
you, if I please?"
"You have tried to kill me, and I wish you had; but you have no right to do
as you like with me."
"Silence!" he exclaimed, in a thundering voice. "By heavens, girl, you
forget yourself too far! Are you mad? If you are, I will soon bring you to
your senses. Do you think any other master would bear what I have borne
from you this morning? Many masters would have killed you on the spot. How
would you like to be sent to jail for your insolence?"
"I know I have been disrespectful, sir," I replied; "but you drove me to
it; I couldn't help it. As for the jail, there would be more peace for me
there than there is here."
"You deserve to go there," said he, "and to be under such treatment, that
you would forget the meaning of the word _peace_. It would do you good. It
would take some of your high notions out of you. But I am not ready to send
you there yet, notwithstanding your ingratitude for all my kindness and
forbearance. You have been the plague of my life. I have wanted to make you
happy, and I have been repaid with the basest ingratitude; but though you
have proved yourself incapable of appreciating my kindness, I will be
lenient towards you, Linda. I will give you one more chance to redeem your
character. If you behave yourself and do as I require, I will forgive you
and treat you as I always have done; but if you disobey me, I will punish
you as I would the meanest slave on my plantation. Never let me hear that
fellow's name mentioned again. If I ever know of your speaking to him, I
will cowhide you both; and if I catch him lurking about my premises, I will
shoot him as soon as I would a dog. Do you hear what I say? I'll teach you
a lesson about marriage and free niggers! Now go, and let this be the last
time I have occasion to speak to you on this subject."
Reader, did you ever hate? I hope not. I never did but once; and I trust I
never shall again. Somebody has called it "the atmosphere of hell;" and I
believe it is so.
For a fortnight the doctor did not speak to me. He thought to mortify me;
to make me feel that I had disgraced myself by receiving the honorable
addresses of a respectable colored man, in preference to the base proposals
of a white man. But though his lips disdained to address me, his eyes were
very loquacious. No animal ever watched its prey more narrowly than he
watched me. He knew that I could write, though he had failed to make me
read his letters; and he was now troubled lest I should exchange letters
with another man. After a while he became weary of silence; and I was sorry
for it. One morning, as he passed through the hall, to leave the house, he
contrived to thrust a note into my hand. I thought I had better read it,
and spare myself the vexation of having him read it to me. It expressed
regret for the blow he had given me, and reminded me that I myself was
wholly to blame for it. He hoped I had become convinced of the injury I was
doing myself by incurring his displeasure. He wrote that he had made up his
mind to go to Louisiana; that he should take several slaves with him, and
intended I should be one of the number. My mistress would remain where she
was; therefore I should have nothing to fear from that quarter. If I
merited kindness from him, he assured me that it would be lavishly
bestowed. He begged me to think over the matter, and answer the following
day.
The next morning I was called to carry a pair of scissors to his room. I
laid them on the table, with the letter beside them. He thought it was my
answer, and did not call me back. I went as usual to attend my young
mistress to and from school. He met me in the street, and ordered me to
stop at his office on my way back. When I entered, he showed me his letter,
and asked me why I had not answered it. I replied, "I am your daughter's
property, and it is in your power to send me, or take me, wherever you
please." He said he was very glad to find me so willing to go, and that we
should start early in the autumn. He had a large practice in the town, and
I rather thought he had made up the story merely to frighten me. However
that might be, I was determined that I would never go to Louisiana with
him.
Summer passed away, and early in the autumn Dr. Flint's eldest son was sent
to Louisiana to examine the country, with a view to emigrating. That news
did not disturb me. I knew very well that I should not be sent with _him_.
That I had not been taken to the plantation before this time, was owing to
the fact that his son was there. He was jealous of his son; and jealousy of
the overseer had kept him from punishing me by sending me into the fields
to work. Is it strange, that I was not proud of these protectors? As for
the overseer, he was a man for whom I had less respect than I had for a
bloodhound.
Young Mr. Flint did not bring back a favorable report of Louisiana, and I
heard no more of that scheme. Soon after this, my lover met me at the
corner of the street, and I stopped to speak to him. Looking up, I saw my
master watching us from his window. I hurried home, trembling with fear. I
was sent for, immediately, to go to his room. He met me with a blow. "When
is mistress to be married?" said he, in a sneering tone. A shower of oaths
and imprecations followed. How thankful I was that my lover was a free man!
that my tyrant had no power to flog him for speaking to me in the street!
Again and again I revolved in my mind how all this would end. There was no
hope that the doctor would consent to sell me on any terms. He had an iron
will, and was determined to keep me, and to conquer me. My lover was an
intelligent and religious man. Even if he could have obtained permission to
marry me while I was a slave, the marriage would give him no power to
protect me from my master. It would have made him miserable to witness the
insults I should have been subjected to. And then, if we had children, I
knew they must "follow the condition of the mother." What a terrible blight
that would be on the heart of a free, intelligent father! For _his_ sake, I
felt that I ought not to link his fate with my own unhappy destiny. He was
going to Savannah to see about a little property left him by an uncle; and
hard as it was to bring my feelings to it, I earnestly entreated him not to
come back. I advised him to go to the Free States, where his tongue would
not be tied, and where his intelligence would be of more avail to him. He
left me, still hoping the day would come when I could be bought. With me
the lamp of hope had gone out. The dream of my girlhood was over. I felt
lonely and desolate.
Still I was not stripped of all. I still had my good grandmother, and my
affectionate brother. When he put his arms round my neck, and looked into
my eyes, as if to read there the troubles I dared not tell, I felt that I
still had something to love. But even that pleasant emotion was chilled by
the reflection that he might be torn from me at any moment, by some sudden
freak of my master. If he had known how we loved each other, I think he
would have exulted in separating us. We often planned together how we could
get to the north. But, as William remarked, such things are easier said
than done. My movements were very closely watched, and we had no means of
getting any money to defray our expenses. As for grandmother, she was
strongly opposed to her children's undertaking any such project. She had
not forgotten poor Benjamin's sufferings, and she was afraid that if
another child tried to escape, he would have a similar or a worse fate. To
me, nothing seemed more dreadful than my present life. I said to myself,
"William _must_ be free. He shall go to the north, and I will follow him."
Many a slave sister has formed the same plans. | Linda falls in love with a free black man who wants to marry her and offers to buy her, but Dr. Flint refuses to sell her. Fearing for her lover's life, Linda begs him to go to the Free States. Left alone, she is grateful for the company of her grandmother and her brother, William. |
The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. He came with Mrs.
Weston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially. He had
been sitting with her, it appeared, most companionably at home, till
her usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse their walk,
immediately fixed on Highbury.--"He did not doubt there being very
pleasant walks in every direction, but if left to him, he should always
chuse the same. Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury,
would be his constant attraction."--Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood
for Hartfield; and she trusted to its bearing the same construction with
him. They walked thither directly.
Emma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who had called in for
half a minute, in order to hear that his son was very handsome, knew
nothing of their plans; and it was an agreeable surprize to her,
therefore, to perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in
arm. She was wanting to see him again, and especially to see him in
company with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of him
was to depend. If he were deficient there, nothing should make amends
for it. But on seeing them together, she became perfectly satisfied. It
was not merely in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid his
duty; nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole manner to
her--nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of considering her as
a friend and securing her affection. And there was time enough for Emma
to form a reasonable judgment, as their visit included all the rest of
the morning. They were all three walking about together for an hour
or two--first round the shrubberies of Hartfield, and afterwards
in Highbury. He was delighted with every thing; admired Hartfield
sufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse's ear; and when their going farther was
resolved on, confessed his wish to be made acquainted with the whole
village, and found matter of commendation and interest much oftener than
Emma could have supposed.
Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings. He
begged to be shewn the house which his father had lived in so long, and
which had been the home of his father's father; and on recollecting that
an old woman who had nursed him was still living, walked in quest of
her cottage from one end of the street to the other; and though in
some points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit, they
shewed, altogether, a good-will towards Highbury in general, which must
be very like a merit to those he was with.
Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were now shewn, it
could not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily absenting
himself; that he had not been acting a part, or making a parade of
insincere professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had not done him
justice.
Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable house, though
the principal one of the sort, where a couple of pair of post-horses
were kept, more for the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any
run on the road; and his companions had not expected to be detained by
any interest excited there; but in passing it they gave the history of
the large room visibly added; it had been built many years ago for
a ball-room, and while the neighbourhood had been in a particularly
populous, dancing state, had been occasionally used as such;--but such
brilliant days had long passed away, and now the highest purpose for
which it was ever wanted was to accommodate a whist club established
among the gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place. He was immediately
interested. Its character as a ball-room caught him; and instead of
passing on, he stopt for several minutes at the two superior sashed
windows which were open, to look in and contemplate its capabilities,
and lament that its original purpose should have ceased. He saw no fault
in the room, he would acknowledge none which they suggested. No, it
was long enough, broad enough, handsome enough. It would hold the
very number for comfort. They ought to have balls there at least every
fortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss Woodhouse revived
the former good old days of the room?--She who could do any thing in
Highbury! The want of proper families in the place, and the conviction
that none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be tempted
to attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied. He could not be
persuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw around him, could
not furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even when particulars
were given and families described, he was still unwilling to admit that
the inconvenience of such a mixture would be any thing, or that there
would be the smallest difficulty in every body's returning into their
proper place the next morning. He argued like a young man very much bent
on dancing; and Emma was rather surprized to see the constitution of
the Weston prevail so decidedly against the habits of the Churchills.
He seemed to have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social
inclinations of his father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of
Enscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was, perhaps, scarcely enough; his
indifference to a confusion of rank, bordered too much on inelegance of
mind. He could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding cheap.
It was but an effusion of lively spirits.
At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown;
and being now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma
recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had
paid it.
"Yes, oh! yes"--he replied; "I was just going to mention it. A very
successful visit:--I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much
obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken
me quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I
was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes
would have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper; and
I had told my father I should certainly be at home before him--but there
was no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I found,
when he (finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that I had
been actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an hour.
The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before."
"And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?"
"Ill, very ill--that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look
ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies
can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so
pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.--A most
deplorable want of complexion."
Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax's
complexion. "It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not
allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and
delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of
her face." He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had
heard many people say the same--but yet he must confess, that to him
nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health. Where
features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all;
and where they were good, the effect was--fortunately he need not
attempt to describe what the effect was.
"Well," said Emma, "there is no disputing about taste.--At least you
admire her except her complexion."
He shook his head and laughed.--"I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her
complexion."
"Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same society?"
At this moment they were approaching Ford's, and he hastily exclaimed,
"Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of
their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he
says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford's.
If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove
myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must
buy something at Ford's. It will be taking out my freedom.--I dare say
they sell gloves."
"Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will
be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because
you were Mr. Weston's son--but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your
popularity will stand upon your own virtues."
They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers"
and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he
said--"But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me,
you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_
_patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of
public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in
private life."
"I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her
party at Weymouth."
"And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a
very unfair one. It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree
of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.--I
shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow."
"Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But
her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very
reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any
body, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance
with her."
"May I, indeed?--Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so
well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a
little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set.
Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly,
warm-hearted woman. I like them all."
"You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude; what she is
destined to be?"
"Yes--(rather hesitatingly)--I believe I do."
"You get upon delicate subjects, Emma," said Mrs. Weston smiling;
"remember that I am here.--Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say
when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life. I will move a little
farther off."
"I certainly do forget to think of _her_," said Emma, "as having ever
been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend."
He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment.
When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, "Did
you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?" said Frank
Churchill.
"Ever hear her!" repeated Emma. "You forget how much she belongs to
Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began.
She plays charmingly."
"You think so, do you?--I wanted the opinion of some one who
could really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with
considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.--I am
excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right
of judging of any body's performance.--I have been used to hear her's
admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:--a
man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman--engaged to
her--on the point of marriage--would yet never ask that other woman
to sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down
instead--never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other.
That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof."
"Proof indeed!" said Emma, highly amused.--"Mr. Dixon is very musical,
is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you,
than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year."
"Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a
very strong proof."
"Certainly--very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger
than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable
to me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear
than eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings.
How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?"
"It was her very particular friend, you know."
"Poor comfort!" said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger
preferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might
not recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend
always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor
Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland."
"You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she
really did not seem to feel it."
"So much the better--or so much the worse:--I do not know which. But
be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her--quickness of friendship, or
dulness of feeling--there was one person, I think, who must have felt
it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous
distinction."
"As to that--I do not--"
"Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's
sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human
being, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she
was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses."
"There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all--"
he began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, "however, it is
impossible for me to say on what terms they really were--how it might
all be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness
outwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be
a better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct
herself in critical situations, than I can be."
"I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children
and women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be
intimate,--that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited
her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a
little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take
disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was,
by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her reserve--I
never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved."
"It is a most repulsive quality, indeed," said he. "Oftentimes very
convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve,
but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person."
"Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction
may be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an
agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of
conquering any body's reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss
Fairfax and me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think
ill of her--not the least--except that such extreme and perpetual
cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea
about any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something to
conceal."
He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long, and
thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him,
that she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting. He was
not exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in some
of his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore better
than she had expected. His ideas seemed more moderate--his feelings
warmer. She was particularly struck by his manner of considering Mr.
Elton's house, which, as well as the church, he would go and look at,
and would not join them in finding much fault with. No, he could not
believe it a bad house; not such a house as a man was to be pitied for
having. If it were to be shared with the woman he loved, he could not
think any man to be pitied for having that house. There must be ample
room in it for every real comfort. The man must be a blockhead who
wanted more.
Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking about.
Used only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking how many
advantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he could be no
judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one. But Emma,
in her own mind, determined that he _did_ know what he was talking
about, and that he shewed a very amiable inclination to settle early in
life, and to marry, from worthy motives. He might not be aware of the
inroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no housekeeper's room, or
a bad butler's pantry, but no doubt he did perfectly feel that Enscombe
could not make him happy, and that whenever he were attached, he would
willingly give up much of wealth to be allowed an early establishment. | Frank Churchill and Mrs. Weston visit Emma, who decides that Mr. Knightley must have been wrong about him. When visiting the Crown Inn and seeing its ballroom, Frank suggests to Emma that she, with her resources, should hold dances there. Surprisingly, Frank disparages Jane Fairfax to Emma, who defends her. While they shop for gloves at Ford's, Frank tells Emma more about Jane Fairfax and how she is destined to be a teacher. He even mentions Mr. Dixon. Emma finds Frank to be more moderate and warmer than she expected, and less a spoiled child of fortune. |
IX. MEG GOES TO VANITY FAIR.
"I do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world that those
children should have the measles just now," said Meg, one April day, as
she stood packing the "go abroady" trunk in her room, surrounded by her
sisters.
"And so nice of Annie Moffat not to forget her promise. A whole
fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid," replied Jo, looking like a
windmill, as she folded skirts with her long arms.
"And such lovely weather; I'm so glad of that," added Beth, tidily
sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the great
occasion.
"I wish I was going to have a fine time, and wear all these nice
things," said Amy, with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically
replenished her sister's cushion.
"I wish you were all going; but, as you can't, I shall keep my
adventures to tell you when I come back. I'm sure it's the least I can
do, when you have been so kind, lending me things, and helping me get
ready," said Meg, glancing round the room at the very simple outfit,
which seemed nearly perfect in their eyes.
"What did mother give you out of the treasure-box?" asked Amy, who had
not been present at the opening of a certain cedar chest, in which Mrs.
March kept a few relics of past splendor, as gifts for her girls when
the proper time came.
"A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue
sash. I wanted the violet silk; but there isn't time to make it over, so
I must be contented with my old tarlatan."
"It will look nicely over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it
off beautifully. I wish I hadn't smashed my coral bracelet, for you
might have had it," said Jo, who loved to give and lend, but whose
possessions were usually too dilapidated to be of much use.
"There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure-box; but
mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a young girl,
and Laurie promised to send me all I want," replied Meg. "Now, let me
see; there's my new gray walking-suit--just curl up the feather in my
hat, Beth,--then my poplin, for Sunday, and the small party,--it looks
heavy for spring, doesn't it? The violet silk would be so nice; oh,
dear!"
"Never mind; you've got the tarlatan for the big party, and you always
look like an angel in white," said Amy, brooding over the little store
of finery in which her soul delighted.
"It isn't low-necked, and it doesn't sweep enough, but it will have to
do. My blue house-dress looks so well, turned and freshly trimmed, that
I feel as if I'd got a new one. My silk sacque isn't a bit the fashion,
and my bonnet doesn't look like Sallie's; I didn't like to say
anything, but I was sadly disappointed in my umbrella. I told mother
black, with a white handle, but she forgot, and bought a green one, with
a yellowish handle. It's strong and neat, so I ought not to complain,
but I know I shall feel ashamed of it beside Annie's silk one with a
gold top," sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with great
disfavor.
"Change it," advised Jo.
"I won't be so silly, or hurt Marmee's feelings, when she took so much
pains to get my things. It's a nonsensical notion of mine, and I'm not
going to give up to it. My silk stockings and two pairs of new gloves
are my comfort. You are a dear, to lend me yours, Jo. I feel so rich,
and sort of elegant, with two new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up for
common;" and Meg took a refreshing peep at her glove-box.
"Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her night-caps; would you put
some on mine?" she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy muslins,
fresh from Hannah's hands.
"No, I wouldn't; for the smart caps won't match the plain gowns, without
any trimming on them. Poor folks shouldn't rig," said Jo decidedly.
"I wonder if I shall _ever_ be happy enough to have real lace on my
clothes, and bows on my caps?" said Meg impatiently.
"You said the other day that you'd be perfectly happy if you could only
go to Annie Moffat's," observed Beth, in her quiet way.
"So I did! Well, I _am_ happy, and I _won't_ fret; but it does seem as
if the more one gets the more one wants, doesn't it? There, now, the
trays are ready, and everything in but my ball-dress, which I shall
leave for mother to pack," said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced from
the half-filled trunk to the many-times pressed and mended white
tarlatan, which she called her "ball-dress," with an important air.
The next day was fine, and Meg departed, in style, for a fortnight of
novelty and pleasure. Mrs. March had consented to the visit rather
reluctantly, fearing that Margaret would come back more discontented
than she went. But she had begged so hard, and Sallie had promised to
take good care of her, and a little pleasure seemed so delightful after
a winter of irksome work, that the mother yielded, and the daughter went
to take her first taste of fashionable life.
The Moffats _were_ very fashionable, and simple Meg was rather daunted,
at first, by the splendor of the house and the elegance of its
occupants. But they were kindly people, in spite of the frivolous life
they led, and soon put their guest at her ease. Perhaps Meg felt,
without understanding why, that they were not particularly cultivated or
intelligent people, and that all their gilding could not quite conceal
the ordinary material of which they were made. It certainly was
agreeable to fare sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage, wear her best
frock every day, and do nothing but enjoy herself. It suited her
exactly; and soon she began to imitate the manners and conversation of
those about her; to put on little airs and graces, use French phrases,
crimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk about the fashions as well
as she could. The more she saw of Annie Moffat's pretty things, the more
she envied her, and sighed to be rich. Home now looked bare and dismal
as she thought of it, work grew harder than ever, and she felt that she
was a very destitute and much-injured girl, in spite of the new gloves
and silk stockings.
She had not much time for repining, however, for the three young girls
were busily employed in "having a good time." They shopped, walked,
rode, and called all day; went to theatres and operas, or frolicked at
home in the evening; for Annie had many friends, and knew how to
entertain them. Her older sisters were very fine young ladies, and one
was engaged, which was extremely interesting and romantic, Meg thought.
Mr. Moffat was a fat, jolly old gentleman, who knew her father; and Mrs.
Moffat, a fat, jolly old lady, who took as great a fancy to Meg as her
daughter had done. Every one petted her; and "Daisy," as they called
her, was in a fair way to have her head turned.
When the evening for the "small party" came, she found that the poplin
wouldn't do at all, for the other girls were putting on thin dresses,
and making themselves very fine indeed; so out came the tarlatan,
looking older, limper, and shabbier than ever beside Sallie's crisp new
one. Meg saw the girls glance at it and then at one another, and her
cheeks began to burn, for, with all her gentleness, she was very proud.
No one said a word about it, but Sallie offered to dress her hair, and
Annie to tie her sash, and Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white
arms; but in their kindness Meg saw only pity for her poverty, and her
heart felt very heavy as she stood by herself, while the others laughed,
chattered, and flew about like gauzy butterflies. The hard, bitter
feeling was getting pretty bad, when the maid brought in a box of
flowers. Before she could speak, Annie had the cover off, and all were
exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath, and fern within.
"It's for Belle, of course; George always sends her some, but these are
altogether ravishing," cried Annie, with a great sniff.
"They are for Miss March, the man said. And here's a note," put in the
maid, holding it to Meg.
"What fun! Who are they from? Didn't know you had a lover," cried the
girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosity and surprise.
"The note is from mother, and the flowers from Laurie," said Meg simply,
yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.
"Oh, indeed!" said Annie, with a funny look, as Meg slipped the note
into her pocket, as a sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and false
pride; for the few loving words had done her good, and the flowers
cheered her up by their beauty.
Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses for
herself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for the
breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, offering them so prettily that
Clara, the elder sister, told her she was "the sweetest little thing she
ever saw;" and they looked quite charmed with her small attention.
Somehow the kind act finished her despondency; and when all the rest
went to show themselves to Mrs. Moffat, she saw a happy, bright-eyed
face in the mirror, as she laid her ferns against her rippling hair, and
fastened the roses in the dress that didn't strike her as so _very_
shabby now.
She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her
heart's content; every one was very kind, and she had three compliments.
Annie made her sing, and some one said she had a remarkably fine voice;
Major Lincoln asked who "the fresh little girl, with the beautiful
eyes," was; and Mr. Moffat insisted on dancing with her, because she
"didn't dawdle, but had some spring in her," as he gracefully expressed
it. So, altogether, she had a very nice time, till she overheard a bit
of a conversation, which disturbed her extremely. She was sitting just
inside the conservatory, waiting for her partner to bring her an ice,
when she heard a voice ask, on the other side of the flowery wall,--
"How old is he?"
"Sixteen or seventeen, I should say," replied another voice.
"It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn't it? Sallie
says they are very intimate now, and the old man quite dotes on them."
"Mrs M. has made her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards well,
early as it is. The girl evidently doesn't think of it yet," said Mrs.
Moffat.
"She told that fib about her mamma, as if she did know, and colored up
when the flowers came, quite prettily. Poor thing! she'd be so nice if
she was only got up in style. Do you think she'd be offended if we
offered to lend her a dress for Thursday?" asked another voice.
"She's proud, but I don't believe she'd mind, for that dowdy tarlatan is
all she has got. She may tear it to-night, and that will be a good
excuse for offering a decent one."
"We'll see. I shall ask young Laurence, as a compliment to her, and
we'll have fun about it afterward."
[Illustration: Meg's partner appeared]
Here Meg's partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed and rather
agitated. She _was_ proud, and her pride was useful just then, for it
helped her hide her mortification, anger, and disgust at what she had
just heard; for, innocent and unsuspicious as she was, she could not
help understanding the gossip of her friends. She tried to forget it,
but could not, and kept repeating to herself, "Mrs. M. has made her
plans," "that fib about her mamma," and "dowdy tarlatan," till she was
ready to cry, and rush home to tell her troubles and ask for advice. As
that was impossible, she did her best to seem gay; and, being rather
excited, she succeeded so well that no one dreamed what an effort she
was making. She was very glad when it was all over, and she was quiet in
her bed, where she could think and wonder and fume till her head ached
and her hot cheeks were cooled by a few natural tears. Those foolish,
yet well-meant words, had opened a new world to Meg, and much disturbed
the peace of the old one, in which, till now, she had lived as happily
as a child. Her innocent friendship with Laurie was spoilt by the silly
speeches she had overheard; her faith in her mother was a little shaken
by the worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat, who judged others
by herself; and the sensible resolution to be contented with the simple
wardrobe which suited a poor man's daughter, was weakened by the
unnecessary pity of girls who thought a shabby dress one of the greatest
calamities under heaven.
Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half
resentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself for not
speaking out frankly, and setting everything right. Everybody dawdled
that morning, and it was noon before the girls found energy enough even
to take up their worsted work. Something in the manner of her friends
struck Meg at once; they treated her with more respect, she thought;
took quite a tender interest in what she said, and looked at her with
eyes that plainly betrayed curiosity. All this surprised and flattered
her, though she did not understand it till Miss Belle looked up from her
writing, and said, with a sentimental air,--
"Daisy, dear, I've sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Laurence, for
Thursday. We should like to know him, and it's only a proper compliment
to you."
Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply
demurely,--
"You are very kind, but I'm afraid he won't come."
"Why not, _chérie_?" asked Miss Belle.
"He's too old."
"My child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg to know!" cried Miss
Clara.
"Nearly seventy, I believe," answered Meg, counting stitches, to hide
the merriment in her eyes.
"You sly creature! Of course we meant the young man," exclaimed Miss
Belle, laughing.
"There isn't any; Laurie is only a little boy," and Meg laughed also at
the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described her
supposed lover.
"About your age," Nan said.
"Nearer my sister Jo's; _I_ am seventeen in August," returned Meg,
tossing her head.
"It's very nice of him to send you flowers, isn't it?" said Annie,
looking wise about nothing.
"Yes, he often does, to all of us; for their house is full, and we are
so fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you know,
so it is quite natural that we children should play together;" and Meg
hoped they would say no more.
"It's evident Daisy isn't out yet," said Miss Clara to Belle, with a
nod.
"Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round," returned Miss Belle,
with a shrug.
"I'm going out to get some little matters for my girls; can I do
anything for you, young ladies?" asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in, like
an elephant, in silk and lace.
"No, thank you, ma'am," replied Sallie. "I've got my new pink silk for
Thursday, and don't want a thing."
"Nor I,--" began Meg, but stopped, because it occurred to her that she
_did_ want several things, and could not have them.
"What shall you wear?" asked Sallie.
"My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen; it got sadly
torn last night," said Meg, trying to speak quite easily, but feeling
very uncomfortable.
"Why don't you send home for another?" said Sallie, who was not an
observing young lady.
"I haven't got any other." It cost Meg an effort to say that, but Sallie
did not see it, and exclaimed, in amiable surprise,--
"Only that? How funny--" She did not finish her speech, for Belle shook
her head at her, and broke in, saying kindly,--
"Not at all; where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she isn't
out? There's no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had a dozen,
for I've got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I've outgrown, and you
shall wear it, to please me, won't you, dear?"
"You are very kind, but I don't mind my old dress, if you don't; it does
well enough for a little girl like me," said Meg.
"Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to do
it, and you'd be a regular little beauty, with a touch here and there. I
sha'n't let any one see you till you are done, and then we'll burst upon
them like Cinderella and her godmother, going to the ball," said Belle,
in her persuasive tone.
Meg couldn't refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if she
would be "a little beauty" after touching up, caused her to accept, and
forget all her former uncomfortable feelings towards the Moffats.
On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid; and,
between them, they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped and curled
her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder,
touched her lips with coralline salve, to make them redder, and Hortense
would have added "a _soupçon_ of rouge," if Meg had not rebelled. They
laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly
breathe, and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in
the mirror. A set of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace,
brooch, and even ear-rings, for Hortense tied them on, with a bit of
pink silk, which did not show. A cluster of tea-rosebuds at the bosom,
and a _ruche_, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty white
shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled blue silk boots satisfied the last
wish of her heart. A laced handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a
silver holder finished her off; and Miss Belle surveyed her with the
satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.
"Mademoiselle is charmante, très jolie, is she not?" cried Hortense,
clasping her hands in an affected rapture.
"Come and show yourself," said Miss Belle, leading the way to the room
where the others were waiting.
As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her ear-rings
tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her
"fun" had really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that
she _was_ "a little beauty." Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase
enthusiastically; and, for several minutes, she stood, like the jackdaw
in the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered
like a party of magpies.
"While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her skirt,
and those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Take your silver
butterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head,
Clara, and don't any of you disturb the charming work of my hands," said
Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success.
"I'm afraid to go down, I feel so queer and stiff and half-dressed,"
said Meg to Sallie, as the bell rang, and Mrs. Moffat sent to ask the
young ladies to appear at once.
"You don't look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. I'm nowhere
beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you're quite French, I
assure you. Let your flowers hang; don't be so careful of them, and be
sure you don't trip," returned Sallie, trying not to care that Meg was
prettier than herself.
[Illustration: Asked to be introduced]
Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely down stairs,
and sailed into the drawing-rooms, where the Moffats and a few early
guests were assembled. She very soon discovered that there is a charm
about fine clothes which attracts a certain class of people, and secures
their respect. Several young ladies, who had taken no notice of her
before, were very affectionate all of a sudden; several young gentlemen,
who had only stared at her at the other party, now not only stared, but
asked to be introduced, and said all manner of foolish but agreeable
things to her; and several old ladies, who sat on sofas, and criticised
the rest of the party, inquired who she was, with an air of interest.
She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them,--
"Daisy March--father a colonel in the army--one of our first families,
but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the Laurences;
sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild about her."
"Dear me!" said the old lady, putting up her glass for another
observation of Meg, who tried to look as if she had not heard, and been
rather shocked at Mrs. Moffat's fibs.
The "queer feeling" did not pass away, but she imagined herself acting
the new part of fine lady, and so got on pretty well, though the tight
dress gave her a side-ache, the train kept getting under her feet, and
she was in constant fear lest her ear-rings should fly off, and get lost
or broken. She was flirting her fan and laughing at the feeble jokes of
a young gentleman who tried to be witty, when she suddenly stopped
laughing and looked confused; for, just opposite, she saw Laurie. He was
staring at her with undisguised surprise, and disapproval also, she
thought; for, though he bowed and smiled, yet something in his honest
eyes made her blush, and wish she had her old dress on. To complete her
confusion, she saw Belle nudge Annie, and both glance from her to
Laurie, who, she was happy to see, looked unusually boyish and shy.
"Silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head! I won't care for
it, or let it change me a bit," thought Meg, and rustled across the room
to shake hands with her friend.
"I'm glad you came, I was afraid you wouldn't," she said, with her most
grown-up air.
"Jo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so I did;" answered
Laurie, without turning his eyes upon her, though he half smiled at her
maternal tone.
"What shall you tell her?" asked Meg, full of curiosity to know his
opinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him, for the first time.
"I shall say I didn't know you; for you look so grown-up, and unlike
yourself, I'm quite afraid of you," he said, fumbling at his
glove-button.
"How absurd of you! The girls dressed me up for fun, and I rather like
it. Wouldn't Jo stare if she saw me?" said Meg, bent on making him say
whether he thought her improved or not.
"Yes, I think she would," returned Laurie gravely.
"Don't you like me so?" asked Meg.
"No, I don't," was the blunt reply.
"Why not?" in an anxious tone.
He glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders, and fantastically
trimmed dress, with an expression that abashed her more than his answer,
which had not a particle of his usual politeness about it.
"I don't like fuss and feathers."
That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself; and Meg
walked away, saying petulantly,--
"You are the rudest boy I ever saw."
Feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet window, to cool
her cheeks, for the tight dress gave her an uncomfortably brilliant
color. As she stood there, Major Lincoln passed by; and, a minute after,
she heard him saying to his mother,--
"They are making a fool of that little girl; I wanted you to see her,
but they have spoilt her entirely; she's nothing but a doll, to-night."
"Oh, dear!" sighed Meg; "I wish I'd been sensible, and worn my own
things; then I should not have disgusted other people, or felt so
uncomfortable and ashamed myself."
She leaned her forehead on the cool pane, and stood half hidden by the
curtains, never minding that her favorite waltz had begun, till some one
touched her; and, turning, she saw Laurie, looking penitent, as he said,
with his very best bow, and his hand out,--
"Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me."
"I'm afraid it will be too disagreeable to you," said Meg, trying to
look offended, and failing entirely.
"Not a bit of it; I'm dying to do it. Come, I'll be good; I don't like
your gown, but I do think you are--just splendid;" and he waved his
hands, as if words failed to express his admiration.
Meg smiled and relented, and whispered, as they stood waiting to catch
the time,--
"Take care my skirt don't trip you up; it's the plague of my life, and I
was a goose to wear it."
"Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful," said Laurie,
looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently approved of.
Away they went, fleetly and gracefully; for, having practised at home,
they were well matched, and the blithe young couple were a pleasant
sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round, feeling more
friendly than ever after their small tiff.
"Laurie, I want you to do me a favor; will you?" said Meg, as he stood
fanning her, when her breath gave out, which it did very soon, though
she would not own why.
"Won't I!" said Laurie, with alacrity.
"Please don't tell them at home about my dress to-night. They won't
understand the joke, and it will worry mother."
"Then why did you do it?" said Laurie's eyes, so plainly that Meg
hastily added,--
"I shall tell them, myself, all about it, and ''fess' to mother how
silly I've been. But I'd rather do it myself; so you'll not tell, will
you?"
"I give you my word I won't; only what shall I say when they ask me?"
"Just say I looked pretty well, and was having a good time."
"I'll say the first, with all my heart; but how about the other? You
don't look as if you were having a good time; are you?" and Laurie
looked at her with an expression which made her answer, in a whisper,--
"No; not just now. Don't think I'm horrid; I only wanted a little fun,
but this sort doesn't pay, I find, and I'm getting tired of it."
"Here comes Ned Moffat; what does he want?" said Laurie, knitting his
black brows, as if he did not regard his young host in the light of a
pleasant addition to the party.
"He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he's coming for
them. What a bore!" said Meg, assuming a languid air, which amused
Laurie immensely.
He did not speak to her again till supper-time, when he saw her drinking
champagne with Ned and his friend Fisher, who were behaving "like a pair
of fools," as Laurie said to himself, for he felt a brotherly sort of
right to watch over the Marches, and fight their battles whenever a
defender was needed.
[Illustration: I wouldn't, Meg]
"You'll have a splitting headache to-morrow, if you drink much of that.
I wouldn't Meg; your mother doesn't like it, you know," he whispered,
leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her glass, and Fisher
stooped to pick up her fan.
"I'm not Meg, to-night; I'm 'a doll,' who does all sorts of crazy
things. To-morrow I shall put away my 'fuss and feathers,' and be
desperately good again," she answered, with an affected little laugh.
"Wish to-morrow was here, then," muttered Laurie, walking off,
ill-pleased at the change he saw in her.
Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other girls did;
after supper she undertook the German, and blundered through it, nearly
upsetting her partner with her long skirt, and romping in a way that
scandalized Laurie, who looked on and meditated a lecture. But he got no
chance to deliver it, for Meg kept away from him till he came to say
good-night.
"Remember!" she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache had
already begun.
"Silence à la mort," replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as he
went away.
This little bit of by-play excited Annie's curiosity; but Meg was too
tired for gossip, and went to bed, feeling as if she had been to a
masquerade, and hadn't enjoyed herself as much as she expected. She was
sick all the next day, and on Saturday went home, quite used up with her
fortnight's fun, and feeling that she had "sat in the lap of luxury"
long enough.
"It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company manners on all
the time. Home _is_ a nice place, though it isn't splendid," said Meg,
looking about her with a restful expression, as she sat with her mother
and Jo on the Sunday evening.
"I'm glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would seem
dull and poor to you, after your fine quarters," replied her mother, who
had given her many anxious looks that day; for motherly eyes are quick
to see any change in children's faces.
Meg had told her adventures gayly, and said over and over what a
charming time she had had; but something still seemed to weigh upon her
spirits, and, when the younger girls were gone to bed, she sat
thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little, and looking worried. As
the clock struck nine, and Jo proposed bed, Meg suddenly left her chair,
and, taking Beth's stool, leaned her elbows on her mother's knee, saying
bravely,--
"Marmee, I want to ''fess.'"
"I thought so; what is it, dear?"
"Shall I go away?" asked Jo discreetly.
"Of course not; don't I always tell you everything? I was ashamed to
speak of it before the children, but I want you to know all the dreadful
things I did at the Moffat's."
"We are prepared," said Mrs. March, smiling, but looking a little
anxious.
"I told you they dressed me up, but I didn't tell you that they powdered
and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a fashion-plate. Laurie
thought I wasn't proper; I know he did, though he didn't say so, and one
man called me 'a doll.' I knew it was silly, but they flattered me, and
said I was a beauty, and quantities of nonsense, so I let them make a
fool of me."
"Is that all?" asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the downcast
face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her heart to blame
her little follies.
"No; I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was altogether
abominable," said Meg self-reproachfully.
"There is something more, I think;" and Mrs. March smoothed the soft
cheek, which suddenly grew rosy, as Meg answered slowly,--
"Yes; it's very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have
people say and think such things about us and Laurie."
Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffats;
and, as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly, as if ill
pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg's innocent mind.
"Well, if that isn't the greatest rubbish I ever heard," cried Jo
indignantly. "Why didn't you pop out and tell them so, on the spot?"
"I couldn't, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn't help hearing, at
first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn't remember that I
ought to go away."
"Just wait till _I_ see Annie Moffat, and I'll show you how to settle
such ridiculous stuff. The idea of having 'plans,' and being kind to
Laurie, because he's rich, and may marry us by and by! Won't he shout,
when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor children?" and
Jo laughed, as if, on second thoughts, the thing struck her as a good
joke.
"If you tell Laurie, I'll never forgive you! She mustn't, must she,
mother?" said Meg, looking distressed.
"No; never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you
can," said Mrs. March gravely. "I was very unwise to let you go among
people of whom I know so little,--kind, I dare say, but worldly,
ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young people. I am more
sorry than I can express for the mischief this visit may have done you,
Meg."
"Don't be sorry, I won't let it hurt me; I'll forget all the bad, and
remember only the good; for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank you very
much for letting me go. I'll not be sentimental or dissatisfied, mother;
I know I'm a silly little girl, and I'll stay with you till I'm fit to
take care of myself. But it _is_ nice to be praised and admired, and I
can't help saying I like it," said Meg, looking half ashamed of the
confession.
"That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking does not
become a passion, and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things. Learn
to know and value the praise which is worth having, and to excite the
admiration of excellent people by being modest as well as pretty, Meg."
Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands behind
her, looking both interested and a little perplexed; for it was a new
thing to see Meg blushing and talking about admiration, lovers, and
things of that sort; and Jo felt as if, during that fortnight, her
sister had grown up amazingly, and was drifting away from her into a
world where she could not follow.
"Mother, do you have 'plans,' as Mrs. Moffat said?" asked Meg bashfully.
"Yes, my dear, I have a great many; all mothers do, but mine differ
somewhat from Mrs. Moffat's, I suspect. I will tell you some of them,
for the time has come when a word may set this romantic little head and
heart of yours right, on a very serious subject. You are young, Meg, but
not too young to understand me; and mothers' lips are the fittest to
speak of such things to girls like you. Jo, your turn will come in time,
perhaps, so listen to my 'plans,' and help me carry them out, if they
are good."
Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought they
were about to join in some very solemn affair. Holding a hand of each,
and watching the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March said, in her
serious yet cheery way,--
[Illustration: Holding a hand of each, Mrs. March said, &c.]
"I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good; to be
admired, loved, and respected; to have a happy youth, to be well and
wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care
and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen
by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a
woman; and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful experience.
It is natural to think of it, Meg; right to hope and wait for it, and
wise to prepare for it; so that, when the happy time comes, you may
feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy. My dear girls, I _am_
ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the world,--marry
rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid houses, which
are not homes because love is wanting. Money is a needful and precious
thing,--and, when well used, a noble thing,--but I never want you to
think it is the first or only prize to strive for. I'd rather see you
poor men's wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on
thrones, without self-respect and peace."
"Poor girls don't stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put
themselves forward," sighed Meg.
"Then we'll be old maids," said Jo stoutly.
"Right, Jo; better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or unmaidenly
girls, running about to find husbands," said Mrs. March decidedly.
"Don't be troubled, Meg; poverty seldom daunts a sincere lover. Some of
the best and most honored women I know were poor girls, but so
love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave these
things to time; make this home happy, so that you may be fit for homes
of your own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they are
not. One thing remember, my girls: mother is always ready to be your
confidant, father to be your friend; and both of us trust and hope that
our daughters, whether married or single, will be the pride and comfort
of our lives."
"We will, Marmee, we will!" cried both, with all their hearts, as she
bade them good-night. | Meg Goes to Vanity Fair In the spring, Meg goes to stay a fortnight with Annie Moffat. Mrs. March is concerned that Meg will return discontented, but consents to the trip. Meg is upset she does not have very nice things to take, but she remembers to be happy that she has this chance. Meg is at first daunted by the luxurious environs, but she enjoys idling and dining finely, and begins to adopt the mannerisms of her hosts and envy her friends. When preparing for the first, smaller party, Meg is embarrassed by her second-best dress, and wears her nicest one, but it is still plain. She feels upset until she receives flowers from Laurie and a note from her mother. Rejuvenated, she shares the flowers with her friends and enjoys the party and a few honest compliments. Unfortunately, the party is spoiled for her by overhearing gossip that Meg's mother wants her to marry Laurie for his wealth, and that her friends hope Meg would tear her dress, so they can offer her another, nicer one for the next ball. Meg's pride is insulted, but she holds her tongue, and cries that night feeling that her innocent world has been corrupted by romantic speculation and gossip. The next morning, the other girls show Meg more respect, thinking Laurie is courting her, which makes her laugh. Belle then kindly offers Meg a different dress for the next party, and asks to dress her up like Cinderella. Meg accepts, and the night of the party, she wears all the latest fashions, which brings her the attentions of high-society people. Meg enjoys the attention, but feels queer and uncomfortable. Laurie appears and is also uncomfortable, and tells Meg honestly that he does not like how she looks or is acting. Meg realizes she has been foolish, and Laurie apologizes for his rudeness. Meg spends the rest of the evening acting the part, dancing with Ned Moffat, flirting, and drinking champagne, despite not truly enjoying herself. She is quite ready to return home when the time comes. At home, Meg confesses to Marmee and Jo. Mrs. March insists that they forget the gossip, and regrets sending Meg, but Meg is thankful, and admits that it is sometimes nice to be admired. Marmee says she understands, and that she hopes Meg will value the praise of those she respects, and be as modest as she is pretty. She explains that her plans for her girls are different than other mothers' - rather than hoping her daughters marry rich, she hopes they become good women and find true and loving husbands with whom to share duties and joys. She hopes they will prepare for that time by making their current home happy, and trust that good, sincere men will not be daunted by poverty |
THE INTERNATIONAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT
This is a curious and interesting branch of the work of the Salvation
Army. About two thousand times a year it receives letters or personal
applications, asking it to find some missing relative or friend of the
writer or applicant. In reply, a form is posted or given, which must
be filled up with the necessary particulars. Then, if it be a London
case, the Officer in charge sends out a skilled man to work up clues.
If, on the other hand, it be a country case, the Officer in charge of
the Corps nearest to where it has occurred, is instructed to initiate
the inquiry. Also, advertisements are inserted in the Army papers,
known as 'The War Cry' and 'The Social Gazette,' both in Great Britain
and other countries, if the lost person is supposed to be on the
Continent or in some distant part of the world.
The result is that a large percentage of the individuals sought for
are discovered, alive or dead, for in such work the Salvation Army has
advantages denied to any other body, scarcely excepting the Police.
Its representatives are everywhere, and to whatever land they may
belong or whatever tongue they may speak, all of them obey an order
sent out from Headquarters wholeheartedly and uninfluenced by the
question of regard. The usual fee charged for this work is 10_s_.
6_d_.; but when this cannot be paid, a large number of cases are
undertaken free. The Army goes to as much trouble in these unpaid
cases as in any others, only then it is not able to flood the country
with printed bills. Of course, where well-to-do people are concerned,
it expects that its out-of-pocket costs will be met.
The cases with which it has to deal are of all kinds. Often those who
have disappeared are found to have done so purposely, perhaps leaving
behind them manufactured evidence, such as coats or letters on a
river-bank, suggesting that they have committed suicide. Generally,
these people are involved in some fraud or other trouble. Again,
husbands desert their wives, or wives their husbands, and vanish, in
which instances they are probably living with somebody else under
another name. Or children are kidnapped, or girls are lured away, or
individuals emigrate to far lands and neglect to write. Or, perhaps,
they simply sink out of all knowledge, and vanish effectually enough
into a paupers grave.
But the oddest cases of all are those of a complete loss of memory, a
thing that is by no means so infrequent as is generally supposed. The
experience of the Army is that the majority of these cases happen
among those who lead a studious life. The victim goes out in his usual
health and suddenly forgets everything. His mind becomes a total
blank. Yet certain instincts remain, such as that of earning a living.
Thus, to take a single recent example, the son of a large bookseller
in a country town left the house one day, saying that he would not be
away for long, and disappeared. At the invitation of his father, the
Army took up the case, and ultimately found that the man had been
working in its Spa Road Elevator under another name. Afterwards he
went away, became destitute, and sold matches in the streets.
Ultimately he was found in a Church Army Home. He recovered his
memory, and subsequently lost it again to the extent that he could
recall nothing which happened to him during the period of its first
lapse. All that time vanished into total darkness.
This business of the hunting out of the missing through the agency of
the Salvation Army is one which increases every day. It is not unusual
for the Army to discover individuals who have been missing for thirty
years and upwards. | Sarah, Lizzie, and the other munitions workers are talking on their tea break. Sarah mentions how she was disappointed that Prior never came on Sunday to pick her up as she expected him to. Lizzie answers that she is dreading the time her husband will have to be on leave this weekend. She says, ironically, that on August 4, 1914, "peace" broke out for her; she could have her own money and be free of her abusive husband when he left for the war. She does not look forward to his return. Rivers examines a new patient named Willard. Willard received his injuries when his company was retreating across a graveyard under heavy fire and some pieces of gravestone were shot into his back and buttocks. He believes he has a physical injury to his spine, yet all the doctors have said there is nothing wrong with him. Nevertheless, Willard is unable to move the lower half of his body. Rivers suggests to him that his paralysis may be due to a psychological block. Willard is reluctant to believe it is anything but physical. Sassoon makes a trip to Rivers's Conservative Club. As he waits for Rivers, he overhears two older men discuss their sons at the front and he builds up a hatred for them, for the men who only sit and talk while others fight. But Sassoon soon feels sickened by himself. He realizes that, by agreeing to go to Craiglockhart, he is no longer protesting or doing anything to help his fellow soldiers: he has been pacified. When Rivers arrives, they sit down to a meal. Rivers reflects how much easier it would have been if Sassoon were not his patient. Sassoon forces him to make justifications for the war every day. Rivers truly believes that it is the war, and not man's innate weakness, that has caused all the mental problems he treated. This viewpoint means that Rivers has had to convince himself that the war justifies such destruction of men's minds. Rivers notices that Sassoon is in a very depressed state; he has just received word that two of his close friends have died. Rivers reflects that the experience of these young men in some ways "parallels the experience of the very old. They look back on intense memories and feel lonely because there is no one alive who has been there. Rivers thinks it will be quite a hard job to get Sassoon back to the front; he admits that he must convince him because he respects him too much to manipulate him. Rivers returns to the hospital to find Willard in a wheelchair stranded at the bottom of a hill, with Mrs. Willard by his side. She is not strong enough to push him back up the hill. Rivers notes Willard's look of powerlessness and frustration. Rivers then helps Mrs. Willard push the chair back up to the top of the hill. |
DARWINISM (1867-1868)
POLITICS, diplomacy, law, art, and history had opened no outlet
for future energy or effort, but a man must do something, even in
Portland Place, when winter is dark and winter evenings are exceedingly
long. At that moment Darwin was convulsing society. The geological
champion of Darwin was Sir Charles Lyell, and the Lyells were intimate
at the Legation. Sir Charles constantly said of Darwin, what Palgrave
said of Tennyson, that the first time he came to town, Adams should be
asked to meet him, but neither of them ever came to town, or ever cared
to meet a young American, and one could not go to them because they
were known to dislike intrusion. The only Americans who were not
allowed to intrude were the half-dozen in the Legation. Adams was
content to read Darwin, especially his "Origin of Species" and his
"Voyage of the Beagle." He was a Darwinist before the letter; a
predestined follower of the tide; but he was hardly trained to follow
Darwin's evidences. Fragmentary the British mind might be, but in those
days it was doing a great deal of work in a very un-English way,
building up so many and such vast theories on such narrow foundations
as to shock the conservative, and delight the frivolous. The atomic
theory; the correlation and conservation of energy; the mechanical
theory of the universe; the kinetic theory of gases, and Darwin's Law
of Natural Selection, were examples of what a young man had to take on
trust. Neither he nor any one else knew enough to verify them; in his
ignorance of mathematics, he was particularly helpless; but this never
stood in his way. The ideas were new and seemed to lead somewhere--to
some great generalization which would finish one's clamor to be
educated. That a beginner should understand them all, or believe them
all, no one could expect, still less exact. Henry Adams was Darwinist
because it was easier than not, for his ignorance exceeded belief, and
one must know something in order to contradict even such triflers as
Tyndall and Huxley.
By rights, he should have been also a Marxist but some narrow
trait of the New England nature seemed to blight socialism, and he
tried in vain to make himself a convert. He did the next best thing; he
became a Comteist, within the limits of evolution. He was ready to
become anything but quiet. As though the world had not been enough
upset in his time, he was eager to see it upset more. He had his wish,
but he lost his hold on the results by trying to understand them.
He never tried to understand Darwin; but he still fancied he
might get the best part of Darwinism from the easier study of geology;
a science which suited idle minds as well as though it were history.
Every curate in England dabbled in geology and hunted for vestiges of
Creation. Darwin hunted only for vestiges of Natural Selection, and
Adams followed him, although he cared nothing about Selection, unless
perhaps for the indirect amusement of upsetting curates. He felt, like
nine men in ten, an instinctive belief in Evolution, but he felt no
more concern in Natural than in unnatural Selection, though he seized
with greediness the new volume on the "Antiquity of Man" which Sir
Charles Lyell published in 1863 in order to support Darwin by wrecking
the Garden of Eden. Sir Charles next brought out, in 1866, a new
edition of his "Principles," then the highest text-book of geology; but
here the Darwinian doctrine grew in stature. Natural Selection led back
to Natural Evolution, and at last to Natural Uniformity. This was a
vast stride. Unbroken Evolution under uniform conditions pleased every
one--except curates and bishops; it was the very best substitute for
religion; a safe, conservative, practical, thoroughly Common-Law deity.
Such a working system for the universe suited a young man who had just
helped to waste five or ten thousand million dollars and a million
lives, more or less, to enforce unity and uniformity on people who
objected to it; the idea was only too seductive in its perfection; it
had the charm of art. Unity and Uniformity were the whole motive of
philosophy, and if Darwin, like a true Englishman, preferred to back
into it--to reach God a posteriori--rather than start from it, like
Spinoza, the difference of method taught only the moral that the best
way of reaching unity was to unite. Any road was good that arrived.
Life depended on it. One had been, from the first, dragged hither and
thither like a French poodle on a string, following always the
strongest pull, between one form of unity or centralization and
another. The proof that one had acted wisely because of obeying the
primordial habit of nature flattered one's self-esteem. Steady,
uniform, unbroken evolution from lower to higher seemed easy. So, one
day when Sir Charles came to the Legation to inquire about getting his
"Principles" properly noticed in America, young Adams found nothing
simpler than to suggest that he could do it himself if Sir Charles
would tell him what to say. Youth risks such encounters with the
universe before one succumbs to it, yet even he was surprised at Sir
Charles's ready assent, and still more so at finding himself, after
half an hour's conversation, sitting down to clear the minds of
American geologists about the principles of their profession. This was
getting on fast; Arthur Pendennis had never gone so far.
The geologists were a hardy class, not likely to be much hurt
by Adams's learning, nor did he throw away much concern on their
account. He undertook the task chiefly to educate, not them, but
himself, and if Sir Isaac Newton had, like Sir Charles Lyell, asked him
to explain for Americans his last edition of the "Principia," Adams
would have jumped at the chance. Unfortunately the mere reading such
works for amusement is quite a different matter from studying them for
criticism. Ignorance must always begin at the beginning. Adams must
inevitably have begun by asking Sir Isaac for an intelligible reason
why the apple fell to the ground. He did not know enough to be
satisfied with the fact. The Law of Gravitation was so-and-so, but what
was Gravitation? and he would have been thrown quite off his base if
Sir Isaac had answered that he did not know.
At the very outset Adams struck on Sir Charles's Glacial Theory
or theories. He was ignorant enough to think that the glacial epoch
looked like a chasm between him and a uniformitarian world. If the
glacial period were uniformity, what was catastrophe? To him the two or
three labored guesses that Sir Charles suggested or borrowed to explain
glaciation were proof of nothing, and were quite unsolid as support for
so immense a superstructure as geological uniformity. If one were at
liberty to be as lax in science as in theology, and to assume unity
from the start, one might better say so, as the Church did, and not
invite attack by appearing weak in evidence. Naturally a young man,
altogether ignorant, could not say this to Sir Charles Lyell or Sir
Isaac Newton; but he was forced to state Sir Charles's views, which he
thought weak as hypotheses and worthless as proofs. Sir Charles himself
seemed shy of them. Adams hinted his heresies in vain. At last he
resorted to what he thought the bold experiment of inserting a sentence
in the text, intended to provoke correction. "The introduction [by
Louis Agassiz] of this new geological agent seemed at first sight
inconsistent with Sir Charles's argument, obliging him to allow that
causes had in fact existed on the earth capable of producing more
violent geological changes than would be possible in our own day." The
hint produced no effect. Sir Charles said not a word; he let the
paragraph stand; and Adams never knew whether the great Uniformitarian
was strict or lax in his uniformitarian creed; but he doubted.
Objections fatal to one mind are futile to another, and as far
as concerned the article, the matter ended there, although the glacial
epoch remained a misty region in the young man's Darwinism. Had it been
the only one, he would not have fretted about it; but uniformity often
worked queerly and sometimes did not work as Natural Selection at all.
Finding himself at a loss for some single figure to illustrate the Law
of Natural Selection, Adams asked Sir Charles for the simplest case of
uniformity on record. Much to his surprise Sir Charles told him that
certain forms, like Terebratula, appeared to be identical from the
beginning to the end of geological time. Since this was altogether too
much uniformity and much too little selection, Adams gave up the
attempt to begin at the beginning, and tried starting at the
end--himself. Taking for granted that the vertebrates would serve his
purpose, he asked Sir Charles to introduce him to the first vertebrate.
Infinitely to his bewilderment, Sir Charles informed him that the first
vertebrate was a very respectable fish, among the earliest of all
fossils, which had lived, and whose bones were still reposing, under
Adams's own favorite Abbey on Wenlock Edge.
By this time, in 1867 Adams had learned to know Shropshire
familiarly, and it was the part of his diplomatic education which he
loved best. Like Catherine Olney in "Northanger Abbey," he yearned for
nothing so keenly as to feel at home in a thirteenth-century Abbey,
unless it were to haunt a fifteenth-century Prior's House, and both
these joys were his at Wenlock. With companions or without, he never
tired of it. Whether he rode about the Wrekin, or visited all the
historical haunts from Ludlow Castle and Stokesay to Boscobel and
Uriconium; or followed the Roman road or scratched in the Abbey ruins,
all was amusing and carried a flavor of its own like that of the Roman
Campagna; but perhaps he liked best to ramble over the Edge on a summer
afternoon and look across the Marches to the mountains of Wales. The
peculiar flavor of the scenery has something to do with absence of
evolution; it was better marked in Egypt: it was felt wherever
time-sequences became interchangeable. One's instinct abhors time. As
one lay on the slope of the Edge, looking sleepily through the summer
haze towards Shrewsbury or Cader Idris or Caer Caradoc or Uriconium,
nothing suggested sequence. The Roman road was twin to the railroad;
Uriconium was well worth Shrewsbury; Wenlock and Buildwas were far
superior to Bridgnorth. The shepherds of Caractacus or Offa, or the
monks of Buildwas, had they approached where he lay in the grass, would
have taken him only for another and tamer variety of Welsh thief. They
would have seen little to surprise them in the modern landscape unless
it were the steam of a distant railway. One might mix up the terms of
time as one liked, or stuff the present anywhere into the past,
measuring time by Falstaff's Shrewsbury clock, without violent sense of
wrong, as one could do it on the Pacific Ocean; but the triumph of all
was to look south along the Edge to the abode of one's earliest
ancestor and nearest relative, the ganoid fish, whose name, according
to Professor Huxley, was Pteraspis, a cousin of the sturgeon, and whose
kingdom, according to Sir Roderick Murchison, was called Siluria. Life
began and ended there. Behind that horizon lay only the Cambrian,
without vertebrates or any other organism except a few shell-fish. On
the further verge of the Cambrian rose the crystalline rocks from which
every trace of organic existence had been erased.
That here, on the Wenlock Edge of time, a young American,
seeking only frivolous amusement, should find a legitimate parentage as
modern as though just caught in the Severn below, astonished him as
much as though he had found Darwin himself. In the scale of evolution,
one vertebrate was as good as another. For anything he, or any one
else, knew, nine hundred and ninety nine parts of evolution out of a
thousand lay behind or below the Pteraspis. To an American in search of
a father, it mattered nothing whether the father breathed through
lungs, or walked on fins, or on feet. Evolution of mind was altogether
another matter and belonged to another science, but whether one traced
descent from the shark or the wolf was immaterial even in morals. This
matter had been discussed for ages without scientific result. La
Fontaine and other fabulists maintained that the wolf, even in morals,
stood higher than man; and in view of the late civil war, Adams had
doubts of his own on the facts of moral evolution:--
"Tout bien considere, je te soutiens en somme,
Que scelerat pour scelerat,
Il vaut mieux etre un loup qu'un homme."
It might well be! At all events, it did not enter into the
problem of Pteraspis, for it was quite certain that no complete proof
of Natural Selection had occurred back to the time of Pteraspis, and
that before Pteraspis was eternal void. No trace of any vertebrate had
been found there; only starfish, shell-fish, polyps, or trilobites
whose kindly descendants he had often bathed with, as a child on the
shores of Quincy Bay.
That Pteraspis and shark were his cousins, great-uncles, or
grandfathers, in no way troubled him, but that either or both of them
should be older than evolution itself seemed to him perplexing; nor
could he at all simplify the problem by taking the sudden
back-somersault into Quincy Bay in search of the fascinating creature
he had called a horseshoe, whose huge dome of shell and sharp spur of
tail had so alarmed him as a child. In Siluria, he understood, Sir
Roderick Murchison called the horseshoe a Limulus, which helped
nothing. Neither in the Limulus nor in the Terebratula, nor in the
Cestracion Philippi, any more than in the Pteraspis, could one
conceive an ancestor, but, if one must, the choice mattered little.
Cousinship had limits but no one knew enough to fix them. When the
vertebrate vanished in Siluria, it disappeared instantly and forever.
Neither vertebra nor scale nor print reappeared, nor any trace of
ascent or descent to a lower type. The vertebrate began in the Ludlow
shale, as complete as Adams himself--in some respects more so--at the
top of the column of organic evolution: and geology offered no sort of
proof that he had ever been anything else. Ponder over it as he might,
Adams could see nothing in the theory of Sir Charles but pure
inference, precisely like the inference of Paley, that, if one found a
watch, one inferred a maker. He could detect no more evolution in life
since the Pteraspis than he could detect it in architecture since the
Abbey. All he could prove was change. Coal-power alone asserted
evolution--of power--and only by violence could be forced to assert
selection of type.
All this seemed trivial to the true Darwinian, and to Sir
Charles it was mere defect in the geological record. Sir Charles
labored only to heap up the evidences of evolution; to cumulate them
till the mass became irresistible. With that purpose, Adams gladly
studied and tried to help Sir Charles, but, behind the lesson of the
day, he was conscious that, in geology as in theology, he could prove
only Evolution that did not evolve; Uniformity that was not uniform;
and Selection that did not select. To other Darwinians--except
Darwin--Natural Selection seemed a dogma to be put in the place of the
Athanasian creed; it was a form of religious hope; a promise of
ultimate perfection. Adams wished no better; he warmly sympathized in
the object; but when he came to ask himself what he truly thought, he
felt that he had no Faith; that whenever the next new hobby should be
brought out, he should surely drop off from Darwinism like a monkey
from a perch; that the idea of one Form, Law, Order, or Sequence had no
more value for him than the idea of none; that what he valued most was
Motion, and that what attracted his mind was Change.
Psychology was to him a new study, and a dark corner of
education. As he lay on Wenlock Edge, with the sheep nibbling the grass
close about him as they or their betters had nibbled the grass--or
whatever there was to nibble--in the Silurian kingdom of Pteraspis, he
seemed to have fallen on an evolution far more wonderful than that of
fishes. He did not like it; he could not account for it; and he
determined to stop it. Never since the days of his Limulus ancestry had
any of his ascendants thought thus. Their modes of thought might be
many, but their thought was one. Out of his millions of millions of
ancestors, back to the Cambrian mollusks, every one had probably lived
and died in the illusion of Truths which did not amuse him, and which
had never changed. Henry Adams was the first in an infinite series to
discover and admit to himself that he really did not care whether truth
was, or was not, true. He did not even care that it should be proved
true, unless the process were new and amusing. He was a Darwinian for
fun.
From the beginning of history, this attitude had been branded
as criminal--worse than crime--sacrilege! Society punished it
ferociously and justly, in self-defence. Mr. Adams, the father, looked
on it as moral weakness; it annoyed him; but it did not annoy him
nearly so much as it annoyed his son, who had no need to learn from
Hamlet the fatal effect of the pale cast of thought on enterprises
great or small. He had no notion of letting the currents of his action
be turned awry by this form of conscience. To him, the current of his
time was to be his current, lead where it might. He put psychology
under lock and key; he insisted on maintaining his absolute standards;
on aiming at ultimate Unity. The mania for handling all the sides of
every question, looking into every window, and opening every door, was,
as Bluebeard judiciously pointed out to his wives, fatal to their
practical usefulness in society. One could not stop to chase doubts as
though they were rabbits. One had no time to paint and putty the
surface of Law, even though it were cracked and rotten. For the young
men whose lives were cast in the generation between 1867 and 1900, Law
should be Evolution from lower to higher, aggregation of the atom in
the mass, concentration of multiplicity in unity, compulsion of anarchy
in order; and he would force himself to follow wherever it led, though
he should sacrifice five thousand millions more in money, and a million
more lives.
As the path ultimately led, it sacrificed much more than this;
but at the time, he thought the price he named a high one, and he could
not foresee that science and society would desert him in paying it. He,
at least, took his education as a Darwinian in good faith. The Church
was gone, and Duty was dim, but Will should take its place, founded
deeply in interest and law. This was the result of five or six years in
England; a result so British as to be almost the equivalent of an
Oxford degree.
Quite serious about it, he set to work at once. While confusing
his ideas about geology to the apparent satisfaction of Sir Charles who
left him his field-compass in token of it, Adams turned resolutely to
business, and attacked the burning question of specie payments. His
principles assured him that the honest way to resume payments was to
restrict currency. He thought he might win a name among financiers and
statesmen at home by showing how this task had been done by England,
after the classical suspension of 1797-1821. Setting himself to the
study of this perplexed period, he waded as well as he could through a
morass of volumes, pamphlets, and debates, until he learned to his
confusion that the Bank of England itself and all the best British
financial writers held that restriction was a fatal mistake, and that
the best treatment of a debased currency was to let it alone, as the
Bank had in fact done. Time and patience were the remedies.
The shock of this discovery to his financial principles was
serious; much more serious than the shock of the Terebratula and
Pteraspis to his principles of geology. A mistake about Evolution was
not fatal; a mistake about specie payments would destroy forever the
last hope of employment in State Street. Six months of patient labor
would be thrown away if he did not publish, and with it his whole
scheme of making himself a position as a practical man-of-business. If
he did publish, how could he tell virtuous bankers in State Street that
moral and absolute principles of abstract truth, such as theirs, had
nothing to do with the matter, and that they had better let it alone?
Geologists, naturally a humble and helpless class, might not revenge
impertinences offered to their science; but capitalists never forgot or
forgave.
With labor and caution he made one long article on British
Finance in 1816, and another on the Bank Restriction of 1797-1821, and,
doing both up in one package, he sent it to the North American for
choice. He knew that two heavy, technical, financial studies thus
thrown at an editor's head, would probably return to crush the author;
but the audacity of youth is more sympathetic--when successful--than
his ignorance. The editor accepted both.
When the post brought his letter, Adams looked at it as though
he were a debtor who had begged for an extension. He read it with as
much relief as the debtor, if it had brought him the loan. The letter
gave the new writer literary rank. Henceforward he had the freedom of
the press. These articles, following those on Pocahontas and Lyell,
enrolled him on the permanent staff of the North American Review.
Precisely what this rank was worth, no one could say; but, for fifty
years the North American Review had been the stage coach which carried
literary Bostonians to such distinction as they had achieved. Few
writers had ideas which warranted thirty pages of development, but for
such as thought they had, the Review alone offered space. An article
was a small volume which required at least three months' work, and was
paid, at best, five dollars a page. Not many men even in England or
France could write a good thirty-page article, and practically no one
in America read them; but a few score of people, mostly in search of
items to steal, ran over the pages to extract an idea or a fact, which
was a sort of wild game--a bluefish or a teal--worth anywhere from
fifty cents to five dollars. Newspaper writers had their eye on
quarterly pickings. The circulation of the Review had never exceeded
three or four hundred copies, and the Review had never paid its
reasonable expenses. Yet it stood at the head of American literary
periodicals; it was a source of suggestion to cheaper workers; it
reached far into societies that never knew its existence; it was an
organ worth playing on; and, in the fancy of Henry Adams, it led, in
some indistinct future, to playing on a New York daily newspaper.
With the editor's letter under his eyes, Adams asked himself
what better he could have done. On the whole, considering his
helplessness, he thought he had done as well as his neighbors. No one
could yet guess which of his contemporaries was most likely to play a
part in the great world. A shrewd prophet in Wall Street might perhaps
have set a mark on Pierpont Morgan, but hardly on the Rockefellers or
William C. Whitney or Whitelaw Reid. No one would have picked out
William McKinley or John Hay or Mark Hanna for great statesmen. Boston
was ignorant of the careers in store for Alexander Agassiz and Henry
Higginson. Phillips Brooks was unknown; Henry James was unheard;
Howells was new; Richardson and LaFarge were struggling for a start.
Out of any score of names and reputations that should reach beyond the
century, the thirty-years-old who were starting in the year 1867 could
show none that was so far in advance as to warrant odds in its favor.
The army men had for the most part fallen to the ranks. Had Adams
foreseen the future exactly as it came, he would have been no wiser,
and could have chosen no better path.
Thus it turned out that the last year in England was the
pleasantest. He was already old in society, and belonged to the
Silurian horizon. The Prince of Wales had come. Mr. Disraeli, Lord
Stanley, and the future Lord Salisbury had thrown into the background
the memories of Palmerston and Russell. Europe was moving rapidly, and
the conduct of England during the American Civil War was the last thing
that London liked to recall. The revolution since 1861 was nearly
complete, and, for the first time in history, the American felt himself
almost as strong as an Englishman. He had thirty years to wait before
he should feel himself stronger. Meanwhile even a private secretary
could afford to be happy. His old education was finished; his new one
was not begun; he still loitered a year, feeling himself near the end
of a very long, anxious, tempestuous, successful voyage, with another
to follow, and a summer sea between.
He made what use he could of it. In February, 1868, he was back
in Rome with his friend Milnes Gaskell. For another season he wandered
on horseback over the campagna or on foot through the Rome of the
middle ages, and sat once more on the steps of Ara Coeli, as had become
with him almost a superstition, like the waters of the fountain of
Trevi. Rome was still tragic and solemn as ever, with its mediaeval
society, artistic, literary, and clerical, taking itself as seriously
as in the days of Byron and Shelley. The long ten years of accidental
education had changed nothing for him there. He knew no more in 1868
than in 1858. He had learned nothing whatever that made Rome more
intelligible to him, or made life easier to handle. The case was no
better when he got back to London and went through his last season.
London had become his vice. He loved his haunts, his houses, his
habits, and even his hansom cabs. He loved growling like an Englishman,
and going into society where he knew not a face, and cared not a straw.
He lived deep into the lives and loves and disappointments of his
friends. When at last he found himself back again at Liverpool, his
heart wrenched by the act of parting, he moved mechanically, unstrung,
but he had no more acquired education than when he first trod the steps
of the Adelphi Hotel in November, 1858. He could see only one great
change, and this was wholly in years. Eaton Hall no longer impressed
his imagination; even the architecture of Chester roused but a sleepy
interest; he felt no sensation whatever in the atmosphere of the
British peerage, but mainly an habitual dislike to most of the people
who frequented their country houses; he had become English to the point
of sharing their petty social divisions, their dislikes and prejudices
against each other; he took England no longer with the awe of American
youth, but with the habit of an old and rather worn suit of clothes. As
far as he knew, this was all that Englishmen meant by social education,
but in any case it was all the education he had gained from seven years
in London. | Henry becomes increasingly interested in contemporary methods of science, foreshadowing his later attempts to apply scientific method to the study of history. The works of two Englishmen are especially important to Henry at this point in his education. Naturalist Charles Robert Darwin has recently published his seminal work, On the Origin of Species, arguing for a theory of evolution. Geologist Sir Charles Lyell, a friend of Darwin, a frequent visitor to the Legation, and eventually a friend of Henry's, has supported Darwin's theory in his Antiquity of Man and the tenth edition of his Principles of Geology . Henry is somewhat skeptical of evolution but influenced by the scientific approach. |
IV. THE INTERVIEW.
After her return to the prison, Hester Prynne was found to be in a
state of nervous excitement that demanded constant watchfulness, lest
she should perpetrate violence on herself, or do some half-frenzied
mischief to the poor babe. As night approached, it proving impossible
to quell her insubordination by rebuke or threats of punishment,
Master Brackett, the jailer, thought fit to introduce a physician. He
described him as a man of skill in all Christian modes of physical
science, and likewise familiar with whatever the savage people could
teach, in respect to medicinal herbs and roots that grew in the
forest. To say the truth, there was much need of professional
assistance, not merely for Hester herself, but still more urgently for
the child; who, drawing its sustenance from the maternal bosom, seemed
to have drank in with it all the turmoil, the anguish and despair,
which pervaded the mother's system. It now writhed in convulsions of
pain, and was a forcible type, in its little frame, of the moral agony
which Hester Prynne had borne throughout the day.
Closely following the jailer into the dismal apartment appeared that
individual, of singular aspect, whose presence in the crowd had been
of such deep interest to the wearer of the scarlet letter. He was
lodged in the prison, not as suspected of any offence, but as the most
convenient and suitable mode of disposing of him, until the
magistrates should have conferred with the Indian sagamores respecting
his ransom. His name was announced as Roger Chillingworth. The jailer,
after ushering him into the room, remained a moment, marvelling at the
comparative quiet that followed his entrance; for Hester Prynne had
immediately become as still as death, although the child continued to
moan.
"Prithee, friend, leave me alone with my patient," said the
practitioner. "Trust me, good jailer, you shall briefly have peace in
your house; and, I promise you, Mistress Prynne shall hereafter be
more amenable to just authority than you may have found her
heretofore."
"Nay, if your worship can accomplish that," answered Master Brackett,
"I shall own you for a man of skill indeed! Verily, the woman hath
been like a possessed one; and there lacks little, that I should take
in hand to drive Satan out of her with stripes."
The stranger had entered the room with the characteristic quietude of
the profession to which he announced himself as belonging. Nor did his
demeanor change, when the withdrawal of the prison-keeper left him
face to face with the woman, whose absorbed notice of him, in the
crowd, had intimated so close a relation between himself and her. His
first care was given to the child; whose cries, indeed, as she lay
writhing on the trundle-bed, made it of peremptory necessity to
postpone all other business to the task of soothing her. He examined
the infant carefully, and then proceeded to unclasp a leathern case,
which he took from beneath his dress. It appeared to contain medical
preparations, one of which he mingled with a cup of water.
"My old studies in alchemy," observed he, "and my sojourn, for above a
year past, among a people well versed in the kindly properties of
simples, have made a better physician of me than many that claim the
medical degree. Here, woman! The child is yours,--she is none of
mine,--neither will she recognize my voice or aspect as a father's.
Administer this draught, therefore, with thine own hand."
Hester repelled the offered medicine, at the same time gazing with
strongly marked apprehension into his face.
"Wouldst thou avenge thyself on the innocent babe?" whispered she.
"Foolish woman!" responded the physician, half coldly, half
soothingly. "What should ail me, to harm this misbegotten and
miserable babe? The medicine is potent for good; and were it my
child,--yea, mine own, as well as thine!--I could do no better for
it."
As she still hesitated, being, in fact, in no reasonable state of
mind, he took the infant in his arms, and himself administered the
draught. It soon proved its efficacy, and redeemed the leech's pledge.
The moans of the little patient subsided; its convulsive tossings
gradually ceased; and, in a few moments, as is the custom of young
children after relief from pain, it sank into a profound and dewy
slumber. The physician, as he had a fair right to be termed, next
bestowed his attention on the mother. With calm and intent scrutiny he
felt her pulse, looked into her eyes,--a gaze that made her heart
shrink and shudder, because so familiar, and yet so strange and
cold,--and, finally, satisfied with his investigation, proceeded to
mingle another draught.
"I know not Lethe nor Nepenthe," remarked he; "but I have learned many
new secrets in the wilderness, and here is one of them,--a recipe that
an Indian taught me, in requital of some lessons of my own, that were
as old as Paracelsus. Drink it! It may be less soothing than a sinless
conscience. That I cannot give thee. But it will calm the swell and
heaving of thy passion, like oil thrown on the waves of a tempestuous
sea."
He presented the cup to Hester, who received it with a slow, earnest
look into his face; not precisely a look of fear, yet full of doubt
and questioning, as to what his purposes might be. She looked also at
her slumbering child.
"I have thought of death," said she,--"have wished for it,--would even
have prayed for it, were it fit that such as I should pray for
anything. Yet if death be in this cup, I bid thee think again, ere
thou beholdest me quaff it. See! It is even now at my lips."
"Drink, then," replied he, still with the same cold composure. "Dost
thou know me so little, Hester Prynne? Are my purposes wont to be so
shallow? Even if I imagine a scheme of vengeance, what could I do
better for my object than to let thee live,--than to give thee
medicines against all harm and peril of life,--so that this burning
shame may still blaze upon thy bosom?" As he spoke, he laid his long
forefinger on the scarlet letter, which forthwith seemed to scorch
into Hester's breast, as if it had been red-hot. He noticed her
involuntary gesture, and smiled. "Live, therefore, and bear about thy
doom with thee, in the eyes of men and women,--in the eyes of him whom
thou didst call thy husband,--in the eyes of yonder child! And, that
thou mayest live, take off this draught."
Without further expostulation or delay, Hester Prynne drained the
cup, and, at the motion of the man of skill, seated herself on the bed
where the child was sleeping; while he drew the only chair which the
room afforded, and took his own seat beside her. She could not but
tremble at these preparations; for she felt that--having now done all
that humanity or principle, or, if so it were, a refined cruelty,
impelled him to do, for the relief of physical suffering--he was next
to treat with her as the man whom she had most deeply and irreparably
injured.
"Hester," said he, "I ask not wherefore, nor how, thou hast fallen
into the pit, or say, rather, thou hast ascended to the pedestal of
infamy, on which I found thee. The reason is not far to seek. It was
my folly, and thy weakness. I,--a man of thought,--the bookworm of
great libraries,--a man already in decay, having given my best years
to feed the hungry dream of knowledge,--what had I to do with youth
and beauty like thine own! Misshapen from my birth-hour, how could I
delude myself with the idea that intellectual gifts might veil
physical deformity in a young girl's fantasy! Men call me wise. If
sages were ever wise in their own behoof, I might have foreseen all
this. I might have known that, as I came out of the vast and dismal
forest, and entered this settlement of Christian men, the very first
object to meet my eyes would be thyself, Hester Prynne, standing up, a
statue of ignominy, before the people. Nay, from the moment when we
came down the old church steps together, a married pair, I might have
beheld the bale-fire of that scarlet letter blazing at the end of our
path!"
"Thou knowest," said Hester,--for, depressed as she was, she could not
endure this last quiet stab at the token of her shame,--"thou knowest
that I was frank with thee. I felt no love, nor feigned any."
"True," replied he. "It was my folly! I have said it. But, up to that
epoch of my life, I had lived in vain. The world had been so
cheerless! My heart was a habitation large enough for many guests, but
lonely and chill, and without a household fire. I longed to kindle
one! It seemed not so wild a dream,--old as I was, and sombre as I
was, and misshapen as I was,--that the simple bliss, which is
scattered far and wide, for all mankind to gather up, might yet be
mine. And so, Hester, I drew thee into my heart, into its innermost
chamber, and sought to warm thee by the warmth which thy presence made
there!"
"I have greatly wronged thee," murmured Hester.
"We have wronged each other," answered he. "Mine was the first wrong,
when I betrayed thy budding youth into a false and unnatural relation
with my decay. Therefore, as a man who has not thought and
philosophized in vain, I seek no vengeance, plot no evil against thee.
Between thee and me the scale hangs fairly balanced. But, Hester, the
man lives who has wronged us both! Who is he?"
"Ask me not!" replied Hester Prynne, looking firmly into his face.
"That thou shalt never know!"
"Never, sayest thou?" rejoined he, with a smile of dark and
self-relying intelligence. "Never know him! Believe me, Hester, there
are few things,--whether in the outward world, or, to a certain depth,
in the invisible sphere of thought,--few things hidden from the man
who devotes himself earnestly and unreservedly to the solution of a
mystery. Thou mayest cover up thy secret from the prying multitude.
Thou mayest conceal it, too, from the ministers and magistrates, even
as thou didst this day, when they sought to wrench the name out of thy
heart, and give thee a partner on thy pedestal. But, as for me, I come
to the inquest with other senses than they possess. I shall seek this
man, as I have sought truth in books; as I have sought gold in
alchemy. There is a sympathy that will make me conscious of him. I
shall see him tremble. I shall feel myself shudder, suddenly and
unawares. Sooner or later, he must needs be mine!"
The eyes of the wrinkled scholar glowed so intensely upon her, that
Hester Prynne clasped her hands over her heart, dreading lest he
should read the secret there at once.
"Thou wilt not reveal his name? Not the less he is mine," resumed he,
with a look of confidence, as if destiny were at one with him. "He
bears no letter of infamy wrought into his garment, as thou dost; but
I shall read it on his heart. Yet fear not for him! Think not that I
shall interfere with Heaven's own method of retribution, or, to my own
loss, betray him to the gripe of human law. Neither do thou imagine
that I shall contrive aught against his life; no, nor against his
fame, if, as I judge, he be a man of fair repute. Let him live! Let
him hide himself in outward honor, if he may! Not the less he shall be
mine!"
"Thy acts are like mercy," said Hester, bewildered and appalled. "But
thy words interpret thee as a terror!"
"One thing, thou that wast my wife, I would enjoin upon thee,"
continued the scholar. "Thou hast kept the secret of thy paramour.
Keep, likewise, mine! There are none in this land that know me.
Breathe not, to any human soul, that thou didst ever call me husband!
Here, on this wild outskirt of the earth, I shall pitch my tent; for,
elsewhere a wanderer, and isolated from human interests, I find here a
woman, a man, a child, amongst whom and myself there exist the closest
ligaments. No matter whether of love or hate; no matter whether of
right or wrong! Thou and thine, Hester Prynne, belong to me. My home
is where thou art, and where he is. But betray me not!"
[Illustration: "The Eyes of the wrinkled Scholar glowed"]
"Wherefore dost thou desire it?" inquired Hester, shrinking, she
hardly knew why, from this secret bond. "Why not announce thyself
openly, and cast me off at once?"
"It may be," he replied, "because I will not encounter the dishonor
that besmirches the husband of a faithless woman. It may be for other
reasons. Enough, it is my purpose to live and die unknown. Let,
therefore, thy husband be to the world as one already dead, and of
whom no tidings shall ever come. Recognize me not, by word, by sign,
by look! Breathe not the secret, above all, to the man thou wottest
of. Shouldst thou fail me in this, beware! His fame, his position, his
life, will be in my hands. Beware!"
"I will keep thy secret, as I have his," said Hester.
"Swear it!" rejoined he.
And she took the oath.
"And now, Mistress Prynne," said old Roger Chillingworth, as he was
hereafter to be named, "I leave thee alone; alone with thy infant, and
the scarlet letter! How is it, Hester? Doth thy sentence bind thee to
wear the token in thy sleep? Art thou not afraid of nightmares and
hideous dreams?"
"Why dost thou smile so at me?" inquired Hester, troubled at the
expression of his eyes. "Art thou like the Black Man that haunts the
forest round about us? Hast thou enticed me into a bond that will
prove the ruin of my soul?"
"Not thy soul," he answered, with another smile. "No, not thine!"
[Illustration] | The Interview Hester and her husband come face to face for the first time when he is called to her prison cell to provide medical assistance. Chillingworth has promised the jailer that he can make Hester more "amenable to just authority," and he now offers her a cup of medicine. Hester knows his true identity--his gaze makes her shudder--and she initially refuses to drink his potion. She thinks that Chillingworth might be poisoning her, but he assures her that he wants her to live so that he can have his revenge. In the candid conversation that follows, he chastises himself for thinking that he, a misshapen bookworm, could keep a beautiful wife like Hester happy. He urges her to reveal the identity of her lover, telling her that he will surely detect signs of sympathy that will lead him to the guilty party. When she refuses to tell her secret, he makes her promise that she will not reveal to anyone his own identity either. His demoniacal grin and obvious delight at her current tribulations lead Hester to burst out the speculation that he may be the "Black Man"--the Devil in disguise--come to lure her into a pact and damn her soul. Chillingworth replies that it is not the well-being of her soul that his presence jeopardizes, implying that he plans to seek out her unknown lover. He clearly has revenge on his mind. |
Jurgis did not get out of the Bridewell quite as soon as he had
expected. To his sentence there were added "court costs" of a dollar and
a half--he was supposed to pay for the trouble of putting him in jail,
and not having the money, was obliged to work it off by three days
more of toil. Nobody had taken the trouble to tell him this--only
after counting the days and looking forward to the end in an agony of
impatience, when the hour came that he expected to be free he found
himself still set at the stone heap, and laughed at when he ventured to
protest. Then he concluded he must have counted wrong; but as another
day passed, he gave up all hope--and was sunk in the depths of despair,
when one morning after breakfast a keeper came to him with the word that
his time was up at last. So he doffed his prison garb, and put on his
old fertilizer clothing, and heard the door of the prison clang behind
him.
He stood upon the steps, bewildered; he could hardly believe that it was
true,--that the sky was above him again and the open street before him;
that he was a free man. But then the cold began to strike through his
clothes, and he started quickly away.
There had been a heavy snow, and now a thaw had set in; fine sleety rain
was falling, driven by a wind that pierced Jurgis to the bone. He had
not stopped for his-overcoat when he set out to "do up" Connor, and so
his rides in the patrol wagons had been cruel experiences; his clothing
was old and worn thin, and it never had been very warm. Now as he
trudged on the rain soon wet it through; there were six inches of watery
slush on the sidewalks, so that his feet would soon have been soaked,
even had there been no holes in his shoes.
Jurgis had had enough to eat in the jail, and the work had been the
least trying of any that he had done since he came to Chicago; but even
so, he had not grown strong--the fear and grief that had preyed upon his
mind had worn him thin. Now he shivered and shrunk from the rain,
hiding his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders together.
The Bridewell grounds were on the outskirts of the city and the country
around them was unsettled and wild--on one side was the big drainage
canal, and on the other a maze of railroad tracks, and so the wind had
full sweep.
After walking a ways, Jurgis met a little ragamuffin whom he hailed:
"Hey, sonny!" The boy cocked one eye at him--he knew that Jurgis was a
"jailbird" by his shaven head. "Wot yer want?" he queried.
"How do you go to the stockyards?" Jurgis demanded.
"I don't go," replied the boy.
Jurgis hesitated a moment, nonplussed. Then he said, "I mean which is
the way?"
"Why don't yer say so then?" was the response, and the boy pointed to
the northwest, across the tracks. "That way."
"How far is it?" Jurgis asked. "I dunno," said the other. "Mebbe twenty
miles or so."
"Twenty miles!" Jurgis echoed, and his face fell. He had to walk every
foot of it, for they had turned him out of jail without a penny in his
pockets.
Yet, when he once got started, and his blood had warmed with walking,
he forgot everything in the fever of his thoughts. All the dreadful
imaginations that had haunted him in his cell now rushed into his mind
at once. The agony was almost over--he was going to find out; and he
clenched his hands in his pockets as he strode, following his flying
desire, almost at a run. Ona--the baby--the family--the house--he would
know the truth about them all! And he was coming to the rescue--he was
free again! His hands were his own, and he could help them, he could do
battle for them against the world.
For an hour or so he walked thus, and then he began to look about him.
He seemed to be leaving the city altogether. The street was turning into
a country road, leading out to the westward; there were snow-covered
fields on either side of him. Soon he met a farmer driving a two-horse
wagon loaded with straw, and he stopped him.
"Is this the way to the stockyards?" he asked.
The farmer scratched his head. "I dunno jest where they be," he said.
"But they're in the city somewhere, and you're going dead away from it
now."
Jurgis looked dazed. "I was told this was the way," he said.
"Who told you?"
"A boy."
"Well, mebbe he was playing a joke on ye. The best thing ye kin do is to
go back, and when ye git into town ask a policeman. I'd take ye in, only
I've come a long ways an' I'm loaded heavy. Git up!"
So Jurgis turned and followed, and toward the end of the morning he
began to see Chicago again. Past endless blocks of two-story shanties
he walked, along wooden sidewalks and unpaved pathways treacherous with
deep slush holes. Every few blocks there would be a railroad crossing
on the level with the sidewalk, a deathtrap for the unwary; long freight
trains would be passing, the cars clanking and crashing together, and
Jurgis would pace about waiting, burning up with a fever of impatience.
Occasionally the cars would stop for some minutes, and wagons and
streetcars would crowd together waiting, the drivers swearing at each
other, or hiding beneath umbrellas out of the rain; at such times Jurgis
would dodge under the gates and run across the tracks and between the
cars, taking his life into his hands.
He crossed a long bridge over a river frozen solid and covered with
slush. Not even on the river bank was the snow white--the rain which
fell was a diluted solution of smoke, and Jurgis' hands and face were
streaked with black. Then he came into the business part of the city,
where the streets were sewers of inky blackness, with horses sleeping
and plunging, and women and children flying across in panic-stricken
droves. These streets were huge canyons formed by towering black
buildings, echoing with the clang of car gongs and the shouts of
drivers; the people who swarmed in them were as busy as ants--all
hurrying breathlessly, never stopping to look at anything nor at each
other. The solitary trampish-looking foreigner, with water-soaked
clothing and haggard face and anxious eyes, was as much alone as he
hurried past them, as much unheeded and as lost, as if he had been a
thousand miles deep in a wilderness.
A policeman gave him his direction and told him that he had five miles
to go. He came again to the slum districts, to avenues of saloons and
cheap stores, with long dingy red factory buildings, and coal-yards and
railroad tracks; and then Jurgis lifted up his head and began to sniff
the air like a startled animal--scenting the far-off odor of home. It
was late afternoon then, and he was hungry, but the dinner invitations
hung out of the saloons were not for him.
So he came at last to the stockyards, to the black volcanoes of smoke
and the lowing cattle and the stench. Then, seeing a crowded car, his
impatience got the better of him and he jumped aboard, hiding behind
another man, unnoticed by the conductor. In ten minutes more he had
reached his street, and home.
He was half running as he came round the corner. There was the house, at
any rate--and then suddenly he stopped and stared. What was the matter
with the house?
Jurgis looked twice, bewildered; then he glanced at the house next door
and at the one beyond--then at the saloon on the corner. Yes, it was
the right place, quite certainly--he had not made any mistake. But the
house--the house was a different color!
He came a couple of steps nearer. Yes; it had been gray and now it was
yellow! The trimmings around the windows had been red, and now they were
green! It was all newly painted! How strange it made it seem!
Jurgis went closer yet, but keeping on the other side of the street.
A sudden and horrible spasm of fear had come over him. His knees were
shaking beneath him, and his mind was in a whirl. New paint on the
house, and new weatherboards, where the old had begun to rot off, and
the agent had got after them! New shingles over the hole in the roof,
too, the hole that had for six months been the bane of his soul--he
having no money to have it fixed and no time to fix it himself, and the
rain leaking in, and overflowing the pots and pans he put to catch it,
and flooding the attic and loosening the plaster. And now it was fixed!
And the broken windowpane replaced! And curtains in the windows! New,
white curtains, stiff and shiny!
Then suddenly the front door opened. Jurgis stood, his chest heaving as
he struggled to catch his breath. A boy had come out, a stranger to him;
a big, fat, rosy-cheeked youngster, such as had never been seen in his
home before.
Jurgis stared at the boy, fascinated. He came down the steps whistling,
kicking off the snow. He stopped at the foot, and picked up some, and
then leaned against the railing, making a snowball. A moment later
he looked around and saw Jurgis, and their eyes met; it was a hostile
glance, the boy evidently thinking that the other had suspicions of the
snowball. When Jurgis started slowly across the street toward him, he
gave a quick glance about, meditating retreat, but then he concluded to
stand his ground.
Jurgis took hold of the railing of the steps, for he was a little
unsteady. "What--what are you doing here?" he managed to gasp.
"Go on!" said the boy.
"You--" Jurgis tried again. "What do you want here?"
"Me?" answered the boy, angrily. "I live here."
"You live here!" Jurgis panted. He turned white and clung more tightly
to the railing. "You live here! Then where's my family?"
The boy looked surprised. "Your family!" he echoed.
And Jurgis started toward him. "I--this is my house!" he cried.
"Come off!" said the boy; then suddenly the door upstairs opened, and he
called: "Hey, ma! Here's a fellow says he owns this house."
A stout Irishwoman came to the top of the steps. "What's that?" she
demanded.
Jurgis turned toward her. "Where is my family?" he cried, wildly. "I
left them here! This is my home! What are you doing in my home?"
The woman stared at him in frightened wonder, she must have thought
she was dealing with a maniac--Jurgis looked like one. "Your home!" she
echoed.
"My home!" he half shrieked. "I lived here, I tell you."
"You must be mistaken," she answered him. "No one ever lived here. This
is a new house. They told us so. They--"
"What have they done with my family?" shouted Jurgis, frantically.
A light had begun to break upon the woman; perhaps she had had doubts of
what "they" had told her. "I don't know where your family is," she said.
"I bought the house only three days ago, and there was nobody here, and
they told me it was all new. Do you really mean you had ever rented it?"
"Rented it!" panted Jurgis. "I bought it! I paid for it! I own it! And
they--my God, can't you tell me where my people went?"
She made him understand at last that she knew nothing. Jurgis' brain
was so confused that he could not grasp the situation. It was as if his
family had been wiped out of existence; as if they were proving to be
dream people, who never had existed at all. He was quite lost--but then
suddenly he thought of Grandmother Majauszkiene, who lived in the next
block. She would know! He turned and started at a run.
Grandmother Majauszkiene came to the door herself. She cried out when
she saw Jurgis, wild-eyed and shaking. Yes, yes, she could tell him. The
family had moved; they had not been able to pay the rent and they had
been turned out into the snow, and the house had been repainted and sold
again the next week. No, she had not heard how they were, but she could
tell him that they had gone back to Aniele Jukniene, with whom they had
stayed when they first came to the yards. Wouldn't Jurgis come in and
rest? It was certainly too bad--if only he had not got into jail--
And so Jurgis turned and staggered away. He did not go very far round
the corner he gave out completely, and sat down on the steps of a
saloon, and hid his face in his hands, and shook all over with dry,
racking sobs.
Their home! Their home! They had lost it! Grief, despair, rage,
overwhelmed him--what was any imagination of the thing to this
heartbreaking, crushing reality of it--to the sight of strange people
living in his house, hanging their curtains to his windows, staring at
him with hostile eyes! It was monstrous, it was unthinkable--they could
not do it--it could not be true! Only think what he had suffered for
that house--what miseries they had all suffered for it--the price they
had paid for it!
The whole long agony came back to him. Their sacrifices in the
beginning, their three hundred dollars that they had scraped together,
all they owned in the world, all that stood between them and starvation!
And then their toil, month by month, to get together the twelve dollars,
and the interest as well, and now and then the taxes, and the other
charges, and the repairs, and what not! Why, they had put their very
souls into their payments on that house, they had paid for it with their
sweat and tears--yes, more, with their very lifeblood. Dede Antanas had
died of the struggle to earn that money--he would have been alive and
strong today if he had not had to work in Durham's dark cellars to earn
his share. And Ona, too, had given her health and strength to pay for
it--she was wrecked and ruined because of it; and so was he, who had
been a big, strong man three years ago, and now sat here shivering,
broken, cowed, weeping like a hysterical child. Ah! they had cast their
all into the fight; and they had lost, they had lost! All that they had
paid was gone--every cent of it. And their house was gone--they were
back where they had started from, flung out into the cold to starve and
freeze!
Jurgis could see all the truth now--could see himself, through the whole
long course of events, the victim of ravenous vultures that had torn
into his vitals and devoured him; of fiends that had racked and tortured
him, mocking him, meantime, jeering in his face. Ah, God, the horror
of it, the monstrous, hideous, demoniacal wickedness of it! He and his
family, helpless women and children, struggling to live, ignorant and
defenseless and forlorn as they were--and the enemies that had been
lurking for them, crouching upon their trail and thirsting for their
blood! That first lying circular, that smooth-tongued slippery agent!
That trap of the extra payments, the interest, and all the other charges
that they had not the means to pay, and would never have attempted to
pay! And then all the tricks of the packers, their masters, the tyrants
who ruled them--the shutdowns and the scarcity of work, the irregular
hours and the cruel speeding-up, the lowering of wages, the raising of
prices! The mercilessness of nature about them, of heat and cold, rain
and snow; the mercilessness of the city, of the country in which they
lived, of its laws and customs that they did not understand! All of
these things had worked together for the company that had marked them
for its prey and was waiting for its chance. And now, with this last
hideous injustice, its time had come, and it had turned them out bag
and baggage, and taken their house and sold it again! And they could
do nothing, they were tied hand and foot--the law was against them, the
whole machinery of society was at their oppressors' command! If Jurgis
so much as raised a hand against them, back he would go into that
wild-beast pen from which he had just escaped!
To get up and go away was to give up, to acknowledge defeat, to leave
the strange family in possession; and Jurgis might have sat shivering
in the rain for hours before he could do that, had it not been for
the thought of his family. It might be that he had worse things yet to
learn--and so he got to his feet and started away, walking on, wearily,
half-dazed.
To Aniele's house, in back of the yards, was a good two miles; the
distance had never seemed longer to Jurgis, and when he saw the familiar
dingy-gray shanty his heart was beating fast. He ran up the steps and
began to hammer upon the door.
The old woman herself came to open it. She had shrunk all up with her
rheumatism since Jurgis had seen her last, and her yellow parchment face
stared up at him from a little above the level of the doorknob. She gave
a start when she saw him. "Is Ona here?" he cried, breathlessly.
"Yes," was the answer, "she's here."
"How--" Jurgis began, and then stopped short, clutching convulsively at
the side of the door. From somewhere within the house had come a sudden
cry, a wild, horrible scream of anguish. And the voice was Ona's. For a
moment Jurgis stood half-paralyzed with fright; then he bounded past the
old woman and into the room.
It was Aniele's kitchen, and huddled round the stove were half a dozen
women, pale and frightened. One of them started to her feet as Jurgis
entered; she was haggard and frightfully thin, with one arm tied up in
bandages--he hardly realized that it was Marija. He looked first for
Ona; then, not seeing her, he stared at the women, expecting them to
speak. But they sat dumb, gazing back at him, panic-stricken; and a
second later came another piercing scream.
It was from the rear of the house, and upstairs. Jurgis bounded to a
door of the room and flung it open; there was a ladder leading through
a trap door to the garret, and he was at the foot of it when suddenly he
heard a voice behind him, and saw Marija at his heels. She seized him by
the sleeve with her good hand, panting wildly, "No, no, Jurgis! Stop!"
"What do you mean?" he gasped.
"You mustn't go up," she cried.
Jurgis was half-crazed with bewilderment and fright. "What's the
matter?" he shouted. "What is it?"
Marija clung to him tightly; he could hear Ona sobbing and moaning
above, and he fought to get away and climb up, without waiting for her
reply. "No, no," she rushed on. "Jurgis! You mustn't go up! It's--it's
the child!"
"The child?" he echoed in perplexity. "Antanas?"
Marija answered him, in a whisper: "The new one!"
And then Jurgis went limp, and caught himself on the ladder. He stared
at her as if she were a ghost. "The new one!" he gasped. "But it isn't
time," he added, wildly.
Marija nodded. "I know," she said; "but it's come."
And then again came Ona's scream, smiting him like a blow in the face,
making him wince and turn white. Her voice died away into a wail--then
he heard her sobbing again, "My God--let me die, let me die!" And Marija
hung her arms about him, crying: "Come out! Come away!"
She dragged him back into the kitchen, half carrying him, for he had
gone all to pieces. It was as if the pillars of his soul had fallen
in--he was blasted with horror. In the room he sank into a chair,
trembling like a leaf, Marija still holding him, and the women staring
at him in dumb, helpless fright.
And then again Ona cried out; he could hear it nearly as plainly here,
and he staggered to his feet. "How long has this been going on?" he
panted.
"Not very long," Marija answered, and then, at a signal from Aniele, she
rushed on: "You go away, Jurgis you can't help--go away and come back
later. It's all right--it's--"
"Who's with her?" Jurgis demanded; and then, seeing Marija hesitating,
he cried again, "Who's with her?"
"She's--she's all right," she answered. "Elzbieta's with her."
"But the doctor!" he panted. "Some one who knows!"
He seized Marija by the arm; she trembled, and her voice sank beneath a
whisper as she replied, "We--we have no money." Then, frightened at
the look on his face, she exclaimed: "It's all right, Jurgis! You don't
understand--go away--go away! Ah, if you only had waited!"
Above her protests Jurgis heard Ona again; he was almost out of his
mind. It was all new to him, raw and horrible--it had fallen upon him
like a lightning stroke. When little Antanas was born he had been at
work, and had known nothing about it until it was over; and now he was
not to be controlled. The frightened women were at their wits' end; one
after another they tried to reason with him, to make him understand that
this was the lot of woman. In the end they half drove him out into
the rain, where he began to pace up and down, bareheaded and frantic.
Because he could hear Ona from the street, he would first go away to
escape the sounds, and then come back because he could not help it. At
the end of a quarter of an hour he rushed up the steps again, and for
fear that he would break in the door they had to open it and let him in.
There was no arguing with him. They could not tell him that all was
going well--how could they know, he cried--why, she was dying, she was
being torn to pieces! Listen to her--listen! Why, it was monstrous--it
could not be allowed--there must be some help for it! Had they tried to
get a doctor? They might pay him afterward--they could promise--
"We couldn't promise, Jurgis," protested Marija. "We had no money--we
have scarcely been able to keep alive."
"But I can work," Jurgis exclaimed. "I can earn money!"
"Yes," she answered--"but we thought you were in jail. How could we know
when you would return? They will not work for nothing."
Marija went on to tell how she had tried to find a midwife, and how they
had demanded ten, fifteen, even twenty-five dollars, and that in cash.
"And I had only a quarter," she said. "I have spent every cent of my
money--all that I had in the bank; and I owe the doctor who has been
coming to see me, and he has stopped because he thinks I don't mean
to pay him. And we owe Aniele for two weeks' rent, and she is nearly
starving, and is afraid of being turned out. We have been borrowing and
begging to keep alive, and there is nothing more we can do--"
"And the children?" cried Jurgis.
"The children have not been home for three days, the weather has been so
bad. They could not know what is happening--it came suddenly, two months
before we expected it."
Jurgis was standing by the table, and he caught himself with his hand;
his head sank and his arms shook--it looked as if he were going to
collapse. Then suddenly Aniele got up and came hobbling toward him,
fumbling in her skirt pocket. She drew out a dirty rag, in one corner of
which she had something tied.
"Here, Jurgis!" she said, "I have some money. Palauk! See!"
She unwrapped it and counted it out--thirty-four cents. "You go, now,"
she said, "and try and get somebody yourself. And maybe the rest can
help--give him some money, you; he will pay you back some day, and it
will do him good to have something to think about, even if he doesn't
succeed. When he comes back, maybe it will be over."
And so the other women turned out the contents of their pocketbooks;
most of them had only pennies and nickels, but they gave him all. Mrs.
Olszewski, who lived next door, and had a husband who was a skilled
cattle butcher, but a drinking man, gave nearly half a dollar, enough
to raise the whole sum to a dollar and a quarter. Then Jurgis thrust it
into his pocket, still holding it tightly in his fist, and started away
at a run. | Jurgis has to stay in jail for longer than his thirty days to work off "court costs": a dollar and a half. Jurgis walks out of jail in the fertilizer clothes he came in with. He didn't grab his jacket when he ran out of the house to strangle Connor, so he is freezing as he is walking home. Jurgis's prison is just outside Chicago, so Jurgis has to ask for directions to the stockyards. They are twenty miles away! And Jurgis has to walk the whole distance. He gets lost on the way, having received bad directions. Eventually, he reaches his own street and runs towards his house. But Jurgis finds that the house is a different color. The broken window has been repaired. He is completely confused. The front door opens and a boy Jurgis has never seen before comes out. Jurgis asks the boy where Jurgis's family is. The boy is shocked: this is his family's house. The boy's mother comes out the door and agrees that they have just bought this house, which she believes is new. Jurgis runs to Grandmother Majauszkiene's house to find out where his family has gone. Grandmother Majauszkiene explains that, in Jurgis's absence, his family had been evicted. The company then refit the house and sold it to another family the next week. Jurgis rushes out again to Mrs. Jukniene's boarding house, where his family is staying. Jurgis weeps with grief and despair: he remembers all of the sacrifices they made to buy that house, just to lose it in the end! Jurgis arrives at Mrs. Jukniene's apartment and knocks on the door. He asks Mrs. Jukniene if Ona is there. Suddenly, Jurgis hears Ona scream. He pushes past Mrs. Jukniene into the apartment. Marija Berczynskas is there. Marija warns Jurgis not to go upstairs. Ona is in the middle of delivering her second child, but it is way, way premature. Ona keeps screaming and begging to die. Marija tells Jurgis to go away. Teta Elzbieta is with Ona, and there is nothing Jurgis can do. Marija protests that she tried to find a midwife, but they all charge much too much. Marija only has a quarter left, the family is starving, and they owe Mrs. Jukniene two weeks of rent. Meanwhile, the children have all been unable to come back in from downtown Chicago because the weather has been so bad. So the children don't know what further disasters have hit the family. Jurgis looks like he is about to collapse. Mrs. Jukniene gets up and hands him thirty-four cents. Their next-door neighbor, Mrs. Olszewski, gives Jurgis enough for a total of a buck twenty-five. Jurgis runs out to find a midwife. |
Ere the half-hour ended, five o'clock struck; school was dismissed, and
all were gone into the refectory to tea. I now ventured to descend: it
was deep dusk; I retired into a corner and sat down on the floor. The
spell by which I had been so far supported began to dissolve; reaction
took place, and soon, so overwhelming was the grief that seized me, I
sank prostrate with my face to the ground. Now I wept: Helen Burns was
not here; nothing sustained me; left to myself I abandoned myself, and my
tears watered the boards. I had meant to be so good, and to do so much
at Lowood: to make so many friends, to earn respect and win affection.
Already I had made visible progress: that very morning I had reached the
head of my class; Miss Miller had praised me warmly; Miss Temple had
smiled approbation; she had promised to teach me drawing, and to let me
learn French, if I continued to make similar improvement two months
longer: and then I was well received by my fellow-pupils; treated as an
equal by those of my own age, and not molested by any; now, here I lay
again crushed and trodden on; and could I ever rise more?
"Never," I thought; and ardently I wished to die. While sobbing out this
wish in broken accents, some one approached: I started up--again Helen
Burns was near me; the fading fires just showed her coming up the long,
vacant room; she brought my coffee and bread.
"Come, eat something," she said; but I put both away from me, feeling as
if a drop or a crumb would have choked me in my present condition. Helen
regarded me, probably with surprise: I could not now abate my agitation,
though I tried hard; I continued to weep aloud. She sat down on the
ground near me, embraced her knees with her arms, and rested her head
upon them; in that attitude she remained silent as an Indian. I was the
first who spoke--
"Helen, why do you stay with a girl whom everybody believes to be a
liar?"
"Everybody, Jane? Why, there are only eighty people who have heard you
called so, and the world contains hundreds of millions."
"But what have I to do with millions? The eighty, I know, despise me."
"Jane, you are mistaken: probably not one in the school either despises
or dislikes you: many, I am sure, pity you much."
"How can they pity me after what Mr. Brocklehurst has said?"
"Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god: nor is he even a great and admired man:
he is little liked here; he never took steps to make himself liked. Had
he treated you as an especial favourite, you would have found enemies,
declared or covert, all around you; as it is, the greater number would
offer you sympathy if they dared. Teachers and pupils may look coldly on
you for a day or two, but friendly feelings are concealed in their
hearts; and if you persevere in doing well, these feelings will ere long
appear so much the more evidently for their temporary suppression.
Besides, Jane"--she paused.
"Well, Helen?" said I, putting my hand into hers: she chafed my fingers
gently to warm them, and went on--
"If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked, while your own
conscience approved you, and absolved you from guilt, you would not be
without friends."
"No; I know I should think well of myself; but that is not enough: if
others don't love me I would rather die than live--I cannot bear to be
solitary and hated, Helen. Look here; to gain some real affection from
you, or Miss Temple, or any other whom I truly love, I would willingly
submit to have the bone of my arm broken, or to let a bull toss me, or to
stand behind a kicking horse, and let it dash its hoof at my chest--"
"Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human beings; you are too
impulsive, too vehement; the sovereign hand that created your frame, and
put life into it, has provided you with other resources than your feeble
self, or than creatures feeble as you. Besides this earth, and besides
the race of men, there is an invisible world and a kingdom of spirits:
that world is round us, for it is everywhere; and those spirits watch us,
for they are commissioned to guard us; and if we were dying in pain and
shame, if scorn smote us on all sides, and hatred crushed us, angels see
our tortures, recognise our innocence (if innocent we be: as I know you
are of this charge which Mr. Brocklehurst has weakly and pompously
repeated at second-hand from Mrs. Reed; for I read a sincere nature in
your ardent eyes and on your clear front), and God waits only the
separation of spirit from flesh to crown us with a full reward. Why,
then, should we ever sink overwhelmed with distress, when life is so soon
over, and death is so certain an entrance to happiness--to glory?"
I was silent; Helen had calmed me; but in the tranquillity she imparted
there was an alloy of inexpressible sadness. I felt the impression of
woe as she spoke, but I could not tell whence it came; and when, having
done speaking, she breathed a little fast and coughed a short cough, I
momentarily forgot my own sorrows to yield to a vague concern for her.
Resting my head on Helen's shoulder, I put my arms round her waist; she
drew me to her, and we reposed in silence. We had not sat long thus,
when another person came in. Some heavy clouds, swept from the sky by a
rising wind, had left the moon bare; and her light, streaming in through
a window near, shone full both on us and on the approaching figure, which
we at once recognised as Miss Temple.
"I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre," said she; "I want you in my
room; and as Helen Burns is with you, she may come too."
We went; following the superintendent's guidance, we had to thread some
intricate passages, and mount a staircase before we reached her
apartment; it contained a good fire, and looked cheerful. Miss Temple
told Helen Burns to be seated in a low arm-chair on one side of the
hearth, and herself taking another, she called me to her side.
"Is it all over?" she asked, looking down at my face. "Have you cried
your grief away?"
"I am afraid I never shall do that."
"Why?"
"Because I have been wrongly accused; and you, ma'am, and everybody else,
will now think me wicked."
"We shall think you what you prove yourself to be, my child. Continue to
act as a good girl, and you will satisfy us."
"Shall I, Miss Temple?"
"You will," said she, passing her arm round me. "And now tell me who is
the lady whom Mr. Brocklehurst called your benefactress?"
"Mrs. Reed, my uncle's wife. My uncle is dead, and he left me to her
care."
"Did she not, then, adopt you of her own accord?"
"No, ma'am; she was sorry to have to do it: but my uncle, as I have often
heard the servants say, got her to promise before he died that she would
always keep me."
"Well now, Jane, you know, or at least I will tell you, that when a
criminal is accused, he is always allowed to speak in his own defence.
You have been charged with falsehood; defend yourself to me as well as
you can. Say whatever your memory suggests is true; but add nothing and
exaggerate nothing."
I resolved, in the depth of my heart, that I would be most moderate--most
correct; and, having reflected a few minutes in order to arrange
coherently what I had to say, I told her all the story of my sad
childhood. Exhausted by emotion, my language was more subdued than it
generally was when it developed that sad theme; and mindful of Helen's
warnings against the indulgence of resentment, I infused into the
narrative far less of gall and wormwood than ordinary. Thus restrained
and simplified, it sounded more credible: I felt as I went on that Miss
Temple fully believed me.
In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd as having come to see
me after the fit: for I never forgot the, to me, frightful episode of the
red-room: in detailing which, my excitement was sure, in some degree, to
break bounds; for nothing could soften in my recollection the spasm of
agony which clutched my heart when Mrs. Reed spurned my wild supplication
for pardon, and locked me a second time in the dark and haunted chamber.
I had finished: Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes in silence; she
then said--
"I know something of Mr. Lloyd; I shall write to him; if his reply agrees
with your statement, you shall be publicly cleared from every imputation;
to me, Jane, you are clear now."
She kissed me, and still keeping me at her side (where I was well
contented to stand, for I derived a child's pleasure from the
contemplation of her face, her dress, her one or two ornaments, her white
forehead, her clustered and shining curls, and beaming dark eyes), she
proceeded to address Helen Burns.
"How are you to-night, Helen? Have you coughed much to-day?"
"Not quite so much, I think, ma'am."
"And the pain in your chest?"
"It is a little better."
Miss Temple got up, took her hand and examined her pulse; then she
returned to her own seat: as she resumed it, I heard her sigh low. She
was pensive a few minutes, then rousing herself, she said cheerfully--
"But you two are my visitors to-night; I must treat you as such." She
rang her bell.
"Barbara," she said to the servant who answered it, "I have not yet had
tea; bring the tray and place cups for these two young ladies."
And a tray was soon brought. How pretty, to my eyes, did the china cups
and bright teapot look, placed on the little round table near the fire!
How fragrant was the steam of the beverage, and the scent of the toast!
of which, however, I, to my dismay (for I was beginning to be hungry)
discerned only a very small portion: Miss Temple discerned it too.
"Barbara," said she, "can you not bring a little more bread and butter?
There is not enough for three."
Barbara went out: she returned soon--
"Madam, Mrs. Harden says she has sent up the usual quantity."
Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was the housekeeper: a woman after Mr.
Brocklehurst's own heart, made up of equal parts of whalebone and iron.
"Oh, very well!" returned Miss Temple; "we must make it do, Barbara, I
suppose." And as the girl withdrew she added, smiling, "Fortunately, I
have it in my power to supply deficiencies for this once."
Having invited Helen and me to approach the table, and placed before each
of us a cup of tea with one delicious but thin morsel of toast, she got
up, unlocked a drawer, and taking from it a parcel wrapped in paper,
disclosed presently to our eyes a good-sized seed-cake.
"I meant to give each of you some of this to take with you," said she,
"but as there is so little toast, you must have it now," and she
proceeded to cut slices with a generous hand.
We feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia; and not the least
delight of the entertainment was the smile of gratification with which
our hostess regarded us, as we satisfied our famished appetites on the
delicate fare she liberally supplied.
Tea over and the tray removed, she again summoned us to the fire; we sat
one on each side of her, and now a conversation followed between her and
Helen, which it was indeed a privilege to be admitted to hear.
Miss Temple had always something of serenity in her air, of state in her
mien, of refined propriety in her language, which precluded deviation
into the ardent, the excited, the eager: something which chastened the
pleasure of those who looked on her and listened to her, by a controlling
sense of awe; and such was my feeling now: but as to Helen Burns, I was
struck with wonder.
The refreshing meal, the brilliant fire, the presence and kindness of her
beloved instructress, or, perhaps, more than all these, something in her
own unique mind, had roused her powers within her. They woke, they
kindled: first, they glowed in the bright tint of her cheek, which till
this hour I had never seen but pale and bloodless; then they shone in the
liquid lustre of her eyes, which had suddenly acquired a beauty more
singular than that of Miss Temple's--a beauty neither of fine colour nor
long eyelash, nor pencilled brow, but of meaning, of movement, of
radiance. Then her soul sat on her lips, and language flowed, from what
source I cannot tell. Has a girl of fourteen a heart large enough,
vigorous enough, to hold the swelling spring of pure, full, fervid
eloquence? Such was the characteristic of Helen's discourse on that, to
me, memorable evening; her spirit seemed hastening to live within a very
brief span as much as many live during a protracted existence.
They conversed of things I had never heard of; of nations and times past;
of countries far away; of secrets of nature discovered or guessed at:
they spoke of books: how many they had read! What stores of knowledge
they possessed! Then they seemed so familiar with French names and
French authors: but my amazement reached its climax when Miss Temple
asked Helen if she sometimes snatched a moment to recall the Latin her
father had taught her, and taking a book from a shelf, bade her read and
construe a page of Virgil; and Helen obeyed, my organ of veneration
expanding at every sounding line. She had scarcely finished ere the bell
announced bedtime! no delay could be admitted; Miss Temple embraced us
both, saying, as she drew us to her heart--
"God bless you, my children!"
Helen she held a little longer than me: she let her go more reluctantly;
it was Helen her eye followed to the door; it was for her she a second
time breathed a sad sigh; for her she wiped a tear from her cheek.
On reaching the bedroom, we heard the voice of Miss Scatcherd: she was
examining drawers; she had just pulled out Helen Burns's, and when we
entered Helen was greeted with a sharp reprimand, and told that to-morrow
she should have half-a-dozen of untidily folded articles pinned to her
shoulder.
"My things were indeed in shameful disorder," murmured Helen to me, in a
low voice: "I intended to have arranged them, but I forgot."
Next morning, Miss Scatcherd wrote in conspicuous characters on a piece
of pasteboard the word "Slattern," and bound it like a phylactery round
Helen's large, mild, intelligent, and benign-looking forehead. She wore
it till evening, patient, unresentful, regarding it as a deserved
punishment. The moment Miss Scatcherd withdrew after afternoon school, I
ran to Helen, tore it off, and thrust it into the fire: the fury of which
she was incapable had been burning in my soul all day, and tears, hot and
large, had continually been scalding my cheek; for the spectacle of her
sad resignation gave me an intolerable pain at the heart.
About a week subsequently to the incidents above narrated, Miss Temple,
who had written to Mr. Lloyd, received his answer: it appeared that what
he said went to corroborate my account. Miss Temple, having assembled
the whole school, announced that inquiry had been made into the charges
alleged against Jane Eyre, and that she was most happy to be able to
pronounce her completely cleared from every imputation. The teachers
then shook hands with me and kissed me, and a murmur of pleasure ran
through the ranks of my companions.
Thus relieved of a grievous load, I from that hour set to work afresh,
resolved to pioneer my way through every difficulty: I toiled hard, and
my success was proportionate to my efforts; my memory, not naturally
tenacious, improved with practice; exercise sharpened my wits; in a few
weeks I was promoted to a higher class; in less than two months I was
allowed to commence French and drawing. I learned the first two tenses
of the verb _Etre_, and sketched my first cottage (whose walls, by-the-
bye, outrivalled in slope those of the leaning tower of Pisa), on the
same day. That night, on going to bed, I forgot to prepare in
imagination the Barmecide supper of hot roast potatoes, or white bread
and new milk, with which I was wont to amuse my inward cravings: I
feasted instead on the spectacle of ideal drawings, which I saw in the
dark; all the work of my own hands: freely pencilled houses and trees,
picturesque rocks and ruins, Cuyp-like groups of cattle, sweet paintings
of butterflies hovering over unblown roses, of birds picking at ripe
cherries, of wren's nests enclosing pearl-like eggs, wreathed about with
young ivy sprays. I examined, too, in thought, the possibility of my
ever being able to translate currently a certain little French story
which Madame Pierrot had that day shown me; nor was that problem solved
to my satisfaction ere I fell sweetly asleep.
Well has Solomon said--"Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a
stalled ox and hatred therewith."
I would not now have exchanged Lowood with all its privations for
Gateshead and its daily luxuries. | Finally, at five o'clock, the students disperse, and Jane collapses to the floor. Deeply ashamed, she is certain that her reputation at Lowood has been ruined, but Helen assures her that most of the girls felt more pity for Jane than revulsion at her alleged deceitfulness. Jane tells Miss Temple that she is not a liar, and relates the story of her tormented childhood at Gateshead. Miss Temple seems to believe Jane and writes to Mr. Lloyd requesting confirmation of Jane's account of events. Miss Temple offers Jane and Helen tea and seed cake, endearing herself even further to Jane. When Mr. Lloyd's letter arrives and corroborates Jane's story, Miss Temple publicly declares Jane to be innocent. Relieved and contented, Jane devotes herself to her studies. She excels at drawing and makes progress in French |
WHEN the dinner was over, and the first draughts from the great cask of
birthday ale were brought up, room was made for the broad Mr. Poyser at
the side of the table, and two chairs were placed at the head. It had
been settled very definitely what Mr. Poyser was to do when the young
squire should appear, and for the last five minutes he had been in a
state of abstraction, with his eyes fixed on the dark picture opposite,
and his hands busy with the loose cash and other articles in his
breeches pockets.
When the young squire entered, with Mr. Irwine by his side, every one
stood up, and this moment of homage was very agreeable to Arthur. He
liked to feel his own importance, and besides that, he cared a great
deal for the good-will of these people: he was fond of thinking that
they had a hearty, special regard for him. The pleasure he felt was in
his face as he said, "My grandfather and I hope all our friends here
have enjoyed their dinner, and find my birthday ale good. Mr. Irwine
and I are come to taste it with you, and I am sure we shall all like
anything the better that the rector shares with us."
All eyes were now turned on Mr. Poyser, who, with his hands still busy
in his pockets, began with the deliberateness of a slow-striking clock.
"Captain, my neighbours have put it upo' me to speak for 'em to-day, for
where folks think pretty much alike, one spokesman's as good as a score.
And though we've mayhappen got contrairy ways o' thinking about a many
things--one man lays down his land one way an' another another--an' I'll
not take it upon me to speak to no man's farming, but my own--this I'll
say, as we're all o' one mind about our young squire. We've pretty nigh
all on us known you when you war a little un, an' we've niver known
anything on you but what was good an' honorable. You speak fair an'
y' act fair, an' we're joyful when we look forrard to your being our
landlord, for we b'lieve you mean to do right by everybody, an' 'ull
make no man's bread bitter to him if you can help it. That's what I
mean, an' that's what we all mean; and when a man's said what he means,
he'd better stop, for th' ale 'ull be none the better for stannin'. An'
I'll not say how we like th' ale yet, for we couldna well taste it till
we'd drunk your health in it; but the dinner was good, an' if there's
anybody hasna enjoyed it, it must be the fault of his own inside. An' as
for the rector's company, it's well known as that's welcome t' all the
parish wherever he may be; an' I hope, an' we all hope, as he'll live
to see us old folks, an' our children grown to men an' women an' Your
Honour a family man. I've no more to say as concerns the present time,
an' so we'll drink our young squire's health--three times three."
Hereupon a glorious shouting, a rapping, a jingling, a clattering, and a
shouting, with plentiful da capo, pleasanter than a strain of sublimest
music in the ears that receive such a tribute for the first time. Arthur
had felt a twinge of conscience during Mr. Poyser's speech, but it was
too feeble to nullify the pleasure he felt in being praised. Did he not
deserve what was said of him on the whole? If there was something in
his conduct that Poyser wouldn't have liked if he had known it, why,
no man's conduct will bear too close an inspection; and Poyser was not
likely to know it; and, after all, what had he done? Gone a little too
far, perhaps, in flirtation, but another man in his place would have
acted much worse; and no harm would come--no harm should come, for the
next time he was alone with Hetty, he would explain to her that she must
not think seriously of him or of what had passed. It was necessary
to Arthur, you perceive, to be satisfied with himself. Uncomfortable
thoughts must be got rid of by good intentions for the future, which can
be formed so rapidly that he had time to be uncomfortable and to become
easy again before Mr. Poyser's slow speech was finished, and when it was
time for him to speak he was quite light-hearted.
"I thank you all, my good friends and neighbours," Arthur said, "for the
good opinion of me, and the kind feelings towards me which Mr. Poyser
has been expressing on your behalf and on his own, and it will always be
my heartiest wish to deserve them. In the course of things we may expect
that, if I live, I shall one day or other be your landlord; indeed, it
is on the ground of that expectation that my grandfather has wished me
to celebrate this day and to come among you now; and I look forward to
this position, not merely as one of power and pleasure for myself, but
as a means of benefiting my neighbours. It hardly becomes so young a man
as I am to talk much about farming to you, who are most of you so much
older, and are men of experience; still, I have interested myself a good
deal in such matters, and learned as much about them as my opportunities
have allowed; and when the course of events shall place the estate in
my hands, it will be my first desire to afford my tenants all the
encouragement a landlord can give them, in improving their land and
trying to bring about a better practice of husbandry. It will be my wish
to be looked on by all my deserving tenants as their best friend, and
nothing would make me so happy as to be able to respect every man on
the estate, and to be respected by him in return. It is not my place
at present to enter into particulars; I only meet your good hopes
concerning me by telling you that my own hopes correspond to them--that
what you expect from me I desire to fulfil; and I am quite of Mr.
Poyser's opinion, that when a man has said what he means, he had better
stop. But the pleasure I feel in having my own health drunk by you would
not be perfect if we did not drink the health of my grandfather, who has
filled the place of both parents to me. I will say no more, until you
have joined me in drinking his health on a day when he has wished me to
appear among you as the future representative of his name and family."
Perhaps there was no one present except Mr. Irwine who thoroughly
understood and approved Arthur's graceful mode of proposing his
grandfather's health. The farmers thought the young squire knew well
enough that they hated the old squire, and Mrs. Poyser said, "he'd
better not ha' stirred a kettle o' sour broth." The bucolic mind does
not readily apprehend the refinements of good taste. But the toast could
not be rejected and when it had been drunk, Arthur said, "I thank you,
both for my grandfather and myself; and now there is one more thing I
wish to tell you, that you may share my pleasure about it, as I hope
and believe you will. I think there can be no man here who has not a
respect, and some of you, I am sure, have a very high regard, for my
friend Adam Bede. It is well known to every one in this neighbourhood
that there is no man whose word can be more depended on than his; that
whatever he undertakes to do, he does well, and is as careful for the
interests of those who employ him as for his own. I'm proud to say that
I was very fond of Adam when I was a little boy, and I have never lost
my old feeling for him--I think that shows that I know a good fellow
when I find him. It has long been my wish that he should have the
management of the woods on the estate, which happen to be very valuable,
not only because I think so highly of his character, but because he has
the knowledge and the skill which fit him for the place. And I am happy
to tell you that it is my grandfather's wish too, and it is now settled
that Adam shall manage the woods--a change which I am sure will be very
much for the advantage of the estate; and I hope you will by and by join
me in drinking his health, and in wishing him all the prosperity in life
that he deserves. But there is a still older friend of mine than Adam
Bede present, and I need not tell you that it is Mr. Irwine. I'm sure
you will agree with me that we must drink no other person's health until
we have drunk his. I know you have all reason to love him, but no one of
his parishioners has so much reason as I. Come, charge your glasses, and
let us drink to our excellent rector--three times three!"
This toast was drunk with all the enthusiasm that was wanting to the
last, and it certainly was the most picturesque moment in the scene when
Mr. Irwine got up to speak, and all the faces in the room were turned
towards him. The superior refinement of his face was much more striking
than that of Arthur's when seen in comparison with the people round
them. Arthur's was a much commoner British face, and the splendour of
his new-fashioned clothes was more akin to the young farmer's taste
in costume than Mr. Irwine's powder and the well-brushed but well-worn
black, which seemed to be his chosen suit for great occasions; for he
had the mysterious secret of never wearing a new-looking coat.
"This is not the first time, by a great many," he said, "that I have
had to thank my parishioners for giving me tokens of their goodwill, but
neighbourly kindness is among those things that are the more precious
the older they get. Indeed, our pleasant meeting to-day is a proof that
when what is good comes of age and is likely to live, there is reason
for rejoicing, and the relation between us as clergyman and parishioners
came of age two years ago, for it is three-and-twenty years since I
first came among you, and I see some tall fine-looking young men here,
as well as some blooming young women, that were far from looking as
pleasantly at me when I christened them as I am happy to see them
looking now. But I'm sure you will not wonder when I say that among all
those young men, the one in whom I have the strongest interest is my
friend Mr. Arthur Donnithorne, for whom you have just expressed your
regard. I had the pleasure of being his tutor for several years, and
have naturally had opportunities of knowing him intimately which cannot
have occurred to any one else who is present; and I have some pride as
well as pleasure in assuring you that I share your high hopes concerning
him, and your confidence in his possession of those qualities which will
make him an excellent landlord when the time shall come for him to take
that important position among you. We feel alike on most matters on
which a man who is getting towards fifty can feel in common with a young
man of one-and-twenty, and he has just been expressing a feeling which
I share very heartily, and I would not willingly omit the opportunity of
saying so. That feeling is his value and respect for Adam Bede. People
in a high station are of course more thought of and talked about and
have their virtues more praised, than those whose lives are passed in
humble everyday work; but every sensible man knows how necessary that
humble everyday work is, and how important it is to us that it should be
done well. And I agree with my friend Mr. Arthur Donnithorne in feeling
that when a man whose duty lies in that sort of work shows a character
which would make him an example in any station, his merit should be
acknowledged. He is one of those to whom honour is due, and his friends
should delight to honour him. I know Adam Bede well--I know what he is
as a workman, and what he has been as a son and brother--and I am saying
the simplest truth when I say that I respect him as much as I respect
any man living. But I am not speaking to you about a stranger; some of
you are his intimate friends, and I believe there is not one here who
does not know enough of him to join heartily in drinking his health."
As Mr. Irwine paused, Arthur jumped up and, filling his glass, said, "A
bumper to Adam Bede, and may he live to have sons as faithful and clever
as himself!"
No hearer, not even Bartle Massey, was so delighted with this toast as
Mr. Poyser. "Tough work" as his first speech had been, he would have
started up to make another if he had not known the extreme irregularity
of such a course. As it was, he found an outlet for his feeling in
drinking his ale unusually fast, and setting down his glass with a swing
of his arm and a determined rap. If Jonathan Burge and a few others
felt less comfortable on the occasion, they tried their best to look
contented, and so the toast was drunk with a goodwill apparently
unanimous.
Adam was rather paler than usual when he got up to thank his friends. He
was a good deal moved by this public tribute--very naturally, for he was
in the presence of all his little world, and it was uniting to do him
honour. But he felt no shyness about speaking, not being troubled
with small vanity or lack of words; he looked neither awkward nor
embarrassed, but stood in his usual firm upright attitude, with his head
thrown a little backward and his hands perfectly still, in that rough
dignity which is peculiar to intelligent, honest, well-built workmen,
who are never wondering what is their business in the world.
"I'm quite taken by surprise," he said. "I didn't expect anything o'
this sort, for it's a good deal more than my wages. But I've the more
reason to be grateful to you, Captain, and to you, Mr. Irwine, and to
all my friends here, who've drunk my health and wished me well. It 'ud
be nonsense for me to be saying, I don't at all deserve th' opinion you
have of me; that 'ud be poor thanks to you, to say that you've known me
all these years and yet haven't sense enough to find out a great deal o'
the truth about me. You think, if I undertake to do a bit o' work, I'll
do it well, be my pay big or little--and that's true. I'd be ashamed
to stand before you here if it wasna true. But it seems to me that's
a man's plain duty, and nothing to be conceited about, and it's pretty
clear to me as I've never done more than my duty; for let us do what we
will, it's only making use o' the sperrit and the powers that ha' been
given to us. And so this kindness o' yours, I'm sure, is no debt you owe
me, but a free gift, and as such I accept it and am thankful. And as to
this new employment I've taken in hand, I'll only say that I took it
at Captain Donnithorne's desire, and that I'll try to fulfil his
expectations. I'd wish for no better lot than to work under him, and
to know that while I was getting my own bread I was taking care of his
int'rests. For I believe he's one o those gentlemen as wishes to do the
right thing, and to leave the world a bit better than he found it, which
it's my belief every man may do, whether he's gentle or simple, whether
he sets a good bit o' work going and finds the money, or whether he does
the work with his own hands. There's no occasion for me to say any more
about what I feel towards him: I hope to show it through the rest o' my
life in my actions."
There were various opinions about Adam's speech: some of the women
whispered that he didn't show himself thankful enough, and seemed to
speak as proud as could be; but most of the men were of opinion that
nobody could speak more straightfor'ard, and that Adam was as fine a
chap as need to be. While such observations were being buzzed about,
mingled with wonderings as to what the old squire meant to do for a
bailiff, and whether he was going to have a steward, the two gentlemen
had risen, and were walking round to the table where the wives and
children sat. There was none of the strong ale here, of course, but
wine and dessert--sparkling gooseberry for the young ones, and some good
sherry for the mothers. Mrs. Poyser was at the head of this table, and
Totty was now seated in her lap, bending her small nose deep down into a
wine-glass in search of the nuts floating there.
"How do you do, Mrs. Poyser?" said Arthur. "Weren't you pleased to hear
your husband make such a good speech to-day?"
"Oh, sir, the men are mostly so tongue-tied--you're forced partly to
guess what they mean, as you do wi' the dumb creaturs."
"What! you think you could have made it better for him?" said Mr.
Irwine, laughing.
"Well, sir, when I want to say anything, I can mostly find words to say
it in, thank God. Not as I'm a-finding faut wi' my husband, for if he's
a man o' few words, what he says he'll stand to."
"I'm sure I never saw a prettier party than this," Arthur said, looking
round at the apple-cheeked children. "My aunt and the Miss Irwines will
come up and see you presently. They were afraid of the noise of the
toasts, but it would be a shame for them not to see you at table."
He walked on, speaking to the mothers and patting the children, while
Mr. Irwine satisfied himself with standing still and nodding at a
distance, that no one's attention might be disturbed from the young
squire, the hero of the day. Arthur did not venture to stop near Hetty,
but merely bowed to her as he passed along the opposite side. The
foolish child felt her heart swelling with discontent; for what woman
was ever satisfied with apparent neglect, even when she knows it to be
the mask of love? Hetty thought this was going to be the most miserable
day she had had for a long while, a moment of chill daylight and reality
came across her dream: Arthur, who had seemed so near to her only a few
hours before, was separated from her, as the hero of a great procession
is separated from a small outsider in the crowd. | The Health-Drinking Arthur and Mr. Irwine enter the cloister dining hall, and all the tenants stand up. Mr. Poyser makes his speech, saying that everyone is of one opinion about Arthur: "You speak fair an' y'act fair" . Arthur feels a slight twinge, but thinks he deserves the praise as being basically a good person. He knows that nothing bad will happen with Hetty, for next time he will tell her it's over. Arthur pledges in return to be a good landlord and then announces the appointment of Adam Bede and introduces Mr. Irwine. Mr. Irwine drinks to Arthur saying that "I share your high hopes concerning him" and then goes on to praise Adam Bede as an important person, though he is not of high rank. All drink to Adam, who replies that a man does his duty, and he believes Arthur to be one of those who leaves the world a better place than he found it. Mr. Irwine asks Mrs. Poyser if she liked her husband's speech, and she replies that he did well enough, but she finds men are "tongue-tied" like "the dumb creatures" . She, on the other hand, thanks God, that she has no trouble with words. |
Jimmie and the old woman listened long in the hall. Above the muffled
roar of conversation, the dismal wailings of babies at night, the
thumping of feet in unseen corridors and rooms, mingled with the sound
of varied hoarse shoutings in the street and the rattling of wheels
over cobbles, they heard the screams of the child and the roars of the
mother die away to a feeble moaning and a subdued bass muttering.
The old woman was a gnarled and leathery personage who could don, at
will, an expression of great virtue. She possessed a small music-box
capable of one tune, and a collection of "God bless yehs" pitched in
assorted keys of fervency. Each day she took a position upon the
stones of Fifth Avenue, where she crooked her legs under her and
crouched immovable and hideous, like an idol. She received daily a
small sum in pennies. It was contributed, for the most part, by
persons who did not make their homes in that vicinity.
Once, when a lady had dropped her purse on the sidewalk, the gnarled
woman had grabbed it and smuggled it with great dexterity beneath her
cloak. When she was arrested she had cursed the lady into a partial
swoon, and with her aged limbs, twisted from rheumatism, had almost
kicked the stomach out of a huge policeman whose conduct upon that
occasion she referred to when she said: "The police, damn 'em."
"Eh, Jimmie, it's cursed shame," she said. "Go, now, like a dear an'
buy me a can, an' if yer mudder raises 'ell all night yehs can sleep
here."
Jimmie took a tendered tin-pail and seven pennies and departed. He
passed into the side door of a saloon and went to the bar. Straining
up on his toes he raised the pail and pennies as high as his arms would
let him. He saw two hands thrust down and take them. Directly the
same hands let down the filled pail and he left.
In front of the gruesome doorway he met a lurching figure. It was his
father, swaying about on uncertain legs.
"Give me deh can. See?" said the man, threateningly.
"Ah, come off! I got dis can fer dat ol' woman an' it 'ud be dirt teh
swipe it. See?" cried Jimmie.
The father wrenched the pail from the urchin. He grasped it in both
hands and lifted it to his mouth. He glued his lips to the under edge
and tilted his head. His hairy throat swelled until it seemed to grow
near his chin. There was a tremendous gulping movement and the beer
was gone.
The man caught his breath and laughed. He hit his son on the head with
the empty pail. As it rolled clanging into the street, Jimmie began to
scream and kicked repeatedly at his father's shins.
"Look at deh dirt what yeh done me," he yelled. "Deh ol' woman 'ill be
raisin' hell."
He retreated to the middle of the street, but the man did not pursue.
He staggered toward the door.
"I'll club hell outa yeh when I ketch yeh," he shouted, and disappeared.
During the evening he had been standing against a bar drinking whiskies
and declaring to all comers, confidentially: "My home reg'lar livin'
hell! Damndes' place! Reg'lar hell! Why do I come an' drin' whisk'
here thish way? 'Cause home reg'lar livin' hell!"
Jimmie waited a long time in the street and then crept warily up
through the building. He passed with great caution the door of the
gnarled woman, and finally stopped outside his home and listened.
He could hear his mother moving heavily about among the furniture of
the room. She was chanting in a mournful voice, occasionally
interjecting bursts of volcanic wrath at the father, who, Jimmie
judged, had sunk down on the floor or in a corner.
"Why deh blazes don' chere try teh keep Jim from fightin'? I'll break
her jaw," she suddenly bellowed.
The man mumbled with drunken indifference. "Ah, wha' deh hell. W'a's
odds? Wha' makes kick?"
"Because he tears 'is clothes, yeh damn fool," cried the woman in
supreme wrath.
The husband seemed to become aroused. "Go teh hell," he thundered
fiercely in reply. There was a crash against the door and something
broke into clattering fragments. Jimmie partially suppressed a howl
and darted down the stairway. Below he paused and listened. He heard
howls and curses, groans and shrieks, confusingly in chorus as if a
battle were raging. With all was the crash of splintering furniture.
The eyes of the urchin glared in fear that one of them would discover
him.
Curious faces appeared in doorways, and whispered comments passed to
and fro. "Ol' Johnson's raisin' hell agin."
Jimmie stood until the noises ceased and the other inhabitants of the
tenement had all yawned and shut their doors. Then he crawled upstairs
with the caution of an invader of a panther den. Sounds of labored
breathing came through the broken door-panels. He pushed the door open
and entered, quaking.
A glow from the fire threw red hues over the bare floor, the cracked
and soiled plastering, and the overturned and broken furniture.
In the middle of the floor lay his mother asleep. In one corner of the
room his father's limp body hung across the seat of a chair.
The urchin stole forward. He began to shiver in dread of awakening his
parents. His mother's great chest was heaving painfully. Jimmie
paused and looked down at her. Her face was inflamed and swollen from
drinking. Her yellow brows shaded eyelids that had brown blue. Her
tangled hair tossed in waves over her forehead. Her mouth was set in
the same lines of vindictive hatred that it had, perhaps, borne during
the fight. Her bare, red arms were thrown out above her head in
positions of exhaustion, something, mayhap, like those of a sated
villain.
The urchin bended over his mother. He was fearful lest she should open
her eyes, and the dread within him was so strong, that he could not
forbear to stare, but hung as if fascinated over the woman's grim face.
Suddenly her eyes opened. The urchin found himself looking straight
into that expression, which, it would seem, had the power to change his
blood to salt. He howled piercingly and fell backward.
The woman floundered for a moment, tossed her arms about her head as if
in combat, and again began to snore.
Jimmie crawled back in the shadows and waited. A noise in the next
room had followed his cry at the discovery that his mother was awake.
He grovelled in the gloom, the eyes from out his drawn face riveted
upon the intervening door.
He heard it creak, and then the sound of a small voice came to him.
"Jimmie! Jimmie! Are yehs dere?" it whispered. The urchin started.
The thin, white face of his sister looked at him from the door-way of
the other room. She crept to him across the floor.
The father had not moved, but lay in the same death-like sleep. The
mother writhed in uneasy slumber, her chest wheezing as if she were in
the agonies of strangulation. Out at the window a florid moon was
peering over dark roofs, and in the distance the waters of a river
glimmered pallidly.
The small frame of the ragged girl was quivering. Her features were
haggard from weeping, and her eyes gleamed from fear. She grasped the
urchin's arm in her little trembling hands and they huddled in a
corner. The eyes of both were drawn, by some force, to stare at the
woman's face, for they thought she need only to awake and all fiends
would come from below.
They crouched until the ghost-mists of dawn appeared at the window,
drawing close to the panes, and looking in at the prostrate, heaving
body of the mother. | The old neighbor has problems of her own. She's a beggar and a thief, but for now, she's Jimmie's only option. She dispatches Jimmie to buy her a can of beer. Unfortunately, Jimmie's father intercepts him and steals the beer. He can't cope with the "livin hell" at home either. Jimmie hangs out before returning to the apartment. He can hear his parents fighting, threatening, and perpetrating violence on each other; the neighbors comment on how "Ol' Johnson" is at it again. Apparently the parents have earned a bit of a reputation for hand-to-hand combat. Jimmie finally gathers the courage to return, and when he does, he finds his drunken parents passed out on the floor. He and Maggie hold each other, quivering and scared, until "the ghost mists of dawn" arrive. |
The train had started punctually. Among the passengers were a number
of officers, Government officials, and opium and indigo merchants,
whose business called them to the eastern coast. Passepartout rode in
the same carriage with his master, and a third passenger occupied a
seat opposite to them. This was Sir Francis Cromarty, one of Mr.
Fogg's whist partners on the Mongolia, now on his way to join his corps
at Benares. Sir Francis was a tall, fair man of fifty, who had greatly
distinguished himself in the last Sepoy revolt. He made India his
home, only paying brief visits to England at rare intervals; and was
almost as familiar as a native with the customs, history, and character
of India and its people. But Phileas Fogg, who was not travelling, but
only describing a circumference, took no pains to inquire into these
subjects; he was a solid body, traversing an orbit around the
terrestrial globe, according to the laws of rational mechanics. He was
at this moment calculating in his mind the number of hours spent since
his departure from London, and, had it been in his nature to make a
useless demonstration, would have rubbed his hands for satisfaction.
Sir Francis Cromarty had observed the oddity of his travelling
companion--although the only opportunity he had for studying him had
been while he was dealing the cards, and between two rubbers--and
questioned himself whether a human heart really beat beneath this cold
exterior, and whether Phileas Fogg had any sense of the beauties of
nature. The brigadier-general was free to mentally confess that, of
all the eccentric persons he had ever met, none was comparable to this
product of the exact sciences.
Phileas Fogg had not concealed from Sir Francis his design of going
round the world, nor the circumstances under which he set out; and the
general only saw in the wager a useless eccentricity and a lack of
sound common sense. In the way this strange gentleman was going on, he
would leave the world without having done any good to himself or
anybody else.
An hour after leaving Bombay the train had passed the viaducts and the
Island of Salcette, and had got into the open country. At Callyan they
reached the junction of the branch line which descends towards
south-eastern India by Kandallah and Pounah; and, passing Pauwell, they
entered the defiles of the mountains, with their basalt bases, and
their summits crowned with thick and verdant forests. Phileas Fogg and
Sir Francis Cromarty exchanged a few words from time to time, and now
Sir Francis, reviving the conversation, observed, "Some years ago, Mr.
Fogg, you would have met with a delay at this point which would
probably have lost you your wager."
"How so, Sir Francis?"
"Because the railway stopped at the base of these mountains, which the
passengers were obliged to cross in palanquins or on ponies to
Kandallah, on the other side."
"Such a delay would not have deranged my plans in the least," said Mr.
Fogg. "I have constantly foreseen the likelihood of certain obstacles."
"But, Mr. Fogg," pursued Sir Francis, "you run the risk of having some
difficulty about this worthy fellow's adventure at the pagoda."
Passepartout, his feet comfortably wrapped in his travelling-blanket,
was sound asleep and did not dream that anybody was talking about him.
"The Government is very severe upon that kind of offence. It takes
particular care that the religious customs of the Indians should be
respected, and if your servant were caught--"
"Very well, Sir Francis," replied Mr. Fogg; "if he had been caught he
would have been condemned and punished, and then would have quietly
returned to Europe. I don't see how this affair could have delayed his
master."
The conversation fell again. During the night the train left the
mountains behind, and passed Nassik, and the next day proceeded over
the flat, well-cultivated country of the Khandeish, with its straggling
villages, above which rose the minarets of the pagodas. This fertile
territory is watered by numerous small rivers and limpid streams,
mostly tributaries of the Godavery.
Passepartout, on waking and looking out, could not realise that he was
actually crossing India in a railway train. The locomotive, guided by
an English engineer and fed with English coal, threw out its smoke upon
cotton, coffee, nutmeg, clove, and pepper plantations, while the steam
curled in spirals around groups of palm-trees, in the midst of which
were seen picturesque bungalows, viharis (sort of abandoned
monasteries), and marvellous temples enriched by the exhaustless
ornamentation of Indian architecture. Then they came upon vast tracts
extending to the horizon, with jungles inhabited by snakes and tigers,
which fled at the noise of the train; succeeded by forests penetrated
by the railway, and still haunted by elephants which, with pensive
eyes, gazed at the train as it passed. The travellers crossed, beyond
Milligaum, the fatal country so often stained with blood by the
sectaries of the goddess Kali. Not far off rose Ellora, with its
graceful pagodas, and the famous Aurungabad, capital of the ferocious
Aureng-Zeb, now the chief town of one of the detached provinces of the
kingdom of the Nizam. It was thereabouts that Feringhea, the Thuggee
chief, king of the stranglers, held his sway. These ruffians, united
by a secret bond, strangled victims of every age in honour of the
goddess Death, without ever shedding blood; there was a period when
this part of the country could scarcely be travelled over without
corpses being found in every direction. The English Government has
succeeded in greatly diminishing these murders, though the Thuggees
still exist, and pursue the exercise of their horrible rites.
At half-past twelve the train stopped at Burhampoor where Passepartout
was able to purchase some Indian slippers, ornamented with false
pearls, in which, with evident vanity, he proceeded to encase his feet.
The travellers made a hasty breakfast and started off for Assurghur,
after skirting for a little the banks of the small river Tapty, which
empties into the Gulf of Cambray, near Surat.
Passepartout was now plunged into absorbing reverie. Up to his arrival
at Bombay, he had entertained hopes that their journey would end there;
but, now that they were plainly whirling across India at full speed, a
sudden change had come over the spirit of his dreams. His old vagabond
nature returned to him; the fantastic ideas of his youth once more took
possession of him. He came to regard his master's project as intended
in good earnest, believed in the reality of the bet, and therefore in
the tour of the world and the necessity of making it without fail
within the designated period. Already he began to worry about possible
delays, and accidents which might happen on the way. He recognised
himself as being personally interested in the wager, and trembled at
the thought that he might have been the means of losing it by his
unpardonable folly of the night before. Being much less cool-headed
than Mr. Fogg, he was much more restless, counting and recounting the
days passed over, uttering maledictions when the train stopped, and
accusing it of sluggishness, and mentally blaming Mr. Fogg for not
having bribed the engineer. The worthy fellow was ignorant that, while
it was possible by such means to hasten the rate of a steamer, it could
not be done on the railway.
The train entered the defiles of the Sutpour Mountains, which separate
the Khandeish from Bundelcund, towards evening. The next day Sir
Francis Cromarty asked Passepartout what time it was; to which, on
consulting his watch, he replied that it was three in the morning.
This famous timepiece, always regulated on the Greenwich meridian,
which was now some seventy-seven degrees westward, was at least four
hours slow. Sir Francis corrected Passepartout's time, whereupon the
latter made the same remark that he had done to Fix; and upon the
general insisting that the watch should be regulated in each new
meridian, since he was constantly going eastward, that is in the face
of the sun, and therefore the days were shorter by four minutes for
each degree gone over, Passepartout obstinately refused to alter his
watch, which he kept at London time. It was an innocent delusion which
could harm no one.
The train stopped, at eight o'clock, in the midst of a glade some
fifteen miles beyond Rothal, where there were several bungalows, and
workmen's cabins. The conductor, passing along the carriages, shouted,
"Passengers will get out here!"
Phileas Fogg looked at Sir Francis Cromarty for an explanation; but the
general could not tell what meant a halt in the midst of this forest of
dates and acacias.
Passepartout, not less surprised, rushed out and speedily returned,
crying: "Monsieur, no more railway!"
"What do you mean?" asked Sir Francis.
"I mean to say that the train isn't going on."
The general at once stepped out, while Phileas Fogg calmly followed
him, and they proceeded together to the conductor.
"Where are we?" asked Sir Francis.
"At the hamlet of Kholby."
"Do we stop here?"
"Certainly. The railway isn't finished."
"What! not finished?"
"No. There's still a matter of fifty miles to be laid from here to
Allahabad, where the line begins again."
"But the papers announced the opening of the railway throughout."
"What would you have, officer? The papers were mistaken."
"Yet you sell tickets from Bombay to Calcutta," retorted Sir Francis,
who was growing warm.
"No doubt," replied the conductor; "but the passengers know that they
must provide means of transportation for themselves from Kholby to
Allahabad."
Sir Francis was furious. Passepartout would willingly have knocked the
conductor down, and did not dare to look at his master.
"Sir Francis," said Mr. Fogg quietly, "we will, if you please, look
about for some means of conveyance to Allahabad."
"Mr. Fogg, this is a delay greatly to your disadvantage."
"No, Sir Francis; it was foreseen."
"What! You knew that the way--"
"Not at all; but I knew that some obstacle or other would sooner or
later arise on my route. Nothing, therefore, is lost. I have two days,
which I have already gained, to sacrifice. A steamer leaves Calcutta
for Hong Kong at noon, on the 25th. This is the 22nd, and we shall
reach Calcutta in time."
There was nothing to say to so confident a response.
It was but too true that the railway came to a termination at this
point. The papers were like some watches, which have a way of getting
too fast, and had been premature in their announcement of the
completion of the line. The greater part of the travellers were aware
of this interruption, and, leaving the train, they began to engage such
vehicles as the village could provide four-wheeled palkigharis, waggons
drawn by zebus, carriages that looked like perambulating pagodas,
palanquins, ponies, and what not.
Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty, after searching the village from end
to end, came back without having found anything.
"I shall go afoot," said Phileas Fogg.
Passepartout, who had now rejoined his master, made a wry grimace, as
he thought of his magnificent, but too frail Indian shoes. Happily he
too had been looking about him, and, after a moment's hesitation, said,
"Monsieur, I think I have found a means of conveyance."
"What?"
"An elephant! An elephant that belongs to an Indian who lives but a
hundred steps from here."
"Let's go and see the elephant," replied Mr. Fogg.
They soon reached a small hut, near which, enclosed within some high
palings, was the animal in question. An Indian came out of the hut,
and, at their request, conducted them within the enclosure. The
elephant, which its owner had reared, not for a beast of burden, but
for warlike purposes, was half domesticated. The Indian had begun
already, by often irritating him, and feeding him every three months on
sugar and butter, to impart to him a ferocity not in his nature, this
method being often employed by those who train the Indian elephants for
battle. Happily, however, for Mr. Fogg, the animal's instruction in
this direction had not gone far, and the elephant still preserved his
natural gentleness. Kiouni--this was the name of the beast--could
doubtless travel rapidly for a long time, and, in default of any other
means of conveyance, Mr. Fogg resolved to hire him. But elephants are
far from cheap in India, where they are becoming scarce, the males,
which alone are suitable for circus shows, are much sought, especially
as but few of them are domesticated. When therefore Mr. Fogg proposed
to the Indian to hire Kiouni, he refused point-blank. Mr. Fogg
persisted, offering the excessive sum of ten pounds an hour for the
loan of the beast to Allahabad. Refused. Twenty pounds? Refused
also. Forty pounds? Still refused. Passepartout jumped at each
advance; but the Indian declined to be tempted. Yet the offer was an
alluring one, for, supposing it took the elephant fifteen hours to
reach Allahabad, his owner would receive no less than six hundred
pounds sterling.
Phileas Fogg, without getting in the least flurried, then proposed to
purchase the animal outright, and at first offered a thousand pounds
for him. The Indian, perhaps thinking he was going to make a great
bargain, still refused.
Sir Francis Cromarty took Mr. Fogg aside, and begged him to reflect
before he went any further; to which that gentleman replied that he was
not in the habit of acting rashly, that a bet of twenty thousand pounds
was at stake, that the elephant was absolutely necessary to him, and
that he would secure him if he had to pay twenty times his value.
Returning to the Indian, whose small, sharp eyes, glistening with
avarice, betrayed that with him it was only a question of how great a
price he could obtain. Mr. Fogg offered first twelve hundred, then
fifteen hundred, eighteen hundred, two thousand pounds. Passepartout,
usually so rubicund, was fairly white with suspense.
At two thousand pounds the Indian yielded.
"What a price, good heavens!" cried Passepartout, "for an elephant."
It only remained now to find a guide, which was comparatively easy. A
young Parsee, with an intelligent face, offered his services, which Mr.
Fogg accepted, promising so generous a reward as to materially
stimulate his zeal. The elephant was led out and equipped. The
Parsee, who was an accomplished elephant driver, covered his back with
a sort of saddle-cloth, and attached to each of his flanks some
curiously uncomfortable howdahs. Phileas Fogg paid the Indian with
some banknotes which he extracted from the famous carpet-bag, a
proceeding that seemed to deprive poor Passepartout of his vitals.
Then he offered to carry Sir Francis to Allahabad, which the brigadier
gratefully accepted, as one traveller the more would not be likely to
fatigue the gigantic beast. Provisions were purchased at Kholby, and,
while Sir Francis and Mr. Fogg took the howdahs on either side,
Passepartout got astride the saddle-cloth between them. The Parsee
perched himself on the elephant's neck, and at nine o'clock they set
out from the village, the animal marching off through the dense forest
of palms by the shortest cut. | The train started punctually. Among the passengers were a number of officers, government officials, and opium and indigo merchants. Passepartout rode in the same carriage with his master, and a third passenger occupied a seat opposite to them. This was Sir Francis Cromarty, one of Mr. Foggs whist partners on the Mongolia. Sir Francis knew a lot about India but Fogg was not interested in knowing anything from the former. Sir Francis Cromarty had observed the oddity of his travelling companion although the only opportunity he had for studying him had been while he was dealing the cards, and between two rubbers and questioned himself whether a human heart really beat beneath this cold exterior, and whether Phileas Fogg had any sense of the beauties of nature. The brigadier general was free to mentally confess that, of all the eccentric persons he had ever met, none was comparable to this product of the exact sciences. Phileas Fogg had not concealed from Sir Francis his design of going round the world and the general only saw in the wager a useless eccentricity and a lack of sound common sense. In the way this strange gentleman was going on, he would leave the world without having done any good to himself or anybody else. The course of the train is described along with the scanty conversation that Fogg has with Comarty. Comarty warns Fogg that the latter might get into trouble because of Passepartouts entering the holy pagoda at Bombay. Fogg feels that his servants mistake cannot harm him in any way. Passepartout, on waking and looking out, could not realize that he was actually crossing India in a railway train. The land through which the train passes is described here. At half past twelve the train stopped at Burhampoor, where Passepartout was able to purchase some Indian slippers, ornamented with false pearls, in which, he proceeded to encase his feet. The travelers made a hasty breakfast and started off for Assurghur, after skirting for a little the banks of the small river Tapty, which empties into the Gulf of Cambray, near Surat. Passepartout was now plunged into absorbing reverie. He worried about the wager and whether Fogg would be able to complete his mission. He realizes that this is not a jest and that his master is serious about traversing the globe. The train stopped, at eight oclock, in the midst of a glade some fifteen miles beyond Rothal, where there were several bungalows, and workmens cabins. The conductor, passing along the carriages, shouted, "Passengers will get out here!" Phileas Fogg looked at Sir Francis Cromarty for an explanation; but the general could not tell what meant a halt in the midst of this forest of dates and acacias. Passepartout, not less surprised, rushed out and speedily returned, crying: "Monsieur, no more railway!" They learn that the rail has not been lain from this place till Allahabad and so the passengers will have to find their own way to Allahabad and from there they can once again board a train to Calcutta. While Sir Francis and Passepartout are very angry, Fogg is calm and looks for a means of transport. Passepartout finds an elephant and they all go to have a look at it. They soon reach a small hut, near which, enclosed within some high palings, was the animal in question. Kiouni this was the name of the beast could doubtless travel rapidly for a long time, and, in default of any other means of conveyance, Mr. Fogg resolved to hire him. But, the mahout was unwilling to hire out the elephant even at a high price. Phileas Fogg, without getting in the least flurried, then proposed to purchase the animal outright, and at first offered a thousand pounds for him. Sir Francis Cromarty took Mr. Fogg aside, and begged him to reflect before he went any further; to which that gentleman replied that he was not in the habit of acting rashly, that a bet of twenty thousand pounds was at stake, that the elephant was absolutely necessary to him, and that he would secure him if he had to pay twenty times his value. At two thousand pounds the Indian yielded. They found a guide easily. A young Parsee, with an intelligent face, offered his services, which Mr. Fogg accepted, promising a generous reward as to stimulate his zeal. The elephant was led out and equipped. Phileas Fogg paid the Indian with some banknotes, which he extracted from the famous carpet bag. Then Fogg offered to carry Sir Francis to Allahabad, which the brigadier gratefully accepted. Provisions were purchased at Kholby, and, while Sir Francis and Mr. Fogg took the howdahs on either side, Passepartout got astride the saddle cloth between them. The Parsee perched himself on the elephants neck, and at nine oclock they set out from the village, the animal marching off through the dense forest of palms by the shortest cut. |
I first saw the light in the city of Boston in the year 1857. "What!"
you say, "eighteen fifty-seven? That is an odd slip. He means nineteen
fifty-seven, of course." I beg pardon, but there is no mistake. It was
about four in the afternoon of December the 26th, one day after
Christmas, in the year 1857, not 1957, that I first breathed the east
wind of Boston, which, I assure the reader, was at that remote period
marked by the same penetrating quality characterizing it in the
present year of grace, 2000.
These statements seem so absurd on their face, especially when I add
that I am a young man apparently of about thirty years of age, that no
person can be blamed for refusing to read another word of what
promises to be a mere imposition upon his credulity. Nevertheless I
earnestly assure the reader that no imposition is intended, and will
undertake, if he shall follow me a few pages, to entirely convince him
of this. If I may, then, provisionally assume, with the pledge of
justifying the assumption, that I know better than the reader when I
was born, I will go on with my narrative. As every schoolboy knows, in
the latter part of the nineteenth century the civilization of to-day,
or anything like it, did not exist, although the elements which were
to develop it were already in ferment. Nothing had, however, occurred
to modify the immemorial division of society into the four classes, or
nations, as they may be more fitly called, since the differences
between them were far greater than those between any nations nowadays,
of the rich and the poor, the educated and the ignorant. I myself was
rich and also educated, and possessed, therefore, all the elements of
happiness enjoyed by the most fortunate in that age. Living in luxury,
and occupied only with the pursuit of the pleasures and refinements of
life, I derived the means of my support from the labor of others,
rendering no sort of service in return. My parents and grandparents
had lived in the same way, and I expected that my descendants, if I
had any, would enjoy a like easy existence.
But how could I live without service to the world? you ask. Why should
the world have supported in utter idleness one who was able to render
service? The answer is that my great-grandfather had accumulated a sum
of money on which his descendants had ever since lived. The sum, you
will naturally infer, must have been very large not to have been
exhausted in supporting three generations in idleness. This, however,
was not the fact. The sum had been originally by no means large. It
was, in fact, much larger now that three generations had been
supported upon it in idleness, than it was at first. This mystery of
use without consumption, of warmth without combustion, seems like
magic, but was merely an ingenious application of the art now happily
lost but carried to great perfection by your ancestors, of shifting
the burden of one's support on the shoulders of others. The man who
had accomplished this, and it was the end all sought, was said to live
on the income of his investments. To explain at this point how the
ancient methods of industry made this possible would delay us too
much. I shall only stop now to say that interest on investments was a
species of tax in perpetuity upon the product of those engaged in
industry which a person possessing or inheriting money was able to
levy. It must not be supposed that an arrangement which seems so
unnatural and preposterous according to modern notions was never
criticised by your ancestors. It had been the effort of law-givers and
prophets from the earliest ages to abolish interest, or at least to
limit it to the smallest possible rate. All these efforts had,
however, failed, as they necessarily must so long as the ancient
social organizations prevailed. At the time of which I write, the
latter part of the nineteenth century, governments had generally given
up trying to regulate the subject at all.
By way of attempting to give the reader some general impression of the
way people lived together in those days, and especially of the
relations of the rich and poor to one another, perhaps I cannot do
better than to compare society as it then was to a prodigious coach
which the masses of humanity were harnessed to and dragged toilsomely
along a very hilly and sandy road. The driver was hunger, and
permitted no lagging, though the pace was necessarily very slow.
Despite the difficulty of drawing the coach at all along so hard a
road, the top was covered with passengers who never got down, even at
the steepest ascents. These seats on top were very breezy and
comfortable. Well up out of the dust, their occupants could enjoy the
scenery at their leisure, or critically discuss the merits of the
straining team. Naturally such places were in great demand and the
competition for them was keen, every one seeking as the first end in
life to secure a seat on the coach for himself and to leave it to his
child after him. By the rule of the coach a man could leave his seat
to whom he wished, but on the other hand there were many accidents by
which it might at any time be wholly lost. For all that they were so
easy, the seats were very insecure, and at every sudden jolt of the
coach persons were slipping out of them and falling to the ground,
where they were instantly compelled to take hold of the rope and help
to drag the coach on which they had before ridden so pleasantly. It
was naturally regarded as a terrible misfortune to lose one's seat,
and the apprehension that this might happen to them or their friends
was a constant cloud upon the happiness of those who rode.
But did they think only of themselves? you ask. Was not their very
luxury rendered intolerable to them by comparison with the lot of
their brothers and sisters in the harness, and the knowledge that
their own weight added to their toil? Had they no compassion for
fellow beings from whom fortune only distinguished them? Oh, yes;
commiseration was frequently expressed by those who rode for those who
had to pull the coach, especially when the vehicle came to a bad place
in the road, as it was constantly doing, or to a particularly steep
hill. At such times, the desperate straining of the team, their
agonized leaping and plunging under the pitiless lashing of hunger,
the many who fainted at the rope and were trampled in the mire, made a
very distressing spectacle, which often called forth highly creditable
displays of feeling on the top of the coach. At such times the
passengers would call down encouragingly to the toilers of the rope,
exhorting them to patience, and holding out hopes of possible
compensation in another world for the hardness of their lot, while
others contributed to buy salves and liniments for the crippled and
injured. It was agreed that it was a great pity that the coach should
be so hard to pull, and there was a sense of general relief when the
specially bad piece of road was gotten over. This relief was not,
indeed, wholly on account of the team, for there was always some
danger at these bad places of a general overturn in which all would
lose their seats.
It must in truth be admitted that the main effect of the spectacle of
the misery of the toilers at the rope was to enhance the passengers'
sense of the value of their seats upon the coach, and to cause them to
hold on to them more desperately than before. If the passengers could
only have felt assured that neither they nor their friends would ever
fall from the top, it is probable that, beyond contributing to the
funds for liniments and bandages, they would have troubled themselves
extremely little about those who dragged the coach.
I am well aware that this will appear to the men and women of the
twentieth century an incredible inhumanity, but there are two facts,
both very curious, which partly explain it. In the first place, it was
firmly and sincerely believed that there was no other way in which
Society could get along, except the many pulled at the rope and the
few rode, and not only this, but that no very radical improvement even
was possible, either in the harness, the coach, the roadway, or the
distribution of the toil. It had always been as it was, and it always
would be so. It was a pity, but it could not be helped, and philosophy
forbade wasting compassion on what was beyond remedy.
The other fact is yet more curious, consisting in a singular
hallucination which those on the top of the coach generally shared,
that they were not exactly like their brothers and sisters who pulled
at the rope, but of finer clay, in some way belonging to a higher
order of beings who might justly expect to be drawn. This seems
unaccountable, but, as I once rode on this very coach and shared that
very hallucination, I ought to be believed. The strangest thing about
the hallucination was that those who had but just climbed up from the
ground, before they had outgrown the marks of the rope upon their
hands, began to fall under its influence. As for those whose parents
and grandparents before them had been so fortunate as to keep their
seats on the top, the conviction they cherished of the essential
difference between their sort of humanity and the common article was
absolute. The effect of such a delusion in moderating fellow feeling
for the sufferings of the mass of men into a distant and philosophical
compassion is obvious. To it I refer as the only extenuation I can
offer for the indifference which, at the period I write of, marked my
own attitude toward the misery of my brothers.
In 1887 I came to my thirtieth year. Although still unmarried, I was
engaged to wed Edith Bartlett. She, like myself, rode on the top of
the coach. That is to say, not to encumber ourselves further with an
illustration which has, I hope, served its purpose of giving the
reader some general impression of how we lived then, her family was
wealthy. In that age, when money alone commanded all that was
agreeable and refined in life, it was enough for a woman to be rich to
have suitors; but Edith Bartlett was beautiful and graceful also.
My lady readers, I am aware, will protest at this. "Handsome she might
have been," I hear them saying, "but graceful never, in the costumes
which were the fashion at that period, when the head covering was a
dizzy structure a foot tall, and the almost incredible extension of
the skirt behind by means of artificial contrivances more thoroughly
dehumanized the form than any former device of dressmakers. Fancy any
one graceful in such a costume!" The point is certainly well taken,
and I can only reply that while the ladies of the twentieth century
are lovely demonstrations of the effect of appropriate drapery in
accenting feminine graces, my recollection of their great-grandmothers
enables me to maintain that no deformity of costume can wholly
disguise them.
Our marriage only waited on the completion of the house which I was
building for our occupancy in one of the most desirable parts of the
city, that is to say, a part chiefly inhabited by the rich. For it
must be understood that the comparative desirability of different
parts of Boston for residence depended then, not on natural features,
but on the character of the neighboring population. Each class or
nation lived by itself, in quarters of its own. A rich man living
among the poor, an educated man among the uneducated, was like one
living in isolation among a jealous and alien race. When the house had
been begun, its completion by the winter of 1886 had been expected.
The spring of the following year found it, however, yet incomplete,
and my marriage still a thing of the future. The cause of a delay
calculated to be particularly exasperating to an ardent lover was a
series of strikes, that is to say, concerted refusals to work on the
part of the brick-layers, masons, carpenters, painters, plumbers, and
other trades concerned in house building. What the specific causes of
these strikes were I do not remember. Strikes had become so common at
that period that people had ceased to inquire into their particular
grounds. In one department of industry or another, they had been
nearly incessant ever since the great business crisis of 1873. In fact
it had come to be the exceptional thing to see any class of laborers
pursue their avocation steadily for more than a few months at a time.
The reader who observes the dates alluded to will of course recognize
in these disturbances of industry the first and incoherent phase of
the great movement which ended in the establishment of the modern
industrial system with all its social consequences. This is all so
plain in the retrospect that a child can understand it, but not being
prophets, we of that day had no clear idea what was happening to us.
What we did see was that industrially the country was in a very queer
way. The relation between the workingman and the employer, between
labor and capital, appeared in some unaccountable manner to have
become dislocated. The working classes had quite suddenly and very
generally become infected with a profound discontent with their
condition, and an idea that it could be greatly bettered if they only
knew how to go about it. On every side, with one accord, they
preferred demands for higher pay, shorter hours, better dwellings,
better educational advantages, and a share in the refinements and
luxuries of life, demands which it was impossible to see the way to
granting unless the world were to become a great deal richer than it
then was. Though they knew something of what they wanted, they knew
nothing of how to accomplish it, and the eager enthusiasm with which
they thronged about any one who seemed likely to give them any light
on the subject lent sudden reputation to many would-be leaders, some
of whom had little enough light to give. However chimerical the
aspirations of the laboring classes might be deemed, the devotion
with which they supported one another in the strikes, which were their
chief weapon, and the sacrifices which they underwent to carry them
out left no doubt of their dead earnestness.
As to the final outcome of the labor troubles, which was the phrase by
which the movement I have described was most commonly referred to, the
opinions of the people of my class differed according to individual
temperament. The sanguine argued very forcibly that it was in the very
nature of things impossible that the new hopes of the workingmen could
be satisfied, simply because the world had not the wherewithal to
satisfy them. It was only because the masses worked very hard and
lived on short commons that the race did not starve outright, and no
considerable improvement in their condition was possible while the
world, as a whole, remained so poor. It was not the capitalists whom
the laboring men were contending with, these maintained, but the
iron-bound environment of humanity, and it was merely a question of
the thickness of their skulls when they would discover the fact and
make up their minds to endure what they could not cure.
The less sanguine admitted all this. Of course the workingmen's
aspirations were impossible of fulfillment for natural reasons, but
there were grounds to fear that they would not discover this fact
until they had made a sad mess of society They had the votes and the
power to do so if they pleased, and their leaders meant they should.
Some of these desponding observers went so far as to predict an
impending social cataclysm. Humanity, they argued, having climbed to
the top round of the ladder of civilization, was about to take a
header into chaos, after which it would doubtless pick itself up, turn
round, and begin to climb again. Repeated experiences of this sort in
historic and prehistoric times possibly accounted for the puzzling
bumps on the human cranium. Human history, like all great movements,
was cyclical, and returned to the point of beginning. The idea of
indefinite progress in a right line was a chimera of the imagination,
with no analogue in nature. The parabola of a comet was perhaps a yet
better illustration of the career of humanity. Tending upward and
sunward from the aphelion of barbarism, the race attained the
perihelion of civilization only to plunge downward once more to its
nether goal in the regions of chaos.
This, of course, was an extreme opinion, but I remember serious men
among my acquaintances who, in discussing the signs of the times,
adopted a very similar tone. It was no doubt the common opinion of
thoughtful men that society was approaching a critical period which
might result in great changes. The labor troubles, their causes,
course, and cure, took lead of all other topics in the public prints,
and in serious conversation.
The nervous tension of the public mind could not have been more
strikingly illustrated than it was by the alarm resulting from the
talk of a small band of men who called themselves anarchists, and
proposed to terrify the American people into adopting their ideas by
threats of violence, as if a mighty nation which had but just put down
a rebellion of half its own numbers, in order to maintain its
political system, were likely to adopt a new social system out of
fear.
As one of the wealthy, with a large stake in the existing order of
things, I naturally shared the apprehensions of my class. The
particular grievance I had against the working classes at the time of
which I write, on account of the effect of their strikes in postponing
my wedded bliss, no doubt lent a special animosity to my feeling
toward them. | The narrator, Julian West, announces that he was first in Boston in 1857. He realizes that his readers of the year 2000 will be shocked that he is a thirty year-old man asserting that he was alive in 1857. At that time, the civilization of the present day did not exist. Society was divided into four classes or nations, including the rich and the poor, the educated and the ignorant. He was rich and educated, so he "derived the means of support from the labor of others, rendering no sort of service in return." His ancestors had lived the same way, and he expected that his descendants would, too. His grandfather had accumulated some wealth, which his family had lived on ever since. The original sum was not that large, but investments had made the money grow. This "mystery of use without consumption" will seem odd to the present readers, but it was common during Julian West's time. People had been trying to regulate interest for generations, but by the late nineteenth century, they had largely given up. To give his readers an idea of his society, Julian West compares it to a big coach. Most of the people were harnessed to it and forced to drag it along a rough road. Some people sat on the coach and never got down, despite the struggles of those below to pull it over the rough spots in the road. The ones riding had a nice time, which they spent discussing the people below. A seat on the top was in great demand but very hard to attain, because those on top were allowed to reserve their seats for whomever they liked, usually their children. But the seats were unstable and often people would be thrown from them and have to pick up a rope and begin pulling the coach. Julian admits that the reader will wonder how the people on top could be so unfeeling about those below, especially when their own weight added to the burden of their fellow human beings. In fact, they often expressed great sympathy for the workers below them. When things got very bad, they would call out encouragement or promise rewards in the next life, and many of them got together and contributed money to buy salves and medication for the injured. However, the main effect of seeing the sufferings of those below was to increase the value of the seats above. While people of the twentieth century will find all this hard to believe, they must take into account the two facts that supported this state of affairs. First, people believed there was no other way to run society and second, those on top believed they were different from and better than those who pulled the coach, and they therefore deserved their seats on top. In 1887 Julian West is thirty and engaged to Edith Bartlett. Her family is also wealthy. They are to be married as soon as their house is built. Each class of people, whom Julian West calls nations, lives in separate areas of the city. The delay of the completion of his house is caused by labor strikes. Strikes had been common from the time of a great business crisis in 1873. Julian West knows his readers will recognize these dates as the first stages of what was to become the modern industrial system. The people of the time, however, were confused about what was happening to them. The relation between worker and owner had suddenly become problematic, and workers had the idea that they could improve their conditions. They demand higher pay, better housing, shorter hours, and the so forth. People of the wealthy class all agree that there is no way to give the workers what they want because there is not enough wealth in the world to satisfy them. They believe either that the workers will one day realize this and accept their lot in life, or that the workers will make a mess of things after gaining so much power. The latter is an extreme opinion, but one that Julian West often hears in his circle of friends. The ruling class is especially frightened by the anarchists. Julian West is no different from his frightened contemporaries, and his animosity toward the workers increases when his wedding plans are delayed. |
No apartment-house in Zenith had more resolutely experimented in
condensation than the Revelstoke Arms, in which Paul and Zilla Riesling
had a flat. By sliding the beds into low closets the bedrooms were
converted into living-rooms. The kitchens were cupboards each containing
an electric range, a copper sink, a glass refrigerator, and, very
intermittently, a Balkan maid. Everything about the Arms was excessively
modern, and everything was compressed--except the garages.
The Babbitts were calling on the Rieslings at the Arms. It was a
speculative venture to call on the Rieslings; interesting and sometimes
disconcerting. Zilla was an active, strident, full-blown, high-bosomed
blonde. When she condescended to be good-humored she was nervously
amusing. Her comments on people were saltily satiric and penetrative of
accepted hypocrisies. "That's so!" you said, and looked sheepish. She
danced wildly, and called on the world to be merry, but in the midst of
it she would turn indignant. She was always becoming indignant. Life was
a plot against her and she exposed it furiously.
She was affable to-night. She merely hinted that Orville Jones wore a
toupe, that Mrs. T. Cholmondeley Frink's singing resembled a Ford going
into high, and that the Hon. Otis Deeble, mayor of Zenith and candidate
for Congress, was a flatulent fool (which was quite true). The Babbitts
and Rieslings sat doubtfully on stone-hard brocade chairs in the small
living-room of the flat, with its mantel unprovided with a fireplace,
and its strip of heavy gilt fabric upon a glaring new player-piano, till
Mrs. Riesling shrieked, "Come on! Let's put some pep in it! Get out your
fiddle, Paul, and I'll try to make Georgie dance decently."
The Babbitts were in earnest. They were plotting for the escape to
Maine. But when Mrs. Babbitt hinted with plump smilingness, "Does
Paul get as tired after the winter's work as Georgie does?" then Zilla
remembered an injury; and when Zilla Riesling remembered an injury the
world stopped till something had been done about it.
"Does he get tired? No, he doesn't get tired, he just goes crazy, that's
all! You think Paul is so reasonable, oh, yes, and he loves to make out
he's a little lamb, but he's stubborn as a mule. Oh, if you had to live
with him--! You'd find out how sweet he is! He just pretends to be
meek so he can have his own way. And me, I get the credit for being
a terrible old crank, but if I didn't blow up once in a while and get
something started, we'd die of dry-rot. He never wants to go any place
and--Why, last evening, just because the car was out of order--and
that was his fault, too, because he ought to have taken it to the
service-station and had the battery looked at--and he didn't want to go
down to the movies on the trolley. But we went, and then there was one
of those impudent conductors, and Paul wouldn't do a thing.
"I was standing on the platform waiting for the people to let me into
the car, and this beast, this conductor, hollered at me, 'Come on, you,
move up!' Why, I've never had anybody speak to me that way in all my
life! I was so astonished I just turned to him and said--I thought there
must be some mistake, and so I said to him, perfectly pleasant, 'Were
you speaking to me?' and he went on and bellowed at me, 'Yes, I was!
You're keeping the whole car from starting!' he said, and then I saw he
was one of these dirty ill-bred hogs that kindness is wasted on, and so
I stopped and looked right at him, and I said, 'I--beg--your--pardon,
I am not doing anything of the kind,' I said, 'it's the people ahead of
me, who won't move up,' I said, 'and furthermore, let me tell you, young
man, that you're a low-down, foul-mouthed, impertinent skunk,' I said,
'and you're no gentleman! I certainly intend to report you, and we'll
see,' I said, 'whether a lady is to be insulted by any drunken bum that
chooses to put on a ragged uniform, and I'd thank you,' I said, 'to keep
your filthy abuse to yourself.' And then I waited for Paul to show
he was half a man and come to my defense, and he just stood there
and pretended he hadn't heard a word, and so I said to him, 'Well,' I
said--"
"Oh, cut it, cut it, Zill!" Paul groaned. "We all know I'm a
mollycoddle, and you're a tender bud, and let's let it go at that."
"Let it go?" Zilla's face was wrinkled like the Medusa, her voice was a
dagger of corroded brass. She was full of the joy of righteousness and
bad temper. She was a crusader and, like every crusader, she exulted
in the opportunity to be vicious in the name of virtue. "Let it go? If
people knew how many things I've let go--"
"Oh, quit being such a bully."
"Yes, a fine figure you'd cut if I didn't bully you! You'd lie abed till
noon and play your idiotic fiddle till midnight! You're born lazy, and
you're born shiftless, and you're born cowardly, Paul Riesling--"
"Oh, now, don't say that, Zilla; you don't mean a word of it!" protested
Mrs. Babbitt.
"I will say that, and I mean every single last word of it!"
"Oh, now, Zilla, the idea!" Mrs. Babbitt was maternal and fussy. She
was no older than Zilla, but she seemed so--at first. She was placid
and puffy and mature, where Zilla, at forty-five, was so bleached and
tight-corseted that you knew only that she was older than she looked.
"The idea of talking to poor Paul like that!"
"Poor Paul is right! We'd both be poor, we'd be in the poorhouse, if I
didn't jazz him up!"
"Why, now, Zilla, Georgie and I were just saying how hard Paul's been
working all year, and we were thinking it would be lovely if the Boys
could run off by themselves. I've been coaxing George to go up to Maine
ahead of the rest of us, and get the tired out of his system before we
come, and I think it would be lovely if Paul could manage to get away
and join him."
At this exposure of his plot to escape, Paul was startled out of
impassivity. He rubbed his fingers. His hands twitched.
Zilla bayed, "Yes! You're lucky! You can let George go, and not have to
watch him. Fat old Georgie! Never peeps at another woman! Hasn't got the
spunk!"
"The hell I haven't!" Babbitt was fervently defending his priceless
immorality when Paul interrupted him--and Paul looked dangerous. He rose
quickly; he said gently to Zilla:
"I suppose you imply I have a lot of sweethearts."
"Yes, I do!"
"Well, then, my dear, since you ask for it--There hasn't been a time in
the last ten years when I haven't found some nice little girl to
comfort me, and as long as you continue your amiability I shall probably
continue to deceive you. It isn't hard. You're so stupid."
Zilla gibbered; she howled; words could not be distinguished in her
slaver of abuse.
Then the bland George F. Babbitt was transformed. If Paul was dangerous,
if Zilla was a snake-locked fury, if the neat emotions suitable to the
Revelstoke Arms had been slashed into raw hatreds, it was Babbitt who
was the most formidable. He leaped up. He seemed very large. He seized
Zilla's shoulder. The cautions of the broker were wiped from his face,
and his voice was cruel:
"I've had enough of all this damn nonsense! I've known you for
twenty-five years, Zil, and I never knew you to miss a chance to take
your disappointments out on Paul. You're not wicked. You're worse.
You're a fool. And let me tell you that Paul is the finest boy God ever
made. Every decent person is sick and tired of your taking advantage of
being a woman and springing every mean innuendo you can think of.
Who the hell are you that a person like Paul should have to ask your
PERMISSION to go with me? You act like you were a combination of Queen
Victoria and Cleopatra. You fool, can't you see how people snicker at
you, and sneer at you?"
Zilla was sobbing, "I've never--I've never--nobody ever talked to me
like this in all my life!"
"No, but that's the way they talk behind your back! Always! They say
you're a scolding old woman. Old, by God!"
That cowardly attack broke her. Her eyes were blank. She wept. But
Babbitt glared stolidly. He felt that he was the all-powerful official
in charge; that Paul and Mrs. Babbitt looked on him with awe; that he
alone could handle this case.
Zilla writhed. She begged, "Oh, they don't!"
"They certainly do!"
"I've been a bad woman! I'm terribly sorry! I'll kill myself! I'll do
anything. Oh, I'll--What do you want?"
She abased herself completely. Also, she enjoyed it. To the connoisseur
of scenes, nothing is more enjoyable than a thorough, melodramatic,
egoistic humility.
"I want you to let Paul beat it off to Maine with me," Babbitt demanded.
"How can I help his going? You've just said I was an idiot and nobody
paid any attention to me."
"Oh, you can help it, all right, all right! What you got to do is to cut
out hinting that the minute he gets out of your sight, he'll go chasing
after some petticoat. Matter fact, that's the way you start the boy off
wrong. You ought to have more sense--"
"Oh, I will, honestly, I will, George. I know I was bad. Oh, forgive me,
all of you, forgive me--"
She enjoyed it.
So did Babbitt. He condemned magnificently and forgave piously, and as
he went parading out with his wife he was grandly explanatory to her:
"Kind of a shame to bully Zilla, but course it was the only way to
handle her. Gosh, I certainly did have her crawling!"
She said calmly, "Yes. You were horrid. You were showing off. You were
having a lovely time thinking what a great fine person you were!"
"Well, by golly! Can you beat it! Of course I might of expected you to
not stand by me! I might of expected you'd stick up for your own sex!"
"Yes. Poor Zilla, she's so unhappy. She takes it out on Paul. She hasn't
a single thing to do, in that little flat. And she broods too much. And
she used to be so pretty and gay, and she resents losing it. And you
were just as nasty and mean as you could be. I'm not a bit proud of
you--or of Paul, boasting about his horrid love-affairs!"
He was sulkily silent; he maintained his bad temper at a high level of
outraged nobility all the four blocks home. At the door he left her, in
self-approving haughtiness, and tramped the lawn.
With a shock it was revealed to him: "Gosh, I wonder if she was
right--if she was partly right?" Overwork must have flayed him to
abnormal sensitiveness; it was one of the few times in his life when he
had queried his eternal excellence; and he perceived the summer night,
smelled the wet grass. Then: "I don't care! I've pulled it off. We're
going to have our spree. And for Paul, I'd do anything."
II
They were buying their Maine tackle at Ijams Brothers', the Sporting
Goods Mart, with the help of Willis Ijams, fellow member of the
Boosters' Club. Babbitt was completely mad. He trumpeted and danced. He
muttered to Paul, "Say, this is pretty good, eh? To be buying the stuff,
eh? And good old Willis Ijams himself coming down on the floor to wait
on us! Say, if those fellows that are getting their kit for the North
Lakes knew we were going clear up to Maine, they'd have a fit, eh? . . .
Well, come on, Brother Ijams--Willis, I mean. Here's your chance! We're
a couple of easy marks! Whee! Let me at it! I'm going to buy out the
store!"
He gloated on fly-rods and gorgeous rubber hip-boots, on tents with
celluloid windows and folding chairs and ice-boxes. He simple-heartedly
wanted to buy all of them. It was the Paul whom he was always vaguely
protecting who kept him from his drunken desires.
But even Paul lightened when Willis Ijams, a salesman with poetry and
diplomacy, discussed flies. "Now, of course, you boys know." he said,
"the great scrap is between dry flies and wet flies. Personally, I'm for
dry flies. More sporting."
"That's so. Lots more sporting," fulminated Babbitt, who knew very
little about flies either wet or dry.
"Now if you'll take my advice, Georgie, you'll stock up well on these
pale evening dims, and silver sedges, and red ants. Oh, boy, there's a
fly, that red ant!"
"You bet! That's what it is--a fly!" rejoiced Babbitt.
"Yes, sir, that red ant," said Ijams, "is a real honest-to-God FLY!"
"Oh, I guess ole Mr. Trout won't come a-hustling when I drop one of
those red ants on the water!" asserted Babbitt, and his thick wrists
made a rapturous motion of casting.
"Yes, and the landlocked salmon will take it, too," said Ijams, who had
never seen a landlocked salmon.
"Salmon! Trout! Say, Paul, can you see Uncle George with his khaki pants
on haulin' 'em in, some morning 'bout seven? Whee!"
III
They were on the New York express, incredibly bound for Maine,
incredibly without their families. They were free, in a man's world, in
the smoking-compartment of the Pullman.
Outside the car window was a glaze of darkness stippled with the gold
of infrequent mysterious lights. Babbitt was immensely conscious, in
the sway and authoritative clatter of the train, of going, of going on.
Leaning toward Paul he grunted, "Gosh, pretty nice to be hiking, eh?"
The small room, with its walls of ocher-colored steel, was filled mostly
with the sort of men he classified as the Best Fellows You'll Ever
Meet--Real Good Mixers. There were four of them on the long seat; a fat
man with a shrewd fat face, a knife-edged man in a green velour hat,
a very young young man with an imitation amber cigarette-holder, and
Babbitt. Facing them, on two movable leather chairs, were Paul and a
lanky, old-fashioned man, very cunning, with wrinkles bracketing
his mouth. They all read newspapers or trade journals, boot-and-shoe
journals, crockery journals, and waited for the joys of conversation.
It was the very young man, now making his first journey by Pullman, who
began it.
"Say, gee, I had a wild old time in Zenith!" he gloried. "Say, if a
fellow knows the ropes there he can have as wild a time as he can in New
York!"
"Yuh, I bet you simply raised the old Ned. I figured you were a bad man
when I saw you get on the train!" chuckled the fat one.
The others delightedly laid down their papers.
"Well, that's all right now! I guess I seen some things in the Arbor you
never seen!" complained the boy.
"Oh, I'll bet you did! I bet you lapped up the malted milk like a
reg'lar little devil!"
Then, the boy having served as introduction, they ignored him and
charged into real talk. Only Paul, sitting by himself, reading at a
serial story in a newspaper, failed to join them and all but Babbitt
regarded him as a snob, an eccentric, a person of no spirit.
Which of them said which has never been determined, and does not matter,
since they all had the same ideas and expressed them always with the
same ponderous and brassy assurance. If it was not Babbitt who was
delivering any given verdict, at least he was beaming on the chancellor
who did deliver it.
"At that, though," announced the first "they're selling quite some booze
in Zenith. Guess they are everywhere. I don't know how you fellows
feel about prohibition, but the way it strikes me is that it's a mighty
beneficial thing for the poor zob that hasn't got any will-power but for
fellows like us, it's an infringement of personal liberty."
"That's a fact. Congress has got no right to interfere with a fellow's
personal liberty," contended the second.
A man came in from the car, but as all the seats were full he stood up
while he smoked his cigarette. He was an Outsider; he was not one of the
Old Families of the smoking-compartment. They looked upon him bleakly
and, after trying to appear at ease by examining his chin in the mirror,
he gave it up and went out in silence.
"Just been making a trip through the South. Business conditions not very
good down there," said one of the council.
"Is that a fact! Not very good, eh?"
"No, didn't strike me they were up to normal."
"Not up to normal, eh?"
"No, I wouldn't hardly say they were."
The whole council nodded sagely and decided, "Yump, not hardly up to
snuff."
"Well, business conditions ain't what they ought to be out West,
neither, not by a long shot."
"That's a fact. And I guess the hotel business feels it. That's one good
thing, though: these hotels that've been charging five bucks a day--yes,
and maybe six--seven!--for a rotten room are going to be darn glad to
get four, and maybe give you a little service."
"That's a fact. Say, uh, speaknubout hotels, I hit the St. Francis at
San Francisco for the first time, the other day, and, say, it certainly
is a first-class place."
"You're right, brother! The St. Francis is a swell place--absolutely
A1."
"That's a fact. I'm right with you. It's a first-class place."
"Yuh, but say, any of you fellows ever stay at the Rippleton, in
Chicago? I don't want to knock--I believe in boosting wherever you
can--but say, of all the rotten dumps that pass 'emselves off as
first-class hotels, that's the worst. I'm going to get those guys, one
of these days, and I told 'em so. You know how I am--well, maybe you
don't know, but I'm accustomed to first-class accommodations, and I'm
perfectly willing to pay a reasonable price. I got into Chicago late the
other night, and the Rippleton's near the station--I'd never been there
before, but I says to the taxi-driver--I always believe in taking a
taxi when you get in late; may cost a little more money, but, gosh, it's
worth it when you got to be up early next morning and out selling a lot
of crabs--and I said to him, 'Oh, just drive me over to the Rippleton.'
"Well, we got there, and I breezed up to the desk and said to the clerk,
'Well, brother, got a nice room with bath for Cousin Bill?' Saaaay!
You'd 'a' thought I'd sold him a second, or asked him to work on Yom
Kippur! He hands me the cold-boiled stare and yaps, 'I dunno, friend,
I'll see,' and he ducks behind the rigamajig they keep track of the
rooms on. Well, I guess he called up the Credit Association and the
American Security League to see if I was all right--he certainly took
long enough--or maybe he just went to sleep; but finally he comes out
and looks at me like it hurts him, and croaks, 'I think I can let
you have a room with bath.' 'Well, that's awful nice of you--sorry to
trouble you--how much 'll it set me back?' I says, real sweet. 'It'll
cost you seven bucks a day, friend,' he says.
"Well, it was late, and anyway, it went down on my
expense-account--gosh, if I'd been paying it instead of the firm, I'd
'a' tramped the streets all night before I'd 'a' let any hick tavern
stick me seven great big round dollars, believe me! So I lets it go at
that. Well, the clerk wakes a nice young bell hop--fine lad--not a day
over seventy-nine years old--fought at the Battle of Gettysburg and
doesn't know it's over yet--thought I was one of the Confederates, I
guess, from the way he looked at me--and Rip van Winkle took me up to
something--I found out afterwards they called it a room, but first I
thought there'd been some mistake--I thought they were putting me in the
Salvation Army collection-box! At seven per each and every diem! Gosh!"
"Yuh, I've heard the Rippleton was pretty cheesy. Now, when I go to
Chicago I always stay at the Blackstone or the La Salle--first-class
places."
"Say, any of you fellows ever stay at the Birchdale at Terre Haute? How
is it?"
"Oh, the Birchdale is a first-class hotel."
(Twelve minutes of conference on the state of hotels in South Bend,
Flint, Dayton, Tulsa, Wichita, Fort Worth, Winona, Erie, Fargo, and
Moose Jaw.)
"Speaknubout prices," the man in the velour hat observed, fingering the
elk-tooth on his heavy watch-chain, "I'd like to know where they get
this stuff about clothes coming down. Now, you take this suit I got on."
He pinched his trousers-leg. "Four years ago I paid forty-two fifty for
it, and it was real sure-'nough value. Well, here the other day I went
into a store back home and asked to see a suit, and the fellow yanks out
some hand-me-downs that, honest, I wouldn't put on a hired man. Just out
of curiosity I asks him, 'What you charging for that junk?' 'Junk,' he
says, 'what d' you mean junk? That's a swell piece of goods, all wool--'
Like hell! It was nice vegetable wool, right off the Ole Plantation!
'It's all wool,' he says, 'and we get sixty-seven ninety for it.' 'Oh,
you do, do you!' I says. 'Not from me you don't,' I says, and I walks
right out on him. You bet! I says to the wife, 'Well,' I said, 'as long
as your strength holds out and you can go on putting a few more patches
on papa's pants, we'll just pass up buying clothes."'
"That's right, brother. And just look at collars, frinstance--"
"Hey! Wait!" the fat man protested. "What's the matter with collars? I'm
selling collars! D' you realize the cost of labor on collars is still
two hundred and seven per cent. above--"
They voted that if their old friend the fat man sold collars, then the
price of collars was exactly what it should be; but all other clothing
was tragically too expensive. They admired and loved one another now.
They went profoundly into the science of business, and indicated that
the purpose of manufacturing a plow or a brick was so that it might be
sold. To them, the Romantic Hero was no longer the knight, the wandering
poet, the cowpuncher, the aviator, nor the brave young district
attorney, but the great sales-manager, who had an Analysis of
Merchandizing Problems on his glass-topped desk, whose title of nobility
was "Go-getter," and who devoted himself and all his young samurai to
the cosmic purpose of Selling--not of selling anything in particular,
for or to anybody in particular, but pure Selling.
The shop-talk roused Paul Riesling. Though he was a player of violins
and an interestingly unhappy husband, he was also a very able salesman
of tar-roofing. He listened to the fat man's remarks on "the value of
house-organs and bulletins as a method of jazzing-up the Boys out on the
road;" and he himself offered one or two excellent thoughts on the use
of two-cent stamps on circulars. Then he committed an offense against
the holy law of the Clan of Good Fellows. He became highbrow.
They were entering a city. On the outskirts they passed a steel-mill
which flared in scarlet and orange flame that licked at the cadaverous
stacks, at the iron-sheathed walls and sullen converters.
"My Lord, look at that--beautiful!" said Paul.
"You bet it's beautiful, friend. That's the Shelling-Horton Steel Plant,
and they tell me old John Shelling made a good three million bones
out of munitions during the war!" the man with the velour hat said
reverently.
"I didn't mean--I mean it's lovely the way the light pulls that
picturesque yard, all littered with junk, right out of the darkness,"
said Paul.
They stared at him, while Babbitt crowed, "Paul there has certainly got
one great little eye for picturesque places and quaint sights and all
that stuff. 'D of been an author or something if he hadn't gone into the
roofing line."
Paul looked annoyed. (Babbitt sometimes wondered if Paul appreciated his
loyal boosting.) The man in the velour hat grunted, "Well, personally,
I think Shelling-Horton keep their works awful dirty. Bum routing. But
I don't suppose there's any law against calling 'em 'picturesque' if it
gets you that way!"
Paul sulkily returned to his newspaper and the conversation logically
moved on to trains.
"What time do we get into Pittsburg?" asked Babbitt.
"Pittsburg? I think we get in at--no, that was last year's
schedule--wait a minute--let's see--got a time-table right here."
"I wonder if we're on time?"
"Yuh, sure, we must be just about on time."
"No, we aren't--we were seven minutes late, last station."
"Were we? Straight? Why, gosh, I thought we were right on time."
"No, we're about seven minutes late."
"Yuh, that's right; seven minutes late."
The porter entered--a negro in white jacket with brass buttons.
"How late are we, George?" growled the fat man.
"'Deed, I don't know, sir. I think we're about on time," said the
porter, folding towels and deftly tossing them up on the rack above the
washbowls. The council stared at him gloomily and when he was gone they
wailed:
"I don't know what's come over these niggers, nowadays. They never give
you a civil answer."
"That's a fact. They're getting so they don't have a single bit of
respect for you. The old-fashioned coon was a fine old cuss--he knew
his place--but these young dinges don't want to be porters or
cotton-pickers. Oh, no! They got to be lawyers and professors and Lord
knows what all! I tell you, it's becoming a pretty serious problem. We
ought to get together and show the black man, yes, and the yellow man,
his place. Now, I haven't got one particle of race-prejudice. I'm the
first to be glad when a nigger succeeds--so long as he stays where he
belongs and doesn't try to usurp the rightful authority and business
ability of the white man."
"That's the i.! And another thing we got to do," said the man with the
velour hat (whose name was Koplinsky), "is to keep these damn
foreigners out of the country. Thank the Lord, we're putting a limit on
immigration. These Dagoes and Hunkies have got to learn that this is a
white man's country, and they ain't wanted here. When we've assimilated
the foreigners we got here now and learned 'em the principles of
Americanism and turned 'em into regular folks, why then maybe we'll let
in a few more."
"You bet. That's a fact," they observed, and passed on to lighter
topics. They rapidly reviewed motor-car prices, tire-mileage,
oil-stocks, fishing, and the prospects for the wheat-crop in Dakota.
But the fat man was impatient at this waste of time. He was a veteran
traveler and free of illusions. Already he had asserted that he was
"an old he-one." He leaned forward, gathered in their attention by his
expression of sly humor, and grumbled, "Oh, hell, boys, let's cut out
the formality and get down to the stories!"
They became very lively and intimate.
Paul and the boy vanished. The others slid forward on the long seat,
unbuttoned their vests, thrust their feet up on the chairs, pulled the
stately brass cuspidors nearer, and ran the green window-shade down on
its little trolley, to shut them in from the uncomfortable strangeness
of night. After each bark of laughter they cried, "Say, jever hear the
one about--" Babbitt was expansive and virile. When the train stopped
at an important station, the four men walked up and down the cement
platform, under the vast smoky train-shed roof, like a stormy sky, under
the elevated footways, beside crates of ducks and sides of beef, in the
mystery of an unknown city. They strolled abreast, old friends and well
content. At the long-drawn "Alllll aboarrrrrd"--like a mountain call at
dusk--they hastened back into the smoking-compartment, and till two of
the morning continued the droll tales, their eyes damp with cigar-smoke
and laughter. When they parted they shook hands, and chuckled, "Well,
sir, it's been a great session. Sorry to bust it up. Mighty glad to met
you."
Babbitt lay awake in the close hot tomb of his Pullman berth, shaking
with remembrance of the fat man's limerick about the lady who wished to
be wild. He raised the shade; he lay with a puffy arm tucked between his
head and the skimpy pillow, looking out on the sliding silhouettes of
trees, and village lamps like exclamation-points. He was very happy. | George and Myra visit Paul and Zilla Riesling at their apartment in the Revelstoke Arms with the intent of convincing Zilla to permit Paul to leave early for Maine. When the Rieslings start to argue and Zilla criticizes Paul, Babbitt comes ardently and ferociously to his friend's defense, chastising Zilla for her "damn nonsense" , calling her a fool, and telling her that people speak ill of her behind her back. Zilla reverts to tears and dramatic self-abasement, yet she eventually grants Paul the freedom to go without her. Afterwards, Myra scolds George for being so cruel. On the train to Maine, George and Paul sit and talk with four men who all seem to share the same opinions about Prohibition, hotels, and the rising cost of clothing. Though Paul does not get along very well with these men, George feels "expansive and virile" in their presence. They stay awake talking late into the night, and when George finally goes to bed, he is "very happy" |
Sicilia. On the road to the Capital
Enter CLEOMENES and DION
CLEOMENES. The climate's delicate, the air most sweet,
Fertile the isle, the temple much surpassing
The common praise it bears.
DION. I shall report,
For most it caught me, the celestial habits-
Methinks I so should term them- and the reverence
Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice!
How ceremonious, solemn, and unearthly,
It was i' th' off'ring!
CLEOMENES. But of all, the burst
And the ear-deaf'ning voice o' th' oracle,
Kin to Jove's thunder, so surpris'd my sense
That I was nothing.
DION. If th' event o' th' journey
Prove as successful to the Queen- O, be't so!-
As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy,
The time is worth the use on't.
CLEOMENES. Great Apollo
Turn all to th' best! These proclamations,
So forcing faults upon Hermione,
I little like.
DION. The violent carriage of it
Will clear or end the business. When the oracle-
Thus by Apollo's great divine seal'd up-
Shall the contents discover, something rare
Even then will rush to knowledge. Go; fresh horses.
And gracious be the issue! Exeunt
Sicilia. A court of justice
Enter LEONTES, LORDS, and OFFICERS
LEONTES. This sessions, to our great grief we pronounce,
Even pushes 'gainst our heart- the party tried,
The daughter of a king, our wife, and one
Of us too much belov'd. Let us be clear'd
Of being tyrannous, since we so openly
Proceed in justice, which shall have due course,
Even to the guilt or the purgation.
Produce the prisoner.
OFFICER. It is his Highness' pleasure that the Queen
Appear in person here in court.
Enter HERMIONE, as to her trial, PAULINA, and LADIES
Silence!
LEONTES. Read the indictment.
OFFICER. [Reads] 'Hermione, Queen to the worthy Leontes, King
of
Sicilia, thou art here accused and arraigned of high treason,
in
committing adultery with Polixenes, King of Bohemia; and
conspiring with Camillo to take away the life of our
sovereign
lord the King, thy royal husband: the pretence whereof being
by
circumstances partly laid open, thou, Hermione, contrary to
the
faith and allegiance of true subject, didst counsel and aid
them,
for their better safety, to fly away by night.'
HERMIONE. Since what I am to say must be but that
Which contradicts my accusation, and
The testimony on my part no other
But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me
To say 'Not guilty.' Mine integrity
Being counted falsehood shall, as I express it,
Be so receiv'd. But thus- if pow'rs divine
Behold our human actions, as they do,
I doubt not then but innocence shall make
False accusation blush, and tyranny
Tremble at patience. You, my lord, best know-
Who least will seem to do so- my past life
Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true,
As I am now unhappy; which is more
Than history can pattern, though devis'd
And play'd to take spectators; for behold me-
A fellow of the royal bed, which owe
A moiety of the throne, a great king's daughter,
The mother to a hopeful prince- here standing
To prate and talk for life and honour fore
Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it
As I weigh grief, which I would spare; for honour,
'Tis a derivative from me to mine,
And only that I stand for. I appeal
To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes
Came to your court, how I was in your grace,
How merited to be so; since he came,
With what encounter so uncurrent I
Have strain'd t' appear thus; if one jot beyond
The bound of honour, or in act or will
That way inclining, hard'ned be the hearts
Of all that hear me, and my near'st of kin
Cry fie upon my grave!
LEONTES. I ne'er heard yet
That any of these bolder vices wanted
Less impudence to gainsay what they did
Than to perform it first.
HERMIONE. That's true enough;
Though 'tis a saying, sir, not due to me.
LEONTES. You will not own it.
HERMIONE. More than mistress of
Which comes to me in name of fault, I must not
At all acknowledge. For Polixenes,
With whom I am accus'd, I do confess
I lov'd him as in honour he requir'd;
With such a kind of love as might become
A lady like me; with a love even such,
So and no other, as yourself commanded;
Which not to have done, I think had been in me
Both disobedience and ingratitude
To you and toward your friend; whose love had spoke,
Ever since it could speak, from an infant, freely,
That it was yours. Now for conspiracy:
I know not how it tastes, though it be dish'd
For me to try how; all I know of it
Is that Camillo was an honest man;
And why he left your court, the gods themselves,
Wotting no more than I, are ignorant.
LEONTES. You knew of his departure, as you know
What you have underta'en to do in's absence.
HERMIONE. Sir,
You speak a language that I understand not.
My life stands in the level of your dreams,
Which I'll lay down.
LEONTES. Your actions are my dreams.
You had a bastard by Polixenes,
And I but dream'd it. As you were past all shame-
Those of your fact are so- so past all truth;
Which to deny concerns more than avails; for as
Thy brat hath been cast out, like to itself,
No father owning it- which is indeed
More criminal in thee than it- so thou
Shalt feel our justice; in whose easiest passage
Look for no less than death.
HERMIONE. Sir, spare your threats.
The bug which you would fright me with I seek.
To me can life be no commodity.
The crown and comfort of my life, your favour,
I do give lost, for I do feel it gone,
But know not how it went; my second joy
And first fruits of my body, from his presence
I am barr'd, like one infectious; my third comfort,
Starr'd most unluckily, is from my breast-
The innocent milk in it most innocent mouth-
Hal'd out to murder; myself on every post
Proclaim'd a strumpet; with immodest hatred
The child-bed privilege denied, which 'longs
To women of all fashion; lastly, hurried
Here to this place, i' th' open air, before
I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege,
Tell me what blessings I have here alive
That I should fear to die. Therefore proceed.
But yet hear this- mistake me not: no life,
I prize it not a straw, but for mine honour
Which I would free- if I shall be condemn'd
Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else
But what your jealousies awake, I tell you
'Tis rigour, and not law. Your honours all,
I do refer me to the oracle:
Apollo be my judge!
FIRST LORD. This your request
Is altogether just. Therefore, bring forth,
And in Apollo's name, his oracle.
Exeunt certain OFFICERS
HERMIONE. The Emperor of Russia was my father;
O that he were alive, and here beholding
His daughter's trial! that he did but see
The flatness of my misery; yet with eyes
Of pity, not revenge!
Re-enter OFFICERS, with CLEOMENES and DION
OFFICER. You here shall swear upon this sword of justice
That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have
Been both at Delphos, and from thence have brought
This seal'd-up oracle, by the hand deliver'd
Of great Apollo's priest; and that since then
You have not dar'd to break the holy seal
Nor read the secrets in't.
CLEOMENES, DION. All this we swear.
LEONTES. Break up the seals and read.
OFFICER. [Reads] 'Hermione is chaste; Polixenes blameless;
Camillo a true subject; Leontes a jealous tyrant; his
innocent
babe truly begotten; and the King shall live without an heir,
if
that which is lost be not found.'
LORDS. Now blessed be the great Apollo!
HERMIONE. Praised!
LEONTES. Hast thou read truth?
OFFICER. Ay, my lord; even so
As it is here set down.
LEONTES. There is no truth at all i' th' oracle.
The sessions shall proceed. This is mere falsehood.
Enter a SERVANT
SERVANT. My lord the King, the King!
LEONTES. What is the business?
SERVANT. O sir, I shall be hated to report it:
The Prince your son, with mere conceit and fear
Of the Queen's speed, is gone.
LEONTES. How! Gone?
SERVANT. Is dead.
LEONTES. Apollo's angry; and the heavens themselves
Do strike at my injustice. [HERMIONE swoons]
How now, there!
PAULINA. This news is mortal to the Queen. Look down
And see what death is doing.
LEONTES. Take her hence.
Her heart is but o'ercharg'd; she will recover.
I have too much believ'd mine own suspicion.
Beseech you tenderly apply to her
Some remedies for life.
Exeunt PAULINA and LADIES with HERMIONE
Apollo, pardon
My great profaneness 'gainst thine oracle.
I'll reconcile me to Polixenes,
New woo my queen, recall the good Camillo-
Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy.
For, being transported by my jealousies
To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose
Camillo for the minister to poison
My friend Polixenes; which had been done
But that the good mind of Camillo tardied
My swift command, though I with death and with
Reward did threaten and encourage him,
Not doing it and being done. He, most humane
And fill'd with honour, to my kingly guest
Unclasp'd my practice, quit his fortunes here,
Which you knew great, and to the certain hazard
Of all incertainties himself commended,
No richer than his honour. How he glisters
Thorough my rust! And how his piety
Does my deeds make the blacker!
Re-enter PAULINA
PAULINA. Woe the while!
O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it,
Break too!
FIRST LORD. What fit is this, good lady?
PAULINA. What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me?
What wheels, racks, fires? what flaying, boiling
In leads or oils? What old or newer torture
Must I receive, whose every word deserves
To taste of thy most worst? Thy tyranny
Together working with thy jealousies,
Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle
For girls of nine- O, think what they have done,
And then run mad indeed, stark mad; for all
Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it.
That thou betray'dst Polixenes, 'twas nothing;
That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant,
And damnable ingrateful. Nor was't much
Thou wouldst have poison'd good Camillo's honour,
To have him kill a king- poor trespasses,
More monstrous standing by; whereof I reckon
The casting forth to crows thy baby daughter
To be or none or little, though a devil
Would have shed water out of fire ere done't;
Nor is't directly laid to thee, the death
Of the young Prince, whose honourable thoughts-
Thoughts high for one so tender- cleft the heart
That could conceive a gross and foolish sire
Blemish'd his gracious dam. This is not, no,
Laid to thy answer; but the last- O lords,
When I have said, cry 'Woe!'- the Queen, the Queen,
The sweet'st, dear'st creature's dead; and vengeance
For't not dropp'd down yet.
FIRST LORD. The higher pow'rs forbid!
PAULINA. I say she's dead; I'll swear't. If word nor oath
Prevail not, go and see. If you can bring
Tincture or lustre in her lip, her eye,
Heat outwardly or breath within, I'll serve you
As I would do the gods. But, O thou tyrant!
Do not repent these things, for they are heavier
Than all thy woes can stir; therefore betake thee
To nothing but despair. A thousand knees
Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting,
Upon a barren mountain, and still winter
In storm perpetual, could not move the gods
To look that way thou wert.
LEONTES. Go on, go on.
Thou canst not speak too much; I have deserv'd
All tongues to talk their bitt'rest.
FIRST LORD. Say no more;
Howe'er the business goes, you have made fault
I' th' boldness of your speech.
PAULINA. I am sorry for't.
All faults I make, when I shall come to know them.
I do repent. Alas, I have show'd too much
The rashness of a woman! He is touch'd
To th' noble heart. What's gone and what's past help
Should be past grief. Do not receive affliction
At my petition; I beseech you, rather
Let me be punish'd that have minded you
Of what you should forget. Now, good my liege,
Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman.
The love I bore your queen- lo, fool again!
I'll speak of her no more, nor of your children;
I'll not remember you of my own lord,
Who is lost too. Take your patience to you,
And I'll say nothing.
LEONTES. Thou didst speak but well
When most the truth; which I receive much better
Than to be pitied of thee. Prithee, bring me
To the dead bodies of my queen and son.
One grave shall be for both. Upon them shall
The causes of their death appear, unto
Our shame perpetual. Once a day I'll visit
The chapel where they lie; and tears shed there
Shall be my recreation. So long as nature
Will bear up with this exercise, so long
I daily vow to use it. Come, and lead me
To these sorrows. Exeunt
Bohemia. The sea-coast
Enter ANTIGONUS with the CHILD, and a MARINER
ANTIGONUS. Thou art perfect then our ship hath touch'd upon
The deserts of Bohemia?
MARINER. Ay, my lord, and fear
We have landed in ill time; the skies look grimly
And threaten present blusters. In my conscience,
The heavens with that we have in hand are angry
And frown upon 's.
ANTIGONUS. Their sacred wills be done! Go, get aboard;
Look to thy bark. I'll not be long before
I call upon thee.
MARINER. Make your best haste; and go not
Too far i' th' land; 'tis like to be loud weather;
Besides, this place is famous for the creatures
Of prey that keep upon't.
ANTIGONUS. Go thou away;
I'll follow instantly.
MARINER. I am glad at heart
To be so rid o' th' business. Exit
ANTIGONUS. Come, poor babe.
I have heard, but not believ'd, the spirits o' th' dead
May walk again. If such thing be, thy mother
Appear'd to me last night; for ne'er was dream
So like a waking. To me comes a creature,
Sometimes her head on one side some another-
I never saw a vessel of like sorrow,
So fill'd and so becoming; in pure white robes,
Like very sanctity, she did approach
My cabin where I lay; thrice bow'd before me;
And, gasping to begin some speech, her eyes
Became two spouts; the fury spent, anon
Did this break from her: 'Good Antigonus,
Since fate, against thy better disposition,
Hath made thy person for the thrower-out
Of my poor babe, according to thine oath,
Places remote enough are in Bohemia,
There weep, and leave it crying; and, for the babe
Is counted lost for ever, Perdita
I prithee call't. For this ungentle business,
Put on thee by my lord, thou ne'er shalt see
Thy wife Paulina more.' so, with shrieks,
She melted into air. Affrighted much,
I did in time collect myself, and thought
This was so and no slumber. Dreams are toys;
Yet, for this once, yea, superstitiously,
I will be squar'd by this. I do believe
Hermione hath suffer'd death, and that
Apollo would, this being indeed the issue
Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid,
Either for life or death, upon the earth
Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well!
[Laying down the child]
There lie, and there thy character; there these
[Laying down a bundle]
Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty,
And still rest thine. The storm begins. Poor wretch,
That for thy mother's fault art thus expos'd
To loss and what may follow! Weep I cannot,
But my heart bleeds; and most accurs'd am I
To be by oath enjoin'd to this. Farewell!
The day frowns more and more. Thou'rt like to have
A lullaby too rough; I never saw
The heavens so dim by day. [Noise of hunt within] A savage
clamour!
Well may I get aboard! This is the chase;
I am gone for ever. Exit, pursued by a bear
Enter an old SHEPHERD
SHEPHERD. I would there were no age between ten and three and
twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is
nothing in the between but getting wenches with child,
wronging
the ancientry, stealing, fighting- [Horns] Hark you now!
Would
any but these boil'd brains of nineteen and two and twenty
hunt
this weather? They have scar'd away two of my best sheep,
which I
fear the wolf will sooner find than the master. If any where
I
have them, 'tis by the sea-side, browsing of ivy. Good luck,
an't
be thy will! What have we here? [Taking up the child] Mercy
on's, a barne! A very pretty barne. A boy or a child, I
wonder? A
pretty one; a very pretty one- sure, some scape. Though I am
not
bookish, yet I can read waiting-gentlewoman in the scape.
This
has been some stair-work, some trunk-work, some
behind-door-work;
they were warmer that got this than the poor thing is here.
I'll
take it up for pity; yet I'll tarry till my son come; he
halloo'd
but even now. Whoa-ho-hoa!
Enter CLOWN
CLOWN. Hilloa, loa!
SHEPHERD. What, art so near? If thou'lt see a thing to talk on
when
thou art dead and rotten, come hither. What ail'st thou, man?
CLOWN. I have seen two such sights, by sea and by land! But I
am
not to say it is a sea, for it is now the sky; betwixt the
firmament and it you cannot thrust a bodkin's point.
SHEPHERD. Why, boy, how is it?
CLOWN. I would you did but see how it chafes, how it rages, how
it
takes up the shore! But that's not to the point. O, the most
piteous cry of the poor souls! Sometimes to see 'em, and not
to
see 'em; now the ship boring the moon with her mainmast, and
anon
swallowed with yeast and froth, as you'd thrust a cork into a
hogshead. And then for the land service- to see how the bear
tore
out his shoulder-bone; how he cried to me for help, and said
his
name was Antigonus, a nobleman! But to make an end of the
ship-
to see how the sea flap-dragon'd it; but first, how the poor
souls roared, and the sea mock'd them; and how the poor
gentleman
roared, and the bear mock'd him, both roaring louder than the
sea
or weather.
SHEPHERD. Name of mercy, when was this, boy?
CLOWN. Now, now; I have not wink'd since I saw these sights;
the
men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half din'd on
the
gentleman; he's at it now.
SHEPHERD. Would I had been by to have help'd the old man!
CLOWN. I would you had been by the ship-side, to have help'd
her;
there your charity would have lack'd footing.
SHEPHERD. Heavy matters, heavy matters! But look thee here,
boy.
Now bless thyself; thou met'st with things dying, I with
things
new-born. Here's a sight for thee; look thee, a bearing-cloth
for
a squire's child! Look thee here; take up, take up, boy;
open't.
So, let's see- it was told me I should be rich by the
fairies.
This is some changeling. Open't. What's within, boy?
CLOWN. You're a made old man; if the sins of your youth are
forgiven you, you're well to live. Gold! all gold!
SHEPHERD. This is fairy gold, boy, and 'twill prove so. Up
with't,
keep it close. Home, home, the next way! We are lucky, boy;
and
to be so still requires nothing but secrecy. Let my sheep go.
Come, good boy, the next way home.
CLOWN. Go you the next way with your findings. I'll go see if
the
bear be gone from the gentleman, and how much he hath eaten.
They
are never curst but when they are hungry. If there be any of
him
left, I'll bury it.
SHEPHERD. That's a good deed. If thou mayest discern by that
which
is left of him what he is, fetch me to th' sight of him.
CLOWN. Marry, will I; and you shall help to put him i' th'
ground.
SHEPHERD. 'Tis a lucky day, boy; and we'll do good deeds on't.
Exeunt | Cleomenes and Dion, the courtiers dispatched by Leontes to the oracle at Delphi, speak with wonder about the ceremony they witnessed at the shrine. They hope that the oracle's judgment will help Queen Hermione. Scene ii: The trial of Hermione. With dignity and restraint, Hermione defends her chastity and condemns the injustice that has been done to her. Leontes remains as stubborn and angry as ever, attacking and threatening Hermione while she counters him eloquently. An officer breaks the seal on the message from the oracle and reads: Hermione, Polixenes, and Camillo are innocent and Leontes is a jealous tyrant. The oracle also predicts that Leontes will be without an heir unless the lost daughter is found. The court is delighted, but Leontes denounces the words of the oracle as false. But then a servant enters, bringing terrible news: Prince Mamillius is dead, killed by anxiety about his mother's fate. Leontes believes that the gods have killed the child as punishment to the king, and finally he realizes that he has been in error. Hermione swoons, and is helped out of the room by Paulina and several officers. Leontes is now fully penitent, asking the gods' forgiveness and promising to make amends. Paulina reenters and lashes out at the king, condemning his tyranny and jealousy. Hermione is dead. Paulina continues to rebuke the king harshly, but when she sees his grief and penitence she regrets her roughness. Leontes says that he will have queen and prince buried in the same grave, and he will grieve for the rest of his days. Scene iii: Antigonus, carrying the baby, enters with a mariner. They have set down on the shores of Bohemia, and the sailor is nervous because the sky is threatening. He fears the gods are angry with them because of what they are doing, and he warns Antigonus not to wander too far or too long, because this land is famous for its wild beasts. After the sailor exits, Antigonus tells the baby that he saw Hermione's spirit last night in a dream. The ghost wept and then told him that the child's name is Perdita, because she is lost. Hermione's ghost also informed Antigonus that because of his hand in the child's abandonment, Antigonus will never see his wife again. Antigonus believes that the dream is a sign of Hermione's death. He has either come to believe or forced himself to believe Leontes' suspicions, and so he is abandoning the child in the wilds of Bohemia, the land of her supposed father. He leaves the child with a bundle and a box. He regrets his task, but he feels bound by his oath. Then he suddenly exits, pursued by a bear. A Shepherd wanders onstage, complaining about young people and looking for two lost sheep; instead of finding them, he stumbles onto Perdita. He believes she must be the unwanted illegitimate offspring of two servants, and he resolves to take care of her. His son enters, having just witnessed two fantastic scenes. On the sea, a ship was swallowed up by the waves, and on land, a bear killed and began to devour a nobleman. The Shepherd's Son has no idea who these victims were, although the audience knows immediately that he is talking about Antigonus and the ship that carried him from Sicilia. The Shepherd feels pity for the dead, but he also has great hope for the child that he has found: "Thou met'st with things dying, I with things newborn" . The Shepherd and his son find that the box left with the baby is full of gold, and he now believes that the child is a changeling, a child left by fairies. The Shepherd's Son announces his intent to return to the scene of the bear attack so he can bury whatever is left of the nobleman's body. |
ACT II. SCENE 1.
Before PAGE'S house
[Enter MISTRESS PAGE, with a letter.]
MRS. PAGE.
What! have I scaped love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty,
and am I now a subject for them? Let me see.
'Ask me no reason why I love you; for though Love use Reason
for his precisian, he admits him not for his counsellor. You
are not young, no more am I; go to, then, there's sympathy:
you are merry, so am I; ha! ha! then there's more sympathy;
you love sack, and so do I; would you desire better sympathy?
Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page, at the least, if the love
of soldier can suffice, that I love thee. I will not say,
pity me: 'tis not a soldier-like phrase; but I say, Love me.
By me,
Thine own true knight,
By day or night,
Or any kind of light,
With all his might,
For thee to fight,
JOHN FALSTAFF.'
What a Herod of Jewry is this! O wicked, wicked world! One that is
well-nigh worn to pieces with age to show himself a young gallant.
What an unweighed behaviour hath this Flemish drunkard picked, with
the devil's name! out of my conversation, that he dares in this manner
assay me? Why, he hath not been thrice in my company! What should I
say to him? I was then frugal of my mirth:--Heaven forgive me! Why,
I'll exhibit a bill in the parliament for the putting down of men.
How shall I be revenged on him? for revenged I will be, as sure as
his guts are made of puddings.
[Enter MISTRESS FORD.]
MRS. FORD.
Mistress Page! trust me, I was going to your house.
MRS. PAGE.
And, trust me, I was coming to you. You look very ill.
MRS. FORD.
Nay, I'll ne'er believe that; I have to show to the contrary.
MRS. PAGE.
Faith, but you do, in my mind.
MRS. FORD.
Well, I do, then; yet, I say, I could show you to the contrary.
O, Mistress Page! give me some counsel.
MRS. PAGE.
What's the matter, woman?
MRS. FORD.
O woman, if it were not for one trifling respect, I could come to
such honour!
MRS. PAGE.
Hang the trifle, woman; take the honour. What is it?--Dispense with
trifles;--what is it?
MRS. FORD.
If I would but go to hell for an eternal moment or so, I could be
knighted.
MRS. PAGE.
What? thou liest. Sir Alice Ford! These knights will hack; and so
thou shouldst not alter the article of thy gentry.
MRS. FORD.
We burn daylight: here, read, read; perceive how I might be knighted.
I shall think the worse of fat men as long as I have an eye to make
difference of men's liking: and yet he would not swear; praised
women's modesty; and gave such orderly and well-behaved reproof to
all uncomeliness that I would have sworn his disposition would have
gone to the truth of his words; but they do no more adhere and keep
place together than the Hundredth Psalm to the tune of 'Greensleeves.'
What tempest, I trow, threw this whale, with so many tuns of oil in
his belly, ashore at Windsor? How shall I be revenged on him? I think
the best way were to entertain him with hope, till the wicked fire of
lust have melted him in his own grease. Did you ever hear the like?
MRS. PAGE.
Letter for letter, but that the name of Page and Ford differs. To thy
great comfort in this mystery of ill opinions, here's the twin-brother
of thy letter; but let thine inherit first, for, I protest, mine never
shall. I warrant he hath a thousand of these letters, writ with blank
space for different names, sure, more, and these are of the second
edition. He will print them, out of doubt; for he cares not what he
puts into the press, when he would put us two: I had rather be a
giantess and lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I will find you twenty
lascivious turtles ere one chaste man.
MRS. FORD.
Why, this is the very same; the very hand, the very words. What doth
he think of us?
MRS. PAGE.
Nay, I know not; it makes me almost ready to wrangle with mine own
honesty. I'll entertain myself like one that I am not acquainted
withal; for, sure, unless he know some strain in me that I know not
myself, he would never have boarded me in this fury.
MRS. FORD.
'Boarding' call you it? I'll be sure to keep him above deck.
MRS. PAGE.
So will I; if he come under my hatches, I'll never to sea again.
Let's be revenged on him; let's appoint him a meeting, give him a
show of comfort in his suit, and lead him on with a fine-baited
delay, till he hath pawned his horses to mine host of the Garter.
MRS. FORD.
Nay, I will consent to act any villainy against him that may not
sully the chariness of our honesty. O, that my husband saw this
letter! It would give eternal food to his jealousy.
MRS. PAGE.
Why, look where he comes; and my good man too: he's as far from
jealousy as I am from giving him cause; and that, I hope, is an
unmeasurable distance.
MRS. FORD.
You are the happier woman.
MRS. PAGE.
Let's consult together against this greasy knight. Come hither.
[They retire.]
[Enter FORD, PISTOL, and PAGE and NYM.]
FORD.
Well, I hope it be not so.
PISTOL.
Hope is a curtal dog in some affairs:
Sir John affects thy wife.
FORD.
Why, sir, my wife is not young.
PISTOL.
He woos both high and low, both rich and poor,
Both young and old, one with another, Ford;
He loves the gallimaufry. Ford, perpend.
FORD.
Love my wife!
PISTOL.
With liver burning hot: prevent, or go thou,
Like Sir Actaeon he, with Ringwood at thy heels.--
O! odious is the name!
FORD.
What name, sir?
PISTOL.
The horn, I say. Farewell:
Take heed; have open eye, for thieves do foot by night;
Take heed, ere summer comes, or cuckoo birds do sing.
Away, Sir Corporal Nym.
Believe it, Page; he speaks sense.
[Exit PISTOL.]
FORD.
[Aside] I will be patient: I will find out this.
NYM.
[To PAGE] And this is true; I like not the humour of lying. He hath
wronged me in some humours: I should have borne the humoured letter
to her; but I have a sword, and it shall bite upon my necessity. He
loves your wife; there's the short and the long. My name is Corporal
Nym; I speak, and I avouch 'tis true. My name is Nym, and Falstaff
loves your wife. Adieu. I love not the humour of bread and cheese;
and there's the humour of it. Adieu.
[Exit NYM.]
PAGE.
[Aside.] 'The humour of it,' quoth 'a! Here's a fellow frights
English out of his wits.
FORD.
I will seek out Falstaff.
PAGE.
I never heard such a drawling, affecting rogue.
FORD.
If I do find it: well.
PAGE.
I will not believe such a Cataian, though the priest o' the town
commended him for a true man.
FORD.
'Twas a good sensible fellow: well.
PAGE.
How now, Meg!
MRS. PAGE.
Whither go you, George?--Hark you.
MRS. FORD.
How now, sweet Frank! why art thou melancholy?
FORD.
I melancholy! I am not melancholy. Get you home, go.
MRS. FORD.
Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head now. Will you go,
Mistress Page?
MRS. PAGE.
Have with you. You'll come to dinner, George?
[Aside to MRS. FORD] Look who comes yonder: she shall be our
messenger to this paltry knight.
MRS. FORD.
[Aside to MRS. PAGE] Trust me, I thought on her: she'll fit it.
[Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY.]
MRS. PAGE.
You are come to see my daughter Anne?
QUICKLY.
Ay, forsooth; and, I pray, how does good Mistress Anne?
MRS. PAGE.
Go in with us and see; we'd have an hour's talk with you.
[Exeunt MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and MISTRESS QUICKLY.]
PAGE.
How now, Master Ford!
FORD.
You heard what this knave told me, did you not?
PAGE.
Yes; and you heard what the other told me?
FORD.
Do you think there is truth in them?
PAGE.
Hang 'em, slaves! I do not think the knight would offer it; but these
that accuse him in his intent towards our wives are a yoke of his
discarded men; very rogues, now they be out of service.
FORD.
Were they his men?
PAGE.
Marry, were they.
FORD.
I like it never the better for that. Does he lie at the Garter?
PAGE.
Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend this voyage toward my wife,
I would turn her loose to him; and what he gets more of her than
sharp words, let it lie on my head.
FORD.
I do not misdoubt my wife; but I would be loath to turn them together.
A man may be too confident. I would have nothing 'lie on my head': I
cannot be thus satisfied.
PAGE.
Look where my ranting host of the Garter comes. There is either
liquor in his pate or money in his purse when he looks so merrily.
[Enter HOST and SHALLOW.]
How now, mine host!
HOST.
How now, bully-rook! Thou'rt a gentleman. Cavaliero-justice, I say!
SHALLOW.
I follow, mine host, I follow. Good even and twenty, good Master
Page! Master Page, will you go with us? We have sport in hand.
HOST.
Tell him, cavaliero-justice; tell him, bully-rook.
SHALLOW.
Sir, there is a fray to be fought between Sir Hugh the Welsh priest
and Caius the French doctor.
FORD.
Good mine host o' the Garter, a word with you.
HOST.
What say'st thou, my bully-rook?
[They go aside.]
SHALLOW.
[To PAGE.] Will you go with us to behold it? My merry host hath had
the measuring of their weapons; and, I think, hath appointed them
contrary places; for, believe me, I hear the parson is no jester.
Hark, I will tell you what our sport shall be. [They converse apart.]
HOST.
Hast thou no suit against my knight, my guest-cavaliero?
FORD.
None, I protest: but I'll give you a pottle of burnt sack to give me
recourse to him, and tell him my name is Brook, only for a jest.
HOST.
My hand, bully; thou shalt have egress and regress; said I well? and
thy name shall be Brook. It is a merry knight. Will you go, mynheers?
SHALLOW.
Have with you, mine host.
PAGE.
I have heard the Frenchman hath good skill in his rapier.
SHALLOW.
Tut, sir! I could have told you more. In these times you stand on
distance, your passes, stoccadoes, and I know not what: 'tis the
heart, Master Page; 'tis here, 'tis here. I have seen the time with
my long sword I would have made you four tall fellows skip like rats.
HOST.
Here, boys, here, here! Shall we wag?
PAGE.
Have with you. I had rather hear them scold than fight.
[Exeunt HOST, SHALLOW, and PAGE.]
FORD.
Though Page be a secure fool, and stands so firmly on his wife's
frailty, yet I cannot put off my opinion so easily. She was in his
company at Page's house, and what they made there I know not. Well,
I will look further into 't; and I have a disguise to sound Falstaff.
If I find her honest, I lose not my labour; if she be otherwise,
'tis labour well bestowed.
[Exit.] | Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford enter with the news that they have received identical letters from Falstaff, pledging his love to each. Needless to say, they are both outraged. Mrs. Page: "One that is well-nigh worn to pieces with age to show himself a young gallant"; Mrs. Ford: "I shall think the worse of fat men as long as I have an eye to make difference of men's liking" . They determine to "be revenged on him" and set off with Mistress Quickly to lay the plot. Their husbands arrive onstage, discussing what "a yoke of his discarded men," Pistol and Nym, have told them concerning Falstaffs amorous plans for their "merry wives." Ford plans to pass himself off as a man named "Brook" to Falstaff in order to get further information. As the scene ends, the subplot moves forward. Shallow reports that "there is a fray to be fought between Sir Hugh the Welsh parson and Caius the French doctor" and that they have been "appointed contrary places" to meet for the duel. Page says that he would "rather hear them scold than fight." |
1st Gent. All times are good to seek your wedded home
Bringing a mutual delight.
2d Gent. Why, true.
The calendar hath not an evil day
For souls made one by love, and even death
Were sweetness, if it came like rolling waves
While they two clasped each other, and foresaw
No life apart.
Mr. and Mrs. Casaubon, returning from their wedding journey, arrived at
Lowick Manor in the middle of January. A light snow was falling as
they descended at the door, and in the morning, when Dorothea passed
from her dressing-room avenue the blue-green boudoir that we know of,
she saw the long avenue of limes lifting their trunks from a white
earth, and spreading white branches against the dun and motionless sky.
The distant flat shrank in uniform whiteness and low-hanging uniformity
of cloud. The very furniture in the room seemed to have shrunk since
she saw it before: the stag in the tapestry looked more like a ghost in
his ghostly blue-green world; the volumes of polite literature in the
bookcase looked more like immovable imitations of books. The bright
fire of dry oak-boughs burning on the logs seemed an incongruous
renewal of life and glow--like the figure of Dorothea herself as she
entered carrying the red-leather cases containing the cameos for Celia.
She was glowing from her morning toilet as only healthful youth can
glow: there was gem-like brightness on her coiled hair and in her hazel
eyes; there was warm red life in her lips; her throat had a breathing
whiteness above the differing white of the fur which itself seemed to
wind about her neck and cling down her blue-gray pelisse with a
tenderness gathered from her own, a sentient commingled innocence which
kept its loveliness against the crystalline purity of the outdoor snow.
As she laid the cameo-cases on the table in the bow-window, she
unconsciously kept her hands on them, immediately absorbed in looking
out on the still, white enclosure which made her visible world.
Mr. Casaubon, who had risen early complaining of palpitation, was in
the library giving audience to his curate Mr. Tucker. By-and-by Celia
would come in her quality of bridesmaid as well as sister, and through
the next weeks there would be wedding visits received and given; all in
continuance of that transitional life understood to correspond with the
excitement of bridal felicity, and keeping up the sense of busy
ineffectiveness, as of a dream which the dreamer begins to suspect.
The duties of her married life, contemplated as so great beforehand,
seemed to be shrinking with the furniture and the white vapor-walled
landscape. The clear heights where she expected to walk in full
communion had become difficult to see even in her imagination; the
delicious repose of the soul on a complete superior had been shaken
into uneasy effort and alarmed with dim presentiment. When would the
days begin of that active wifely devotion which was to strengthen her
husband's life and exalt her own? Never perhaps, as she had
preconceived them; but somehow--still somehow. In this solemnly
pledged union of her life, duty would present itself in some new form
of inspiration and give a new meaning to wifely love.
Meanwhile there was the snow and the low arch of dun vapor--there was
the stifling oppression of that gentlewoman's world, where everything
was done for her and none asked for her aid--where the sense of
connection with a manifold pregnant existence had to be kept up
painfully as an inward vision, instead of coming from without in claims
that would have shaped her energies.-- "What shall I do?" "Whatever you
please, my dear:" that had been her brief history since she had left
off learning morning lessons and practising silly rhythms on the hated
piano. Marriage, which was to bring guidance into worthy and
imperative occupation, had not yet freed her from the gentlewoman's
oppressive liberty: it had not even filled her leisure with the
ruminant joy of unchecked tenderness. Her blooming full-pulsed youth
stood there in a moral imprisonment which made itself one with the
chill, colorless, narrowed landscape, with the shrunken furniture, the
never-read books, and the ghostly stag in a pale fantastic world that
seemed to be vanishing from the daylight.
In the first minutes when Dorothea looked out she felt nothing but the
dreary oppression; then came a keen remembrance, and turning away from
the window she walked round the room. The ideas and hopes which were
living in her mind when she first saw this room nearly three months
before were present now only as memories: she judged them as we judge
transient and departed things. All existence seemed to beat with a
lower pulse than her own, and her religious faith was a solitary cry,
the struggle out of a nightmare in which every object was withering and
shrinking away from her. Each remembered thing in the room was
disenchanted, was deadened as an unlit transparency, till her wandering
gaze came to the group of miniatures, and there at last she saw
something which had gathered new breath and meaning: it was the
miniature of Mr. Casaubon's aunt Julia, who had made the unfortunate
marriage--of Will Ladislaw's grandmother. Dorothea could fancy that
it was alive now--the delicate woman's face which yet had a headstrong
look, a peculiarity difficult to interpret. Was it only her friends
who thought her marriage unfortunate? or did she herself find it out to
be a mistake, and taste the salt bitterness of her tears in the
merciful silence of the night? What breadths of experience Dorothea
seemed to have passed over since she first looked at this miniature!
She felt a new companionship with it, as if it had an ear for her and
could see how she was looking at it. Here was a woman who had known
some difficulty about marriage. Nay, the colors deepened, the lips and
chin seemed to get larger, the hair and eyes seemed to be sending out
light, the face was masculine and beamed on her with that full gaze
which tells her on whom it falls that she is too interesting for the
slightest movement of her eyelid to pass unnoticed and uninterpreted.
The vivid presentation came like a pleasant glow to Dorothea: she felt
herself smiling, and turning from the miniature sat down and looked up
as if she were again talking to a figure in front of her. But the
smile disappeared as she went on meditating, and at last she said
aloud--
"Oh, it was cruel to speak so! How sad--how dreadful!"
She rose quickly and went out of the room, hurrying along the corridor,
with the irresistible impulse to go and see her husband and inquire if
she could do anything for him. Perhaps Mr. Tucker was gone and Mr.
Casaubon was alone in the library. She felt as if all her morning's
gloom would vanish if she could see her husband glad because of her
presence.
But when she reached the head of the dark oak there was Celia coming
up, and below there was Mr. Brooke, exchanging welcomes and
congratulations with Mr. Casaubon.
"Dodo!" said Celia, in her quiet staccato; then kissed her sister,
whose arms encircled her, and said no more. I think they both cried a
little in a furtive manner, while Dorothea ran down-stairs to greet her
uncle.
"I need not ask how you are, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, after kissing
her forehead. "Rome has agreed with you, I see--happiness, frescos,
the antique--that sort of thing. Well, it's very pleasant to have you
back again, and you understand all about art now, eh? But Casaubon is
a little pale, I tell him--a little pale, you know. Studying hard in
his holidays is carrying it rather too far. I overdid it at one
time"--Mr. Brooke still held Dorothea's hand, but had turned his face
to Mr. Casaubon--"about topography, ruins, temples--I thought I had a
clew, but I saw it would carry me too far, and nothing might come of
it. You may go any length in that sort of thing, and nothing may come
of it, you know."
Dorothea's eyes also were turned up to her husband's face with some
anxiety at the idea that those who saw him afresh after absence might
be aware of signs which she had not noticed.
"Nothing to alarm you, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, observing her
expression. "A little English beef and mutton will soon make a
difference. It was all very well to look pale, sitting for the
portrait of Aquinas, you know--we got your letter just in time. But
Aquinas, now--he was a little too subtle, wasn't he? Does anybody read
Aquinas?"
"He is not indeed an author adapted to superficial minds," said Mr.
Casaubon, meeting these timely questions with dignified patience.
"You would like coffee in your own room, uncle?" said Dorothea, coming
to the rescue.
"Yes; and you must go to Celia: she has great news to tell you, you
know. I leave it all to her."
The blue-green boudoir looked much more cheerful when Celia was seated
there in a pelisse exactly like her sister's, surveying the cameos with
a placid satisfaction, while the conversation passed on to other topics.
"Do you think it nice to go to Rome on a wedding journey?" said Celia,
with her ready delicate blush which Dorothea was used to on the
smallest occasions.
"It would not suit all--not you, dear, for example," said Dorothea,
quietly. No one would ever know what she thought of a wedding journey
to Rome.
"Mrs. Cadwallader says it is nonsense, people going a long journey when
they are married. She says they get tired to death of each other, and
can't quarrel comfortably, as they would at home. And Lady Chettam
says she went to Bath." Celia's color changed again and again--seemed
"To come and go with tidings from the heart,
As it a running messenger had been."
It must mean more than Celia's blushing usually did.
"Celia! has something happened?" said Dorothea, in a tone full of
sisterly feeling. "Have you really any great news to tell me?"
"It was because you went away, Dodo. Then there was nobody but me for
Sir James to talk to," said Celia, with a certain roguishness in her
eyes.
"I understand. It is as I used to hope and believe," said Dorothea,
taking her sister's face between her hands, and looking at her half
anxiously. Celia's marriage seemed more serious than it used to do.
"It was only three days ago," said Celia. "And Lady Chettam is very
kind."
"And you are very happy?"
"Yes. We are not going to be married yet. Because every thing is to
be got ready. And I don't want to be married so very soon, because I
think it is nice to be engaged. And we shall be married all our lives
after."
"I do believe you could not marry better, Kitty. Sir James is a good,
honorable man," said Dorothea, warmly.
"He has gone on with the cottages, Dodo. He will tell you about them
when he comes. Shall you be glad to see him?"
"Of course I shall. How can you ask me?"
"Only I was afraid you would be getting so learned," said Celia,
regarding Mr. Casaubon's learning as a kind of damp which might in due
time saturate a neighboring body. | Dorothea arrives at Lowick with her husband in January, after their honeymoon. Dorothea, who had been so dejected during their honeymoon, feels revived by being home, in familiar surroundings. However, she is still haunted by the knowledge that her vision of marriage is yet unfulfilled, and the depressing atmosphere of Lowick. Her sister Celia finally arrives, brightening up the place with her presence; Celia tells Dorothea of her engagement to Sir James, and Dorothea is very happy for her sister. |
I did not allow my resolution, with respect to the Parliamentary
Debates, to cool. It was one of the irons I began to heat immediately,
and one of the irons I kept hot, and hammered at, with a perseverance
I may honestly admire. I bought an approved scheme of the noble art and
mystery of stenography (which cost me ten and sixpence); and plunged
into a sea of perplexity that brought me, in a few weeks, to the
confines of distraction. The changes that were rung upon dots, which
in such a position meant such a thing, and in such another position
something else, entirely different; the wonderful vagaries that were
played by circles; the unaccountable consequences that resulted from
marks like flies' legs; the tremendous effects of a curve in a wrong
place; not only troubled my waking hours, but reappeared before me in
my sleep. When I had groped my way, blindly, through these difficulties,
and had mastered the alphabet, which was an Egyptian Temple in itself,
there then appeared a procession of new horrors, called arbitrary
characters; the most despotic characters I have ever known; who
insisted, for instance, that a thing like the beginning of a cobweb,
meant expectation, and that a pen-and-ink sky-rocket, stood for
disadvantageous. When I had fixed these wretches in my mind, I found
that they had driven everything else out of it; then, beginning again, I
forgot them; while I was picking them up, I dropped the other fragments
of the system; in short, it was almost heart-breaking.
It might have been quite heart-breaking, but for Dora, who was the stay
and anchor of my tempest-driven bark. Every scratch in the scheme was
a gnarled oak in the forest of difficulty, and I went on cutting them
down, one after another, with such vigour, that in three or four months
I was in a condition to make an experiment on one of our crack speakers
in the Commons. Shall I ever forget how the crack speaker walked off
from me before I began, and left my imbecile pencil staggering about the
paper as if it were in a fit!
This would not do, it was quite clear. I was flying too high, and should
never get on, so. I resorted to Traddles for advice; who suggested
that he should dictate speeches to me, at a pace, and with occasional
stoppages, adapted to my weakness. Very grateful for this friendly aid,
I accepted the proposal; and night after night, almost every night, for
a long time, we had a sort of Private Parliament in Buckingham Street,
after I came home from the Doctor's.
I should like to see such a Parliament anywhere else! My aunt and Mr.
Dick represented the Government or the Opposition (as the case might
be), and Traddles, with the assistance of Enfield's Speakers, or a
volume of parliamentary orations, thundered astonishing invectives
against them. Standing by the table, with his finger in the page to keep
the place, and his right arm flourishing above his head, Traddles, as
Mr. Pitt, Mr. Fox, Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Burke, Lord Castlereagh, Viscount
Sidmouth, or Mr. Canning, would work himself into the most violent
heats, and deliver the most withering denunciations of the profligacy
and corruption of my aunt and Mr. Dick; while I used to sit, at a little
distance, with my notebook on my knee, fagging after him with all my
might and main. The inconsistency and recklessness of Traddles were not
to be exceeded by any real politician. He was for any description of
policy, in the compass of a week; and nailed all sorts of colours to
every denomination of mast. My aunt, looking very like an immovable
Chancellor of the Exchequer, would occasionally throw in an interruption
or two, as 'Hear!' or 'No!' or 'Oh!' when the text seemed to require it:
which was always a signal to Mr. Dick (a perfect country gentleman)
to follow lustily with the same cry. But Mr. Dick got taxed with
such things in the course of his Parliamentary career, and was made
responsible for such awful consequences, that he became uncomfortable in
his mind sometimes. I believe he actually began to be afraid he really
had been doing something, tending to the annihilation of the British
constitution, and the ruin of the country.
Often and often we pursued these debates until the clock pointed to
midnight, and the candles were burning down. The result of so much good
practice was, that by and by I began to keep pace with Traddles pretty
well, and should have been quite triumphant if I had had the least idea
what my notes were about. But, as to reading them after I had got them,
I might as well have copied the Chinese inscriptions of an immense
collection of tea-chests, or the golden characters on all the great red
and green bottles in the chemists' shops!
There was nothing for it, but to turn back and begin all over again. It
was very hard, but I turned back, though with a heavy heart, and began
laboriously and methodically to plod over the same tedious ground at a
snail's pace; stopping to examine minutely every speck in the way, on
all sides, and making the most desperate efforts to know these elusive
characters by sight wherever I met them. I was always punctual at
the office; at the Doctor's too: and I really did work, as the common
expression is, like a cart-horse. One day, when I went to the Commons as
usual, I found Mr. Spenlow in the doorway looking extremely grave, and
talking to himself. As he was in the habit of complaining of pains in
his head--he had naturally a short throat, and I do seriously believe
he over-starched himself--I was at first alarmed by the idea that he was
not quite right in that direction; but he soon relieved my uneasiness.
Instead of returning my 'Good morning' with his usual affability, he
looked at me in a distant, ceremonious manner, and coldly requested me
to accompany him to a certain coffee-house, which, in those days, had
a door opening into the Commons, just within the little archway in St.
Paul's Churchyard. I complied, in a very uncomfortable state, and with a
warm shooting all over me, as if my apprehensions were breaking out into
buds. When I allowed him to go on a little before, on account of the
narrowness of the way, I observed that he carried his head with a lofty
air that was particularly unpromising; and my mind misgave me that he
had found out about my darling Dora.
If I had not guessed this, on the way to the coffee-house, I could
hardly have failed to know what was the matter when I followed him
into an upstairs room, and found Miss Murdstone there, supported by
a background of sideboard, on which were several inverted tumblers
sustaining lemons, and two of those extraordinary boxes, all corners and
flutings, for sticking knives and forks in, which, happily for mankind,
are now obsolete.
Miss Murdstone gave me her chilly finger-nails, and sat severely rigid.
Mr. Spenlow shut the door, motioned me to a chair, and stood on the
hearth-rug in front of the fireplace.
'Have the goodness to show Mr. Copperfield,' said Mr. Spenlow, what you
have in your reticule, Miss Murdstone.'
I believe it was the old identical steel-clasped reticule of my
childhood, that shut up like a bite. Compressing her lips, in sympathy
with the snap, Miss Murdstone opened it--opening her mouth a little
at the same time--and produced my last letter to Dora, teeming with
expressions of devoted affection.
'I believe that is your writing, Mr. Copperfield?' said Mr. Spenlow.
I was very hot, and the voice I heard was very unlike mine, when I said,
'It is, sir!'
'If I am not mistaken,' said Mr. Spenlow, as Miss Murdstone brought a
parcel of letters out of her reticule, tied round with the dearest bit
of blue ribbon, 'those are also from your pen, Mr. Copperfield?'
I took them from her with a most desolate sensation; and, glancing at
such phrases at the top, as 'My ever dearest and own Dora,' 'My best
beloved angel,' 'My blessed one for ever,' and the like, blushed deeply,
and inclined my head.
'No, thank you!' said Mr. Spenlow, coldly, as I mechanically offered
them back to him. 'I will not deprive you of them. Miss Murdstone, be so
good as to proceed!'
That gentle creature, after a moment's thoughtful survey of the carpet,
delivered herself with much dry unction as follows.
'I must confess to having entertained my suspicions of Miss Spenlow, in
reference to David Copperfield, for some time. I observed Miss Spenlow
and David Copperfield, when they first met; and the impression made upon
me then was not agreeable. The depravity of the human heart is such--'
'You will oblige me, ma'am,' interrupted Mr. Spenlow, 'by confining
yourself to facts.'
Miss Murdstone cast down her eyes, shook her head as if protesting
against this unseemly interruption, and with frowning dignity resumed:
'Since I am to confine myself to facts, I will state them as dryly as I
can. Perhaps that will be considered an acceptable course of proceeding.
I have already said, sir, that I have had my suspicions of Miss Spenlow,
in reference to David Copperfield, for some time. I have frequently
endeavoured to find decisive corroboration of those suspicions, but
without effect. I have therefore forborne to mention them to Miss
Spenlow's father'; looking severely at him--'knowing how little
disposition there usually is in such cases, to acknowledge the
conscientious discharge of duty.'
Mr. Spenlow seemed quite cowed by the gentlemanly sternness of Miss
Murdstone's manner, and deprecated her severity with a conciliatory
little wave of his hand.
'On my return to Norwood, after the period of absence occasioned by my
brother's marriage,' pursued Miss Murdstone in a disdainful voice, 'and
on the return of Miss Spenlow from her visit to her friend Miss Mills,
I imagined that the manner of Miss Spenlow gave me greater occasion for
suspicion than before. Therefore I watched Miss Spenlow closely.'
Dear, tender little Dora, so unconscious of this Dragon's eye!
'Still,' resumed Miss Murdstone, 'I found no proof until last night.
It appeared to me that Miss Spenlow received too many letters from her
friend Miss Mills; but Miss Mills being her friend with her father's
full concurrence,' another telling blow at Mr. Spenlow, 'it was not
for me to interfere. If I may not be permitted to allude to the natural
depravity of the human heart, at least I may--I must--be permitted, so
far to refer to misplaced confidence.'
Mr. Spenlow apologetically murmured his assent.
'Last evening after tea,' pursued Miss Murdstone, 'I observed the little
dog starting, rolling, and growling about the drawing-room, worrying
something. I said to Miss Spenlow, "Dora, what is that the dog has in
his mouth? It's paper." Miss Spenlow immediately put her hand to her
frock, gave a sudden cry, and ran to the dog. I interposed, and said,
"Dora, my love, you must permit me."'
Oh Jip, miserable Spaniel, this wretchedness, then, was your work!
'Miss Spenlow endeavoured,' said Miss Murdstone, 'to bribe me with
kisses, work-boxes, and small articles of jewellery--that, of course,
I pass over. The little dog retreated under the sofa on my approaching
him, and was with great difficulty dislodged by the fire-irons. Even
when dislodged, he still kept the letter in his mouth; and on my
endeavouring to take it from him, at the imminent risk of being bitten,
he kept it between his teeth so pertinaciously as to suffer himself
to be held suspended in the air by means of the document. At length I
obtained possession of it. After perusing it, I taxed Miss Spenlow with
having many such letters in her possession; and ultimately obtained from
her the packet which is now in David Copperfield's hand.'
Here she ceased; and snapping her reticule again, and shutting her
mouth, looked as if she might be broken, but could never be bent.
'You have heard Miss Murdstone,' said Mr. Spenlow, turning to me. 'I beg
to ask, Mr. Copperfield, if you have anything to say in reply?'
The picture I had before me, of the beautiful little treasure of my
heart, sobbing and crying all night--of her being alone, frightened,
and wretched, then--of her having so piteously begged and prayed that
stony-hearted woman to forgive her--of her having vainly offered her
those kisses, work-boxes, and trinkets--of her being in such grievous
distress, and all for me--very much impaired the little dignity I had
been able to muster. I am afraid I was in a tremulous state for a minute
or so, though I did my best to disguise it.
'There is nothing I can say, sir,' I returned, 'except that all the
blame is mine. Dora--'
'Miss Spenlow, if you please,' said her father, majestically.
'--was induced and persuaded by me,' I went on, swallowing that colder
designation, 'to consent to this concealment, and I bitterly regret it.'
'You are very much to blame, sir,' said Mr. Spenlow, walking to and fro
upon the hearth-rug, and emphasizing what he said with his whole body
instead of his head, on account of the stiffness of his cravat and
spine. 'You have done a stealthy and unbecoming action, Mr. Copperfield.
When I take a gentleman to my house, no matter whether he is nineteen,
twenty-nine, or ninety, I take him there in a spirit of confidence.
If he abuses my confidence, he commits a dishonourable action, Mr.
Copperfield.'
'I feel it, sir, I assure you,' I returned. 'But I never thought so,
before. Sincerely, honestly, indeed, Mr. Spenlow, I never thought so,
before. I love Miss Spenlow to that extent--'
'Pooh! nonsense!' said Mr. Spenlow, reddening. 'Pray don't tell me to my
face that you love my daughter, Mr. Copperfield!'
'Could I defend my conduct if I did not, sir?' I returned, with all
humility.
'Can you defend your conduct if you do, sir?' said Mr. Spenlow, stopping
short upon the hearth-rug. 'Have you considered your years, and my
daughter's years, Mr. Copperfield? Have you considered what it is to
undermine the confidence that should subsist between my daughter and
myself? Have you considered my daughter's station in life, the projects
I may contemplate for her advancement, the testamentary intentions I
may have with reference to her? Have you considered anything, Mr.
Copperfield?'
'Very little, sir, I am afraid;' I answered, speaking to him as
respectfully and sorrowfully as I felt; 'but pray believe me, I have
considered my own worldly position. When I explained it to you, we were
already engaged--'
'I BEG,' said Mr. Spenlow, more like Punch than I had ever seen him,
as he energetically struck one hand upon the other--I could not help
noticing that even in my despair; 'that YOU Will NOT talk to me of
engagements, Mr. Copperfield!'
The otherwise immovable Miss Murdstone laughed contemptuously in one
short syllable.
'When I explained my altered position to you, sir,' I began again,
substituting a new form of expression for what was so unpalatable to
him, 'this concealment, into which I am so unhappy as to have led Miss
Spenlow, had begun. Since I have been in that altered position, I have
strained every nerve, I have exerted every energy, to improve it. I am
sure I shall improve it in time. Will you grant me time--any length of
time? We are both so young, sir,--'
'You are right,' interrupted Mr. Spenlow, nodding his head a great
many times, and frowning very much, 'you are both very young. It's all
nonsense. Let there be an end of the nonsense. Take away those letters,
and throw them in the fire. Give me Miss Spenlow's letters to throw in
the fire; and although our future intercourse must, you are aware, be
restricted to the Commons here, we will agree to make no further mention
of the past. Come, Mr. Copperfield, you don't want sense; and this is
the sensible course.'
No. I couldn't think of agreeing to it. I was very sorry, but there
was a higher consideration than sense. Love was above all earthly
considerations, and I loved Dora to idolatry, and Dora loved me. I
didn't exactly say so; I softened it down as much as I could; but I
implied it, and I was resolute upon it. I don't think I made myself very
ridiculous, but I know I was resolute.
'Very well, Mr. Copperfield,' said Mr. Spenlow, 'I must try my influence
with my daughter.'
Miss Murdstone, by an expressive sound, a long drawn respiration, which
was neither a sigh nor a moan, but was like both, gave it as her opinion
that he should have done this at first.
'I must try,' said Mr. Spenlow, confirmed by this support, 'my
influence with my daughter. Do you decline to take those letters, Mr.
Copperfield?' For I had laid them on the table.
Yes. I told him I hoped he would not think it wrong, but I couldn't
possibly take them from Miss Murdstone.
'Nor from me?' said Mr. Spenlow.
No, I replied with the profoundest respect; nor from him.
'Very well!' said Mr. Spenlow.
A silence succeeding, I was undecided whether to go or stay. At length
I was moving quietly towards the door, with the intention of saying that
perhaps I should consult his feelings best by withdrawing: when he said,
with his hands in his coat pockets, into which it was as much as he
could do to get them; and with what I should call, upon the whole, a
decidedly pious air:
'You are probably aware, Mr. Copperfield, that I am not altogether
destitute of worldly possessions, and that my daughter is my nearest and
dearest relative?'
I hurriedly made him a reply to the effect, that I hoped the error into
which I had been betrayed by the desperate nature of my love, did not
induce him to think me mercenary too?
'I don't allude to the matter in that light,' said Mr. Spenlow. 'It
would be better for yourself, and all of us, if you WERE mercenary, Mr.
Copperfield--I mean, if you were more discreet and less influenced by
all this youthful nonsense. No. I merely say, with quite another view,
you are probably aware I have some property to bequeath to my child?'
I certainly supposed so.
'And you can hardly think,' said Mr. Spenlow, 'having experience of what
we see, in the Commons here, every day, of the various unaccountable
and negligent proceedings of men, in respect of their testamentary
arrangements--of all subjects, the one on which perhaps the strangest
revelations of human inconsistency are to be met with--but that mine are
made?'
I inclined my head in acquiescence.
'I should not allow,' said Mr. Spenlow, with an evident increase of
pious sentiment, and slowly shaking his head as he poised himself upon
his toes and heels alternately, 'my suitable provision for my child to
be influenced by a piece of youthful folly like the present. It is mere
folly. Mere nonsense. In a little while, it will weigh lighter than
any feather. But I might--I might--if this silly business were not
completely relinquished altogether, be induced in some anxious moment
to guard her from, and surround her with protections against, the
consequences of any foolish step in the way of marriage. Now, Mr.
Copperfield, I hope that you will not render it necessary for me to
open, even for a quarter of an hour, that closed page in the book of
life, and unsettle, even for a quarter of an hour, grave affairs long
since composed.'
There was a serenity, a tranquillity, a calm sunset air about him, which
quite affected me. He was so peaceful and resigned--clearly had his
affairs in such perfect train, and so systematically wound up--that he
was a man to feel touched in the contemplation of. I really think I saw
tears rise to his eyes, from the depth of his own feeling of all this.
But what could I do? I could not deny Dora and my own heart. When he
told me I had better take a week to consider of what he had said, how
could I say I wouldn't take a week, yet how could I fail to know that no
amount of weeks could influence such love as mine?
'In the meantime, confer with Miss Trotwood, or with any person with
any knowledge of life,' said Mr. Spenlow, adjusting his cravat with both
hands. 'Take a week, Mr. Copperfield.'
I submitted; and, with a countenance as expressive as I was able to
make it of dejected and despairing constancy, came out of the room. Miss
Murdstone's heavy eyebrows followed me to the door--I say her eyebrows
rather than her eyes, because they were much more important in her
face--and she looked so exactly as she used to look, at about that
hour of the morning, in our parlour at Blunderstone, that I could have
fancied I had been breaking down in my lessons again, and that the
dead weight on my mind was that horrible old spelling-book, with
oval woodcuts, shaped, to my youthful fancy, like the glasses out of
spectacles.
When I got to the office, and, shutting out old Tiffey and the rest of
them with my hands, sat at my desk, in my own particular nook, thinking
of this earthquake that had taken place so unexpectedly, and in the
bitterness of my spirit cursing Jip, I fell into such a state of torment
about Dora, that I wonder I did not take up my hat and rush insanely to
Norwood. The idea of their frightening her, and making her cry, and of
my not being there to comfort her, was so excruciating, that it impelled
me to write a wild letter to Mr. Spenlow, beseeching him not to visit
upon her the consequences of my awful destiny. I implored him to spare
her gentle nature--not to crush a fragile flower--and addressed him
generally, to the best of my remembrance, as if, instead of being her
father, he had been an Ogre, or the Dragon of Wantley. This letter I
sealed and laid upon his desk before he returned; and when he came in,
I saw him, through the half-opened door of his room, take it up and read
it.
He said nothing about it all the morning; but before he went away in the
afternoon he called me in, and told me that I need not make myself at
all uneasy about his daughter's happiness. He had assured her, he said,
that it was all nonsense; and he had nothing more to say to her. He
believed he was an indulgent father (as indeed he was), and I might
spare myself any solicitude on her account.
'You may make it necessary, if you are foolish or obstinate, Mr.
Copperfield,' he observed, 'for me to send my daughter abroad again,
for a term; but I have a better opinion of you. I hope you will be wiser
than that, in a few days. As to Miss Murdstone,' for I had alluded to
her in the letter, 'I respect that lady's vigilance, and feel obliged to
her; but she has strict charge to avoid the subject. All I desire, Mr.
Copperfield, is, that it should be forgotten. All you have got to do,
Mr. Copperfield, is to forget it.'
All! In the note I wrote to Miss Mills, I bitterly quoted this
sentiment. All I had to do, I said, with gloomy sarcasm, was to forget
Dora. That was all, and what was that! I entreated Miss Mills to see
me, that evening. If it could not be done with Mr. Mills's sanction
and concurrence, I besought a clandestine interview in the back kitchen
where the Mangle was. I informed her that my reason was tottering on
its throne, and only she, Miss Mills, could prevent its being deposed.
I signed myself, hers distractedly; and I couldn't help feeling, while
I read this composition over, before sending it by a porter, that it was
something in the style of Mr. Micawber.
However, I sent it. At night I repaired to Miss Mills's street, and
walked up and down, until I was stealthily fetched in by Miss Mills's
maid, and taken the area way to the back kitchen. I have since seen
reason to believe that there was nothing on earth to prevent my going in
at the front door, and being shown up into the drawing-room, except Miss
Mills's love of the romantic and mysterious.
In the back kitchen, I raved as became me. I went there, I suppose,
to make a fool of myself, and I am quite sure I did it. Miss Mills had
received a hasty note from Dora, telling her that all was discovered,
and saying. 'Oh pray come to me, Julia, do, do!' But Miss Mills,
mistrusting the acceptability of her presence to the higher powers, had
not yet gone; and we were all benighted in the Desert of Sahara.
Miss Mills had a wonderful flow of words, and liked to pour them out. I
could not help feeling, though she mingled her tears with mine, that she
had a dreadful luxury in our afflictions. She petted them, as I may say,
and made the most of them. A deep gulf, she observed, had opened between
Dora and me, and Love could only span it with its rainbow. Love must
suffer in this stern world; it ever had been so, it ever would be so. No
matter, Miss Mills remarked. Hearts confined by cobwebs would burst at
last, and then Love was avenged.
This was small consolation, but Miss Mills wouldn't encourage fallacious
hopes. She made me much more wretched than I was before, and I felt (and
told her with the deepest gratitude) that she was indeed a friend. We
resolved that she should go to Dora the first thing in the morning,
and find some means of assuring her, either by looks or words, of my
devotion and misery. We parted, overwhelmed with grief; and I think Miss
Mills enjoyed herself completely.
I confided all to my aunt when I got home; and in spite of all she could
say to me, went to bed despairing. I got up despairing, and went out
despairing. It was Saturday morning, and I went straight to the Commons.
I was surprised, when I came within sight of our office-door, to see the
ticket-porters standing outside talking together, and some half-dozen
stragglers gazing at the windows which were shut up. I quickened my
pace, and, passing among them, wondering at their looks, went hurriedly
in.
The clerks were there, but nobody was doing anything. Old Tiffey, for
the first time in his life I should think, was sitting on somebody
else's stool, and had not hung up his hat.
'This is a dreadful calamity, Mr. Copperfield,' said he, as I entered.
'What is?' I exclaimed. 'What's the matter?'
'Don't you know?' cried Tiffey, and all the rest of them, coming round
me.
'No!' said I, looking from face to face.
'Mr. Spenlow,' said Tiffey.
'What about him!'
'Dead!' I thought it was the office reeling, and not I, as one of
the clerks caught hold of me. They sat me down in a chair, untied my
neck-cloth, and brought me some water. I have no idea whether this took
any time.
'Dead?' said I.
'He dined in town yesterday, and drove down in the phaeton by himself,'
said Tiffey, 'having sent his own groom home by the coach, as he
sometimes did, you know--'
'Well?'
'The phaeton went home without him. The horses stopped at the
stable-gate. The man went out with a lantern. Nobody in the carriage.'
'Had they run away?'
'They were not hot,' said Tiffey, putting on his glasses; 'no hotter, I
understand, than they would have been, going down at the usual pace. The
reins were broken, but they had been dragging on the ground. The house
was roused up directly, and three of them went out along the road. They
found him a mile off.'
'More than a mile off, Mr. Tiffey,' interposed a junior.
'Was it? I believe you are right,' said Tiffey,--'more than a mile
off--not far from the church--lying partly on the roadside, and partly
on the path, upon his face. Whether he fell out in a fit, or got out,
feeling ill before the fit came on--or even whether he was quite dead
then, though there is no doubt he was quite insensible--no one appears
to know. If he breathed, certainly he never spoke. Medical assistance
was got as soon as possible, but it was quite useless.'
I cannot describe the state of mind into which I was thrown by this
intelligence. The shock of such an event happening so suddenly, and
happening to one with whom I had been in any respect at variance--the
appalling vacancy in the room he had occupied so lately, where his chair
and table seemed to wait for him, and his handwriting of yesterday was
like a ghost--the indefinable impossibility of separating him from the
place, and feeling, when the door opened, as if he might come in--the
lazy hush and rest there was in the office, and the insatiable relish
with which our people talked about it, and other people came in and
out all day, and gorged themselves with the subject--this is easily
intelligible to anyone. What I cannot describe is, how, in the innermost
recesses of my own heart, I had a lurking jealousy even of Death. How
I felt as if its might would push me from my ground in Dora's thoughts.
How I was, in a grudging way I have no words for, envious of her grief.
How it made me restless to think of her weeping to others, or being
consoled by others. How I had a grasping, avaricious wish to shut out
everybody from her but myself, and to be all in all to her, at that
unseasonable time of all times.
In the trouble of this state of mind--not exclusively my own, I hope,
but known to others--I went down to Norwood that night; and finding from
one of the servants, when I made my inquiries at the door, that Miss
Mills was there, got my aunt to direct a letter to her, which I wrote.
I deplored the untimely death of Mr. Spenlow, most sincerely, and shed
tears in doing so. I entreated her to tell Dora, if Dora were in a
state to hear it, that he had spoken to me with the utmost kindness and
consideration; and had coupled nothing but tenderness, not a single or
reproachful word, with her name. I know I did this selfishly, to have my
name brought before her; but I tried to believe it was an act of justice
to his memory. Perhaps I did believe it.
My aunt received a few lines next day in reply; addressed, outside, to
her; within, to me. Dora was overcome by grief; and when her friend had
asked her should she send her love to me, had only cried, as she was
always crying, 'Oh, dear papa! oh, poor papa!' But she had not said No,
and that I made the most of.
Mr. Jorkins, who had been at Norwood since the occurrence, came to the
office a few days afterwards. He and Tiffey were closeted together for
some few moments, and then Tiffey looked out at the door and beckoned me
in.
'Oh!' said Mr. Jorkins. 'Mr. Tiffey and myself, Mr. Copperfield, are
about to examine the desks, the drawers, and other such repositories
of the deceased, with the view of sealing up his private papers, and
searching for a Will. There is no trace of any, elsewhere. It may be as
well for you to assist us, if you please.'
I had been in agony to obtain some knowledge of the circumstances
in which my Dora would be placed--as, in whose guardianship, and so
forth--and this was something towards it. We began the search at once;
Mr. Jorkins unlocking the drawers and desks, and we all taking out the
papers. The office-papers we placed on one side, and the private papers
(which were not numerous) on the other. We were very grave; and when we
came to a stray seal, or pencil-case, or ring, or any little article of
that kind which we associated personally with him, we spoke very low.
We had sealed up several packets; and were still going on dustily and
quietly, when Mr. Jorkins said to us, applying exactly the same words to
his late partner as his late partner had applied to him:
'Mr. Spenlow was very difficult to move from the beaten track. You know
what he was! I am disposed to think he had made no will.'
'Oh, I know he had!' said I.
They both stopped and looked at me. 'On the very day when I last saw
him,' said I, 'he told me that he had, and that his affairs were long
since settled.'
Mr. Jorkins and old Tiffey shook their heads with one accord.
'That looks unpromising,' said Tiffey.
'Very unpromising,' said Mr. Jorkins.
'Surely you don't doubt--' I began.
'My good Mr. Copperfield!' said Tiffey, laying his hand upon my arm, and
shutting up both his eyes as he shook his head: 'if you had been in the
Commons as long as I have, you would know that there is no subject on
which men are so inconsistent, and so little to be trusted.'
'Why, bless my soul, he made that very remark!' I replied persistently.
'I should call that almost final,' observed Tiffey. 'My opinion is--no
will.'
It appeared a wonderful thing to me, but it turned out that there was
no will. He had never so much as thought of making one, so far as his
papers afforded any evidence; for there was no kind of hint, sketch, or
memorandum, of any testamentary intention whatever. What was scarcely
less astonishing to me, was, that his affairs were in a most disordered
state. It was extremely difficult, I heard, to make out what he owed, or
what he had paid, or of what he died possessed. It was considered likely
that for years he could have had no clear opinion on these subjects
himself. By little and little it came out, that, in the competition on
all points of appearance and gentility then running high in the Commons,
he had spent more than his professional income, which was not a very
large one, and had reduced his private means, if they ever had been
great (which was exceedingly doubtful), to a very low ebb indeed. There
was a sale of the furniture and lease, at Norwood; and Tiffey told me,
little thinking how interested I was in the story, that, paying all the
just debts of the deceased, and deducting his share of outstanding bad
and doubtful debts due to the firm, he wouldn't give a thousand pounds
for all the assets remaining.
This was at the expiration of about six weeks. I had suffered tortures
all the time; and thought I really must have laid violent hands upon
myself, when Miss Mills still reported to me, that my broken-hearted
little Dora would say nothing, when I was mentioned, but 'Oh, poor papa!
Oh, dear papa!' Also, that she had no other relations than two aunts,
maiden sisters of Mr. Spenlow, who lived at Putney, and who had not held
any other than chance communication with their brother for many years.
Not that they had ever quarrelled (Miss Mills informed me); but that
having been, on the occasion of Dora's christening, invited to tea, when
they considered themselves privileged to be invited to dinner, they
had expressed their opinion in writing, that it was 'better for the
happiness of all parties' that they should stay away. Since which they
had gone their road, and their brother had gone his.
These two ladies now emerged from their retirement, and proposed to
take Dora to live at Putney. Dora, clinging to them both, and weeping,
exclaimed, 'O yes, aunts! Please take Julia Mills and me and Jip to
Putney!' So they went, very soon after the funeral.
How I found time to haunt Putney, I am sure I don't know; but I
contrived, by some means or other, to prowl about the neighbourhood
pretty often. Miss Mills, for the more exact discharge of the duties of
friendship, kept a journal; and she used to meet me sometimes, on the
Common, and read it, or (if she had not time to do that) lend it to me.
How I treasured up the entries, of which I subjoin a sample--!
'Monday. My sweet D. still much depressed. Headache. Called attention to
J. as being beautifully sleek. D. fondled J. Associations thus awakened,
opened floodgates of sorrow. Rush of grief admitted. (Are tears the
dewdrops of the heart? J. M.)
'Tuesday. D. weak and nervous. Beautiful in pallor. (Do we not remark
this in moon likewise? J. M.) D., J. M. and J. took airing in carriage.
J. looking out of window, and barking violently at dustman, occasioned
smile to overspread features of D. (Of such slight links is chain of
life composed! J. M.)
'Wednesday. D. comparatively cheerful. Sang to her, as congenial melody,
"Evening Bells". Effect not soothing, but reverse. D. inexpressibly
affected. Found sobbing afterwards, in own room. Quoted verses
respecting self and young Gazelle. Ineffectually. Also referred to
Patience on Monument. (Qy. Why on monument? J. M.)
'Thursday. D. certainly improved. Better night. Slight tinge of damask
revisiting cheek. Resolved to mention name of D. C. Introduced same,
cautiously, in course of airing. D. immediately overcome. "Oh, dear,
dear Julia! Oh, I have been a naughty and undutiful child!" Soothed
and caressed. Drew ideal picture of D. C. on verge of tomb. D. again
overcome. "Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do? Oh, take me somewhere!"
Much alarmed. Fainting of D. and glass of water from public-house.
(Poetical affinity. Chequered sign on door-post; chequered human life.
Alas! J. M.)
'Friday. Day of incident. Man appears in kitchen, with blue bag, "for
lady's boots left out to heel". Cook replies, "No such orders." Man
argues point. Cook withdraws to inquire, leaving man alone with J. On
Cook's return, man still argues point, but ultimately goes. J. missing.
D. distracted. Information sent to police. Man to be identified by
broad nose, and legs like balustrades of bridge. Search made in
every direction. No J. D. weeping bitterly, and inconsolable. Renewed
reference to young Gazelle. Appropriate, but unavailing. Towards
evening, strange boy calls. Brought into parlour. Broad nose, but no
balustrades. Says he wants a pound, and knows a dog. Declines to explain
further, though much pressed. Pound being produced by D. takes Cook
to little house, where J. alone tied up to leg of table. Joy of D.
who dances round J. while he eats his supper. Emboldened by this happy
change, mention D. C. upstairs. D. weeps afresh, cries piteously, "Oh,
don't, don't, don't! It is so wicked to think of anything but poor
papa!"--embraces J. and sobs herself to sleep. (Must not D. C. confine
himself to the broad pinions of Time? J. M.)'
Miss Mills and her journal were my sole consolation at this period.
To see her, who had seen Dora but a little while before--to trace the
initial letter of Dora's name through her sympathetic pages--to be made
more and more miserable by her--were my only comforts. I felt as if I
had been living in a palace of cards, which had tumbled down, leaving
only Miss Mills and me among the ruins; I felt as if some grim enchanter
had drawn a magic circle round the innocent goddess of my heart, which
nothing indeed but those same strong pinions, capable of carrying so
many people over so much, would enable me to enter! | David continues with his plan on reporting on Parliamentary Debates. He learns shorthand, but it is really hard. Traddles, Miss Betsey, and Mr. Dick help him to learn by staging debates slowly, with pauses for him to catch up. David really is working very hard: he is always on time at both Doctor Strong's home and at the law offices. One day, he finds Mr. Spenlow muttering to himself and looking cold and reserved. Mr. Spenlow asks David to follow him to a coffee shop. David worries that Mr. Spenlow has found out about his engagement to Dora. Once they arrive at one of the private rooms of the coffee shop, they find Miss Murdstone waiting for them. . Miss Murdstone is holding several letters in David's handwriting written to Dora. She continues that she has long suspected Dora of loving David, but she hasn't had any evidence until now. Miss Murdstone did notice that, since she returned from her brother's wedding, Dora has been getting an awful lot of letters from Miss Mills. Unluckily, Jip happened to be playing with one of these letters in Miss Murdstone's presence. She saved it from the dog, read it, and found that it was from David. Miss Murdstone then managed to bully Dora into giving up all of David's love letters. Mr. Spenlow asks David to explain himself. David says that the fault is all his, not Dora's. Mr. Spenlow answers that David is to blame, for sneaking into his house and keeping this whole love affair a secret. Dora's father says that David cannot truly love Dora because he hasn't considered Dora's station in life or potential future with David. David agrees that it's true that he hasn't though much of the future, but they are engaged. Mr. Spenlow tells David not to talk about engagements. It's all nonsense, and he insists that David stop thinking of Dora. Forget about the past, Mr. Spenlow encourages David. David doesn't want to make Mr. Spenlow angry, but he does tell him that he's committed to Dora. Mr. Spenlow answers that he's going to influence Dora to forget the whole thing. Miss Murdstone snorts, suggesting that it's about time that Mr. Spenlow intervene. David is slowly edging towards the door when Mr. Spenlow tells David that he has money to leave to his daughter. David protests that he's not in this for the money. Mr. Spenlow is sure that David isn't, but even so - he's thinking about changing his will to include conditions against foolish marriages. Mr. Spenlow gives David a week to consider this, a week that David won't use: he can't deprive Dora and himself a chance at happiness. Miss Murdstone stares after David the same way she used to when he messed up his lessons. David sits in his little office and writes a letter to Mr. Spenlow begging him not to frighten Dora further, nor to make her cry. He leaves the letter on Mr. Spenlow's desk. Mr. Spenlow warns David that, if he keeps on about this, Mr. Spenlow will have to send Dora abroad again. David then writes to Miss Mills and asks to meet her. Miss Mills weeps with David and promises to go to Dora the next morning to reassure her of David's commitment. Miss Mills seems to be enjoying all of this love drama. David then passes all of this news on to Miss Betsey, who tries to comfort him. The next day, David goes in to the office, which is odd. All of the clerks, including Mr. Tiffey, are standing around and not working. Mr. Tiffey gives David the news: Mr. Spenlow is dead. David staggers, and the clerks help him to a chair. Mr. Spenlow's usual carriage arrived home without him. They found Mr. Spenlow's body about a mile back on the road. He appears to have either fallen or jumped out of the coach on his way home and been overcome by a sudden illness. David is absolutely shocked. He also feels a bit guilty because he's jealous of Dora's grief for someone other than David. That night, David travels to Mr. Spenlow's house. He finds Miss Mills there, and gives her a letter to pass on to Dora. The next day, David receives a letter from Miss Mills about Dora, who is weeping constantly. Mr. Jorkins comes into the office to look for Mr. Spenlow's will. David is also eager to find the will, since he wants to know what Dora's future holds. They look all around the office but can't find one. Oddly enough, when David reassures Mr. Jorkins and Mr. Tiffey that Mr. Spenlow had told him hat Mr. Spenlow had a will all drawn up, they shake their heads. Mr. Jorkins and Mr. Tiffey agree that people are weird about their wills, and often lie about them. That proves to be true: even though Mr. Spenlow's whole law career was built on wills, he did not, in fact, leave one. What's even more extraordinary is that, after paying off all of Mr. Spenlow's bills and debts, there isn't actually much money left over for Dora. Mr. Spenlow had two estranged sisters who agree to take Dora into their home. David manages to visit her new neighborhood quite often. Miss Mills goes so far as to keep a diary of Dora's activities for David. This journal is quite hilarious: Miss Mills's little comments are filled with intense emo. |
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter, as
soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it, than
hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to be
interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches, and prepared to be
happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not
contain a denial.
"Gracechurch-street, Sept. 6.
"MY DEAR NIECE,
"I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole
morning to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing will
not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself
surprised by your application; I did not expect it from _you_.
Don't think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know,
that I had not imagined such enquiries to be necessary on _your_
side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my
impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am--and nothing
but the belief of your being a party concerned, would have allowed
him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and
ignorant, I must be more explicit. On the very day of my coming
home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr.
Darcy called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all
over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked
as _your's_ seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that
he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that
he had seen and talked with them both, Wickham repeatedly, Lydia
once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day
after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting
for them. The motive professed, was his conviction of its being
owing to himself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well
known, as to make it impossible for any young woman of character,
to love or confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his
mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath
him, to lay his private actions open to the world. His character
was to speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step
forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil, which had been brought on
by himself. If he _had another_ motive, I am sure it would never
disgrace him. He had been some days in town, before he was able to
discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which was
more than _we_ had; and the consciousness of this, was another
reason for his resolving to follow us. There is a lady, it seems, a
Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was
dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though
he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward-street,
and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs.
Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he
went to her for intelligence of him, as soon as he got to town. But
it was two or three days before he could get from her what he
wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery
and corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be
found. Wickham indeed had gone to her, on their first arrival in
London, and had she been able to receive them into her house, they
would have taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our
kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in ----
street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia.
His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade
her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her
friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her,
offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But he found Lydia
absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none
of her friends, she wanted no help of his, she would not hear of
leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or
other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her
feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a
marriage, which, in his very first conversation with Wickham, he
easily learnt, had never been _his_ design. He confessed himself
obliged to leave the regiment, on account of some debts of honour,
which were very pressing; and scrupled not to lay all the
ill-consequences of Lydia's flight, on her own folly alone. He
meant to resign his commission immediately; and as to his future
situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He must go
somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have
nothing to live on. Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your
sister at once. Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich,
he would have been able to do something for him, and his situation
must have been benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to
this question, that Wickham still cherished the hope of more
effectually making his fortune by marriage, in some other country.
Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof
against the temptation of immediate relief. They met several times,
for there was much to be discussed. Wickham of course wanted more
than he could get; but at length was reduced to be reasonable.
Every thing being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy's next step was
to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in
Gracechurch-street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner
could not be seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further enquiry, that
your father was still with him, but would quit town the next
morning. He did not judge your father to be a person whom he could
so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore readily postponed
seeing him, till after the departure of the former. He did not
leave his name, and till the next day, it was only known that a
gentleman had called on business. On Saturday he came again. Your
father was gone, your uncle at home, and, as I said before, they
had a great deal of talk together. They met again on Sunday, and
then _I_ saw him too. It was not all settled before Monday: as soon
as it was, the express was sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor
was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy is the real
defect of his character after all. He has been accused of many
faults at different times; but _this_ is the true one. Nothing was
to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and I do
not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it,) your
uncle would most readily have settled the whole. They battled it
together for a long time, which was more than either the gentleman
or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle was forced
to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his niece,
was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it,
which went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your
letter this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an
explanation that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give
the praise where it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther
than yourself, or Jane at most. You know pretty well, I suppose,
what has been done for the young people. His debts are to be paid,
amounting, I believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds,
another thousand in addition to her own settled upon _her_, and his
commission purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him
alone, was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his
reserve, and want of proper consideration, that Wickham's character
had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had been
received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth in
_this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody's_
reserve, can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this
fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured, that
your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not given him credit
for _another interest_ in the affair. When all this was resolved
on, he returned again to his friends, who were still staying at
Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in London once more
when the wedding took place, and all money matters were then to
receive the last finish. I believe I have now told you every thing.
It is a relation which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I
hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to
us; and Wickham had constant admission to the house. _He_ was
exactly what he had been, when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I
would not tell you how little I was satisfied with _her_ behaviour
while she staid with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane's letter
last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a
piece with it, and therefore what I now tell you, can give you no
fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious manner,
representing to her all the wickedness of what she had done, and
all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she heard me,
it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was
sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth
and Jane, and for their sakes had patience with her. Mr. Darcy was
punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you, attended the
wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to leave town again
on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my dear
Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold
enough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour to us has,
in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire.
His understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but
a little more liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his
wife may teach him. I thought him very sly;--he hardly ever
mentioned your name. But slyness seems the fashion. Pray forgive
me, if I have been very presuming, or at least do not punish me so
far, as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy till I
have been all round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice little
pair of ponies, would be the very thing. But I must write no more.
The children have been wanting me this half hour. Your's, very
sincerely,
"M. GARDINER."
The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits,
in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the
greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had
produced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's
match, which she had feared to encourage, as an exertion of goodness too
great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the
pain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true!
He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all the
trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which
supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and
despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason with,
persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to
avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had
done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her
heart did whisper, that he had done it for her. But it was a hope
shortly checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her
vanity was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for
her, for a woman who had already refused him, as able to overcome a
sentiment so natural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham.
Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the
connection. He had to be sure done much. She was ashamed to think how
much. But he had given a reason for his interference, which asked no
extraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel
he had been wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising
it; and though she would not place herself as his principal inducement,
she could, perhaps, believe, that remaining partiality for her, might
assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be
materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that
they were under obligations to a person who could never receive a
return. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing
to him. Oh! how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation
she had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed
towards him. For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him.
Proud that in a cause of compassion and honour, he had been able to get
the better of himself. She read over her aunt's commendation of him
again and again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even
sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how
steadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and
confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.
She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one's
approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was
overtaken by Wickham.
"I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?" said he,
as he joined her.
"You certainly do," she replied with a smile; "but it does not follow
that the interruption must be unwelcome."
"I should be sorry indeed, if it were. _We_ were always good friends;
and now we are better."
"True. Are the others coming out?"
"I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to
Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find from our uncle and aunt, that
you have actually seen Pemberley."
She replied in the affirmative.
"I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much
for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the
old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of
me. But of course she did not mention my name to you."
"Yes, she did."
"And what did she say?"
"That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had--not turned
out well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things are strangely
misrepresented."
"Certainly," he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had
silenced him; but he soon afterwards said,
"I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other
several times. I wonder what he can be doing there."
"Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh," said
Elizabeth. "It must be something particular, to take him there at this
time of year."
"Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I
understood from the Gardiners that you had."
"Yes; he introduced us to his sister."
"And do you like her?"
"Very much."
"I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year
or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad
you liked her. I hope she will turn out well."
"I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age."
"Did you go by the village of Kympton?"
"I do not recollect that we did."
"I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A
most delightful place!--Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited
me in every respect."
"How should you have liked making sermons?"
"Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and
the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to
repine;--but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The
quiet, the retirement of such a life, would have answered all my ideas
of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the
circumstance, when you were in Kent?"
"I _have_ heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that it was
left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron."
"You have. Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from the
first, you may remember."
"I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not so
palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually
declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business
had been compromised accordingly."
"You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember
what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it."
They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast
to get rid of him; and unwilling for her sister's sake, to provoke him,
she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile,
"Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us
quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one
mind."
She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though
he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house. | When she responds to Elizabeths letter, Mrs. Gardiner is surprised that Elizabeth does not know the truth about the Wickham marriage. She informs Elizabeth that Darcy had found Lydia and bribed Wickham to marry her. Darcy then made Mr. Gardiner promise that he would conceal this information and take the credit for having paid Wickham. Elizabeth is overwhelmed by Darcys kindness and finds it hard to believe that he has done all this. She assumes that his involvement has sprung from his sense of responsibility for Wickham. Wickham confronts Elizabeth and tries to find out if she knows the truth about his relationship with Darcy. Elizabeth is evasive and cynical in her vague response and succeeds in getting rid of him quickly. |
Strether called, his second morning in Paris, on the bankers of the Rue
Scribe to whom his letter of credit was addressed, and he made this
visit attended by Waymarsh, in whose company he had crossed from London
two days before. They had hastened to the Rue Scribe on the morrow of
their arrival, but Strether had not then found the letters the hope of
which prompted this errand. He had had as yet none at all; hadn't
expected them in London, but had counted on several in Paris, and,
disconcerted now, had presently strolled back to the Boulevard with a
sense of injury that he felt himself taking for as good a start as any
other. It would serve, this spur to his spirit, he reflected, as,
pausing at the top of the street, he looked up and down the great
foreign avenue, it would serve to begin business with. His idea was to
begin business immediately, and it did much for him the rest of his day
that the beginning of business awaited him. He did little else till
night but ask himself what he should do if he hadn't fortunately had so
much to do; but he put himself the question in many different
situations and connexions. What carried him hither and yon was an
admirable theory that nothing he could do wouldn't be in some manner
related to what he fundamentally had on hand, or WOULD be--should he
happen to have a scruple--wasted for it. He did happen to have a
scruple--a scruple about taking no definite step till he should get
letters; but this reasoning carried it off. A single day to feel his
feet--he had felt them as yet only at Chester and in London--was he
could consider, none too much; and having, as he had often privately
expressed it, Paris to reckon with, he threw these hours of freshness
consciously into the reckoning. They made it continually greater, but
that was what it had best be if it was to be anything at all, and he
gave himself up till far into the evening, at the theatre and on the
return, after the theatre, along the bright congested Boulevard, to
feeling it grow. Waymarsh had accompanied him this time to the play,
and the two men had walked together, as a first stage, from the Gymnase
to the Cafe Riche, into the crowded "terrace" of which
establishment--the night, or rather the morning, for midnight had
struck, being bland and populous--they had wedged themselves for
refreshment. Waymarsh, as a result of some discussion with his friend,
had made a marked virtue of his having now let himself go; and there
had been elements of impression in their half-hour over their watered
beer-glasses that gave him his occasion for conveying that he held this
compromise with his stiffer self to have become extreme. He conveyed
it--for it was still, after all, his stiffer self who gloomed out of
the glare of the terrace--in solemn silence; and there was indeed a
great deal of critical silence, every way, between the companions, even
till they gained the Place de l'Opera, as to the character of their
nocturnal progress.
This morning there WERE letters--letters which had reached London,
apparently all together, the day of Strether's journey, and had taken
their time to follow him; so that, after a controlled impulse to go
into them in the reception-room of the bank, which, reminding him of
the post-office at Woollett, affected him as the abutment of some
transatlantic bridge, he slipped them into the pocket of his loose grey
overcoat with a sense of the felicity of carrying them off. Waymarsh,
who had had letters yesterday, had had them again to-day, and Waymarsh
suggested in this particular no controlled impulses. The last one he
was at all events likely to be observed to struggle with was clearly
that of bringing to a premature close any visit to the Rue Scribe.
Strether had left him there yesterday; he wanted to see the papers, and
he had spent, by what his friend could make out, a succession of hours
with the papers. He spoke of the establishment, with emphasis, as a
post of superior observation; just as he spoke generally of his actual
damnable doom as a device for hiding from him what was going on. Europe
was best described, to his mind, as an elaborate engine for
dissociating the confined American from that indispensable knowledge,
and was accordingly only rendered bearable by these occasional stations
of relief, traps for the arrest of wandering western airs. Strether,
on his side, set himself to walk again--he had his relief in his
pocket; and indeed, much as he had desired his budget, the growth of
restlessness might have been marked in him from the moment he had
assured himself of the superscription of most of the missives it
contained. This restlessness became therefore his temporary law; he
knew he should recognise as soon as see it the best place of all for
settling down with his chief correspondent. He had for the next hour
an accidental air of looking for it in the windows of shops; he came
down the Rue de la Paix in the sun and, passing across the Tuileries
and the river, indulged more than once--as if on finding himself
determined--in a sudden pause before the book-stalls of the opposite
quay. In the garden of the Tuileries he had lingered, on two or three
spots, to look; it was as if the wonderful Paris spring had stayed him
as he roamed. The prompt Paris morning struck its cheerful notes--in a
soft breeze and a sprinkled smell, in the light flit, over the
garden-floor, of bareheaded girls with the buckled strap of oblong
boxes, in the type of ancient thrifty persons basking betimes where
terrace-walls were warm, in the blue-frocked brass-labelled officialism
of humble rakers and scrapers, in the deep references of a
straight-pacing priest or the sharp ones of a white-gaitered red-legged
soldier. He watched little brisk figures, figures whose movement was
as the tick of the great Paris clock, take their smooth diagonal from
point to point; the air had a taste as of something mixed with art,
something that presented nature as a white-capped master-chef. The
palace was gone, Strether remembered the palace; and when he gazed into
the irremediable void of its site the historic sense in him might have
been freely at play--the play under which in Paris indeed it so often
winces like a touched nerve. He filled out spaces with dim symbols of
scenes; he caught the gleam of white statues at the base of which, with
his letters out, he could tilt back a straw-bottomed chair. But his
drift was, for reasons, to the other side, and it floated him unspent
up the Rue de Seine and as far as the Luxembourg. In the Luxembourg
Gardens he pulled up; here at last he found his nook, and here, on a
penny chair from which terraces, alleys, vistas, fountains, little
trees in green tubs, little women in white caps and shrill little girls
at play all sunnily "composed" together, he passed an hour in which the
cup of his impressions seemed truly to overflow. But a week had elapsed
since he quitted the ship, and there were more things in his mind than
so few days could account for. More than once, during the time, he had
regarded himself as admonished; but the admonition this morning was
formidably sharp. It took as it hadn't done yet the form of a
question--the question of what he was doing with such an extraordinary
sense of escape. This sense was sharpest after he had read his
letters, but that was also precisely why the question pressed. Four of
the letters were from Mrs. Newsome and none of them short; she had lost
no time, had followed on his heels while he moved, so expressing
herself that he now could measure the probable frequency with which he
should hear. They would arrive, it would seem, her communications, at
the rate of several a week; he should be able to count, it might even
prove, on more than one by each mail. If he had begun yesterday with a
small grievance he had therefore an opportunity to begin to-day with
its opposite. He read the letters successively and slowly, putting
others back into his pocket but keeping these for a long time
afterwards gathered in his lap. He held them there, lost in thought,
as if to prolong the presence of what they gave him; or as if at the
least to assure them their part in the constitution of some lucidity.
His friend wrote admirably, and her tone was even more in her style
than in her voice--he might almost, for the hour, have had to come this
distance to get its full carrying quality; yet the plentitude of his
consciousness of difference consorted perfectly with the deepened
intensity of the connexion. It was the difference, the difference of
being just where he was and AS he was, that formed the escape--this
difference was so much greater than he had dreamed it would be; and
what he finally sat there turning over was the strange logic of his
finding himself so free. He felt it in a manner his duty to think out
his state, to approve the process, and when he came in fact to trace
the steps and add up the items they sufficiently accounted for the sum.
He had never expected--that was the truth of it--again to find himself
young, and all the years and other things it had taken to make him so
were exactly his present arithmetic. He had to make sure of them to
put his scruple to rest.
It all sprang at bottom from the beauty of Mrs. Newsome's desire that
he should be worried with nothing that was not of the essence of his
task; by insisting that he should thoroughly intermit and break she had
so provided for his freedom that she would, as it were, have only
herself to thank. Strether could not at this point indeed have
completed his thought by the image of what she might have to thank
herself FOR: the image, at best, of his own likeness-poor Lambert
Strether washed up on the sunny strand by the waves of a single day,
poor Lambert Strether thankful for breathing-time and stiffening
himself while he gasped. There he was, and with nothing in his aspect
or his posture to scandalise: it was only true that if he had seen Mrs.
Newsome coming he would instinctively have jumped up to walk away a
little. He would have come round and back to her bravely, but he would
have had first to pull himself together. She abounded in news of the
situation at home, proved to him how perfectly she was arranging for
his absence, told him who would take up this and who take up that
exactly where he had left it, gave him in fact chapter and verse for
the moral that nothing would suffer. It filled for him, this tone of
hers, all the air; yet it struck him at the same time as the hum of
vain things. This latter effect was what he tried to justify--and with
the success that, grave though the appearance, he at last lighted on a
form that was happy. He arrived at it by the inevitable recognition of
his having been a fortnight before one of the weariest of men. If ever
a man had come off tired Lambert Strether was that man; and hadn't it
been distinctly on the ground of his fatigue that his wonderful friend
at home had so felt for him and so contrived? It seemed to him somehow
at these instants that, could he only maintain with sufficient firmness
his grasp of that truth, it might become in a manner his compass and
his helm. What he wanted most was some idea that would simplify, and
nothing would do this so much as the fact that he was done for and
finished. If it had been in such a light that he had just detected in
his cup the dregs of youth, that was a mere flaw of the surface of his
scheme. He was so distinctly fagged-out that it must serve precisely
as his convenience, and if he could but consistently be good for little
enough he might do everything he wanted.
Everything he wanted was comprised moreover in a single boon--the
common unattainable art of taking things as they came. He appeared to
himself to have given his best years to an active appreciation of the
way they didn't come; but perhaps--as they would seemingly here be
things quite other--this long ache might at last drop to rest. He
could easily see that from the moment he should accept the notion of
his foredoomed collapse the last thing he would lack would be reasons
and memories. Oh if he SHOULD do the sum no slate would hold the
figures! The fact that he had failed, as he considered, in everything,
in each relation and in half a dozen trades, as he liked luxuriously to
put it, might have made, might still make, for an empty present; but it
stood solidly for a crowded past. It had not been, so much achievement
missed, a light yoke nor a short load. It was at present as if
the backward picture had hung there, the long crooked course, grey in
the shadow of his solitude. It had been a dreadful cheerful sociable
solitude, a solitude of life or choice, of community; but though there
had been people enough all round it there had been but three or four
persons IN it. Waymarsh was one of these, and the fact struck him just
now as marking the record. Mrs. Newsome was another, and Miss Gostrey
had of a sudden shown signs of becoming a third. Beyond, behind them
was the pale figure of his real youth, which held against its breast
the two presences paler than itself--the young wife he had early lost
and the young son he had stupidly sacrificed. He had again and again
made out for himself that he might have kept his little boy, his little
dull boy who had died at school of rapid diphtheria, if he had not in
those years so insanely given himself to merely missing the mother. It
was the soreness of his remorse that the child had in all likelihood
not really been dull--had been dull, as he had been banished and
neglected, mainly because the father had been unwittingly selfish. This
was doubtless but the secret habit of sorrow, which had slowly given
way to time; yet there remained an ache sharp enough to make the
spirit, at the sight now and again of some fair young man just growing
up, wince with the thought of an opportunity lost. Had ever a man, he
had finally fallen into the way of asking himself, lost so much and
even done so much for so little? There had been particular reasons why
all yesterday, beyond other days, he should have had in one ear this
cold enquiry. His name on the green cover, where he had put it for
Mrs. Newsome, expressed him doubtless just enough to make the
world--the world as distinguished, both for more and for less, from
Woollett--ask who he was. He had incurred the ridicule of having to
have his explanation explained. He was Lambert Strether because he was
on the cover, whereas it should have been, for anything like glory,
that he was on the cover because he was Lambert Strether. He would
have done anything for Mrs. Newsome, have been still more
ridiculous--as he might, for that matter, have occasion to be yet;
which came to saying that this acceptance of fate was all he had to
show at fifty-five.
He judged the quantity as small because it WAS small, and all the more
egregiously since it couldn't, as he saw the case, so much as thinkably
have been larger. He hadn't had the gift of making the most of what he
tried, and if he had tried and tried again--no one but himself knew how
often--it appeared to have been that he might demonstrate what else, in
default of that, COULD be made. Old ghosts of experiments came back to
him, old drudgeries and delusions, and disgusts, old recoveries with
their relapses, old fevers with their chills, broken moments of good
faith, others of still better doubt; adventures, for the most part, of
the sort qualified as lessons. The special spring that had constantly
played for him the day before was the recognition--frequent enough to
surprise him--of the promises to himself that he had after his other
visit never kept. The reminiscence to-day most quickened for him was
that of the vow taken in the course of the pilgrimage that,
newly-married, with the War just over, and helplessly young in spite of
it, he had recklessly made with the creature who was so much younger
still. It had been a bold dash, for which they had taken money set
apart for necessities, but kept sacred at the moment in a hundred ways,
and in none more so than by this private pledge of his own to treat the
occasion as a relation formed with the higher culture and see that, as
they said at Woollett, it should bear a good harvest. He had believed,
sailing home again, that he had gained something great, and his
theory--with an elaborate innocent plan of reading, digesting, coming
back even, every few years--had then been to preserve, cherish and
extend it. As such plans as these had come to nothing, however, in
respect to acquisitions still more precious, it was doubtless little
enough of a marvel that he should have lost account of that handful of
seed. Buried for long years in dark corners at any rate these few
germs had sprouted again under forty-eight hours of Paris. The process
of yesterday had really been the process of feeling the general stirred
life of connexions long since individually dropped. Strether had
become acquainted even on this ground with short gusts of
speculation--sudden flights of fancy in Louvre galleries, hungry gazes
through clear plates behind which lemon-coloured volumes were as fresh
as fruit on the tree.
There were instants at which he could ask whether, since there had been
fundamentally so little question of his keeping anything, the fate
after all decreed for him hadn't been only to BE kept. Kept for
something, in that event, that he didn't pretend, didn't possibly dare
as yet to divine; something that made him hover and wonder and laugh
and sigh, made him advance and retreat, feeling half ashamed of his
impulse to plunge and more than half afraid of his impulse to wait. He
remembered for instance how he had gone back in the sixties with
lemon-coloured volumes in general on the brain as well as with a
dozen--selected for his wife too--in his trunk; and nothing had at the
moment shown more confidence than this invocation of the finer taste.
They were still somewhere at home, the dozen--stale and soiled and
never sent to the binder; but what had become of the sharp initiation
they represented? They represented now the mere sallow paint on the
door of the temple of taste that he had dreamed of raising up--a
structure he had practically never carried further. Strether's present
highest flights were perhaps those in which this particular lapse
figured to him as a symbol, a symbol of his long grind and his want of
odd moments, his want moreover of money, of opportunity, of positive
dignity. That the memory of the vow of his youth should, in order to
throb again, have had to wait for this last, as he felt it, of all his
accidents--that was surely proof enough of how his conscience had been
encumbered. If any further proof were needed it would have been to be
found in the fact that, as he perfectly now saw, he had ceased even to
measure his meagreness, a meagreness that sprawled, in this retrospect,
vague and comprehensive, stretching back like some unmapped Hinterland
from a rough coast-settlement. His conscience had been amusing itself
for the forty-eight hours by forbidding him the purchase of a book; he
held off from that, held off from everything; from the moment he didn't
yet call on Chad he wouldn't for the world have taken any other step.
On this evidence, however, of the way they actually affected him he
glared at the lemon-coloured covers in confession of the
subconsciousness that, all the same, in the great desert of the years,
he must have had of them. The green covers at home comprised, by the
law of their purpose, no tribute to letters; it was of a mere rich
kernel of economics, politics, ethics that, glazed and, as Mrs. Newsome
maintained rather against HIS view, pre-eminently pleasant to touch,
they formed the specious shell. Without therefore any needed
instinctive knowledge of what was coming out, in Paris, on the bright
highway, he struck himself at present as having more than once flushed
with a suspicion: he couldn't otherwise at present be feeling so many
fears confirmed. There were "movements" he was too late for: weren't
they, with the fun of them, already spent? There were sequences he had
missed and great gaps in the procession: he might have been watching
it all recede in a golden cloud of dust. If the playhouse wasn't
closed his seat had at least fallen to somebody else. He had had an
uneasy feeling the night before that if he was at the theatre at
all--though he indeed justified the theatre, in the specific sense, and
with a grotesqueness to which his imagination did all honour, as
something he owed poor Waymarsh--he should have been there with, and as
might have been said, FOR Chad.
This suggested the question of whether he could properly have taken him
to such a play, and what effect--it was a point that suddenly rose--his
peculiar responsibility might be held in general to have on his choice
of entertainment. It had literally been present to him at the
Gymnase--where one was held moreover comparatively safe--that having
his young friend at his side would have been an odd feature of the work
of redemption; and this quite in spite of the fact that the picture
presented might well, confronted with Chad's own private stage, have
seemed the pattern of propriety. He clearly hadn't come out in the
name of propriety but to visit unattended equivocal performances; yet
still less had he done so to undermine his authority by sharing them
with the graceless youth. Was he to renounce all amusement for the
sweet sake of that authority? and WOULD such renouncement give him for
Chad a moral glamour? The little problem bristled the more by reason
of poor Strether's fairly open sense of the irony of things. Were
there then sides on which his predicament threatened to look rather
droll to him? Should he have to pretend to believe--either to himself
or the wretched boy--that there was anything that could make the latter
worse? Wasn't some such pretence on the other hand involved in the
assumption of possible processes that would make him better? His
greatest uneasiness seemed to peep at him out of the imminent
impression that almost any acceptance of Paris might give one's
authority away. It hung before him this morning, the vast bright
Babylon, like some huge iridescent object, a jewel brilliant and hard,
in which parts were not to be discriminated nor differences comfortably
marked. It twinkled and trembled and melted together, and what seemed
all surface one moment seemed all depth the next. It was a place of
which, unmistakeably, Chad was fond; wherefore if he, Strether, should
like it too much, what on earth, with such a bond, would become of
either of them? It all depended of course--which was a gleam of
light--on how the "too much" was measured; though indeed our friend
fairly felt, while he prolonged the meditation I describe, that for
himself even already a certain measure had been reached. It will have
been sufficiently seen that he was not a man to neglect any good chance
for reflexion. Was it at all possible for instance to like Paris
enough without liking it too much? He luckily however hadn't promised
Mrs. Newsome not to like it at all. He was ready to recognise at this
stage that such an engagement WOULD have tied his hands. The
Luxembourg Gardens were incontestably just so adorable at this hour by
reason--in addition to their intrinsic charm--of his not having taken
it. The only engagement he had taken, when he looked the thing in the
face, was to do what he reasonably could.
It upset him a little none the less and after a while to find himself
at last remembering on what current of association he had been floated
so far. Old imaginations of the Latin Quarter had played their part
for him, and he had duly recalled its having been with this scene of
rather ominous legend that, like so many young men in fiction as well
as in fact, Chad had begun. He was now quite out of it, with his
"home," as Strether figured the place, in the Boulevard Malesherbes;
which was perhaps why, repairing, not to fail of justice either, to the
elder neighbourhood, our friend had felt he could allow for the element
of the usual, the immemorial, without courting perturbation. He was
not at least in danger of seeing the youth and the particular Person
flaunt by together; and yet he was in the very air of which--just to
feel what the early natural note must have been--he wished most to take
counsel. It became at once vivid to him that he had originally had,
for a few days, an almost envious vision of the boy's romantic
privilege. Melancholy Murger, with Francine and Musette and Rodolphe,
at home, in the company of the tattered, one--if he not in his single
self two or three--of the unbound, the paper-covered dozen on the
shelf; and when Chad had written, five years ago, after a sojourn then
already prolonged to six months, that he had decided to go in for
economy and the real thing, Strether's fancy had quite fondly
accompanied him in this migration, which was to convey him, as they
somewhat confusedly learned at Woollett, across the bridges and up the
Montagne Sainte-Genevieve. This was the region--Chad had been quite
distinct about it--in which the best French, and many other things,
were to be learned at least cost, and in which all sorts of clever
fellows, compatriots there for a purpose, formed an awfully pleasant
set. The clever fellows, the friendly countrymen were mainly young
painters, sculptors, architects, medical students; but they were, Chad
sagely opined, a much more profitable lot to be with--even on the
footing of not being quite one of them--than the "terrible toughs"
(Strether remembered the edifying discrimination) of the American bars
and banks roundabout the Opera. Chad had thrown out, in the
communications following this one--for at that time he did once in a
while communicate--that several members of a band of earnest workers
under one of the great artists had taken him right in, making him dine
every night, almost for nothing, at their place, and even pressing him
not to neglect the hypothesis of there being as much "in him" as in any
of them. There had been literally a moment at which it appeared there
might be something in him; there had been at any rate a moment at which
he had written that he didn't know but what a month or two more might
see him enrolled in some atelier. The season had been one at which
Mrs. Newsome was moved to gratitude for small mercies; it had broken on
them all as a blessing that their absentee HAD perhaps a
conscience--that he was sated in fine with idleness, was ambitious of
variety. The exhibition was doubtless as yet not brilliant, but
Strether himself, even by that time much enlisted and immersed, had
determined, on the part of the two ladies, a temperate approval and in
fact, as he now recollected, a certain austere enthusiasm.
But the very next thing that happened had been a dark drop of the
curtain. The son and brother had not browsed long on the Montagne
Sainte-Genevieve--his effective little use of the name of which, like
his allusion to the best French, appeared to have been but one of the
notes of his rough cunning. The light refreshment of these vain
appearances had not accordingly carried any of them very far. On the
other hand it had gained Chad time; it had given him a chance,
unchecked, to strike his roots, had paved the way for initiations more
direct and more deep. It was Strether's belief that he had been
comparatively innocent before this first migration, and even that the
first effects of the migration would not have been, without some
particular bad accident, to have been deplored. There had been three
months--he had sufficiently figured it out--in which Chad had wanted to
try. He HAD tried, though not very hard--he had had his little hour of
good faith. The weakness of this principle in him was that almost any
accident attestedly bad enough was stronger. Such had at any rate
markedly been the case for the precipitation of a special series of
impressions. They had proved, successively, these impressions--all of
Musette and Francine, but Musette and Francine vulgarised by the larger
evolution of the type--irresistibly sharp: he had "taken up," by what
was at the time to be shrinkingly gathered, as it was scantly
mentioned, with one ferociously "interested" little person after
another. Strether had read somewhere of a Latin motto, a description
of the hours, observed on a clock by a traveller in Spain; and he had
been led to apply it in thought to Chad's number one, number two,
number three. Omnes vulnerant, ultima necat--they had all morally
wounded, the last had morally killed. The last had been longest in
possession--in possession, that is, of whatever was left of the poor
boy's finer mortality. And it hadn't been she, it had been one of her
early predecessors, who had determined the second migration, the
expensive return and relapse, the exchange again, as was fairly to be
presumed, of the vaunted best French for some special variety of the
worst.
He pulled himself then at last together for his own progress back; not
with the feeling that he had taken his walk in vain. He prolonged it a
little, in the immediate neighbourhood, after he had quitted his chair;
and the upshot of the whole morning for him was that his campaign had
begun. He had wanted to put himself in relation, and he would be
hanged if he were NOT in relation. He was that at no moment so much as
while, under the old arches of the Odeon, he lingered before the
charming open-air array of literature classic and casual. He found the
effect of tone and tint, in the long charged tables and shelves,
delicate and appetising; the impression--substituting one kind of
low-priced consommation for another--might have been that of one of the
pleasant cafes that overlapped, under an awning, to the pavement; but
he edged along, grazing the tables, with his hands firmly behind him.
He wasn't there to dip, to consume--he was there to reconstruct. He
wasn't there for his own profit--not, that is, the direct; he was there
on some chance of feeling the brush of the wing of the stray spirit of
youth. He felt it in fact, he had it beside him; the old arcade
indeed, as his inner sense listened, gave out the faint sound, as from
far off, of the wild waving of wings. They were folded now over the
breasts of buried generations; but a flutter or two lived again in the
turned page of shock-headed slouch-hatted loiterers whose young
intensity of type, in the direction of pale acuteness, deepened his
vision, and even his appreciation, of racial differences, and whose
manipulation of the uncut volume was too often, however, but a
listening at closed doors. He reconstructed a possible groping Chad of
three or four years before, a Chad who had, after all, simply--for that
was the only way to see it--been too vulgar for his privilege. Surely
it WAS a privilege to have been young and happy just there. Well, the
best thing Strether knew of him was that he had had such a dream.
But his own actual business half an hour later was with a third floor
on the Boulevard Malesherbes--so much as that was definite; and the
fact of the enjoyment by the third-floor windows of a continuous
balcony, to which he was helped by this knowledge, had perhaps
something to do with his lingering for five minutes on the opposite
side of the street. There were points as to which he had quite made up
his mind, and one of these bore precisely on the wisdom of the
abruptness to which events had finally committed him, a policy that he
was pleased to find not at all shaken as he now looked at his watch and
wondered. He HAD announced himself--six months before; had written out
at least that Chad wasn't to be surprised should he see him some day
turn up. Chad had thereupon, in a few words of rather carefully
colourless answer, offered him a general welcome; and Strether,
ruefully reflecting that he might have understood the warning as a hint
to hospitality, a bid for an invitation, had fallen back upon silence
as the corrective most to his own taste. He had asked Mrs. Newsome
moreover not to announce him again; he had so distinct an opinion on
his attacking his job, should he attack it at all, in his own way. Not
the least of this lady's high merits for him was that he could
absolutely rest on her word. She was the only woman he had known, even
at Woollett, as to whom his conviction was positive that to lie was
beyond her art. Sarah Pocock, for instance, her own daughter, though
with social ideals, as they said, in some respects different--Sarah who
WAS, in her way, aesthetic, had never refused to human commerce that
mitigation of rigour; there were occasions when he had distinctly seen
her apply it. Since, accordingly, at all events, he had had it from
Mrs. Newsome that she had, at whatever cost to her more strenuous view,
conformed, in the matter of preparing Chad, wholly to his restrictions,
he now looked up at the fine continuous balcony with a safe sense that
if the case had been bungled the mistake was at least his property. Was
there perhaps just a suspicion of that in his present pause on the edge
of the Boulevard and well in the pleasant light?
Many things came over him here, and one of them was that he should
doubtless presently know whether he had been shallow or sharp. Another
was that the balcony in question didn't somehow show as a convenience
easy to surrender. Poor Strether had at this very moment to recognise
the truth that wherever one paused in Paris the imagination reacted
before one could stop it. This perpetual reaction put a price, if one
would, on pauses; but it piled up consequences till there was scarce
room to pick one's steps among them. What call had he, at such a
juncture, for example, to like Chad's very house? High broad clear--he
was expert enough to make out in a moment that it was admirably
built--it fairly embarrassed our friend by the quality that, as he
would have said, it "sprang" on him. He had struck off the fancy that
it might, as a preliminary, be of service to him to be seen, by a happy
accident, from the third-story windows, which took all the March sun,
but of what service was it to find himself making out after a moment
that the quality "sprung," the quality produced by measure and balance,
the fine relation of part to part and space to space, was
probably--aided by the presence of ornament as positive as it was
discreet, and by the complexion of the stone, a cold fair grey, warmed
and polished a little by life--neither more nor less than a case of
distinction, such a case as he could only feel unexpectedly as a sort
of delivered challenge? Meanwhile, however, the chance he had allowed
for--the chance of being seen in time from the balcony--had become a
fact. Two or three of the windows stood open to the violet air; and,
before Strether had cut the knot by crossing, a young man had come out
and looked about him, had lighted a cigarette and tossed the match
over, and then, resting on the rail, had given himself up to watching
the life below while he smoked. His arrival contributed, in its order,
to keeping Strether in position; the result of which in turn was that
Strether soon felt himself noticed. The young man began to look at him
as in acknowledgement of his being himself in observation.
This was interesting so far as it went, but the interest was affected
by the young man's not being Chad. Strether wondered at first if he
were perhaps Chad altered, and then saw that this was asking too much
of alteration. The young man was light bright and alert--with an air
too pleasant to have been arrived at by patching. Strether had
conceived Chad as patched, but not beyond recognition. He was in
presence, he felt, of amendments enough as they stood; it was a
sufficient amendment that the gentleman up there should be Chad's
friend. He was young too then, the gentleman up there--he was very
young; young enough apparently to be amused at an elderly watcher, to
be curious even to see what the elderly watcher would do on finding
himself watched. There was youth in that, there was youth in the
surrender to the balcony, there was youth for Strether at this moment
in everything but his own business; and Chad's thus pronounced
association with youth had given the next instant an extraordinary
quick lift to the issue. The balcony, the distinguished front,
testified suddenly, for Strether's fancy, to something that was up and
up; they placed the whole case materially, and as by an admirable
image, on a level that he found himself at the end of another moment
rejoicing to think he might reach. The young man looked at him still,
he looked at the young man; and the issue, by a rapid process, was that
this knowledge of a perched privacy appeared to him the last of
luxuries. To him too the perched privacy was open, and he saw it now
but in one light--that of the only domicile, the only fireside, in the
great ironic city, on which he had the shadow of a claim. Miss Gostrey
had a fireside; she had told him of it, and it was something that
doubtless awaited him; but Miss Gostrey hadn't yet arrived--she
mightn't arrive for days; and the sole attenuation of his excluded
state was his vision of the small, the admittedly secondary hotel in
the bye-street from the Rue de la Paix, in which her solicitude for his
purse had placed him, which affected him somehow as all indoor chill,
glass-roofed court and slippery staircase, and which, by the same
token, expressed the presence of Waymarsh even at times when Waymarsh
might have been certain to be round at the bank. It came to pass
before he moved that Waymarsh, and Waymarsh alone, Waymarsh not only
undiluted but positively strengthened, struck him as the present
alternative to the young man in the balcony. When he did move it was
fairly to escape that alternative. Taking his way over the street at
last and passing through the porte-cochere of the house was like
consciously leaving Waymarsh out. However, he would tell him all about
it.
Book Third | By this point, Strether has made it to Paris. He pops into a place where he's supposed to receive some letters from America. He hasn't. He's kind of bummed about it. He's such an anxious dude that he's worried about doing anything in Paris--namely enjoying himself in any way--without some sort of permission from Mrs. Newsome in a letter. Yeah, the dude's starting to sound a little whipped. As a sort of self-punishment, he hangs out with Waymarsh for the rest of the day. The next day in Paris, there are letters, and Strether greedily reads them. But he also wants to find an ideal place to read and respond to the letters, so he spends a good chunk of his afternoon wandering around Paris and looking for seats in cafes. Yeah, that can take up a whole bunch of pages when you're Henry James. He finally finds a spot in some public gardens and sits down in a chair to read. Meanwhile, he's been drinking in all the beautiful sights of Paris. The air is sweeter than back home, the birds sing more beautifully, the trees...well, you get the picture. Mrs. Newsome's letters say that she doesn't want him to worry about anything that's not connected to his mission of bringing back Chad. The whole order not to worry thing gives him a huge sense of freedom that helps him enjoy the sights of Paris even more, since now he feels like he has permission to do so. Strether also realizes just how weary he was when he left America. He feels rejuvenated by being able to walk around Paris alone. But not everything is happy for him. He also can't enjoy Paris without thinking about how he's wasted his life being an anxious, play-it-safe kind of guy. Finally, Strether is able to admit to himself what he actually thinks: he's envious that Chad gets to live as a young, wealthy bachelor in this kind of city. Chad mentioned in some of his past letters that he'd become friends with a group of super cool artists living in Paris, and Strether just can't bear how jealous he is. But he also reminds himself that Chad is sleeping around, and this is something Strether could never envy because it's immoral...heh heh. During one of his walks, Strether comes to the building where Chad is supposed to be living. He knows that Chad's giant apartment is up on the third floor, and as he glances up, Strether sees a young man staring down at him from the third floor balcony. He's a little freaked by the fact that he's been watched, but he also realizes that this young man isn't Chad, but some other guy hanging out in his apartment. And we just have to find out who this dude is. What if he's murdered Chad and stolen his identity? We'll just have to keep reading to find out. |
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. | In the morning, Jack Duane joins Jurgis in the cell. Duane's attitude about the necessary war against society appeals to Jurgis, who is in the beginning of his rebellious stage. Jurgis' trial is a farce, as the judge readily believes Connor's false testimony and sentences Jurgis to 30 days in prison. While there, Stanislovas visits Jurgis, begging for money and telling Jurgis of the continued troubles affecting the family. |
"It's hopeless," Weedon Scott confessed.
He sat on the step of his cabin and stared at the dog-musher, who
responded with a shrug that was equally hopeless.
Together they looked at White Fang at the end of his stretched chain,
bristling, snarling, ferocious, straining to get at the sled-dogs. Having
received sundry lessons from Matt, said lessons being imparted by means
of a club, the sled-dogs had learned to leave White Fang alone; and even
then they were lying down at a distance, apparently oblivious of his
existence.
"It's a wolf and there's no taming it," Weedon Scott announced.
"Oh, I don't know about that," Matt objected. "Might be a lot of dog in
'm, for all you can tell. But there's one thing I know sure, an' that
there's no gettin' away from."
The dog-musher paused and nodded his head confidentially at Moosehide
Mountain.
"Well, don't be a miser with what you know," Scott said sharply, after
waiting a suitable length of time. "Spit it out. What is it?"
The dog-musher indicated White Fang with a backward thrust of his thumb.
"Wolf or dog, it's all the same--he's ben tamed 'ready."
"No!"
"I tell you yes, an' broke to harness. Look close there. D'ye see them
marks across the chest?"
"You're right, Matt. He was a sled-dog before Beauty Smith got hold of
him."
"And there's not much reason against his bein' a sled-dog again."
"What d'ye think?" Scott queried eagerly. Then the hope died down as he
added, shaking his head, "We've had him two weeks now, and if anything
he's wilder than ever at the present moment."
"Give 'm a chance," Matt counselled. "Turn 'm loose for a spell."
The other looked at him incredulously.
"Yes," Matt went on, "I know you've tried to, but you didn't take a
club."
"You try it then."
The dog-musher secured a club and went over to the chained animal. White
Fang watched the club after the manner of a caged lion watching the whip
of its trainer.
"See 'm keep his eye on that club," Matt said. "That's a good sign. He's
no fool. Don't dast tackle me so long as I got that club handy. He's
not clean crazy, sure."
As the man's hand approached his neck, White Fang bristled and snarled
and crouched down. But while he eyed the approaching hand, he at the
same time contrived to keep track of the club in the other hand,
suspended threateningly above him. Matt unsnapped the chain from the
collar and stepped back.
White Fang could scarcely realise that he was free. Many months had gone
by since he passed into the possession of Beauty Smith, and in all that
period he had never known a moment of freedom except at the times he had
been loosed to fight with other dogs. Immediately after such fights he
had always been imprisoned again.
He did not know what to make of it. Perhaps some new devilry of the gods
was about to be perpetrated on him. He walked slowly and cautiously,
prepared to be assailed at any moment. He did not know what to do, it
was all so unprecedented. He took the precaution to sheer off from the
two watching gods, and walked carefully to the corner of the cabin.
Nothing happened. He was plainly perplexed, and he came back again,
pausing a dozen feet away and regarding the two men intently.
"Won't he run away?" his new owner asked.
Matt shrugged his shoulders. "Got to take a gamble. Only way to find
out is to find out."
"Poor devil," Scott murmured pityingly. "What he needs is some show of
human kindness," he added, turning and going into the cabin.
He came out with a piece of meat, which he tossed to White Fang. He
sprang away from it, and from a distance studied it suspiciously.
"Hi-yu, Major!" Matt shouted warningly, but too late.
Major had made a spring for the meat. At the instant his jaws closed on
it, White Fang struck him. He was overthrown. Matt rushed in, but
quicker than he was White Fang. Major staggered to his feet, but the
blood spouting from his throat reddened the snow in a widening path.
"It's too bad, but it served him right," Scott said hastily.
But Matt's foot had already started on its way to kick White Fang. There
was a leap, a flash of teeth, a sharp exclamation. White Fang, snarling
fiercely, scrambled backward for several yards, while Matt stooped and
investigated his leg.
"He got me all right," he announced, pointing to the torn trousers and
undercloths, and the growing stain of red.
"I told you it was hopeless, Matt," Scott said in a discouraged voice.
"I've thought about it off and on, while not wanting to think of it. But
we've come to it now. It's the only thing to do."
As he talked, with reluctant movements he drew his revolver, threw open
the cylinder, and assured himself of its contents.
"Look here, Mr. Scott," Matt objected; "that dog's ben through hell. You
can't expect 'm to come out a white an' shinin' angel. Give 'm time."
"Look at Major," the other rejoined.
The dog-musher surveyed the stricken dog. He had sunk down on the snow
in the circle of his blood and was plainly in the last gasp.
"Served 'm right. You said so yourself, Mr. Scott. He tried to take
White Fang's meat, an' he's dead-O. That was to be expected. I wouldn't
give two whoops in hell for a dog that wouldn't fight for his own meat."
"But look at yourself, Matt. It's all right about the dogs, but we must
draw the line somewhere."
"Served me right," Matt argued stubbornly. "What'd I want to kick 'm
for? You said yourself that he'd done right. Then I had no right to
kick 'm."
"It would be a mercy to kill him," Scott insisted. "He's untamable."
"Now look here, Mr. Scott, give the poor devil a fightin' chance. He
ain't had no chance yet. He's just come through hell, an' this is the
first time he's ben loose. Give 'm a fair chance, an' if he don't
deliver the goods, I'll kill 'm myself. There!"
"God knows I don't want to kill him or have him killed," Scott answered,
putting away the revolver. "We'll let him run loose and see what
kindness can do for him. And here's a try at it."
He walked over to White Fang and began talking to him gently and
soothingly.
"Better have a club handy," Matt warned.
Scott shook his head and went on trying to win White Fang's confidence.
White Fang was suspicious. Something was impending. He had killed this
god's dog, bitten his companion god, and what else was to be expected
than some terrible punishment? But in the face of it he was indomitable.
He bristled and showed his teeth, his eyes vigilant, his whole body wary
and prepared for anything. The god had no club, so he suffered him to
approach quite near. The god's hand had come out and was descending upon
his head. White Fang shrank together and grew tense as he crouched under
it. Here was danger, some treachery or something. He knew the hands of
the gods, their proved mastery, their cunning to hurt. Besides, there
was his old antipathy to being touched. He snarled more menacingly,
crouched still lower, and still the hand descended. He did not want to
bite the hand, and he endured the peril of it until his instinct surged
up in him, mastering him with its insatiable yearning for life.
Weedon Scott had believed that he was quick enough to avoid any snap or
slash. But he had yet to learn the remarkable quickness of White Fang,
who struck with the certainty and swiftness of a coiled snake.
Scott cried out sharply with surprise, catching his torn hand and holding
it tightly in his other hand. Matt uttered a great oath and sprang to
his side. White Fang crouched down, and backed away, bristling, showing
his fangs, his eyes malignant with menace. Now he could expect a beating
as fearful as any he had received from Beauty Smith.
"Here! What are you doing?" Scott cried suddenly.
Matt had dashed into the cabin and come out with a rifle.
"Nothin'," he said slowly, with a careless calmness that was assumed,
"only goin' to keep that promise I made. I reckon it's up to me to kill
'm as I said I'd do."
"No you don't!"
"Yes I do. Watch me."
As Matt had pleaded for White Fang when he had been bitten, it was now
Weedon Scott's turn to plead.
"You said to give him a chance. Well, give it to him. We've only just
started, and we can't quit at the beginning. It served me right, this
time. And--look at him!"
White Fang, near the corner of the cabin and forty feet away, was
snarling with blood-curdling viciousness, not at Scott, but at the dog-
musher.
"Well, I'll be everlastingly gosh-swoggled!" was the dog-musher's
expression of astonishment.
"Look at the intelligence of him," Scott went on hastily. "He knows the
meaning of firearms as well as you do. He's got intelligence and we've
got to give that intelligence a chance. Put up the gun."
"All right, I'm willin'," Matt agreed, leaning the rifle against the
woodpile.
"But will you look at that!" he exclaimed the next moment.
White Fang had quieted down and ceased snarling. "This is worth
investigatin'. Watch."
Matt, reached for the rifle, and at the same moment White Fang snarled.
He stepped away from the rifle, and White Fang's lifted lips descended,
covering his teeth.
"Now, just for fun."
Matt took the rifle and began slowly to raise it to his shoulder. White
Fang's snarling began with the movement, and increased as the movement
approached its culmination. But the moment before the rifle came to a
level on him, he leaped sidewise behind the corner of the cabin. Matt
stood staring along the sights at the empty space of snow which had been
occupied by White Fang.
The dog-musher put the rifle down solemnly, then turned and looked at his
employer.
"I agree with you, Mr. Scott. That dog's too intelligent to kill." | Although Matt is able to recognize that White Fang has been domesticated previously, Weedon Scott is dubious that he will be able to tame the dog. When Scott attempts to throw a piece of meat to White Fang, the meat is intercepted by another of Scott's sled-dogs. That dog pays for it with his life as White Fang swiftly kills him. He also bites Matt's leg when Matt kicks him in rebuke. Scott thinks he should do White Fang a favor and put the beast out its misery by killing him, but Matt argues that it was the dog's own fault, and his, for interfering with this wild creature's feeding: "I wouldn't give two whoops in hell for a dog that wouldn't fight for his own meat." Scott gives White Fang a chance, and begins to pet him. White Fang fights the instinct to bite Scott's hand for as long as he can, but, at length, he must yield to it. This time, Matt moves to kill White Fang, but Scott intercedes. They notice that White Fang seems to understand the threat of the rifle and decide that he is too intelligent a beast to kill. They agree to give White Fang another chance. |
Her refusal, though unexpected, did not permanently daunt Clare.
His experience of women was great enough for him to be aware that
the negative often meant nothing more than the preface to the
affirmative; and it was little enough for him not to know that in
the manner of the present negative there lay a great exception to
the dallyings of coyness. That she had already permitted him to
make love to her he read as an additional assurance, not fully
trowing that in the fields and pastures to "sigh gratis" is by no
means deemed waste; love-making being here more often accepted
inconsiderately and for its own sweet sake than in the carking,
anxious homes of the ambitious, where a girl's craving for an
establishment paralyzes her healthy thought of a passion as an end.
"Tess, why did you say 'no' in such a positive way?" he asked her in
the course of a few days.
She started.
"Don't ask me. I told you why--partly. I am not good enough--not
worthy enough."
"How? Not fine lady enough?"
"Yes--something like that," murmured she. "Your friends would scorn
me."
"Indeed, you mistake them--my father and mother. As for my brothers,
I don't care--" He clasped his fingers behind her back to keep her
from slipping away. "Now--you did not mean it, sweet?--I am sure you
did not! You have made me so restless that I cannot read, or play,
or do anything. I am in no hurry, Tess, but I want to know--to hear
from your own warm lips--that you will some day be mine--any time you
may choose; but some day?"
She could only shake her head and look away from him.
Clare regarded her attentively, conned the characters of her face as
if they had been hieroglyphics. The denial seemed real.
"Then I ought not to hold you in this way--ought I? I have no
right to you--no right to seek out where you are, or walk with you!
Honestly, Tess, do you love any other man?"
"How can you ask?" she said, with continued self-suppression.
"I almost know that you do not. But then, why do you repulse me?"
"I don't repulse you. I like you to--tell me you love me; and you
may always tell me so as you go about with me--and never offend me."
"But you will not accept me as a husband?"
"Ah--that's different--it is for your good, indeed, my dearest!
O, believe me, it is only for your sake! I don't like to give
myself the great happiness o' promising to be yours in that
way--because--because I am SURE I ought not to do it."
"But you will make me happy!"
"Ah--you think so, but you don't know!"
At such times as this, apprehending the grounds of her refusal to be
her modest sense of incompetence in matters social and polite, he
would say that she was wonderfully well-informed and versatile--which
was certainly true, her natural quickness and her admiration for him
having led her to pick up his vocabulary, his accent, and fragments
of his knowledge, to a surprising extent. After these tender
contests and her victory she would go away by herself under the
remotest cow, if at milking-time, or into the sedge or into her room,
if at a leisure interval, and mourn silently, not a minute after an
apparently phlegmatic negative.
The struggle was so fearful; her own heart was so strongly on the
side of his--two ardent hearts against one poor little conscience--
that she tried to fortify her resolution by every means in her power.
She had come to Talbothays with a made-up mind. On no account could
she agree to a step which might afterwards cause bitter rueing to her
husband for his blindness in wedding her. And she held that what her
conscience had decided for her when her mind was unbiassed ought not
to be overruled now.
"Why don't somebody tell him all about me?" she said. "It was only
forty miles off--why hasn't it reached here? Somebody must know!"
Yet nobody seemed to know; nobody told him.
For two or three days no more was said. She guessed from the sad
countenances of her chamber companions that they regarded her not
only as the favourite, but as the chosen; but they could see for
themselves that she did not put herself in his way.
Tess had never before known a time in which the thread of her life
was so distinctly twisted of two strands, positive pleasure and
positive pain. At the next cheese-making the pair were again left
alone together. The dairyman himself had been lending a hand; but
Mr Crick, as well as his wife, seemed latterly to have acquired a
suspicion of mutual interest between these two; though they walked
so circumspectly that suspicion was but of the faintest. Anyhow, the
dairyman left them to themselves.
They were breaking up the masses of curd before putting them into
the vats. The operation resembled the act of crumbling bread on a
large scale; and amid the immaculate whiteness of the curds Tess
Durbeyfield's hands showed themselves of the pinkness of the rose.
Angel, who was filling the vats with his handful, suddenly ceased,
and laid his hands flat upon hers. Her sleeves were rolled far above
the elbow, and bending lower he kissed the inside vein of her soft
arm.
Although the early September weather was sultry, her arm, from
her dabbling in the curds, was as cold and damp to his mouth as a
new-gathered mushroom, and tasted of the whey. But she was such
a sheaf of susceptibilities that her pulse was accelerated by the
touch, her blood driven to her finder-ends, and the cool arms
flushed hot. Then, as though her heart had said, "Is coyness longer
necessary? Truth is truth between man and woman, as between man and
man," she lifted her eyes and they beamed devotedly into his, as her
lip rose in a tender half-smile.
"Do you know why I did that, Tess?" he said.
"Because you love me very much!"
"Yes, and as a preliminary to a new entreaty."
"Not AGAIN!"
She looked a sudden fear that her resistance might break down under
her own desire.
"O, Tessy!" he went on, "I CANNOT think why you are so tantalizing.
Why do you disappoint me so? You seem almost like a coquette, upon
my life you do--a coquette of the first urban water! They blow
hot and blow cold, just as you do, and it is the very last sort of
thing to expect to find in a retreat like Talbothays. ... And yet,
dearest," he quickly added, observing now the remark had cut her, "I
know you to be the most honest, spotless creature that ever lived.
So how can I suppose you a flirt? Tess, why don't you like the idea
of being my wife, if you love me as you seem to do?"
"I have never said I don't like the idea, and I never could say it;
because--it isn't true!"
The stress now getting beyond endurance, her lip quivered, and she
was obliged to go away. Clare was so pained and perplexed that he
ran after and caught her in the passage.
"Tell me, tell me!" he said, passionately clasping her, in
forgetfulness of his curdy hands: "do tell me that you won't belong
to anybody but me!"
"I will, I will tell you!" she exclaimed. "And I will give you a
complete answer, if you will let me go now. I will tell you my
experiences--all about myself--all!"
"Your experiences, dear; yes, certainly; any number." He expressed
assent in loving satire, looking into her face. "My Tess, no doubt,
almost as many experiences as that wild convolvulus out there on the
garden hedge, that opened itself this morning for the first time.
Tell me anything, but don't use that wretched expression any more
about not being worthy of me."
"I will try--not! And I'll give you my reasons to-morrow--next
week."
"Say on Sunday?"
"Yes, on Sunday."
At last she got away, and did not stop in her retreat till she was in
the thicket of pollard willows at the lower side of the barton, where
she could be quite unseen. Here Tess flung herself down upon the
rustling undergrowth of spear-grass, as upon a bed, and remained
crouching in palpitating misery broken by momentary shoots of joy,
which her fears about the ending could not altogether suppress.
In reality, she was drifting into acquiescence. Every see-saw of her
breath, every wave of her blood, every pulse singing in her ears, was
a voice that joined with nature in revolt against her scrupulousness.
Reckless, inconsiderate acceptance of him; to close with him at the
altar, revealing nothing, and chancing discovery; to snatch ripe
pleasure before the iron teeth of pain could have time to shut upon
her: that was what love counselled; and in almost a terror of ecstasy
Tess divined that, despite her many months of lonely self-chastisement,
wrestlings, communings, schemes to lead a future of austere
isolation, love's counsel would prevail.
The afternoon advanced, and still she remained among the willows.
She heard the rattle of taking down the pails from the forked stands;
the "waow-waow!" which accompanied the getting together of the cows.
But she did not go to the milking. They would see her agitation;
and the dairyman, thinking the cause to be love alone, would
good-naturedly tease her; and that harassment could not be borne.
Her lover must have guessed her overwrought state, and invented some
excuse for her non-appearance, for no inquiries were made or calls
given. At half-past six the sun settled down upon the levels with
the aspect of a great forge in the heavens; and presently a monstrous
pumpkin-like moon arose on the other hand. The pollard willows,
tortured out of their natural shape by incessant choppings, became
spiny-haired monsters as they stood up against it. She went in and
upstairs without a light.
It was now Wednesday. Thursday came, and Angel looked thoughtfully
at her from a distance, but intruded in no way upon her. The indoor
milkmaids, Marian and the rest, seemed to guess that something
definite was afoot, for they did not force any remarks upon her in
the bedchamber. Friday passed; Saturday. To-morrow was the day.
"I shall give way--I shall say yes--I shall let myself marry
him--I cannot help it!" she jealously panted, with her hot face to
the pillow that night, on hearing one of the other girls sigh his
name in her sleep. "I can't bear to let anybody have him but me!
Yet it is a wrong to him, and may kill him when he knows! O my
heart--O--O--O!" | Angel will not take no for an answer because he had no doubts of Tess's love for him: "he was so godlike in her eyes". She puts him off, however, by telling him that any of the other milkmaids would make him a better wife. She is torn up about her past with Alec d'Urberville and feels ashamed, soiled and simply not good enough for Angel. He believes that she thinks his marriage to a countrywoman would harm his social status |
<CHAPTER>
3--The Serious Discourse of Clym with His Cousin
Throughout this period Yeobright had more or less pondered on his duty
to his cousin Thomasin. He could not help feeling that it would be a
pitiful waste of sweet material if the tender-natured thing should be
doomed from this early stage of her life onwards to dribble away her
winsome qualities on lonely gorse and fern. But he felt this as an
economist merely, and not as a lover. His passion for Eustacia had been
a sort of conserve of his whole life, and he had nothing more of that
supreme quality left to bestow. So far the obvious thing was not to
entertain any idea of marriage with Thomasin, even to oblige her.
But this was not all. Years ago there had been in his mother's mind a
great fancy about Thomasin and himself. It had not positively amounted
to a desire, but it had always been a favourite dream. That they
should be man and wife in good time, if the happiness of neither were
endangered thereby, was the fancy in question. So that what course save
one was there now left for any son who reverenced his mother's memory
as Yeobright did? It is an unfortunate fact that any particular whim of
parents, which might have been dispersed by half an hour's conversation
during their lives, becomes sublimated by their deaths into a fiat the
most absolute, with such results to conscientious children as those
parents, had they lived, would have been the first to decry.
Had only Yeobright's own future been involved he would have proposed to
Thomasin with a ready heart. He had nothing to lose by carrying out a
dead mother's hope. But he dreaded to contemplate Thomasin wedded to the
mere corpse of a lover that he now felt himself to be. He had but three
activities alive in him. One was his almost daily walk to the little
graveyard wherein his mother lay, another, his just as frequent visits
by night to the more distant enclosure which numbered his Eustacia among
its dead; the third was self-preparation for a vocation which alone
seemed likely to satisfy his cravings--that of an itinerant preacher
of the eleventh commandment. It was difficult to believe that Thomasin
would be cheered by a husband with such tendencies as these.
Yet he resolved to ask her, and let her decide for herself. It was even
with a pleasant sense of doing his duty that he went downstairs to her
one evening for this purpose, when the sun was printing on the valley
the same long shadow of the housetop that he had seen lying there times
out of number while his mother lived.
Thomasin was not in her room, and he found her in the front garden. "I
have long been wanting, Thomasin," he began, "to say something about a
matter that concerns both our futures."
"And you are going to say it now?" she remarked quickly, colouring as
she met his gaze. "Do stop a minute, Clym, and let me speak first, for
oddly enough, I have been wanting to say something to you."
"By all means say on, Tamsie."
"I suppose nobody can overhear us?" she went on, casting her eyes around
and lowering her voice. "Well, first you will promise me this--that you
won't be angry and call me anything harsh if you disagree with what I
propose?"
Yeobright promised, and she continued: "What I want is your advice,
for you are my relation--I mean, a sort of guardian to me--aren't you,
Clym?"
"Well, yes, I suppose I am; a sort of guardian. In fact, I am, of
course," he said, altogether perplexed as to her drift.
"I am thinking of marrying," she then observed blandly. "But I shall not
marry unless you assure me that you approve of such a step. Why don't
you speak?"
"I was taken rather by surprise. But, nevertheless, I am very glad to
hear such news. I shall approve, of course, dear Tamsie. Who can it be?
I am quite at a loss to guess. No I am not--'tis the old doctor!--not
that I mean to call him old, for he is not very old after all. Ah--I
noticed when he attended you last time!"
"No, no," she said hastily. "'Tis Mr. Venn."
Clym's face suddenly became grave.
"There, now, you don't like him, and I wish I hadn't mentioned him!" she
exclaimed almost petulantly. "And I shouldn't have done it, either, only
he keeps on bothering me so till I don't know what to do!"
Clym looked at the heath. "I like Venn well enough," he answered at
last. "He is a very honest and at the same time astute man. He is clever
too, as is proved by his having got you to favour him. But really,
Thomasin, he is not quite--"
"Gentleman enough for me? That is just what I feel. I am sorry now that
I asked you, and I won't think any more of him. At the same time I must
marry him if I marry anybody--that I WILL say!"
"I don't see that," said Clym, carefully concealing every clue to his
own interrupted intention, which she plainly had not guessed. "You might
marry a professional man, or somebody of that sort, by going into the
town to live and forming acquaintances there."
"I am not fit for town life--so very rural and silly as I always have
been. Do not you yourself notice my countrified ways?"
"Well, when I came home from Paris I did, a little; but I don't now."
"That's because you have got countrified too. O, I couldn't live in a
street for the world! Egdon is a ridiculous old place; but I have got
used to it, and I couldn't be happy anywhere else at all."
"Neither could I," said Clym.
"Then how could you say that I should marry some town man? I am sure,
say what you will, that I must marry Diggory, if I marry at all. He has
been kinder to me than anybody else, and has helped me in many ways that
I don't know of!" Thomasin almost pouted now.
"Yes, he has," said Clym in a neutral tone. "Well, I wish with all my
heart that I could say, marry him. But I cannot forget what my mother
thought on that matter, and it goes rather against me not to respect her
opinion. There is too much reason why we should do the little we can to
respect it now."
"Very well, then," sighed Thomasin. "I will say no more."
"But you are not bound to obey my wishes. I merely say what I think."
"O no--I don't want to be rebellious in that way," she said sadly. "I
had no business to think of him--I ought to have thought of my family.
What dreadfully bad impulses there are in me!" Her lips trembled, and
she turned away to hide a tear.
Clym, though vexed at what seemed her unaccountable taste, was in a
measure relieved to find that at any rate the marriage question in
relation to himself was shelved. Through several succeeding days he saw
her at different times from the window of his room moping disconsolately
about the garden. He was half angry with her for choosing Venn; then he
was grieved at having put himself in the way of Venn's happiness, who
was, after all, as honest and persevering a young fellow as any on
Egdon, since he had turned over a new leaf. In short, Clym did not know
what to do.
When next they met she said abruptly, "He is much more respectable now
than he was then!"
"Who? O yes--Diggory Venn."
"Aunt only objected because he was a reddleman."
"Well, Thomasin, perhaps I don't know all the particulars of my mother's
wish. So you had better use your own discretion."
"You will always feel that I slighted your mother's memory."
"No, I will not. I shall think you are convinced that, had she seen
Diggory in his present position, she would have considered him a fitting
husband for you. Now, that's my real feeling. Don't consult me any more,
but do as you like, Thomasin. I shall be content."
It is to be supposed that Thomasin was convinced; for a few days after
this, when Clym strayed into a part of the heath that he had not lately
visited, Humphrey, who was at work there, said to him, "I am glad to see
that Mrs. Wildeve and Venn have made it up again, seemingly."
"Have they?" said Clym abstractedly.
"Yes; and he do contrive to stumble upon her whenever she walks out on
fine days with the chiel. But, Mr. Yeobright, I can't help feeling
that your cousin ought to have married you. 'Tis a pity to make two
chimleycorners where there need be only one. You could get her away from
him now, 'tis my belief, if you were only to set about it."
"How can I have the conscience to marry after having driven two women to
their deaths? Don't think such a thing, Humphrey. After my experience
I should consider it too much of a burlesque to go to church and take a
wife. In the words of Job, 'I have made a covenant with mine eyes; when
then should I think upon a maid?'"
"No, Mr. Clym, don't fancy that about driving two women to their deaths.
You shouldn't say it."
"Well, we'll leave that out," said Yeobright. "But anyhow God has set a
mark upon me which wouldn't look well in a love-making scene. I have two
ideas in my head, and no others. I am going to keep a night-school;
and I am going to turn preacher. What have you got to say to that,
Humphrey?"
"I'll come and hear 'ee with all my heart."
"Thanks. 'Tis all I wish."
As Clym descended into the valley Thomasin came down by the other path,
and met him at the gate. "What do you think I have to tell you, Clym?"
she said, looking archly over her shoulder at him.
"I can guess," he replied.
She scrutinized his face. "Yes, you guess right. It is going to be after
all. He thinks I may as well make up my mind, and I have got to think
so too. It is to be on the twenty-fifth of next month, if you don't
object."
"Do what you think right, dear. I am only too glad that you see your way
clear to happiness again. My sex owes you every amends for the treatment
you received in days gone by."*
* The writer may state here that the original conception of
the story did not design a marriage between Thomasin and
Venn. He was to have retained his isolated and weird
character to the last, and to have disappeared mysteriously
from the heath, nobody knowing whither--Thomasin remaining a
widow. But certain circumstances of serial publication led
to a change of intent.
Readers can therefore choose between the endings, and those with an
austere artistic code can assume the more consistent conclusion to be
the true one.
</CHAPTER> | Clym continues to worry about his relationship with Thomasin and convinces himself that she has a crush on him. Clym decides he's too busy for such nonsense - he has to prepare for his new job as an itinerant preacher. Thomasin comes in one day and tells Clym that Diggory has proposed and she is considering accepting. Clym worries that Diggory isn't rich enough, but Thomasin says she's happy in Egdon and he makes enough money for her. Clym finally comes around and says he doesn't mind if she gets married, so Thomasin accepts Diggory's offer. |
SCENE 2.
Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house
[Enter PORTIA and NERISSA.]
PORTIA.
By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this
great world.
NERISSA.
You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the
same abundance as your good fortunes are; and yet, for aught I
see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that
starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be
seated in the mean: superfluity come sooner by white hairs, but
competency lives longer.
PORTIA.
Good sentences, and well pronounced.
NERISSA.
They would be better, if well followed.
PORTIA.
If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do,
chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes'
palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions; I
can easier teach twenty what were good to be done than to be one
of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise
laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree;
such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good
counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to
choose me a husband. O me, the word 'choose'! I may neither
choose who I would nor refuse who I dislike; so is the will of a
living daughter curb'd by the will of a dead father. Is it not
hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none?
NERISSA.
Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death
have good inspirations; therefore the lott'ry that he hath
devised in these three chests, of gold, silver, and lead, whereof
who chooses his meaning chooses you, will no doubt never be
chosen by any rightly but one who you shall rightly love. But
what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these
princely suitors that are already come?
PORTIA.
I pray thee over-name them; and as thou namest them, I will
describe them; and according to my description, level at my
affection.
NERISSA.
First, there is the Neapolitan prince.
PORTIA.
Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of
his horse; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good
parts that he can shoe him himself; I am much afeard my lady his
mother play'd false with a smith.
NERISSA.
Then is there the County Palatine.
PORTIA.
He doth nothing but frown, as who should say 'An you will
not have me, choose.' He hears merry tales and smiles not: I fear
he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so
full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married
to a death's-head with a bone in his mouth than to either of
these. God defend me from these two!
NERISSA.
How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon?
PORTIA.
God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In
truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker, but he! why, he hath a
horse better than the Neapolitan's, a better bad habit of
frowning than the Count Palatine; he is every man in no man. If a
throstle sing he falls straight a-capering; he will fence with
his own shadow; if I should marry him, I should marry twenty
husbands. If he would despise me, I would forgive him; for if he
love me to madness, I shall never requite him.
NERISSA.
What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the young baron of
England?
PORTIA.
You know I say nothing to him, for he understands not me,
nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you
will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth
in the English. He is a proper man's picture; but alas, who can
converse with a dumb-show? How oddly he is suited! I think he
bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet
in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere.
NERISSA.
What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour?
PORTIA.
That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he borrowed
a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he would pay him
again when he was able; I think the Frenchman became his surety,
and sealed under for another.
NERISSA.
How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew?
PORTIA.
Very vilely in the morning when he is sober, and most
vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk: when he is best, he is
a little worse than a man, and when he is worst, he is little
better than a beast. An the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I
shall make shift to go without him.
NERISSA.
If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket,
you should refuse to perform your father's will, if you should
refuse to accept him.
PORTIA.
Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee set a deep
glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket; for if the devil be
within and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I
will do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a sponge.
NERISSA.
You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords;
they have acquainted me with their determinations, which is
indeed to return to their home, and to trouble you with no more
suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than your father's
imposition, depending on the caskets.
PORTIA.
If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as
Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will. I
am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable; for there is not
one among them but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God
grant them a fair departure.
NERISSA.
Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a Venetian, a
scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis
of Montferrat?
PORTIA.
Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, so was he called.
NERISSA.
True, madam; he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes
looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.
PORTIA.
I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise.
[Enter a SERVANT.]
How now! what news?
SERVANT.
The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their
leave; and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of
Morocco, who brings word the Prince his master will be here
to-night.
PORTIA.
If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good heart as I
can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his
approach; if he have the condition of a saint and the complexion
of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me.
Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before.
Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another knocks at the
door.
[Exeunt] | At Belmont, Portia discusses the terms of her father's will with her confidante, Nerissa. According to the will of her late father, Portia cannot marry a man of her own choosing. Instead, she must make herself available to all suitors and accept the one who chooses "rightly" from among "three chests of gold, silver and lead." Nerissa tries to comfort Portia and tells her that surely her father knew what he was doing; whoever the man might be who finally chooses "rightly," surely he will be "one who shall rightly love." Portia is not so certain. None of her current suitors is the kind of man whom she would choose for herself if she could choose. She cannot, however, for she gave her word that she would be obedient to her father's last wishes. Nerissa asks her to reconsider the gentlemen who have courted her, and she names the suitors who have come to Belmont -- a Neapolitan prince; the County Palatine; a French lord, Monsieur Le Bon; a young English baron, Falconbridge; a Scottish lord; and a young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew. Portia caustically comments on their individual faults, finding each one of them undesirable as a husband. Fortunately, all of them have decided to return home, unwilling to risk the penalty for choosing the wrong casket -- which is, remaining a bachelor for the rest of their lives. Nerissa then reminds her mistress of a gentleman who came to Belmont while Portia's father was living -- his name was Bassanio, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier. Portia recalls him and praises him highly: "He, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving of a fair lady." A servant interrupts the conversation and announces that a new suitor, the Prince of Morocco, will arrive that evening. |
ACT III. SCENE I.
Rome. A street
Cornets. Enter CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS, all the GENTRY, COMINIUS,
TITUS LARTIUS, and other SENATORS
CORIOLANUS. Tullus Aufidius, then, had made new head?
LARTIUS. He had, my lord; and that it was which caus'd
Our swifter composition.
CORIOLANUS. So then the Volsces stand but as at first,
Ready, when time shall prompt them, to make road
Upon's again.
COMINIUS. They are worn, Lord Consul, so
That we shall hardly in our ages see
Their banners wave again.
CORIOLANUS. Saw you Aufidius?
LARTIUS. On safeguard he came to me, and did curse
Against the Volsces, for they had so vilely
Yielded the town. He is retir'd to Antium.
CORIOLANUS. Spoke he of me?
LARTIUS. He did, my lord.
CORIOLANUS. How? What?
LARTIUS. How often he had met you, sword to sword;
That of all things upon the earth he hated
Your person most; that he would pawn his fortunes
To hopeless restitution, so he might
Be call'd your vanquisher.
CORIOLANUS. At Antium lives he?
LARTIUS. At Antium.
CORIOLANUS. I wish I had a cause to seek him there,
To oppose his hatred fully. Welcome home.
Enter SICINIUS and BRUTUS
Behold, these are the tribunes of the people,
The tongues o' th' common mouth. I do despise them,
For they do prank them in authority,
Against all noble sufferance.
SICINIUS. Pass no further.
CORIOLANUS. Ha! What is that?
BRUTUS. It will be dangerous to go on- no further.
CORIOLANUS. What makes this change?
MENENIUS. The matter?
COMINIUS. Hath he not pass'd the noble and the common?
BRUTUS. Cominius, no.
CORIOLANUS. Have I had children's voices?
FIRST SENATOR. Tribunes, give way: he shall to th'
market-place.
BRUTUS. The people are incens'd against him.
SICINIUS. Stop,
Or all will fall in broil.
CORIOLANUS. Are these your herd?
Must these have voices, that can yield them now
And straight disclaim their tongues? What are your offices?
You being their mouths, why rule you not their teeth?
Have you not set them on?
MENENIUS. Be calm, be calm.
CORIOLANUS. It is a purpos'd thing, and grows by plot,
To curb the will of the nobility;
Suffer't, and live with such as cannot rule
Nor ever will be rul'd.
BRUTUS. Call't not a plot.
The people cry you mock'd them; and of late,
When corn was given them gratis, you repin'd;
Scandal'd the suppliants for the people, call'd them
Time-pleasers, flatterers, foes to nobleness.
CORIOLANUS. Why, this was known before.
BRUTUS. Not to them all.
CORIOLANUS. Have you inform'd them sithence?
BRUTUS. How? I inform them!
COMINIUS. You are like to do such business.
BRUTUS. Not unlike
Each way to better yours.
CORIOLANUS. Why then should I be consul? By yond clouds,
Let me deserve so ill as you, and make me
Your fellow tribune.
SICINIUS. You show too much of that
For which the people stir; if you will pass
To where you are bound, you must enquire your way,
Which you are out of, with a gentler spirit,
Or never be so noble as a consul,
Nor yoke with him for tribune.
MENENIUS. Let's be calm.
COMINIUS. The people are abus'd; set on. This palt'ring
Becomes not Rome; nor has Coriolanus
Deserved this so dishonour'd rub, laid falsely
I' th' plain way of his merit.
CORIOLANUS. Tell me of corn!
This was my speech, and I will speak't again-
MENENIUS. Not now, not now.
FIRST SENATOR. Not in this heat, sir, now.
CORIOLANUS. Now, as I live, I will.
My nobler friends, I crave their pardons.
For the mutable, rank-scented many, let them
Regard me as I do not flatter, and
Therein behold themselves. I say again,
In soothing them we nourish 'gainst our Senate
The cockle of rebellion, insolence, sedition,
Which we ourselves have plough'd for, sow'd, and scatter'd,
By mingling them with us, the honour'd number,
Who lack not virtue, no, nor power, but that
Which they have given to beggars.
MENENIUS. Well, no more.
FIRST SENATOR. No more words, we beseech you.
CORIOLANUS. How? no more!
As for my country I have shed my blood,
Not fearing outward force, so shall my lungs
Coin words till their decay against those measles
Which we disdain should tetter us, yet sought
The very way to catch them.
BRUTUS. You speak o' th' people
As if you were a god, to punish; not
A man of their infirmity.
SICINIUS. 'Twere well
We let the people know't.
MENENIUS. What, what? his choler?
CORIOLANUS. Choler!
Were I as patient as the midnight sleep,
By Jove, 'twould be my mind!
SICINIUS. It is a mind
That shall remain a poison where it is,
Not poison any further.
CORIOLANUS. Shall remain!
Hear you this Triton of the minnows? Mark you
His absolute 'shall'?
COMINIUS. 'Twas from the canon.
CORIOLANUS. 'Shall'!
O good but most unwise patricians! Why,
You grave but reckless senators, have you thus
Given Hydra leave to choose an officer
That with his peremptory 'shall,' being but
The horn and noise o' th' monster's, wants not spirit
To say he'll turn your current in a ditch,
And make your channel his? If he have power,
Then vail your ignorance; if none, awake
Your dangerous lenity. If you are learn'd,
Be not as common fools; if you are not,
Let them have cushions by you. You are plebeians,
If they be senators; and they are no less,
When, both your voices blended, the great'st taste
Most palates theirs. They choose their magistrate;
And such a one as he, who puts his 'shall,'
His popular 'shall,' against a graver bench
Than ever frown'd in Greece. By Jove himself,
It makes the consuls base; and my soul aches
To know, when two authorities are up,
Neither supreme, how soon confusion
May enter 'twixt the gap of both and take
The one by th' other.
COMINIUS. Well, on to th' market-place.
CORIOLANUS. Whoever gave that counsel to give forth
The corn o' th' storehouse gratis, as 'twas us'd
Sometime in Greece-
MENENIUS. Well, well, no more of that.
CORIOLANUS. Though there the people had more absolute pow'r-
I say they nourish'd disobedience, fed
The ruin of the state.
BRUTUS. Why shall the people give
One that speaks thus their voice?
CORIOLANUS. I'll give my reasons,
More worthier than their voices. They know the corn
Was not our recompense, resting well assur'd
They ne'er did service for't; being press'd to th' war
Even when the navel of the state was touch'd,
They would not thread the gates. This kind of service
Did not deserve corn gratis. Being i' th' war,
Their mutinies and revolts, wherein they show'd
Most valour, spoke not for them. Th' accusation
Which they have often made against the Senate,
All cause unborn, could never be the motive
Of our so frank donation. Well, what then?
How shall this bosom multiplied digest
The Senate's courtesy? Let deeds express
What's like to be their words: 'We did request it;
We are the greater poll, and in true fear
They gave us our demands.' Thus we debase
The nature of our seats, and make the rabble
Call our cares fears; which will in time
Break ope the locks o' th' Senate and bring in
The crows to peck the eagles.
MENENIUS. Come, enough.
BRUTUS. Enough, with over measure.
CORIOLANUS. No, take more.
What may be sworn by, both divine and human,
Seal what I end withal! This double worship,
Where one part does disdain with cause, the other
Insult without all reason; where gentry, title, wisdom,
Cannot conclude but by the yea and no
Of general ignorance- it must omit
Real necessities, and give way the while
To unstable slightness. Purpose so barr'd, it follows
Nothing is done to purpose. Therefore, beseech you-
You that will be less fearful than discreet;
That love the fundamental part of state
More than you doubt the change on't; that prefer
A noble life before a long, and wish
To jump a body with a dangerous physic
That's sure of death without it- at once pluck out
The multitudinous tongue; let them not lick
The sweet which is their poison. Your dishonour
Mangles true judgment, and bereaves the state
Of that integrity which should become't,
Not having the power to do the good it would,
For th' ill which doth control't.
BRUTUS. Has said enough.
SICINIUS. Has spoken like a traitor and shall answer
As traitors do.
CORIOLANUS. Thou wretch, despite o'erwhelm thee!
What should the people do with these bald tribunes,
On whom depending, their obedience fails
To the greater bench? In a rebellion,
When what's not meet, but what must be, was law,
Then were they chosen; in a better hour
Let what is meet be said it must be meet,
And throw their power i' th' dust.
BRUTUS. Manifest treason!
SICINIUS. This a consul? No.
BRUTUS. The aediles, ho!
Enter an AEDILE
Let him be apprehended.
SICINIUS. Go call the people, [Exit AEDILE] in whose name
myself
Attach thee as a traitorous innovator,
A foe to th' public weal. Obey, I charge thee,
And follow to thine answer.
CORIOLANUS. Hence, old goat!
PATRICIANS. We'll surety him.
COMINIUS. Ag'd sir, hands off.
CORIOLANUS. Hence, rotten thing! or I shall shake thy bones
Out of thy garments.
SICINIUS. Help, ye citizens!
Enter a rabble of plebeians, with the AEDILES
MENENIUS. On both sides more respect.
SICINIUS. Here's he that would take from you all your power.
BRUTUS. Seize him, aediles.
PLEBEIANS. Down with him! down with him!
SECOND SENATOR. Weapons, weapons, weapons!
[They all bustle about CORIOLANUS]
ALL. Tribunes! patricians! citizens! What, ho! Sicinius!
Brutus! Coriolanus! Citizens!
PATRICIANS. Peace, peace, peace; stay, hold, peace!
MENENIUS. What is about to be? I am out of breath;
Confusion's near; I cannot speak. You tribunes
To th' people- Coriolanus, patience!
Speak, good Sicinius.
SICINIUS. Hear me, people; peace!
PLEBEIANS. Let's hear our tribune. Peace! Speak, speak, speak.
SICINIUS. You are at point to lose your liberties.
Marcius would have all from you; Marcius,
Whom late you have nam'd for consul.
MENENIUS. Fie, fie, fie!
This is the way to kindle, not to quench.
FIRST SENATOR. To unbuild the city, and to lay all flat.
SICINIUS. What is the city but the people?
PLEBEIANS. True,
The people are the city.
BRUTUS. By the consent of all we were establish'd
The people's magistrates.
PLEBEIANS. You so remain.
MENENIUS. And so are like to do.
COMINIUS. That is the way to lay the city flat,
To bring the roof to the foundation,
And bury all which yet distinctly ranges
In heaps and piles of ruin.
SICINIUS. This deserves death.
BRUTUS. Or let us stand to our authority
Or let us lose it. We do here pronounce,
Upon the part o' th' people, in whose power
We were elected theirs: Marcius is worthy
Of present death.
SICINIUS. Therefore lay hold of him;
Bear him to th' rock Tarpeian, and from thence
Into destruction cast him.
BRUTUS. AEdiles, seize him.
PLEBEIANS. Yield, Marcius, yield.
MENENIUS. Hear me one word; beseech you, Tribunes,
Hear me but a word.
AEDILES. Peace, peace!
MENENIUS. Be that you seem, truly your country's friend,
And temp'rately proceed to what you would
Thus violently redress.
BRUTUS. Sir, those cold ways,
That seem like prudent helps, are very poisonous
Where the disease is violent. Lay hands upon him
And bear him to the rock.
[CORIOLANUS draws his sword]
CORIOLANUS. No: I'll die here.
There's some among you have beheld me fighting;
Come, try upon yourselves what you have seen me.
MENENIUS. Down with that sword! Tribunes, withdraw awhile.
BRUTUS. Lay hands upon him.
MENENIUS. Help Marcius, help,
You that be noble; help him, young and old.
PLEBEIANS. Down with him, down with him!
[In this mutiny the TRIBUNES, the AEDILES,
and the people are beat in]
MENENIUS. Go, get you to your house; be gone, away.
All will be nought else.
SECOND SENATOR. Get you gone.
CORIOLANUS. Stand fast;
We have as many friends as enemies.
MENENIUS. Shall it be put to that?
FIRST SENATOR. The gods forbid!
I prithee, noble friend, home to thy house;
Leave us to cure this cause.
MENENIUS. For 'tis a sore upon us
You cannot tent yourself; be gone, beseech you.
COMINIUS. Come, sir, along with us.
CORIOLANUS. I would they were barbarians, as they are,
Though in Rome litter'd; not Romans, as they are not,
Though calved i' th' porch o' th' Capitol.
MENENIUS. Be gone.
Put not your worthy rage into your tongue;
One time will owe another.
CORIOLANUS. On fair ground
I could beat forty of them.
MENENIUS. I could myself
Take up a brace o' th' best of them; yea, the two tribunes.
COMINIUS. But now 'tis odds beyond arithmetic,
And manhood is call'd foolery when it stands
Against a falling fabric. Will you hence,
Before the tag return? whose rage doth rend
Like interrupted waters, and o'erbear
What they are us'd to bear.
MENENIUS. Pray you be gone.
I'll try whether my old wit be in request
With those that have but little; this must be patch'd
With cloth of any colour.
COMINIUS. Nay, come away.
Exeunt CORIOLANUS and COMINIUS, with others
PATRICIANS. This man has marr'd his fortune.
MENENIUS. His nature is too noble for the world:
He would not flatter Neptune for his trident,
Or Jove for's power to thunder. His heart's his mouth;
What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent;
And, being angry, does forget that ever
He heard the name of death. [A noise within]
Here's goodly work!
PATRICIANS. I would they were a-bed.
MENENIUS. I would they were in Tiber.
What the vengeance, could he not speak 'em fair?
Re-enter BRUTUS and SICINIUS, the rabble again
SICINIUS. Where is this viper
That would depopulate the city and
Be every man himself?
MENENIUS. You worthy Tribunes-
SICINIUS. He shall be thrown down the Tarpeian rock
With rigorous hands; he hath resisted law,
And therefore law shall scorn him further trial
Than the severity of the public power,
Which he so sets at nought.
FIRST CITIZEN. He shall well know
The noble tribunes are the people's mouths,
And we their hands.
PLEBEIANS. He shall, sure on't.
MENENIUS. Sir, sir-
SICINIUS. Peace!
MENENIUS. Do not cry havoc, where you should but hunt
With modest warrant.
SICINIUS. Sir, how comes't that you
Have holp to make this rescue?
MENENIUS. Hear me speak.
As I do know the consul's worthiness,
So can I name his faults.
SICINIUS. Consul! What consul?
MENENIUS. The consul Coriolanus.
BRUTUS. He consul!
PLEBEIANS. No, no, no, no, no.
MENENIUS. If, by the tribunes' leave, and yours, good people,
I may be heard, I would crave a word or two;
The which shall turn you to no further harm
Than so much loss of time.
SICINIUS. Speak briefly, then,
For we are peremptory to dispatch
This viperous traitor; to eject him hence
Were but one danger, and to keep him here
Our certain death; therefore it is decreed
He dies to-night.
MENENIUS. Now the good gods forbid
That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude
Towards her deserved children is enroll'd
In Jove's own book, like an unnatural dam
Should now eat up her own!
SICINIUS. He's a disease that must be cut away.
MENENIUS. O, he's a limb that has but a disease-
Mortal, to cut it off: to cure it, easy.
What has he done to Rome that's worthy death?
Killing our enemies, the blood he hath lost-
Which I dare vouch is more than that he hath
By many an ounce- he dropt it for his country;
And what is left, to lose it by his country
Were to us all that do't and suffer it
A brand to th' end o' th' world.
SICINIUS. This is clean kam.
BRUTUS. Merely awry. When he did love his country,
It honour'd him.
SICINIUS. The service of the foot,
Being once gangren'd, is not then respected
For what before it was.
BRUTUS. We'll hear no more.
Pursue him to his house and pluck him thence,
Lest his infection, being of catching nature,
Spread further.
MENENIUS. One word more, one word
This tiger-footed rage, when it shall find
The harm of unscann'd swiftness, will, too late,
Tie leaden pounds to's heels. Proceed by process,
Lest parties- as he is belov'd- break out,
And sack great Rome with Romans.
BRUTUS. If it were so-
SICINIUS. What do ye talk?
Have we not had a taste of his obedience-
Our aediles smote, ourselves resisted? Come!
MENENIUS. Consider this: he has been bred i' th' wars
Since 'a could draw a sword, and is ill school'd
In bolted language; meal and bran together
He throws without distinction. Give me leave,
I'll go to him and undertake to bring him
Where he shall answer by a lawful form,
In peace, to his utmost peril.
FIRST SENATOR. Noble Tribunes,
It is the humane way; the other course
Will prove too bloody, and the end of it
Unknown to the beginning.
SICINIUS. Noble Menenius,
Be you then as the people's officer.
Masters, lay down your weapons.
BRUTUS. Go not home.
SICINIUS. Meet on the market-place. We'll attend you there;
Where, if you bring not Marcius, we'll proceed
In our first way.
MENENIUS. I'll bring him to you.
[To the SENATORS] Let me desire your company; he must come,
Or what is worst will follow.
FIRST SENATOR. Pray you let's to him. Exeunt | On a street in Rome, Coriolanus, Cominius, and Titus Lartius have a little chit-chat about Tullus Aufidius. Apparently, Aufidius has slapped together a new Volscian army that is ready to rumble with Rome again. Oh, this can't be good. Now Sicinius and Brutus show up with more bad news: the plebeians have changed their minds and no longer want Coriolanus to be elected consul. They're all "Gee. Tough break, Coriolanus." Coriolanus is seriously ticked off when he hears the news. He accuses the tribunes of turning the people against him. Naturally, Sicinius and Brutus act all innocent and go through a big "Who, us?" routine. Then Coriolanus does exactly what the tribunes were hoping he would do. He flips out and turns into a giant rage-a-holic who says all the wrong things. He bashes the plebeians and goes off about how much he hates them and why he thinks the "rabble" shouldn't have any say in how a government is run. Coriolanus then threatens to take away the plebeians' right to elect tribunes. Big mistake. Sicinius and Brutus accuse Coriolanus of treason and demand that he be arrested ASAP. By this time, the mob of plebeians has rushed back onto the scene to demand Coriolanus' death. Fortunately for Coriolanus, the Senators help him escape the angry mob. Sicinius tells the mob that Coriolanus is a "disease that must be cut away." Menenius finally stops the rioting when he tells the mob that he'll try to talk some sense into Coriolanus and promises to bring him to the marketplace for a public meeting. |
IN less than an hour from that time, Seth Bede was walking by Dinah's
side along the hedgerow-path that skirted the pastures and green
corn-fields which lay between the village and the Hall Farm. Dinah had
taken off her little Quaker bonnet again, and was holding it in
her hands that she might have a freer enjoyment of the cool evening
twilight, and Seth could see the expression of her face quite clearly as
he walked by her side, timidly revolving something he wanted to say to
her. It was an expression of unconscious placid gravity--of absorption
in thoughts that had no connection with the present moment or with her
own personality--an expression that is most of all discouraging to a
lover. Her very walk was discouraging: it had that quiet elasticity that
asks for no support. Seth felt this dimly; he said to himself, "She's
too good and holy for any man, let alone me," and the words he had
been summoning rushed back again before they had reached his lips. But
another thought gave him courage: "There's no man could love her better
and leave her freer to follow the Lord's work." They had been silent for
many minutes now, since they had done talking about Bessy Cranage;
Dinah seemed almost to have forgotten Seth's presence, and her pace
was becoming so much quicker that the sense of their being only a few
minutes' walk from the yard-gates of the Hall Farm at last gave Seth
courage to speak.
"You've quite made up your mind to go back to Snowfield o' Saturday,
Dinah?"
"Yes," said Dinah, quietly. "I'm called there. It was borne in upon my
mind while I was meditating on Sunday night, as Sister Allen, who's in a
decline, is in need of me. I saw her as plain as we see that bit of thin
white cloud, lifting up her poor thin hand and beckoning to me. And this
morning when I opened the Bible for direction, the first words my
eyes fell on were, 'And after we had seen the vision, immediately we
endeavoured to go into Macedonia.' If it wasn't for that clear showing
of the Lord's will, I should be loath to go, for my heart yearns over
my aunt and her little ones, and that poor wandering lamb Hetty Sorrel.
I've been much drawn out in prayer for her of late, and I look on it as
a token that there may be mercy in store for her."
"God grant it," said Seth. "For I doubt Adam's heart is so set on her,
he'll never turn to anybody else; and yet it 'ud go to my heart if he
was to marry her, for I canna think as she'd make him happy. It's a deep
mystery--the way the heart of man turns to one woman out of all the rest
he's seen i' the world, and makes it easier for him to work seven year
for HER, like Jacob did for Rachel, sooner than have any other woman for
th' asking. I often think of them words, 'And Jacob served seven years
for Rachel; and they seemed to him but a few days for the love he had
to her.' I know those words 'ud come true with me, Dinah, if so be you'd
give me hope as I might win you after seven years was over. I know you
think a husband 'ud be taking up too much o' your thoughts, because St.
Paul says, 'She that's married careth for the things of the world how
she may please her husband'; and may happen you'll think me overbold to
speak to you about it again, after what you told me o' your mind last
Saturday. But I've been thinking it over again by night and by day, and
I've prayed not to be blinded by my own desires, to think what's only
good for me must be good for you too. And it seems to me there's more
texts for your marrying than ever you can find against it. For St. Paul
says as plain as can be in another place, 'I will that the younger
women marry, bear children, guide the house, give none occasion to the
adversary to speak reproachfully'; and then 'two are better than one';
and that holds good with marriage as well as with other things. For we
should be o' one heart and o' one mind, Dinah. We both serve the same
Master, and are striving after the same gifts; and I'd never be the
husband to make a claim on you as could interfere with your doing the
work God has fitted you for. I'd make a shift, and fend indoor and out,
to give you more liberty--more than you can have now, for you've got to
get your own living now, and I'm strong enough to work for us both."
When Seth had once begun to urge his suit, he went on earnestly and
almost hurriedly, lest Dinah should speak some decisive word before he
had poured forth all the arguments he had prepared. His cheeks became
flushed as he went on his mild grey eyes filled with tears, and his
voice trembled as he spoke the last sentence. They had reached one of
those very narrow passes between two tall stones, which performed the
office of a stile in Loamshire, and Dinah paused as she turned towards
Seth and said, in her tender but calm treble notes, "Seth Bede, I thank
you for your love towards me, and if I could think of any man as more
than a Christian brother, I think it would be you. But my heart is not
free to marry. That is good for other women, and it is a great and a
blessed thing to be a wife and mother; but 'as God has distributed to
every man, as the Lord hath called every man, so let him walk.' God has
called me to minister to others, not to have any joys or sorrows of my
own, but to rejoice with them that do rejoice, and to weep with those
that weep. He has called me to speak his word, and he has greatly owned
my work. It could only be on a very clear showing that I could leave the
brethren and sisters at Snowfield, who are favoured with very little of
this world's good; where the trees are few, so that a child might count
them, and there's very hard living for the poor in the winter. It has
been given me to help, to comfort, and strengthen the little flock there
and to call in many wanderers; and my soul is filled with these things
from my rising up till my lying down. My life is too short, and God's
work is too great for me to think of making a home for myself in this
world. I've not turned a deaf ear to your words, Seth, for when I saw as
your love was given to me, I thought it might be a leading of Providence
for me to change my way of life, and that we should be fellow-helpers;
and I spread the matter before the Lord. But whenever I tried to fix my
mind on marriage, and our living together, other thoughts always came
in--the times when I've prayed by the sick and dying, and the happy
hours I've had preaching, when my heart was filled with love, and the
Word was given to me abundantly. And when I've opened the Bible for
direction, I've always lighted on some clear word to tell me where my
work lay. I believe what you say, Seth, that you would try to be a help
and not a hindrance to my work; but I see that our marriage is not God's
will--He draws my heart another way. I desire to live and die without
husband or children. I seem to have no room in my soul for wants and
fears of my own, it has pleased God to fill my heart so full with the
wants and sufferings of his poor people."
Seth was unable to reply, and they walked on in silence. At last, as
they were nearly at the yard-gate, he said, "Well, Dinah, I must seek
for strength to bear it, and to endure as seeing Him who is invisible.
But I feel now how weak my faith is. It seems as if, when you are gone,
I could never joy in anything any more. I think it's something passing
the love of women as I feel for you, for I could be content without
your marrying me if I could go and live at Snowfield and be near you.
I trusted as the strong love God has given me towards you was a leading
for us both; but it seems it was only meant for my trial. Perhaps I feel
more for you than I ought to feel for any creature, for I often can't
help saying of you what the hymn says--
In darkest shades if she appear,
My dawning is begun;
She is my soul's bright morning-star,
And she my rising sun.
That may be wrong, and I am to be taught better. But you wouldn't be
displeased with me if things turned out so as I could leave this country
and go to live at Snowfield?"
"No, Seth; but I counsel you to wait patiently, and not lightly to
leave your own country and kindred. Do nothing without the Lord's clear
bidding. It's a bleak and barren country there, not like this land of
Goshen you've been used to. We mustn't be in a hurry to fix and choose
our own lot; we must wait to be guided."
"But you'd let me write you a letter, Dinah, if there was anything I
wanted to tell you?"
"Yes, sure; let me know if you're in any trouble. You'll be continually
in my prayers."
They had now reached the yard-gate, and Seth said, "I won't go in,
Dinah, so farewell." He paused and hesitated after she had given him
her hand, and then said, "There's no knowing but what you may see things
different after a while. There may be a new leading."
"Let us leave that, Seth. It's good to live only a moment at a time, as
I've read in one of Mr. Wesley's books. It isn't for you and me to lay
plans; we've nothing to do but to obey and to trust. Farewell."
Dinah pressed his hand with rather a sad look in her loving eyes, and
then passed through the gate, while Seth turned away to walk lingeringly
home. But instead of taking the direct road, he chose to turn back along
the fields through which he and Dinah had already passed; and I think
his blue linen handkerchief was very wet with tears long before he
had made up his mind that it was time for him to set his face steadily
homewards. He was but three-and-twenty, and had only just learned what
it is to love--to love with that adoration which a young man gives to a
woman whom he feels to be greater and better than himself. Love of this
sort is hardly distinguishable from religious feeling. What deep and
worthy love is so, whether of woman or child, or art or music. Our
caresses, our tender words, our still rapture under the influence
of autumn sunsets, or pillared vistas, or calm majestic statues, or
Beethoven symphonies all bring with them the consciousness that they are
mere waves and ripples in an unfathomable ocean of love and beauty; our
emotion in its keenest moment passes from expression into silence, our
love at its highest flood rushes beyond its object and loses itself in
the sense of divine mystery. And this blessed gift of venerating love
has been given to too many humble craftsmen since the world began for
us to feel any surprise that it should have existed in the soul of a
Methodist carpenter half a century ago, while there was yet a lingering
after-glow from the time when Wesley and his fellow-labourer fed on the
hips and haws of the Cornwall hedges, after exhausting limbs and lungs
in carrying a divine message to the poor.
That afterglow has long faded away; and the picture we are apt to make
of Methodism in our imagination is not an amphitheatre of green hills,
or the deep shade of broad-leaved sycamores, where a crowd of rough
men and weary-hearted women drank in a faith which was a rudimentary
culture, which linked their thoughts with the past, lifted their
imagination above the sordid details of their own narrow lives, and
suffused their souls with the sense of a pitying, loving, infinite
Presence, sweet as summer to the houseless needy. It is too possible
that to some of my readers Methodism may mean nothing more than
low-pitched gables up dingy streets, sleek grocers, sponging preachers,
and hypocritical jargon--elements which are regarded as an exhaustive
analysis of Methodism in many fashionable quarters.
That would be a pity; for I cannot pretend that Seth and Dinah were
anything else than Methodists--not indeed of that modern type which
reads quarterly reviews and attends in chapels with pillared porticoes,
but of a very old-fashioned kind. They believed in present miracles, in
instantaneous conversions, in revelations by dreams and visions; they
drew lots, and sought for Divine guidance by opening the Bible at
hazard; having a literal way of interpreting the Scriptures, which is
not at all sanctioned by approved commentators; and it is impossible
for me to represent their diction as correct, or their instruction as
liberal. Still--if I have read religious history aright--faith,
hope, and charity have not always been found in a direct ratio with a
sensibility to the three concords, and it is possible--thank Heaven!--to
have very erroneous theories and very sublime feelings. The raw bacon
which clumsy Molly spares from her own scanty store that she may carry
it to her neighbour's child to "stop the fits," may be a piteously
inefficacious remedy; but the generous stirring of neighbourly kindness
that prompted the deed has a beneficent radiation that is not lost.
Considering these things, we can hardly think Dinah and Seth beneath our
sympathy, accustomed as we may be to weep over the loftier sorrows
of heroines in satin boots and crinoline, and of heroes riding fiery
horses, themselves ridden by still more fiery passions.
Poor Seth! He was never on horseback in his life except once, when he
was a little lad, and Mr. Jonathan Burge took him up behind, telling
him to "hold on tight"; and instead of bursting out into wild accusing
apostrophes to God and destiny, he is resolving, as he now walks
homewards under the solemn starlight, to repress his sadness, to be less
bent on having his own will, and to live more for others, as Dinah does. | After the Preaching Seth Bede walks Dinah Morris home. She is staying with her Aunt Poyser at Hall Farm. Seth is discouraged from his suit because Dinah's whole attention is on other people. She is a visionary and can tell from her prayers who needs help. For instance, she mentions that she is watching over Hetty Sorrel, the young woman that Adam loves. Seth gathers courage and asks Dinah to marry him. She refuses, saying she has been called by God to do his work and doesn't expect to marry. She is deeply attached to the community in Snowfield and will be returning there to continue her work among that people. When Seth proposes he move to Snowfield to be near her, she discourages him and says he must ask for divine guidance. Seth says he will learn to bear his sorrow, but asks permission to write to her, and she agrees. They part at the gate to Hall Farm. |
The youth awakened slowly. He came gradually back to a position from
which he could regard himself. For moments he had been scrutinizing
his person in a dazed way as if he had never before seen himself. Then
he picked up his cap from the ground. He wriggled in his jacket to
make a more comfortable fit, and kneeling relaced his shoe. He
thoughtfully mopped his reeking features.
So it was all over at last! The supreme trial had been passed. The
red, formidable difficulties of war had been vanquished.
He went into an ecstasy of self-satisfaction. He had the most
delightful sensations of his life. Standing as if apart from himself,
he viewed that last scene. He perceived that the man who had fought
thus was magnificent.
He felt that he was a fine fellow. He saw himself even with those
ideals which he had considered as far beyond him. He smiled in deep
gratification.
Upon his fellows he beamed tenderness and good will. "Gee! ain't it
hot, hey?" he said affably to a man who was polishing his streaming
face with his coat sleeves.
"You bet!" said the other, grinning sociably. "I never seen sech dumb
hotness." He sprawled out luxuriously on the ground. "Gee, yes! An'
I hope we don't have no more fightin' till a week from Monday."
There were some handshakings and deep speeches with men whose features
were familiar, but with whom the youth now felt the bonds of tied
hearts. He helped a cursing comrade to bind up a wound of the shin.
But, of a sudden, cries of amazement broke out along the ranks of the
new regiment. "Here they come ag'in! Here they come ag'in!" The man
who had sprawled upon the ground started up and said, "Gosh!"
The youth turned quick eyes upon the field. He discerned forms begin to
swell in masses out of a distant wood. He again saw the tilted flag
speeding forward.
The shells, which had ceased to trouble the regiment for a time, came
swirling again, and exploded in the grass or among the leaves of the
trees. They looked to be strange war flowers bursting into fierce
bloom.
The men groaned. The luster faded from their eyes. Their smudged
countenances now expressed a profound dejection. They moved their
stiffened bodies slowly, and watched in sullen mood the frantic
approach of the enemy. The slaves toiling in the temple of this god
began to feel rebellion at his harsh tasks.
They fretted and complained each to each. "Oh, say, this is too much of
a good thing! Why can't somebody send us supports?"
"We ain't never goin' to stand this second banging. I didn't come here
to fight the hull damn' rebel army."
There was one who raised a doleful cry. "I wish Bill Smithers had trod
on my hand, insteader me treddin' on his'n." The sore joints of the
regiment creaked as it painfully floundered into position to repulse.
The youth stared. Surely, he thought, this impossible thing was not
about to happen. He waited as if he expected the enemy to suddenly
stop, apologize, and retire bowing. It was all a mistake.
But the firing began somewhere on the regimental line and ripped along
in both directions. The level sheets of flame developed great clouds of
smoke that tumbled and tossed in the mild wind near the ground for a
moment, and then rolled through the ranks as through a gate. The
clouds were tinged an earthlike yellow in the sunrays and in the shadow
were a sorry blue. The flag was sometimes eaten and lost in this mass
of vapor, but more often it projected, sun-touched, resplendent.
Into the youth's eyes there came a look that one can see in the orbs of
a jaded horse. His neck was quivering with nervous weakness and the
muscles of his arms felt numb and bloodless. His hands, too, seemed
large and awkward as if he was wearing invisible mittens. And there
was a great uncertainty about his knee joints.
The words that comrades had uttered previous to the firing began to
recur to him. "Oh, say, this is too much of a good thing! What do
they take us for--why don't they send supports? I didn't come here to
fight the hull damned rebel army."
He began to exaggerate the endurance, the skill, and the valor of those
who were coming. Himself reeling from exhaustion, he was astonished
beyond measure at such persistency. They must be machines of steel. It
was very gloomy struggling against such affairs, wound up perhaps to
fight until sundown.
He slowly lifted his rifle and catching a glimpse of the thickspread
field he blazed at a cantering cluster. He stopped then and began to
peer as best he could through the smoke. He caught changing views of
the ground covered with men who were all running like pursued imps, and
yelling.
To the youth it was an onslaught of redoubtable dragons. He became
like the man who lost his legs at the approach of the red and green
monster. He waited in a sort of a horrified, listening attitude. He
seemed to shut his eyes and wait to be gobbled.
A man near him who up to this time had been working feverishly at his
rifle suddenly stopped and ran with howls. A lad whose face had borne
an expression of exalted courage, the majesty of he who dares give his
life, was, at an instant, smitten abject. He blanched like one who has
come to the edge of a cliff at midnight and is suddenly made aware.
There was a revelation. He, too, threw down his gun and fled. There
was no shame in his face. He ran like a rabbit.
Others began to scamper away through the smoke. The youth turned his
head, shaken from his trance by this movement as if the regiment was
leaving him behind. He saw the few fleeting forms.
He yelled then with fright and swung about. For a moment, in the great
clamor, he was like a proverbial chicken. He lost the direction of
safety. Destruction threatened him from all points.
Directly he began to speed toward the rear in great leaps. His rifle
and cap were gone. His unbuttoned coat bulged in the wind. The flap
of his cartridge box bobbed wildly, and his canteen, by its slender
cord, swung out behind. On his face was all the horror of those things
which he imagined.
The lieutenant sprang forward bawling. The youth saw his features
wrathfully red, and saw him make a dab with his sword. His one thought
of the incident was that the lieutenant was a peculiar creature to feel
interested in such matters upon this occasion.
He ran like a blind man. Two or three times he fell down. Once he
knocked his shoulder so heavily against a tree that he went headlong.
Since he had turned his back upon the fight his fears had been
wondrously magnified. Death about to thrust him between the shoulder
blades was far more dreadful than death about to smite him between the
eyes. When he thought of it later, he conceived the impression that it
is better to view the appalling than to be merely within hearing. The
noises of the battle were like stones; he believed himself liable to be
crushed.
As he ran he mingled with others. He dimly saw men on his right and on
his left, and he heard footsteps behind him. He thought that all the
regiment was fleeing, pursued by these ominous crashes.
In his flight the sound of these following footsteps gave him his one
meager relief. He felt vaguely that death must make a first choice of
the men who were nearest; the initial morsels for the dragons would be
then those who were following him. So he displayed the zeal of an
insane sprinter in his purpose to keep them in the rear. There was a
race.
As he, leading, went across a little field, he found himself in a
region of shells. They hurtled over his head with long wild screams.
As he listened he imagined them to have rows of cruel teeth that
grinned at him. Once one lit before him and the livid lightning of the
explosion effectually barred the way in his chosen direction. He
groveled on the ground and then springing up went careering off through
some bushes.
He experienced a thrill of amazement when he came within view of a
battery in action. The men there seemed to be in conventional moods,
altogether unaware of the impending annihilation. The battery was
disputing with a distant antagonist and the gunners were wrapped in
admiration of their shooting. They were continually bending in coaxing
postures over the guns. They seemed to be patting them on the back and
encouraging them with words. The guns, stolid and undaunted, spoke
with dogged valor.
The precise gunners were coolly enthusiastic. They lifted their eyes
every chance to the smoke-wreathed hillock from whence the hostile
battery addressed them. The youth pitied them as he ran. Methodical
idiots! Machine-like fools! The refined joy of planting shells in the
midst of the other battery's formation would appear a little thing when
the infantry came swooping out of the woods.
The face of a youthful rider, who was jerking his frantic horse with an
abandon of temper he might display in a placid barnyard, was impressed
deeply upon his mind. He knew that he looked upon a man who would
presently be dead.
Too, he felt a pity for the guns, standing, six good comrades, in a
bold row.
He saw a brigade going to the relief of its pestered fellows. He
scrambled upon a wee hill and watched it sweeping finely, keeping
formation in difficult places. The blue of the line was crusted with
steel color, and the brilliant flags projected. Officers were shouting.
This sight also filled him with wonder. The brigade was hurrying
briskly to be gulped into the infernal mouths of the war god. What
manner of men were they, anyhow? Ah, it was some wondrous breed! Or
else they didn't comprehend--the fools.
A furious order caused commotion in the artillery. An officer on a
bounding horse made maniacal motions with his arms. The teams went
swinging up from the rear, the guns were whirled about, and the battery
scampered away. The cannon with their noses poked slantingly at the
ground grunted and grumbled like stout men, brave but with objections
to hurry.
The youth went on, moderating his pace since he had left the place of
noises.
Later he came upon a general of division seated upon a horse that
pricked its ears in an interested way at the battle. There was a great
gleaming of yellow and patent leather about the saddle and bridle. The
quiet man astride looked mouse-colored upon such a splendid charger.
A jingling staff was galloping hither and thither. Sometimes the
general was surrounded by horsemen and at other times he was quite
alone. He looked to be much harassed. He had the appearance of a
business man whose market is swinging up and down.
The youth went slinking around this spot. He went as near as he dared
trying to overhear words. Perhaps the general, unable to comprehend
chaos, might call upon him for information. And he could tell him. He
knew all concerning it. Of a surety the force was in a fix, and any
fool could see that if they did not retreat while they had
opportunity--why--
He felt that he would like to thrash the general, or at least approach
and tell him in plain words exactly what he thought him to be. It was
criminal to stay calmly in one spot and make no effort to stay
destruction. He loitered in a fever of eagerness for the division
commander to apply to him.
As he warily moved about, he heard the general call out irritably:
"Tompkins, go over an' see Taylor, an' tell him not t' be in such an
all-fired hurry; tell him t' halt his brigade in th' edge of th' woods;
tell him t' detach a reg'ment--say I think th' center 'll break if we
don't help it out some; tell him t' hurry up."
A slim youth on a fine chestnut horse caught these swift words from the
mouth of his superior. He made his horse bound into a gallop almost
from a walk in his haste to go upon his mission. There was a cloud of
dust.
A moment later the youth saw the general bounce excitedly in his saddle.
"Yes, by heavens, they have!" The officer leaned forward. His face
was aflame with excitement. "Yes, by heavens, they 've held 'im! They
've held 'im!"
He began to blithely roar at his staff: "We 'll wallop 'im now. We 'll
wallop 'im now. We 've got 'em sure." He turned suddenly upon an aid:
"Here--you--Jones--quick--ride after Tompkins--see Taylor--tell him t'
go in--everlastingly--like blazes--anything."
As another officer sped his horse after the first messenger, the
general beamed upon the earth like a sun. In his eyes was a desire to
chant a paean. He kept repeating, "They 've held 'em, by heavens!"
His excitement made his horse plunge, and he merrily kicked and swore
at it. He held a little carnival of joy on horseback. | A short while later, Henry awakes and feels delighted with himself. He thinks he has survived the horror of battle and proved his courage. He and the other members of the regiment draw themselves up proudly and praise one another's fortitude and valor, shaking hands in an ecstasy of mutual self-satisfaction. Suddenly, someone cries out that the enemy forces have renewed the charge. The men groan dejectedly and prepare to repel the attack. This time, Henry does not feel as though he is part of a machine. He thinks that the enemy soldiers must be awe-inspiring men to have such persistence, and he panics. One by one, soldiers from Henry's regiment begin to jump up and flee from the line, and after a moment, Henry too runs away. Henry flees the battlefield, convinced that at any moment, the charging enemy horde will burst out of the forest and overrun him. He darts past a battery of gunmen, pitying them their position in the path of the enemy. He skulks past a general giving orders to his staff from atop a horse, and feels the desire to throttle the general for his incompetent handling of the battle. To his shock, he overhears the general declare that the enemy has been held back |
"_6 September._
"My dear Art,--
"My news to-day is not so good. Lucy this morning had gone back a bit.
There is, however, one good thing which has arisen from it; Mrs.
Westenra was naturally anxious concerning Lucy, and has consulted me
professionally about her. I took advantage of the opportunity, and told
her that my old master, Van Helsing, the great specialist, was coming to
stay with me, and that I would put her in his charge conjointly with
myself; so now we can come and go without alarming her unduly, for a
shock to her would mean sudden death, and this, in Lucy's weak
condition, might be disastrous to her. We are hedged in with
difficulties, all of us, my poor old fellow; but, please God, we shall
come through them all right. If any need I shall write, so that, if you
do not hear from me, take it for granted that I am simply waiting for
news. In haste
Yours ever,
"JOHN SEWARD."
_Dr. Seward's Diary._
_7 September._--The first thing Van Helsing said to me when we met at
Liverpool Street was:--
"Have you said anything to our young friend the lover of her?"
"No," I said. "I waited till I had seen you, as I said in my telegram. I
wrote him a letter simply telling him that you were coming, as Miss
Westenra was not so well, and that I should let him know if need be."
"Right, my friend," he said, "quite right! Better he not know as yet;
perhaps he shall never know. I pray so; but if it be needed, then he
shall know all. And, my good friend John, let me caution you. You deal
with the madmen. All men are mad in some way or the other; and inasmuch
as you deal discreetly with your madmen, so deal with God's madmen,
too--the rest of the world. You tell not your madmen what you do nor why
you do it; you tell them not what you think. So you shall keep knowledge
in its place, where it may rest--where it may gather its kind around it
and breed. You and I shall keep as yet what we know here, and here." He
touched me on the heart and on the forehead, and then touched himself
the same way. "I have for myself thoughts at the present. Later I shall
unfold to you."
"Why not now?" I asked. "It may do some good; we may arrive at some
decision." He stopped and looked at me, and said:--
"My friend John, when the corn is grown, even before it has
ripened--while the milk of its mother-earth is in him, and the sunshine
has not yet begun to paint him with his gold, the husbandman he pull the
ear and rub him between his rough hands, and blow away the green chaff,
and say to you: 'Look! he's good corn; he will make good crop when the
time comes.'" I did not see the application, and told him so. For reply
he reached over and took my ear in his hand and pulled it playfully, as
he used long ago to do at lectures, and said: "The good husbandman tell
you so then because he knows, but not till then. But you do not find the
good husbandman dig up his planted corn to see if he grow; that is for
the children who play at husbandry, and not for those who take it as of
the work of their life. See you now, friend John? I have sown my corn,
and Nature has her work to do in making it sprout; if he sprout at all,
there's some promise; and I wait till the ear begins to swell." He broke
off, for he evidently saw that I understood. Then he went on, and very
gravely:--
"You were always a careful student, and your case-book was ever more
full than the rest. You were only student then; now you are master, and
I trust that good habit have not fail. Remember, my friend, that
knowledge is stronger than memory, and we should not trust the weaker.
Even if you have not kept the good practise, let me tell you that this
case of our dear miss is one that may be--mind, I say _may be_--of such
interest to us and others that all the rest may not make him kick the
beam, as your peoples say. Take then good note of it. Nothing is too
small. I counsel you, put down in record even your doubts and surmises.
Hereafter it may be of interest to you to see how true you guess. We
learn from failure, not from success!"
When I described Lucy's symptoms--the same as before, but infinitely
more marked--he looked very grave, but said nothing. He took with him a
bag in which were many instruments and drugs, "the ghastly paraphernalia
of our beneficial trade," as he once called, in one of his lectures, the
equipment of a professor of the healing craft. When we were shown in,
Mrs. Westenra met us. She was alarmed, but not nearly so much as I
expected to find her. Nature in one of her beneficent moods has ordained
that even death has some antidote to its own terrors. Here, in a case
where any shock may prove fatal, matters are so ordered that, from some
cause or other, the things not personal--even the terrible change in her
daughter to whom she is so attached--do not seem to reach her. It is
something like the way Dame Nature gathers round a foreign body an
envelope of some insensitive tissue which can protect from evil that
which it would otherwise harm by contact. If this be an ordered
selfishness, then we should pause before we condemn any one for the vice
of egoism, for there may be deeper root for its causes than we have
knowledge of.
I used my knowledge of this phase of spiritual pathology, and laid down
a rule that she should not be present with Lucy or think of her illness
more than was absolutely required. She assented readily, so readily that
I saw again the hand of Nature fighting for life. Van Helsing and I were
shown up to Lucy's room. If I was shocked when I saw her yesterday, I
was horrified when I saw her to-day. She was ghastly, chalkily pale; the
red seemed to have gone even from her lips and gums, and the bones of
her face stood out prominently; her breathing was painful to see or
hear. Van Helsing's face grew set as marble, and his eyebrows converged
till they almost touched over his nose. Lucy lay motionless, and did not
seem to have strength to speak, so for a while we were all silent. Then
Van Helsing beckoned to me, and we went gently out of the room. The
instant we had closed the door he stepped quickly along the passage to
the next door, which was open. Then he pulled me quickly in with him and
closed the door. "My God!" he said; "this is dreadful. There is no time
to be lost. She will die for sheer want of blood to keep the heart's
action as it should be. There must be transfusion of blood at once. Is
it you or me?"
"I am younger and stronger, Professor. It must be me."
"Then get ready at once. I will bring up my bag. I am prepared."
I went downstairs with him, and as we were going there was a knock at
the hall-door. When we reached the hall the maid had just opened the
door, and Arthur was stepping quickly in. He rushed up to me, saying in
an eager whisper:--
"Jack, I was so anxious. I read between the lines of your letter, and
have been in an agony. The dad was better, so I ran down here to see for
myself. Is not that gentleman Dr. Van Helsing? I am so thankful to you,
sir, for coming." When first the Professor's eye had lit upon him he had
been angry at his interruption at such a time; but now, as he took in
his stalwart proportions and recognised the strong young manhood which
seemed to emanate from him, his eyes gleamed. Without a pause he said to
him gravely as he held out his hand:--
"Sir, you have come in time. You are the lover of our dear miss. She is
bad, very, very bad. Nay, my child, do not go like that." For he
suddenly grew pale and sat down in a chair almost fainting. "You are to
help her. You can do more than any that live, and your courage is your
best help."
"What can I do?" asked Arthur hoarsely. "Tell me, and I shall do it. My
life is hers, and I would give the last drop of blood in my body for
her." The Professor has a strongly humorous side, and I could from old
knowledge detect a trace of its origin in his answer:--
"My young sir, I do not ask so much as that--not the last!"
"What shall I do?" There was fire in his eyes, and his open nostril
quivered with intent. Van Helsing slapped him on the shoulder. "Come!"
he said. "You are a man, and it is a man we want. You are better than
me, better than my friend John." Arthur looked bewildered, and the
Professor went on by explaining in a kindly way:--
"Young miss is bad, very bad. She wants blood, and blood she must have
or die. My friend John and I have consulted; and we are about to perform
what we call transfusion of blood--to transfer from full veins of one to
the empty veins which pine for him. John was to give his blood, as he is
the more young and strong than me"--here Arthur took my hand and wrung
it hard in silence--"but, now you are here, you are more good than us,
old or young, who toil much in the world of thought. Our nerves are not
so calm and our blood not so bright than yours!" Arthur turned to him
and said:--
"If you only knew how gladly I would die for her you would
understand----"
He stopped, with a sort of choke in his voice.
"Good boy!" said Van Helsing. "In the not-so-far-off you will be happy
that you have done all for her you love. Come now and be silent. You
shall kiss her once before it is done, but then you must go; and you
must leave at my sign. Say no word to Madame; you know how it is with
her! There must be no shock; any knowledge of this would be one. Come!"
We all went up to Lucy's room. Arthur by direction remained outside.
Lucy turned her head and looked at us, but said nothing. She was not
asleep, but she was simply too weak to make the effort. Her eyes spoke
to us; that was all. Van Helsing took some things from his bag and laid
them on a little table out of sight. Then he mixed a narcotic, and
coming over to the bed, said cheerily:--
"Now, little miss, here is your medicine. Drink it off, like a good
child. See, I lift you so that to swallow is easy. Yes." She had made
the effort with success.
It astonished me how long the drug took to act. This, in fact, marked
the extent of her weakness. The time seemed endless until sleep began to
flicker in her eyelids. At last, however, the narcotic began to manifest
its potency; and she fell into a deep sleep. When the Professor was
satisfied he called Arthur into the room, and bade him strip off his
coat. Then he added: "You may take that one little kiss whiles I bring
over the table. Friend John, help to me!" So neither of us looked whilst
he bent over her.
Van Helsing turning to me, said:
"He is so young and strong and of blood so pure that we need not
defibrinate it."
Then with swiftness, but with absolute method, Van Helsing performed the
operation. As the transfusion went on something like life seemed to come
back to poor Lucy's cheeks, and through Arthur's growing pallor the joy
of his face seemed absolutely to shine. After a bit I began to grow
anxious, for the loss of blood was telling on Arthur, strong man as he
was. It gave me an idea of what a terrible strain Lucy's system must
have undergone that what weakened Arthur only partially restored her.
But the Professor's face was set, and he stood watch in hand and with
his eyes fixed now on the patient and now on Arthur. I could hear my own
heart beat. Presently he said in a soft voice: "Do not stir an instant.
It is enough. You attend him; I will look to her." When all was over I
could see how much Arthur was weakened. I dressed the wound and took his
arm to bring him away, when Van Helsing spoke without turning round--the
man seems to have eyes in the back of his head:--
"The brave lover, I think, deserve another kiss, which he shall have
presently." And as he had now finished his operation, he adjusted the
pillow to the patient's head. As he did so the narrow black velvet band
which she seems always to wear round her throat, buckled with an old
diamond buckle which her lover had given her, was dragged a little up,
and showed a red mark on her throat. Arthur did not notice it, but I
could hear the deep hiss of indrawn breath which is one of Van Helsing's
ways of betraying emotion. He said nothing at the moment, but turned to
me, saying: "Now take down our brave young lover, give him of the port
wine, and let him lie down a while. He must then go home and rest, sleep
much and eat much, that he may be recruited of what he has so given to
his love. He must not stay here. Hold! a moment. I may take it, sir,
that you are anxious of result. Then bring it with you that in all ways
the operation is successful. You have saved her life this time, and you
can go home and rest easy in mind that all that can be is. I shall tell
her all when she is well; she shall love you none the less for what you
have done. Good-bye."
When Arthur had gone I went back to the room. Lucy was sleeping gently,
but her breathing was stronger; I could see the counterpane move as her
breast heaved. By the bedside sat Van Helsing, looking at her intently.
The velvet band again covered the red mark. I asked the Professor in a
whisper:--
"What do you make of that mark on her throat?"
"What do you make of it?"
"I have not examined it yet," I answered, and then and there proceeded
to loose the band. Just over the external jugular vein there were two
punctures, not large, but not wholesome-looking. There was no sign of
disease, but the edges were white and worn-looking, as if by some
trituration. It at once occurred to me that this wound, or whatever it
was, might be the means of that manifest loss of blood; but I abandoned
the idea as soon as formed, for such a thing could not be. The whole bed
would have been drenched to a scarlet with the blood which the girl must
have lost to leave such a pallor as she had before the transfusion.
"Well?" said Van Helsing.
"Well," said I, "I can make nothing of it." The Professor stood up. "I
must go back to Amsterdam to-night," he said. "There are books and
things there which I want. You must remain here all the night, and you
must not let your sight pass from her."
"Shall I have a nurse?" I asked.
"We are the best nurses, you and I. You keep watch all night; see that
she is well fed, and that nothing disturbs her. You must not sleep all
the night. Later on we can sleep, you and I. I shall be back as soon as
possible. And then we may begin."
"May begin?" I said. "What on earth do you mean?"
"We shall see!" he answered, as he hurried out. He came back a moment
later and put his head inside the door and said with warning finger held
up:--
"Remember, she is your charge. If you leave her, and harm befall, you
shall not sleep easy hereafter!"
_Dr. Seward's Diary--continued._
_8 September._--I sat up all night with Lucy. The opiate worked itself
off towards dusk, and she waked naturally; she looked a different being
from what she had been before the operation. Her spirits even were good,
and she was full of a happy vivacity, but I could see evidences of the
absolute prostration which she had undergone. When I told Mrs. Westenra
that Dr. Van Helsing had directed that I should sit up with her she
almost pooh-poohed the idea, pointing out her daughter's renewed
strength and excellent spirits. I was firm, however, and made
preparations for my long vigil. When her maid had prepared her for the
night I came in, having in the meantime had supper, and took a seat by
the bedside. She did not in any way make objection, but looked at me
gratefully whenever I caught her eye. After a long spell she seemed
sinking off to sleep, but with an effort seemed to pull herself together
and shook it off. This was repeated several times, with greater effort
and with shorter pauses as the time moved on. It was apparent that she
did not want to sleep, so I tackled the subject at once:--
"You do not want to go to sleep?"
"No; I am afraid."
"Afraid to go to sleep! Why so? It is the boon we all crave for."
"Ah, not if you were like me--if sleep was to you a presage of horror!"
"A presage of horror! What on earth do you mean?"
"I don't know; oh, I don't know. And that is what is so terrible. All
this weakness comes to me in sleep; until I dread the very thought."
"But, my dear girl, you may sleep to-night. I am here watching you, and
I can promise that nothing will happen."
"Ah, I can trust you!" I seized the opportunity, and said: "I promise
you that if I see any evidence of bad dreams I will wake you at once."
"You will? Oh, will you really? How good you are to me. Then I will
sleep!" And almost at the word she gave a deep sigh of relief, and sank
back, asleep.
All night long I watched by her. She never stirred, but slept on and on
in a deep, tranquil, life-giving, health-giving sleep. Her lips were
slightly parted, and her breast rose and fell with the regularity of a
pendulum. There was a smile on her face, and it was evident that no bad
dreams had come to disturb her peace of mind.
In the early morning her maid came, and I left her in her care and took
myself back home, for I was anxious about many things. I sent a short
wire to Van Helsing and to Arthur, telling them of the excellent result
of the operation. My own work, with its manifold arrears, took me all
day to clear off; it was dark when I was able to inquire about my
zooephagous patient. The report was good; he had been quite quiet for the
past day and night. A telegram came from Van Helsing at Amsterdam whilst
I was at dinner, suggesting that I should be at Hillingham to-night, as
it might be well to be at hand, and stating that he was leaving by the
night mail and would join me early in the morning.
* * * * *
_9 September_.--I was pretty tired and worn out when I got to
Hillingham. For two nights I had hardly had a wink of sleep, and my
brain was beginning to feel that numbness which marks cerebral
exhaustion. Lucy was up and in cheerful spirits. When she shook hands
with me she looked sharply in my face and said:--
"No sitting up to-night for you. You are worn out. I am quite well
again; indeed, I am; and if there is to be any sitting up, it is I who
will sit up with you." I would not argue the point, but went and had my
supper. Lucy came with me, and, enlivened by her charming presence, I
made an excellent meal, and had a couple of glasses of the more than
excellent port. Then Lucy took me upstairs, and showed me a room next
her own, where a cozy fire was burning. "Now," she said, "you must stay
here. I shall leave this door open and my door too. You can lie on the
sofa for I know that nothing would induce any of you doctors to go to
bed whilst there is a patient above the horizon. If I want anything I
shall call out, and you can come to me at once." I could not but
acquiesce, for I was "dog-tired," and could not have sat up had I tried.
So, on her renewing her promise to call me if she should want anything,
I lay on the sofa, and forgot all about everything.
_Lucy Westenra's Diary._
_9 September._--I feel so happy to-night. I have been so miserably weak,
that to be able to think and move about is like feeling sunshine after
a long spell of east wind out of a steel sky. Somehow Arthur feels very,
very close to me. I seem to feel his presence warm about me. I suppose
it is that sickness and weakness are selfish things and turn our inner
eyes and sympathy on ourselves, whilst health and strength give Love
rein, and in thought and feeling he can wander where he wills. I know
where my thoughts are. If Arthur only knew! My dear, my dear, your ears
must tingle as you sleep, as mine do waking. Oh, the blissful rest of
last night! How I slept, with that dear, good Dr. Seward watching me.
And to-night I shall not fear to sleep, since he is close at hand and
within call. Thank everybody for being so good to me! Thank God!
Good-night, Arthur.
_Dr. Seward's Diary._
_10 September._--I was conscious of the Professor's hand on my head, and
started awake all in a second. That is one of the things that we learn
in an asylum, at any rate.
"And how is our patient?"
"Well, when I left her, or rather when she left me," I answered.
"Come, let us see," he said. And together we went into the room.
The blind was down, and I went over to raise it gently, whilst Van
Helsing stepped, with his soft, cat-like tread, over to the bed.
As I raised the blind, and the morning sunlight flooded the room, I
heard the Professor's low hiss of inspiration, and knowing its rarity, a
deadly fear shot through my heart. As I passed over he moved back, and
his exclamation of horror, "Gott in Himmel!" needed no enforcement from
his agonised face. He raised his hand and pointed to the bed, and his
iron face was drawn and ashen white. I felt my knees begin to tremble.
There on the bed, seemingly in a swoon, lay poor Lucy, more horribly
white and wan-looking than ever. Even the lips were white, and the gums
seemed to have shrunken back from the teeth, as we sometimes see in a
corpse after a prolonged illness. Van Helsing raised his foot to stamp
in anger, but the instinct of his life and all the long years of habit
stood to him, and he put it down again softly. "Quick!" he said. "Bring
the brandy." I flew to the dining-room, and returned with the decanter.
He wetted the poor white lips with it, and together we rubbed palm and
wrist and heart. He felt her heart, and after a few moments of agonising
suspense said:--
"It is not too late. It beats, though but feebly. All our work is
undone; we must begin again. There is no young Arthur here now; I have
to call on you yourself this time, friend John." As he spoke, he was
dipping into his bag and producing the instruments for transfusion; I
had taken off my coat and rolled up my shirt-sleeve. There was no
possibility of an opiate just at present, and no need of one; and so,
without a moment's delay, we began the operation. After a time--it did
not seem a short time either, for the draining away of one's blood, no
matter how willingly it be given, is a terrible feeling--Van Helsing
held up a warning finger. "Do not stir," he said, "but I fear that with
growing strength she may wake; and that would make danger, oh, so much
danger. But I shall precaution take. I shall give hypodermic injection
of morphia." He proceeded then, swiftly and deftly, to carry out his
intent. The effect on Lucy was not bad, for the faint seemed to merge
subtly into the narcotic sleep. It was with a feeling of personal pride
that I could see a faint tinge of colour steal back into the pallid
cheeks and lips. No man knows, till he experiences it, what it is to
feel his own life-blood drawn away into the veins of the woman he loves.
The Professor watched me critically. "That will do," he said. "Already?"
I remonstrated. "You took a great deal more from Art." To which he
smiled a sad sort of smile as he replied:--
"He is her lover, her _fiance_. You have work, much work, to do for her
and for others; and the present will suffice."
When we stopped the operation, he attended to Lucy, whilst I applied
digital pressure to my own incision. I laid down, whilst I waited his
leisure to attend to me, for I felt faint and a little sick. By-and-by
he bound up my wound, and sent me downstairs to get a glass of wine for
myself. As I was leaving the room, he came after me, and half
whispered:--
"Mind, nothing must be said of this. If our young lover should turn up
unexpected, as before, no word to him. It would at once frighten him and
enjealous him, too. There must be none. So!"
When I came back he looked at me carefully, and then said:--
"You are not much the worse. Go into the room, and lie on your sofa, and
rest awhile; then have much breakfast, and come here to me."
I followed out his orders, for I knew how right and wise they were. I
had done my part, and now my next duty was to keep up my strength. I
felt very weak, and in the weakness lost something of the amazement at
what had occurred. I fell asleep on the sofa, however, wondering over
and over again how Lucy had made such a retrograde movement, and how
she could have been drained of so much blood with no sign anywhere to
show for it. I think I must have continued my wonder in my dreams, for,
sleeping and waking, my thoughts always came back to the little
punctures in her throat and the ragged, exhausted appearance of their
edges--tiny though they were.
Lucy slept well into the day, and when she woke she was fairly well and
strong, though not nearly so much so as the day before. When Van Helsing
had seen her, he went out for a walk, leaving me in charge, with strict
injunctions that I was not to leave her for a moment. I could hear his
voice in the hall, asking the way to the nearest telegraph office.
Lucy chatted with me freely, and seemed quite unconscious that anything
had happened. I tried to keep her amused and interested. When her mother
came up to see her, she did not seem to notice any change whatever, but
said to me gratefully:--
"We owe you so much, Dr. Seward, for all you have done, but you really
must now take care not to overwork yourself. You are looking pale
yourself. You want a wife to nurse and look after you a bit; that you
do!" As she spoke, Lucy turned crimson, though it was only momentarily,
for her poor wasted veins could not stand for long such an unwonted
drain to the head. The reaction came in excessive pallor as she turned
imploring eyes on me. I smiled and nodded, and laid my finger on my
lips; with a sigh, she sank back amid her pillows.
Van Helsing returned in a couple of hours, and presently said to me:
"Now you go home, and eat much and drink enough. Make yourself strong. I
stay here to-night, and I shall sit up with little miss myself. You and
I must watch the case, and we must have none other to know. I have grave
reasons. No, do not ask them; think what you will. Do not fear to think
even the most not-probable. Good-night."
In the hall two of the maids came to me, and asked if they or either of
them might not sit up with Miss Lucy. They implored me to let them; and
when I said it was Dr. Van Helsing's wish that either he or I should sit
up, they asked me quite piteously to intercede with the "foreign
gentleman." I was much touched by their kindness. Perhaps it is because
I am weak at present, and perhaps because it was on Lucy's account, that
their devotion was manifested; for over and over again have I seen
similar instances of woman's kindness. I got back here in time for a
late dinner; went my rounds--all well; and set this down whilst waiting
for sleep. It is coming.
* * * * *
_11 September._--This afternoon I went over to Hillingham. Found Van
Helsing in excellent spirits, and Lucy much better. Shortly after I had
arrived, a big parcel from abroad came for the Professor. He opened it
with much impressment--assumed, of course--and showed a great bundle of
white flowers.
"These are for you, Miss Lucy," he said.
"For me? Oh, Dr. Van Helsing!"
"Yes, my dear, but not for you to play with. These are medicines." Here
Lucy made a wry face. "Nay, but they are not to take in a decoction or
in nauseous form, so you need not snub that so charming nose, or I shall
point out to my friend Arthur what woes he may have to endure in seeing
so much beauty that he so loves so much distort. Aha, my pretty miss,
that bring the so nice nose all straight again. This is medicinal, but
you do not know how. I put him in your window, I make pretty wreath, and
hang him round your neck, so that you sleep well. Oh yes! they, like the
lotus flower, make your trouble forgotten. It smell so like the waters
of Lethe, and of that fountain of youth that the Conquistadores sought
for in the Floridas, and find him all too late."
Whilst he was speaking, Lucy had been examining the flowers and smelling
them. Now she threw them down, saying, with half-laughter, and
half-disgust:--
"Oh, Professor, I believe you are only putting up a joke on me. Why,
these flowers are only common garlic."
To my surprise, Van Helsing rose up and said with all his sternness, his
iron jaw set and his bushy eyebrows meeting:--
"No trifling with me! I never jest! There is grim purpose in all I do;
and I warn you that you do not thwart me. Take care, for the sake of
others if not for your own." Then seeing poor Lucy scared, as she might
well be, he went on more gently: "Oh, little miss, my dear, do not fear
me. I only do for your good; but there is much virtue to you in those so
common flowers. See, I place them myself in your room. I make myself the
wreath that you are to wear. But hush! no telling to others that make so
inquisitive questions. We must obey, and silence is a part of obedience;
and obedience is to bring you strong and well into loving arms that wait
for you. Now sit still awhile. Come with me, friend John, and you shall
help me deck the room with my garlic, which is all the way from Haarlem,
where my friend Vanderpool raise herb in his glass-houses all the year.
I had to telegraph yesterday, or they would not have been here."
We went into the room, taking the flowers with us. The Professor's
actions were certainly odd and not to be found in any pharmacopoeia
that I ever heard of. First he fastened up the windows and latched them
securely; next, taking a handful of the flowers, he rubbed them all over
the sashes, as though to ensure that every whiff of air that might get
in would be laden with the garlic smell. Then with the wisp he rubbed
all over the jamb of the door, above, below, and at each side, and round
the fireplace in the same way. It all seemed grotesque to me, and
presently I said:--
"Well, Professor, I know you always have a reason for what you do, but
this certainly puzzles me. It is well we have no sceptic here, or he
would say that you were working some spell to keep out an evil spirit."
"Perhaps I am!" he answered quietly as he began to make the wreath which
Lucy was to wear round her neck.
We then waited whilst Lucy made her toilet for the night, and when she
was in bed he came and himself fixed the wreath of garlic round her
neck. The last words he said to her were:--
"Take care you do not disturb it; and even if the room feel close, do
not to-night open the window or the door."
"I promise," said Lucy, "and thank you both a thousand times for all
your kindness to me! Oh, what have I done to be blessed with such
friends?"
As we left the house in my fly, which was waiting, Van Helsing said:--
"To-night I can sleep in peace, and sleep I want--two nights of travel,
much reading in the day between, and much anxiety on the day to follow,
and a night to sit up, without to wink. To-morrow in the morning early
you call for me, and we come together to see our pretty miss, so much
more strong for my 'spell' which I have work. Ho! ho!"
He seemed so confident that I, remembering my own confidence two nights
before and with the baneful result, felt awe and vague terror. It must
have been my weakness that made me hesitate to tell it to my friend, but
I felt it all the more, like unshed tears. | Seward writes to Arthur Holmwood to tell him that Lucy isn't so good. He disguises just how bad she is, though, because he knows that Arthur is with his sick father and can't very well leave him. Van Helsing arrives and examines Lucy again. He has some idea of what's wrong with her, but he won't tell Seward yet. Lucy is very pale and her face seems more bony than usual. Van Helsing says she needs a blood transfusion immediately. Dr. Seward volunteers because he's younger and stronger than Van Helsing . Besides, Dr. Seward is still in love with Lucy, remember? Of course he wants to donate blood to her. But before he can, Arthur Holmwood arrives. As Lucy's fiance, he gets dibs on giving her a blood transfusion. After the transfusion, Lucy is sleeping peacefully and looks a little better. The black ribbon around her neck slips aside, and Van Helsing sees a "red mark" on her throat and seems alarmed by it. But he doesn't explain it to Arthur and Seward. Reassured that Lucy's going to be okay, Arthur leaves to go back to his father, who is on his deathbed. Van Helsing instructs Dr. Seward to stay with Lucy all night and to call him if anything happens. Lucy sleeps well . She wakes up and tells Dr. Seward that she's afraid to go back to sleep because of all the terrible dreams she's been having. He assures her that he'll stay with her all night, and that if he sees that she's having a nightmare he'll wake her up. This makes her feel better, and she goes right to sleep. The next morning, Seward heads back to his office at the asylum to check on his patients. Seward is getting pretty worn out--he didn't sleep at all during the day of September 8 because he was working at the asylum, and he has now sat up with Lucy for two nights in a row. Lucy takes one look at him and tells him to sleep on the couch just outside her room--she'll call him if she needs anything during the night. Lucy writes in her diary that she is feeling a lot better, especially knowing that Dr. Seward is just outside her room in case she needs him. Dr. Seward is woken up by Dr. Van Helsing. He tells Van Helsing that Lucy looked pretty good the night before, and even insisted that he catch up on his sleep there on the couch. They go into her room to check on her, and find her worse than ever. She needs another blood transfusion ASAP. Dr. Seward donates the blood this time, but with the understanding that neither of them will tell Arthur about it--he might get jealous. Lucy sleeps for a long time, and still looks weak, although better than she did before. Dr. Seward goes home to sleep that night, and Van Helsing agrees to stay and watch Lucy during the night. Lucy seems much better, and Van Helsing seems cheerful. Van Helsing puts a bunch of garlic flowers in Lucy's room, and tells her that they are medicinal, so she shouldn't throw them out or move them without his permission. He puts some of them over her window and around her neck. Lucy is skeptical at first, but then accepts them and thanks him. Seward doesn't get it either, but Van Helsing won't explain it to him. |
SCENE II.
Rome. The house of CORIOLANUS
Enter CORIOLANUS with NOBLES
CORIOLANUS. Let them pull all about mine ears, present me
Death on the wheel or at wild horses' heels;
Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock,
That the precipitation might down stretch
Below the beam of sight; yet will I still
Be thus to them.
FIRST PATRICIAN. You do the nobler.
CORIOLANUS. I muse my mother
Does not approve me further, who was wont
To call them woollen vassals, things created
To buy and sell with groats; to show bare heads
In congregations, to yawn, be still, and wonder,
When one but of my ordinance stood up
To speak of peace or war.
Enter VOLUMNIA
I talk of you:
Why did you wish me milder? Would you have me
False to my nature? Rather say I play
The man I am.
VOLUMNIA. O, sir, sir, sir,
I would have had you put your power well on
Before you had worn it out.
CORIOLANUS. Let go.
VOLUMNIA. You might have been enough the man you are
With striving less to be so; lesser had been
The thwartings of your dispositions, if
You had not show'd them how ye were dispos'd,
Ere they lack'd power to cross you.
CORIOLANUS. Let them hang.
VOLUMNIA. Ay, and burn too.
Enter MENENIUS with the SENATORS
MENENIUS. Come, come, you have been too rough, something too
rough;
You must return and mend it.
FIRST SENATOR. There's no remedy,
Unless, by not so doing, our good city
Cleave in the midst and perish.
VOLUMNIA. Pray be counsell'd;
I have a heart as little apt as yours,
But yet a brain that leads my use of anger
To better vantage.
MENENIUS. Well said, noble woman!
Before he should thus stoop to th' herd, but that
The violent fit o' th' time craves it as physic
For the whole state, I would put mine armour on,
Which I can scarcely bear.
CORIOLANUS. What must I do?
MENENIUS. Return to th' tribunes.
CORIOLANUS. Well, what then, what then?
MENENIUS. Repent what you have spoke.
CORIOLANUS. For them! I cannot do it to the gods;
Must I then do't to them?
VOLUMNIA. You are too absolute;
Though therein you can never be too noble
But when extremities speak. I have heard you say
Honour and policy, like unsever'd friends,
I' th' war do grow together; grant that, and tell me
In peace what each of them by th' other lose
That they combine not there.
CORIOLANUS. Tush, tush!
MENENIUS. A good demand.
VOLUMNIA. If it be honour in your wars to seem
The same you are not, which for your best ends
You adopt your policy, how is it less or worse
That it shall hold companionship in peace
With honour as in war; since that to both
It stands in like request?
CORIOLANUS. Why force you this?
VOLUMNIA. Because that now it lies you on to speak
To th' people, not by your own instruction,
Nor by th' matter which your heart prompts you,
But with such words that are but roted in
Your tongue, though but bastards and syllables
Of no allowance to your bosom's truth.
Now, this no more dishonours you at all
Than to take in a town with gentle words,
Which else would put you to your fortune and
The hazard of much blood.
I would dissemble with my nature where
My fortunes and my friends at stake requir'd
I should do so in honour. I am in this
Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles;
And you will rather show our general louts
How you can frown, than spend a fawn upon 'em
For the inheritance of their loves and safeguard
Of what that want might ruin.
MENENIUS. Noble lady!
Come, go with us, speak fair; you may salve so,
Not what is dangerous present, but the loss
Of what is past.
VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, my son,
Go to them with this bonnet in thy hand;
And thus far having stretch'd it- here be with them-
Thy knee bussing the stones- for in such busines
Action is eloquence, and the eyes of th' ignorant
More learned than the ears- waving thy head,
Which often thus correcting thy stout heart,
Now humble as the ripest mulberry
That will not hold the handling. Or say to them
Thou art their soldier and, being bred in broils,
Hast not the soft way which, thou dost confess,
Were fit for thee to use, as they to claim,
In asking their good loves; but thou wilt frame
Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far
As thou hast power and person.
MENENIUS. This but done
Even as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours;
For they have pardons, being ask'd, as free
As words to little purpose.
VOLUMNIA. Prithee now,
Go, and be rul'd; although I know thou hadst rather
Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf
Than flatter him in a bower.
Enter COMINIUS
Here is Cominius.
COMINIUS. I have been i' th' market-place; and, sir, 'tis fit
You make strong party, or defend yourself
By calmness or by absence; all's in anger.
MENENIUS. Only fair speech.
COMINIUS. I think 'twill serve, if he
Can thereto frame his spirit.
VOLUMNIA. He must and will.
Prithee now, say you will, and go about it.
CORIOLANUS. Must I go show them my unbarb'd sconce? Must I
With my base tongue give to my noble heart
A lie that it must bear? Well, I will do't;
Yet, were there but this single plot to lose,
This mould of Marcius, they to dust should grind it,
And throw't against the wind. To th' market-place!
You have put me now to such a part which never
I shall discharge to th' life.
COMINIUS. Come, come, we'll prompt you.
VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, sweet son, as thou hast said
My praises made thee first a soldier, so,
To have my praise for this, perform a part
Thou hast not done before.
CORIOLANUS. Well, I must do't.
Away, my disposition, and possess me
Some harlot's spirit! My throat of war be turn'd,
Which quier'd with my drum, into a pipe
Small as an eunuch or the virgin voice
That babies lulls asleep! The smiles of knaves
Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboys' tears take up
The glasses of my sight! A beggar's tongue
Make motion through my lips, and my arm'd knees,
Who bow'd but in my stirrup, bend like his
That hath receiv'd an alms! I will not do't,
Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth,
And by my body's action teach my mind
A most inherent baseness.
VOLUMNIA. At thy choice, then.
To beg of thee, it is my more dishonour
Than thou of them. Come all to ruin. Let
Thy mother rather feel thy pride than fear
Thy dangerous stoutness; for I mock at death
With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list.
Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck'dst it from me;
But owe thy pride thyself.
CORIOLANUS. Pray be content.
Mother, I am going to the market-place;
Chide me no more. I'll mountebank their loves,
Cog their hearts from them, and come home belov'd
Of all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going.
Commend me to my wife. I'll return consul,
Or never trust to what my tongue can do
I' th' way of flattery further.
VOLUMNIA. Do your will. Exit
COMINIUS. Away! The tribunes do attend you. Arm yourself
To answer mildly; for they are prepar'd
With accusations, as I hear, more strong
Than are upon you yet.
CORIOLANUS. The word is 'mildly.' Pray you let us go.
Let them accuse me by invention; I
Will answer in mine honour.
MENENIUS. Ay, but mildly.
CORIOLANUS. Well, mildly be it then- mildly. Exeunt | Coriolanus is at home with a few patricians and swears that he will not change his mind, even under threat of the worst possible method of death. Coriolanus voices his fear that although his mother also hates the commoners, she will not approve of his decision. As Volumnia enters, Coriolanus asks her why had she has wished him to be milder in his dealings with the plebeians and, thereby, be false to his true self. Volumnia answers that she has only wanted him to be patient until he is elected consul. Menenius enters with some Senators and protests that Coriolanus has been too rough and must return to the marketplace and make amends for his rash outburst of anger. The first Senator underlines the gravity of the situation by saying that unless he does so, Rome may be threatened by a civil war. Volumnia claims that although she has a heart of mettle, as easily aroused as that of Coriolanus, she also has a brain, which guides her to use her anger advantageously. Menenius backs Volumnia and advises Coriolanus to disguise his true feelings by putting on an armor of indifference. After much pleading with Coriolanus to be more diplomatic, Coriolanus says that he cannot do so, and Volumnia reproaches him by saying, you are too absolute. She adds that if he lies to the tribunes in order to achieve his ends, it will not be dishonorable, for his fortune and fame are at stake. She paints a vivid picture of how he should act in front of the commoners. With his cap in his outstretched hand, Volumnia says Coriolanus should kneel before the commoners and shake his head in repentance. Menenius compliments for her wise words of counsel. Cominius enters with the news that the commoners are seething with anger in the marketplace and warns that Coriolanus must be ready to defend himself or soothe them. Volumnia insists that Coriolanus must and will placate the people. When he finally relents, Coriolanus hates himself for stooping so low. Volumnia, Menenius, and Cominius send him off with reminders that mildly should be the keynote of his apology. |
Thus, like the sad presaging raven, that tolls
The sick man's passport in her hollow beak,
And in the shadow of the silent night
Doth shake contagion from her sable wings;
Vex'd and tormented, runs poor Barrabas,
With fatal curses towards these Christians.
--Jew of Malta
The Disinherited Knight had no sooner reached his pavilion, than squires
and pages in abundance tendered their services to disarm him, to bring
fresh attire, and to offer him the refreshment of the bath. Their zeal
on this occasion was perhaps sharpened by curiosity, since every one
desired to know who the knight was that had gained so many laurels, yet
had refused, even at the command of Prince John, to lift his visor or
to name his name. But their officious inquisitiveness was not gratified.
The Disinherited Knight refused all other assistance save that of his
own squire, or rather yeoman--a clownish-looking man, who, wrapt in a
cloak of dark-coloured felt, and having his head and face half-buried
in a Norman bonnet made of black fur, seemed to affect the incognito
as much as his master. All others being excluded from the tent, this
attendant relieved his master from the more burdensome parts of his
armour, and placed food and wine before him, which the exertions of the
day rendered very acceptable.
The Knight had scarcely finished a hasty meal, ere his menial announced
to him that five men, each leading a barbed steed, desired to speak with
him. The Disinherited Knight had exchanged his armour for the long robe
usually worn by those of his condition, which, being furnished with a
hood, concealed the features, when such was the pleasure of the
wearer, almost as completely as the visor of the helmet itself, but the
twilight, which was now fast darkening, would of itself have rendered
a disguise unnecessary, unless to persons to whom the face of an
individual chanced to be particularly well known.
The Disinherited Knight, therefore, stept boldly forth to the front of
his tent, and found in attendance the squires of the challengers, whom
he easily knew by their russet and black dresses, each of whom led
his master's charger, loaded with the armour in which he had that day
fought.
"According to the laws of chivalry," said the foremost of these men, "I,
Baldwin de Oyley, squire to the redoubted Knight Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
make offer to you, styling yourself, for the present, the Disinherited
Knight, of the horse and armour used by the said Brian de Bois-Guilbert
in this day's Passage of Arms, leaving it with your nobleness to retain
or to ransom the same, according to your pleasure; for such is the law
of arms."
The other squires repeated nearly the same formula, and then stood to
await the decision of the Disinherited Knight.
"To you four, sirs," replied the Knight, addressing those who had last
spoken, "and to your honourable and valiant masters, I have one common
reply. Commend me to the noble knights, your masters, and say, I should
do ill to deprive them of steeds and arms which can never be used by
braver cavaliers.--I would I could here end my message to these
gallant knights; but being, as I term myself, in truth and earnest, the
Disinherited, I must be thus far bound to your masters, that they will,
of their courtesy, be pleased to ransom their steeds and armour, since
that which I wear I can hardly term mine own."
"We stand commissioned, each of us," answered the squire of Reginald
Front-de-Boeuf, "to offer a hundred zecchins in ransom of these horses
and suits of armour."
"It is sufficient," said the Disinherited Knight. "Half the sum
my present necessities compel me to accept; of the remaining half,
distribute one moiety among yourselves, sir squires, and divide the
other half betwixt the heralds and the pursuivants, and minstrels, and
attendants."
The squires, with cap in hand, and low reverences, expressed their deep
sense of a courtesy and generosity not often practised, at least upon a
scale so extensive. The Disinherited Knight then addressed his discourse
to Baldwin, the squire of Brian de Bois-Guilbert. "From your master,"
said he, "I will accept neither arms nor ransom. Say to him in my name,
that our strife is not ended--no, not till we have fought as well with
swords as with lances--as well on foot as on horseback. To this
mortal quarrel he has himself defied me, and I shall not forget the
challenge.--Meantime, let him be assured, that I hold him not as one of
his companions, with whom I can with pleasure exchange courtesies; but
rather as one with whom I stand upon terms of mortal defiance."
"My master," answered Baldwin, "knows how to requite scorn with scorn,
and blows with blows, as well as courtesy with courtesy. Since you
disdain to accept from him any share of the ransom at which you have
rated the arms of the other knights, I must leave his armour and his
horse here, being well assured that he will never deign to mount the one
nor wear the other."
"You have spoken well, good squire," said the Disinherited Knight,
"well and boldly, as it beseemeth him to speak who answers for an absent
master. Leave not, however, the horse and armour here. Restore them to
thy master; or, if he scorns to accept them, retain them, good friend,
for thine own use. So far as they are mine, I bestow them upon you
freely."
Baldwin made a deep obeisance, and retired with his companions; and the
Disinherited Knight entered the pavilion.
"Thus far, Gurth," said he, addressing his attendant, "the reputation of
English chivalry hath not suffered in my hands."
"And I," said Gurth, "for a Saxon swineherd, have not ill played the
personage of a Norman squire-at-arms."
"Yea, but," answered the Disinherited Knight, "thou hast ever kept me in
anxiety lest thy clownish bearing should discover thee."
"Tush!" said Gurth, "I fear discovery from none, saving my playfellow,
Wamba the Jester, of whom I could never discover whether he were most
knave or fool. Yet I could scarce choose but laugh, when my old master
passed so near to me, dreaming all the while that Gurth was keeping his
porkers many a mile off, in the thickets and swamps of Rotherwood. If I
am discovered---"
"Enough," said the Disinherited Knight, "thou knowest my promise."
"Nay, for that matter," said Gurth, "I will never fail my friend for
fear of my skin-cutting. I have a tough hide, that will bear knife or
scourge as well as any boar's hide in my herd."
"Trust me, I will requite the risk you run for my love, Gurth," said the
Knight. "Meanwhile, I pray you to accept these ten pieces of gold."
"I am richer," said Gurth, putting them into his pouch, "than ever was
swineherd or bondsman."
"Take this bag of gold to Ashby," continued his master, "and find out
Isaac the Jew of York, and let him pay himself for the horse and arms
with which his credit supplied me."
"Nay, by St Dunstan," replied Gurth, "that I will not do."
"How, knave," replied his master, "wilt thou not obey my commands?"
"So they be honest, reasonable, and Christian commands," replied Gurth;
"but this is none of these. To suffer the Jew to pay himself would be
dishonest, for it would be cheating my master; and unreasonable, for it
were the part of a fool; and unchristian, since it would be plundering a
believer to enrich an infidel."
"See him contented, however, thou stubborn varlet," said the
Disinherited Knight.
"I will do so," said Gurth, taking the bag under his cloak, and leaving
the apartment; "and it will go hard," he muttered, "but I content him
with one-half of his own asking." So saying, he departed, and left the
Disinherited Knight to his own perplexed ruminations; which, upon more
accounts than it is now possible to communicate to the reader, were of a
nature peculiarly agitating and painful.
We must now change the scene to the village of Ashby, or rather to a
country house in its vicinity belonging to a wealthy Israelite, with
whom Isaac, his daughter, and retinue, had taken up their quarters; the
Jews, it is well known, being as liberal in exercising the duties of
hospitality and charity among their own people, as they were alleged to
be reluctant and churlish in extending them to those whom they
termed Gentiles, and whose treatment of them certainly merited little
hospitality at their hand.
In an apartment, small indeed, but richly furnished with decorations of
an Oriental taste, Rebecca was seated on a heap of embroidered cushions,
which, piled along a low platform that surrounded the chamber, served,
like the estrada of the Spaniards, instead of chairs and stools. She
was watching the motions of her father with a look of anxious and
filial affection, while he paced the apartment with a dejected mien
and disordered step; sometimes clasping his hands together--sometimes
casting his eyes to the roof of the apartment, as one who laboured under
great mental tribulation. "O, Jacob!" he exclaimed--"O, all ye twelve
Holy Fathers of our tribe! what a losing venture is this for one who
hath duly kept every jot and tittle of the law of Moses--Fifty zecchins
wrenched from me at one clutch, and by the talons of a tyrant!"
"But, father," said Rebecca, "you seemed to give the gold to Prince John
willingly."
"Willingly? the blotch of Egypt upon him!--Willingly, saidst thou?--Ay,
as willingly as when, in the Gulf of Lyons, I flung over my merchandise
to lighten the ship, while she laboured in the tempest--robed the
seething billows in my choice silks--perfumed their briny foam with
myrrh and aloes--enriched their caverns with gold and silver work! And
was not that an hour of unutterable misery, though my own hands made the
sacrifice?"
"But it was a sacrifice which Heaven exacted to save our lives,"
answered Rebecca, "and the God of our fathers has since blessed your
store and your gettings."
"Ay," answered Isaac, "but if the tyrant lays hold on them as he did
to-day, and compels me to smile while he is robbing me?--O, daughter,
disinherited and wandering as we are, the worst evil which befalls our
race is, that when we are wronged and plundered, all the world laughs
around, and we are compelled to suppress our sense of injury, and to
smile tamely, when we would revenge bravely."
"Think not thus of it, my father," said Rebecca; "we also have
advantages. These Gentiles, cruel and oppressive as they are, are in
some sort dependent on the dispersed children of Zion, whom they despise
and persecute. Without the aid of our wealth, they could neither furnish
forth their hosts in war, nor their triumphs in peace, and the gold
which we lend them returns with increase to our coffers. We are like the
herb which flourisheth most when it is most trampled on. Even this day's
pageant had not proceeded without the consent of the despised Jew, who
furnished the means."
"Daughter," said Isaac, "thou hast harped upon another string of sorrow.
The goodly steed and the rich armour, equal to the full profit of my
adventure with our Kirjath Jairam of Leicester--there is a dead loss
too--ay, a loss which swallows up the gains of a week; ay, of the space
between two Sabbaths--and yet it may end better than I now think, for
'tis a good youth."
"Assuredly," said Rebecca, "you shall not repent you of requiting the
good deed received of the stranger knight."
"I trust so, daughter," said Isaac, "and I trust too in the rebuilding
of Zion; but as well do I hope with my own bodily eyes to see the walls
and battlements of the new Temple, as to see a Christian, yea, the very
best of Christians, repay a debt to a Jew, unless under the awe of the
judge and jailor."
So saying, he resumed his discontented walk through the apartment; and
Rebecca, perceiving that her attempts at consolation only served to
awaken new subjects of complaint, wisely desisted from her unavailing
efforts--a prudential line of conduct, and we recommend to all who set
up for comforters and advisers, to follow it in the like circumstances.
The evening was now becoming dark, when a Jewish servant entered the
apartment, and placed upon the table two silver lamps, fed with perfumed
oil; the richest wines, and the most delicate refreshments, were at the
same time displayed by another Israelitish domestic on a small ebony
table, inlaid with silver; for, in the interior of their houses, the
Jews refused themselves no expensive indulgences. At the same time the
servant informed Isaac, that a Nazarene (so they termed Christians,
while conversing among themselves) desired to speak with him. He that
would live by traffic, must hold himself at the disposal of every one
claiming business with him. Isaac at once replaced on the table the
untasted glass of Greek wine which he had just raised to his lips, and
saying hastily to his daughter, "Rebecca, veil thyself," commanded the
stranger to be admitted.
Just as Rebecca had dropped over her fine features a screen of silver
gauze which reached to her feet, the door opened, and Gurth entered,
wrapt in the ample folds of his Norman mantle. His appearance was rather
suspicious than prepossessing, especially as, instead of doffing his
bonnet, he pulled it still deeper over his rugged brow.
"Art thou Isaac the Jew of York?" said Gurth, in Saxon.
"I am," replied Isaac, in the same language, (for his traffic had
rendered every tongue spoken in Britain familiar to him)--"and who art
thou?"
"That is not to the purpose," answered Gurth.
"As much as my name is to thee," replied Isaac; "for without knowing
thine, how can I hold intercourse with thee?"
"Easily," answered Gurth; "I, being to pay money, must know that I
deliver it to the right person; thou, who are to receive it, will not, I
think, care very greatly by whose hands it is delivered."
"O," said the Jew, "you are come to pay moneys?--Holy Father Abraham!
that altereth our relation to each other. And from whom dost thou bring
it?"
"From the Disinherited Knight," said Gurth, "victor in this day's
tournament. It is the price of the armour supplied to him by Kirjath
Jairam of Leicester, on thy recommendation. The steed is restored to thy
stable. I desire to know the amount of the sum which I am to pay for the
armour."
"I said he was a good youth!" exclaimed Isaac with joyful exultation. "A
cup of wine will do thee no harm," he added, filling and handing to the
swineherd a richer drought than Gurth had ever before tasted. "And how
much money," continued Isaac, "has thou brought with thee?"
"Holy Virgin!" said Gurth, setting down the cup, "what nectar these
unbelieving dogs drink, while true Christians are fain to quaff ale as
muddy and thick as the draff we give to hogs!--What money have I
brought with me?" continued the Saxon, when he had finished this uncivil
ejaculation, "even but a small sum; something in hand the whilst. What,
Isaac! thou must bear a conscience, though it be a Jewish one."
"Nay, but," said Isaac, "thy master has won goodly steeds and rich
armours with the strength of his lance, and of his right hand--but 'tis
a good youth--the Jew will take these in present payment, and render him
back the surplus."
"My master has disposed of them already," said Gurth.
"Ah! that was wrong," said the Jew, "that was the part of a fool. No
Christians here could buy so many horses and armour--no Jew except
myself would give him half the values. But thou hast a hundred zecchins
with thee in that bag," said Isaac, prying under Gurth's cloak, "it is a
heavy one."
"I have heads for cross-bow bolts in it," said Gurth, readily.
"Well, then"--said Isaac, panting and hesitating between habitual love
of gain and a new-born desire to be liberal in the present instance, "if
I should say that I would take eighty zecchins for the good steed and
the rich armour, which leaves me not a guilder's profit, have you money
to pay me?"
"Barely," said Gurth, though the sum demanded was more reasonable than
he expected, "and it will leave my master nigh penniless. Nevertheless,
if such be your least offer, I must be content."
"Fill thyself another goblet of wine," said the Jew. "Ah! eighty
zecchins is too little. It leaveth no profit for the usages of the
moneys; and, besides, the good horse may have suffered wrong in this
day's encounter. O, it was a hard and a dangerous meeting! man and steed
rushing on each other like wild bulls of Bashan! The horse cannot but
have had wrong."
"And I say," replied Gurth, "he is sound, wind and limb; and you may
see him now, in your stable. And I say, over and above, that seventy
zecchins is enough for the armour, and I hope a Christian's word is as
good as a Jew's. If you will not take seventy, I will carry this bag"
(and he shook it till the contents jingled) "back to my master."
"Nay, nay!" said Isaac; "lay down the talents--the shekels--the eighty
zecchins, and thou shalt see I will consider thee liberally."
Gurth at length complied; and telling out eighty zecchins upon the
table, the Jew delivered out to him an acquittance for the horse and
suit of armour. The Jew's hand trembled for joy as he wrapped up the
first seventy pieces of gold. The last ten he told over with much
deliberation, pausing, and saying something as he took each piece from
the table, and dropt it into his purse. It seemed as if his avarice were
struggling with his better nature, and compelling him to pouch zecchin
after zecchin while his generosity urged him to restore some part at
least to his benefactor, or as a donation to his agent. His whole speech
ran nearly thus:
"Seventy-one--seventy-two; thy master is a good youth--seventy-three,
an excellent youth--seventy-four--that piece hath been clipt
within the ring--seventy-five--and that looketh light of
weight--seventy-six--when thy master wants money, let him come to Isaac
of York--seventy-seven--that is, with reasonable security." Here he made
a considerable pause, and Gurth had good hope that the last three pieces
might escape the fate of their comrades; but the enumeration
proceeded.--"Seventy-eight--thou art a good fellow--seventy-nine--and
deservest something for thyself---"
Here the Jew paused again, and looked at the last zecchin, intending,
doubtless, to bestow it upon Gurth. He weighed it upon the tip of his
finger, and made it ring by dropping it upon the table. Had it rung too
flat, or had it felt a hair's breadth too light, generosity had carried
the day; but, unhappily for Gurth, the chime was full and true, the
zecchin plump, newly coined, and a grain above weight. Isaac could not
find in his heart to part with it, so dropt it into his purse as if in
absence of mind, with the words, "Eighty completes the tale, and I trust
thy master will reward thee handsomely.--Surely," he added, looking
earnestly at the bag, "thou hast more coins in that pouch?"
Gurth grinned, which was his nearest approach to a laugh, as he replied,
"About the same quantity which thou hast just told over so carefully."
He then folded the quittance, and put it under his cap, adding,--"Peril
of thy beard, Jew, see that this be full and ample!" He filled himself
unbidden, a third goblet of wine, and left the apartment without
ceremony.
"Rebecca," said the Jew, "that Ishmaelite hath gone somewhat beyond me.
Nevertheless his master is a good youth--ay, and I am well pleased that
he hath gained shekels of gold and shekels of silver, even by the speed
of his horse and by the strength of his lance, which, like that of
Goliath the Philistine, might vie with a weaver's beam."
As he turned to receive Rebecca's answer, he observed, that during his
chattering with Gurth, she had left the apartment unperceived.
In the meanwhile, Gurth had descended the stair, and, having reached the
dark antechamber or hall, was puzzling about to discover the entrance,
when a figure in white, shown by a small silver lamp which she held in
her hand, beckoned him into a side apartment. Gurth had some reluctance
to obey the summons. Rough and impetuous as a wild boar, where only
earthly force was to be apprehended, he had all the characteristic
terrors of a Saxon respecting fawns, forest-fiends, white women, and
the whole of the superstitions which his ancestors had brought with them
from the wilds of Germany. He remembered, moreover, that he was in the
house of a Jew, a people who, besides the other unamiable qualities
which popular report ascribed to them, were supposed to be profound
necromancers and cabalists. Nevertheless, after a moment's pause, he
obeyed the beckoning summons of the apparition, and followed her into
the apartment which she indicated, where he found to his joyful surprise
that his fair guide was the beautiful Jewess whom he had seen at the
tournament, and a short time in her father's apartment.
She asked him the particulars of his transaction with Isaac, which he
detailed accurately.
"My father did but jest with thee, good fellow," said Rebecca; "he owes
thy master deeper kindness than these arms and steed could pay, were
their value tenfold. What sum didst thou pay my father even now?"
"Eighty zecchins," said Gurth, surprised at the question.
"In this purse," said Rebecca, "thou wilt find a hundred. Restore to
thy master that which is his due, and enrich thyself with the remainder.
Haste--begone--stay not to render thanks! and beware how you pass
through this crowded town, where thou mayst easily lose both thy burden
and thy life.--Reuben," she added, clapping her hands together, "light
forth this stranger, and fail not to draw lock and bar behind him."
Reuben, a dark-brow'd and black-bearded Israelite, obeyed her summons,
with a torch in his hand; undid the outward door of the house, and
conducting Gurth across a paved court, let him out through a wicket in
the entrance-gate, which he closed behind him with such bolts and chains
as would well have become that of a prison.
"By St Dunstan," said Gurth, as he stumbled up the dark avenue, "this
is no Jewess, but an angel from heaven! Ten zecchins from my brave young
master--twenty from this pearl of Zion--Oh, happy day!--Such another,
Gurth, will redeem thy bondage, and make thee a brother as free of thy
guild as the best. And then do I lay down my swineherd's horn and staff,
and take the freeman's sword and buckler, and follow my young master to
the death, without hiding either my face or my name." | The epigraph for Chapter 10 is from the beginning of Act 2 of Christopher Marlowe's 1594 play, <em>The Jew of Malta</em>. The title character, a Jewish merchant named Barabas, has been forced by the Governor of Malta to give up his property. Barabas swears to destroy these Christian thieves. The Disinherited Knight has only one servant, a man who also seems to be in disguise. As soon as the Disinherited Knight finishes his meal, his servant announces the arrival of five men with armored horses at his tent. These are the squires of the five Norman knights he defeated that day. According to the rules of honor, each person who lost to the Disinherited Knight at the tournament owes the Knight the armor and horse that he used in the fight. The Disinherited Knight can either choose to keep these trophies or sell them back to his opponents. Each squire has 100 coins to offer in ransom for his master's armor and horse. The Disinherited Knight accepts the 100 coins ransom from the squires of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, Philip de Malvoisin, Hugh de Grantmesnil, and Ralph de Vipont. These four knights get to keep their honor and their armor. But for Brian de Bois-Guilbert, the Disinherited Knight refuses to accept either ransom or armor. The Disinherited Knight tells Bois-Guilbert's squire that their fight is not over yet, not until they have fought it out with swords in mortal combat. The squires leave and the Disinherited Knight turns to his servant. It's Gurth, the pig-herder! Gurth is trying his best to imitate a Norman squire-at-arms, hence the disguise. The Disinherited Knight sends Gurth with the money to repay Isaac of York for the loan of his armor and horse. Meanwhile, in a Jewish home not far from Ashby and the tournament, Isaac and Rebecca are talking. Isaac is furious because he's had to loan fifty zecchins to Prince John. Rebecca tries to soothe his temper, but he's still angry. Isaac is also pretty sure that the Disinherited Knight is not going to repay his debt, since Isaac is a Jew. Gurth appears after dark on his errand from the Disinherited Knight. Isaac is thrilled, and he and Gurth start negotiating about how much the Disinherited Knight owes. Gurth pays up Isaac's asking price, which turns out to be half of the amount the Disinherited Knight originally gave to Gurth. Isaac is very pleased with the Disinherited Knight for his honesty. Rebecca slips out of the room during Gurth and Isaac's conversation, but she catches up with Gurth as he leaves. Rebecca hands Gurth a bag of coins to take to his master. She wants to pay for his horse and armor out of her own pocket. |
Clerval then put the following letter into my hands.
"_To_ V. FRANKENSTEIN.
"MY DEAR COUSIN,
"I cannot describe to you the uneasiness we have all felt concerning
your health. We cannot help imagining that your friend Clerval conceals
the extent of your disorder: for it is now several months since we have
seen your hand-writing; and all this time you have been obliged to
dictate your letters to Henry. Surely, Victor, you must have been
exceedingly ill; and this makes us all very wretched, as much so nearly
as after the death of your dear mother. My uncle was almost persuaded
that you were indeed dangerously ill, and could hardly be restrained
from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. Clerval always writes that you
are getting better; I eagerly hope that you will confirm this
intelligence soon in your own hand-writing; for indeed, indeed, Victor,
we are all very miserable on this account. Relieve us from this fear,
and we shall be the happiest creatures in the world. Your father's
health is now so vigorous, that he appears ten years younger since last
winter. Ernest also is so much improved, that you would hardly know him:
he is now nearly sixteen, and has lost that sickly appearance which he
had some years ago; he is grown quite robust and active.
"My uncle and I conversed a long time last night about what profession
Ernest should follow. His constant illness when young has deprived him
of the habits of application; and now that he enjoys good health, he is
continually in the open air, climbing the hills, or rowing on the lake.
I therefore proposed that he should be a farmer; which you know, Cousin,
is a favourite scheme of mine. A farmer's is a very healthy happy life;
and the least hurtful, or rather the most beneficial profession of any.
My uncle had an idea of his being educated as an advocate, that through
his interest he might become a judge. But, besides that he is not at all
fitted for such an occupation, it is certainly more creditable to
cultivate the earth for the sustenance of man, than to be the confidant,
and sometimes the accomplice, of his vices; which is the profession of a
lawyer. I said, that the employments of a prosperous farmer, if they
were not a more honourable, they were at least a happier species of
occupation than that of a judge, whose misfortune it was always to
meddle with the dark side of human nature. My uncle smiled, and said,
that I ought to be an advocate myself, which put an end to the
conversation on that subject.
"And now I must tell you a little story that will please, and perhaps
amuse you. Do you not remember Justine Moritz? Probably you do not; I
will relate her history, therefore, in a few words. Madame Moritz, her
mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the third.
This girl had always been the favourite of her father; but, through a
strange perversity, her mother could not endure her, and, after the
death of M. Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed this; and,
when Justine was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow
her to live at her house. The republican institutions of our country
have produced simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in
the great monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction
between the several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders
being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined
and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant
in France and England. Justine, thus received in our family, learned the
duties of a servant; a condition which, in our fortunate country, does
not include the idea of ignorance, and a sacrifice of the dignity of a
human being.
"After what I have said, I dare say you well remember the heroine of my
little tale: for Justine was a great favourite of your's; and I
recollect you once remarked, that if you were in an ill humour, one
glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that Ariosto
gives concerning the beauty of Angelica--she looked so frank-hearted and
happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment for her, by which she was
induced to give her an education superior to that which she had at
first intended. This benefit was fully repaid; Justine was the most
grateful little creature in the world: I do not mean that she made any
professions, I never heard one pass her lips; but you could see by her
eyes that she almost adored her protectress. Although her disposition
was gay, and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest
attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model of all
excellence, and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology and manners, so
that even now she often reminds me of her.
"When my dearest aunt died, every one was too much occupied in their own
grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness
with the most anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other
trials were reserved for her.
"One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the
exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The conscience
of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her
favourites was a judgment from heaven to chastise her partiality. She
was a Roman Catholic; and I believe her confessor confirmed the idea
which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after your departure
for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant mother. Poor
girl! she wept when she quitted our house: she was much altered since
the death of my aunt; grief had given softness and a winning mildness to
her manners, which had before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her
residence at her mother's house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The
poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance. She sometimes begged
Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much oftener accused her of
having caused the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting
at length threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased
her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died on the
first approach of cold weather, at the beginning of this last winter.
Justine has returned to us; and I assure you I love her tenderly. She is
very clever and gentle, and extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her
mien and her expressions continually remind me of my dear aunt.
"I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling
William. I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with
sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eye-lashes, and curling hair. When he
smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with
health. He has already had one or two little _wives_, but Louisa Biron
is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age.
"Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip
concerning the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has
already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching marriage
with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon,
married M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite
schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes since the
departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already recovered his
spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a very lively
pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much older
than Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with every
body.
"I have written myself into good spirits, dear cousin; yet I cannot
conclude without again anxiously inquiring concerning your health. Dear
Victor, if you are not very ill, write yourself, and make your father
and all of us happy; or----I cannot bear to think of the other side of
the question; my tears already flow. Adieu, my dearest cousin."
"ELIZABETH LAVENZA.
"Geneva, March 18th, 17--."
* * * * *
"Dear, dear Elizabeth!" I exclaimed when I had read her letter, "I will
write instantly, and relieve them from the anxiety they must feel." I
wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but my convalescence had
commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another fortnight I was able to
leave my chamber.
One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the
several professors of the university. In doing this, I underwent a kind
of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had sustained.
Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the beginning of
my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of
natural philosophy. When I was otherwise quite restored to health, the
sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony of my nervous
symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed all my apparatus from my view.
He had also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had acquired a
dislike for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these
cares of Clerval were made of no avail when I visited the professors. M.
Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the
astonishing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that
I disliked the subject; but, not guessing the real cause, he attributed
my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement to
the science itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me
out. What could I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as
if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments
which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel
death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt.
Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the
sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his
total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn. I
thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that
he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me; and
although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew
no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide to him that
event which was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared
the detail to another would only impress more deeply.
M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of
almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me
even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. "D--n the
fellow!" cried he; "why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us
all. Aye, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster
who, but a few years ago, believed Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as the
gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university; and if he is
not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance.--Aye, aye,"
continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering, "M.
Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man. Young men
should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval; I was myself
when young: but that wears out in a very short time."
M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned
the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.
Clerval was no natural philosopher. His imagination was too vivid for
the minutiae of science. Languages were his principal study; and he
sought, by acquiring their elements, to open a field for
self-instruction on his return to Geneva. Persian, Arabic, and Hebrew,
gained his attention, after he had made himself perfectly master of
Greek and Latin. For my own part, idleness had ever been irksome to me;
and now that I wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former
studies, I felt great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend,
and found not only instruction but consolation in the works of the
orientalists. Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating to a
degree I never experienced in studying the authors of any other country.
When you read their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and
garden of roses,--in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire
that consumes your own heart. How different from the manly and heroical
poetry of Greece and Rome.
Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was
fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several
accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable,
and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay
very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town, and my beloved
friends. My return had only been delayed so long from an unwillingness
to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become acquainted
with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully;
and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came, its beauty
compensated for its dilatoriness.
The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily
which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a
pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt that I might bid a
personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited. I acceded
with pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval
had always been my favourite companion in the rambles of this nature
that I had taken among the scenes of my native country.
We passed a fortnight in these perambulations: my health and spirits had
long been restored, and they gained additional strength from the
salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and
the conversation of my friend. Study had before secluded me from the
intercourse of my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but
Clerval called forth the better feelings of my heart; he again taught me
to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children.
Excellent friend! how sincerely did you love me, and endeavour to
elevate my mind, until it was on a level with your own. A selfish
pursuit had cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness and affection
warmed and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature who, a few
years ago, loving and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When happy,
inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most delightful
sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with ecstacy. The
present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring bloomed in the
hedges, while those of summer were already in bud: I was undisturbed by
thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed upon me,
notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an invincible
burden.
Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathized in my feelings:
he exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that
filled his soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly
astonishing: his conversation was full of imagination; and very often,
in imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of
wonderful fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my favourite
poems, or drew me out into arguments, which he supported with great
ingenuity.
We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were
dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits
were high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and
hilarity. | Elizabeth's letter expresses concern for Victor's well-being, and gratitude to Henry for his care. She relates local gossip and recent family events. The family's most trusted servant, Justine Moritz, has returned to the family after being forced to care for her estranged mother until the latter's death. Victor's younger brother, Ernest, is now sixteen years old and aspires to join the Foreign Service; his other brother, William, has turned five and is doing marvelously well. Elizabeth implores Victor to write, and to visit, as both she and his father miss him terribly. Frankenstein is seized by an attack of conscience and resolves to write to them immediately. Within a fortnight , Victor is able to leave his chamber. Henry, after observing his friend's distaste for his former laboratory, has procured a new apartment for him and removed all of his scientific instruments. Introducing Clerval to Ingolstadt's professors is pure torture, in that they unfailingly exclaim over Victor's scientific prowess. Victor, for his part, cannot bear the praise, and allows Henry to convince him to abandon science for the study of Oriental languages. These -- along with the glorious melancholy of poetry -- provide Frankenstein with a much-needed diversion. Summer passes, and Victor determines to return to Geneva at the end of autumn. Much to his dismay, his departure is delayed until spring; he is, however, passing many marvelous hours in the company of Clerval. They embark on a two-week ramble through the countryside, and Victor reflects that Henry has the ability to call forth "the better feelings of his heart"; the two friends ardently love one another. Slowly, Victor is returning to his old, carefree self. He takes great joy in the natural world, and is able to forget his former misery. The two are in high spirits upon their return to university. |
Emma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet's fancy a proper
direction and raised the gratitude of her young vanity to a very good
purpose, for she found her decidedly more sensible than before of Mr.
Elton's being a remarkably handsome man, with most agreeable manners;
and as she had no hesitation in following up the assurance of his
admiration by agreeable hints, she was soon pretty confident of creating
as much liking on Harriet's side, as there could be any occasion for.
She was quite convinced of Mr. Elton's being in the fairest way of
falling in love, if not in love already. She had no scruple with regard
to him. He talked of Harriet, and praised her so warmly, that she could
not suppose any thing wanting which a little time would not add. His
perception of the striking improvement of Harriet's manner, since her
introduction at Hartfield, was not one of the least agreeable proofs of
his growing attachment.
"You have given Miss Smith all that she required," said he; "you have
made her graceful and easy. She was a beautiful creature when she
came to you, but, in my opinion, the attractions you have added are
infinitely superior to what she received from nature."
"I am glad you think I have been useful to her; but Harriet only wanted
drawing out, and receiving a few, very few hints. She had all the
natural grace of sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself. I have
done very little."
"If it were admissible to contradict a lady," said the gallant Mr.
Elton--
"I have perhaps given her a little more decision of character, have
taught her to think on points which had not fallen in her way before."
"Exactly so; that is what principally strikes me. So much superadded
decision of character! Skilful has been the hand!"
"Great has been the pleasure, I am sure. I never met with a disposition
more truly amiable."
"I have no doubt of it." And it was spoken with a sort of sighing
animation, which had a vast deal of the lover. She was not less pleased
another day with the manner in which he seconded a sudden wish of hers,
to have Harriet's picture.
"Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?" said she: "did you
ever sit for your picture?"
Harriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only stopt to say,
with a very interesting naivete,
"Oh! dear, no, never."
No sooner was she out of sight, than Emma exclaimed,
"What an exquisite possession a good picture of her would be! I would
give any money for it. I almost long to attempt her likeness myself.
You do not know it I dare say, but two or three years ago I had a great
passion for taking likenesses, and attempted several of my friends, and
was thought to have a tolerable eye in general. But from one cause or
another, I gave it up in disgust. But really, I could almost venture,
if Harriet would sit to me. It would be such a delight to have her
picture!"
"Let me entreat you," cried Mr. Elton; "it would indeed be a delight!
Let me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so charming a talent
in favour of your friend. I know what your drawings are. How could
you suppose me ignorant? Is not this room rich in specimens of your
landscapes and flowers; and has not Mrs. Weston some inimitable
figure-pieces in her drawing-room, at Randalls?"
Yes, good man!--thought Emma--but what has all that to do with taking
likenesses? You know nothing of drawing. Don't pretend to be in raptures
about mine. Keep your raptures for Harriet's face. "Well, if you give me
such kind encouragement, Mr. Elton, I believe I shall try what I can do.
Harriet's features are very delicate, which makes a likeness difficult;
and yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of the eye and the lines
about the mouth which one ought to catch."
"Exactly so--The shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth--I have
not a doubt of your success. Pray, pray attempt it. As you will do it,
it will indeed, to use your own words, be an exquisite possession."
"But I am afraid, Mr. Elton, Harriet will not like to sit. She thinks
so little of her own beauty. Did not you observe her manner of answering
me? How completely it meant, 'why should my picture be drawn?'"
"Oh! yes, I observed it, I assure you. It was not lost on me. But still
I cannot imagine she would not be persuaded."
Harriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost immediately made;
and she had no scruples which could stand many minutes against the
earnest pressing of both the others. Emma wished to go to work directly,
and therefore produced the portfolio containing her various attempts at
portraits, for not one of them had ever been finished, that they might
decide together on the best size for Harriet. Her many beginnings were
displayed. Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths, pencil, crayon, and
water-colours had been all tried in turn. She had always wanted to do
every thing, and had made more progress both in drawing and music than
many might have done with so little labour as she would ever submit to.
She played and sang;--and drew in almost every style; but steadiness
had always been wanting; and in nothing had she approached the degree of
excellence which she would have been glad to command, and ought not to
have failed of. She was not much deceived as to her own skill either
as an artist or a musician, but she was not unwilling to have others
deceived, or sorry to know her reputation for accomplishment often
higher than it deserved.
There was merit in every drawing--in the least finished, perhaps the
most; her style was spirited; but had there been much less, or had there
been ten times more, the delight and admiration of her two companions
would have been the same. They were both in ecstasies. A likeness
pleases every body; and Miss Woodhouse's performances must be capital.
"No great variety of faces for you," said Emma. "I had only my own
family to study from. There is my father--another of my father--but the
idea of sitting for his picture made him so nervous, that I could only
take him by stealth; neither of them very like therefore. Mrs. Weston
again, and again, and again, you see. Dear Mrs. Weston! always my
kindest friend on every occasion. She would sit whenever I asked her.
There is my sister; and really quite her own little elegant figure!--and
the face not unlike. I should have made a good likeness of her, if she
would have sat longer, but she was in such a hurry to have me draw
her four children that she would not be quiet. Then, here come all my
attempts at three of those four children;--there they are, Henry and
John and Bella, from one end of the sheet to the other, and any one of
them might do for any one of the rest. She was so eager to have them
drawn that I could not refuse; but there is no making children of three
or four years old stand still you know; nor can it be very easy to take
any likeness of them, beyond the air and complexion, unless they are
coarser featured than any of mama's children ever were. Here is my
sketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I took him as he was sleeping on
the sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as you would
wish to see. He had nestled down his head most conveniently. That's very
like. I am rather proud of little George. The corner of the sofa is very
good. Then here is my last,"--unclosing a pretty sketch of a gentleman
in small size, whole-length--"my last and my best--my brother, Mr. John
Knightley.--This did not want much of being finished, when I put it away
in a pet, and vowed I would never take another likeness. I could not
help being provoked; for after all my pains, and when I had really made
a very good likeness of it--(Mrs. Weston and I were quite agreed in
thinking it _very_ like)--only too handsome--too flattering--but
that was a fault on the right side"--after all this, came poor dear
Isabella's cold approbation of--"Yes, it was a little like--but to be
sure it did not do him justice. We had had a great deal of trouble
in persuading him to sit at all. It was made a great favour of; and
altogether it was more than I could bear; and so I never would finish
it, to have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness, to every
morning visitor in Brunswick Square;--and, as I said, I did then
forswear ever drawing any body again. But for Harriet's sake, or rather
for my own, and as there are no husbands and wives in the case _at_
_present_, I will break my resolution now."
Mr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea, and was
repeating, "No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as
you observe. Exactly so. No husbands and wives," with so interesting a
consciousness, that Emma began to consider whether she had not better
leave them together at once. But as she wanted to be drawing, the
declaration must wait a little longer.
She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait. It was to be
a whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knightley's, and was
destined, if she could please herself, to hold a very honourable station
over the mantelpiece.
The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and afraid of not
keeping her attitude and countenance, presented a very sweet mixture of
youthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist. But there was no
doing any thing, with Mr. Elton fidgeting behind her and watching every
touch. She gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze
and gaze again without offence; but was really obliged to put an end to
it, and request him to place himself elsewhere. It then occurred to her
to employ him in reading.
"If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be a kindness
indeed! It would amuse away the difficulties of her part, and lessen the
irksomeness of Miss Smith's."
Mr. Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and Emma drew in peace.
She must allow him to be still frequently coming to look; any thing less
would certainly have been too little in a lover; and he was ready at the
smallest intermission of the pencil, to jump up and see the progress,
and be charmed.--There was no being displeased with such an encourager,
for his admiration made him discern a likeness almost before it
was possible. She could not respect his eye, but his love and his
complaisance were unexceptionable.
The sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite enough
pleased with the first day's sketch to wish to go on. There was no want
of likeness, she had been fortunate in the attitude, and as she meant
to throw in a little improvement to the figure, to give a little more
height, and considerably more elegance, she had great confidence of
its being in every way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling
its destined place with credit to them both--a standing memorial of the
beauty of one, the skill of the other, and the friendship of both;
with as many other agreeable associations as Mr. Elton's very promising
attachment was likely to add.
Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as he ought,
entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again.
"By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you as one of the
party."
The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction,
took place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of the
picture, which was rapid and happy. Every body who saw it was pleased,
but Mr. Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every
criticism.
"Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she
wanted,"--observed Mrs. Weston to him--not in the least suspecting that
she was addressing a lover.--"The expression of the eye is most correct,
but Miss Smith has not those eyebrows and eyelashes. It is the fault of
her face that she has them not."
"Do you think so?" replied he. "I cannot agree with you. It appears
to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a
likeness in my life. We must allow for the effect of shade, you know."
"You have made her too tall, Emma," said Mr. Knightley.
Emma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr. Elton warmly
added,
"Oh no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall. Consider, she
is sitting down--which naturally presents a different--which in short
gives exactly the idea--and the proportions must be preserved, you know.
Proportions, fore-shortening.--Oh no! it gives one exactly the idea of
such a height as Miss Smith's. Exactly so indeed!"
"It is very pretty," said Mr. Woodhouse. "So prettily done! Just as your
drawings always are, my dear. I do not know any body who draws so well
as you do. The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she seems
to be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her
shoulders--and it makes one think she must catch cold."
"But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm day in summer.
Look at the tree."
"But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear."
"You, sir, may say any thing," cried Mr. Elton, "but I must confess that
I regard it as a most happy thought, the placing of Miss Smith out of
doors; and the tree is touched with such inimitable spirit! Any other
situation would have been much less in character. The naivete of Miss
Smith's manners--and altogether--Oh, it is most admirable! I cannot keep
my eyes from it. I never saw such a likeness."
The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and here were a few
difficulties. It must be done directly; it must be done in London; the
order must go through the hands of some intelligent person whose taste
could be depended on; and Isabella, the usual doer of all commissions,
must not be applied to, because it was December, and Mr. Woodhouse
could not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in the fogs of
December. But no sooner was the distress known to Mr. Elton, than it
was removed. His gallantry was always on the alert. "Might he be trusted
with the commission, what infinite pleasure should he have in executing
it! he could ride to London at any time. It was impossible to say how
much he should be gratified by being employed on such an errand."
"He was too good!--she could not endure the thought!--she would not give
him such a troublesome office for the world,"--brought on the desired
repetition of entreaties and assurances,--and a very few minutes settled
the business.
Mr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the frame, and give
the directions; and Emma thought she could so pack it as to ensure its
safety without much incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of
not being incommoded enough.
"What a precious deposit!" said he with a tender sigh, as he received
it.
"This man is almost too gallant to be in love," thought Emma. "I should
say so, but that I suppose there may be a hundred different ways of
being in love. He is an excellent young man, and will suit Harriet
exactly; it will be an 'Exactly so,' as he says himself; but he does
sigh and languish, and study for compliments rather more than I could
endure as a principal. I come in for a pretty good share as a second.
But it is his gratitude on Harriet's account." | Emma starts working to develop a romantic match between Mr. Elton and Harriet. She speaks to Mr. Elton about Harriet Smith, but for every compliment he gives Harriet, Mr. Elton gives Emma the credit. Emma decides to draw a portrait of Harriet Smith for Mr. Elton, even though he seems more interested in having a picture by Emma Woodhouse than of Harriet Smith. When Emma completes the picture of Harriet Smith, Mr. Weston and Mr. Knightley note how Emma has improved Harriet's appearance, giving her better features and making her taller. Mr. Elton gallantly offers to take the picture to London so that it can be framed. |
An orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed men on an elevated
stage near the centre of a great green-hued hall, played a popular
waltz. The place was crowded with people grouped about little tables.
A battalion of waiters slid among the throng, carrying trays of beer
glasses and making change from the inexhaustible vaults of their
trousers pockets. Little boys, in the costumes of French chefs,
paraded up and down the irregular aisles vending fancy cakes. There
was a low rumble of conversation and a subdued clinking of glasses.
Clouds of tobacco smoke rolled and wavered high in air about the dull
gilt of the chandeliers.
The vast crowd had an air throughout of having just quitted labor. Men
with calloused hands and attired in garments that showed the wear of an
endless trudge for a living, smoked their pipes contentedly and spent
five, ten, or perhaps fifteen cents for beer. There was a mere
sprinkling of kid-gloved men who smoked cigars purchased elsewhere.
The great body of the crowd was composed of people who showed that all
day they strove with their hands. Quiet Germans, with maybe their
wives and two or three children, sat listening to the music, with the
expressions of happy cows. An occasional party of sailors from a
war-ship, their faces pictures of sturdy health, spent the earlier
hours of the evening at the small round tables. Very infrequent tipsy
men, swollen with the value of their opinions, engaged their companions
in earnest and confidential conversation. In the balcony, and here and
there below, shone the impassive faces of women. The nationalities of
the Bowery beamed upon the stage from all directions.
Pete aggressively walked up a side aisle and took seats with Maggie at
a table beneath the balcony.
"Two beehs!"
Leaning back he regarded with eyes of superiority the scene before
them. This attitude affected Maggie strongly. A man who could regard
such a sight with indifference must be accustomed to very great things.
It was obvious that Pete had been to this place many times before, and
was very familiar with it. A knowledge of this fact made Maggie feel
little and new.
He was extremely gracious and attentive. He displayed the
consideration of a cultured gentleman who knew what was due.
"Say, what deh hell? Bring deh lady a big glass! What deh hell use is
dat pony?"
"Don't be fresh, now," said the waiter, with some warmth, as he
departed.
"Ah, git off deh eart'," said Pete, after the other's retreating form.
Maggie perceived that Pete brought forth all his elegance and all his
knowledge of high-class customs for her benefit. Her heart warmed as
she reflected upon his condescension.
The orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed men gave vent to a
few bars of anticipatory music and a girl, in a pink dress with short
skirts, galloped upon the stage. She smiled upon the throng as if in
acknowledgment of a warm welcome, and began to walk to and fro, making
profuse gesticulations and singing, in brazen soprano tones, a song,
the words of which were inaudible. When she broke into the swift
rattling measures of a chorus some half-tipsy men near the stage joined
in the rollicking refrain and glasses were pounded rhythmically upon
the tables. People leaned forward to watch her and to try to catch the
words of the song. When she vanished there were long rollings of
applause.
Obedient to more anticipatory bars, she reappeared amidst the
half-suppressed cheering of the tipsy men. The orchestra plunged into
dance music and the laces of the dancer fluttered and flew in the glare
of gas jets. She divulged the fact that she was attired in some half
dozen skirts. It was patent that any one of them would have proved
adequate for the purpose for which skirts are intended. An occasional
man bent forward, intent upon the pink stockings. Maggie wondered at
the splendor of the costume and lost herself in calculations of the
cost of the silks and laces.
The dancer's smile of stereotyped enthusiasm was turned for ten minutes
upon the faces of her audience. In the finale she fell into some of
those grotesque attitudes which were at the time popular among the
dancers in the theatres up-town, giving to the Bowery public the
phantasies of the aristocratic theatre-going public, at reduced rates.
"Say, Pete," said Maggie, leaning forward, "dis is great."
"Sure," said Pete, with proper complacence.
A ventriloquist followed the dancer. He held two fantastic dolls on
his knees. He made them sing mournful ditties and say funny things
about geography and Ireland.
"Do dose little men talk?" asked Maggie.
"Naw," said Pete, "it's some damn fake. See?"
Two girls, on the bills as sisters, came forth and sang a duet that is
heard occasionally at concerts given under church auspices. They
supplemented it with a dance which of course can never be seen at
concerts given under church auspices.
After the duettists had retired, a woman of debatable age sang a negro
melody. The chorus necessitated some grotesque waddlings supposed to
be an imitation of a plantation darkey, under the influence, probably,
of music and the moon. The audience was just enthusiastic enough over
it to have her return and sing a sorrowful lay, whose lines told of a
mother's love and a sweetheart who waited and a young man who was lost
at sea under the most harrowing circumstances. From the faces of a
score or so in the crowd, the self-contained look faded. Many heads
were bent forward with eagerness and sympathy. As the last distressing
sentiment of the piece was brought forth, it was greeted by that kind
of applause which rings as sincere.
As a final effort, the singer rendered some verses which described a
vision of Britain being annihilated by America, and Ireland bursting
her bonds. A carefully prepared crisis was reached in the last line of
the last verse, where the singer threw out her arms and cried, "The
star-spangled banner." Instantly a great cheer swelled from the
throats of the assemblage of the masses. There was a heavy rumble of
booted feet thumping the floor. Eyes gleamed with sudden fire, and
calloused hands waved frantically in the air.
After a few moments' rest, the orchestra played crashingly, and a small
fat man burst out upon the stage. He began to roar a song and stamp
back and forth before the foot-lights, wildly waving a glossy silk hat
and throwing leers, or smiles, broadcast. He made his face into
fantastic grimaces until he looked like a pictured devil on a Japanese
kite. The crowd laughed gleefully. His short, fat legs were never
still a moment. He shouted and roared and bobbed his shock of red wig
until the audience broke out in excited applause.
Pete did not pay much attention to the progress of events upon the
stage. He was drinking beer and watching Maggie.
Her cheeks were blushing with excitement and her eyes were glistening.
She drew deep breaths of pleasure. No thoughts of the atmosphere of
the collar and cuff factory came to her.
When the orchestra crashed finally, they jostled their way to the
sidewalk with the crowd. Pete took Maggie's arm and pushed a way for
her, offering to fight with a man or two.
They reached Maggie's home at a late hour and stood for a moment in
front of the gruesome doorway.
"Say, Mag," said Pete, "give us a kiss for takin' yeh teh deh show,
will yer?"
Maggie laughed, as if startled, and drew away from him.
"Naw, Pete," she said, "dat wasn't in it."
"Ah, what deh hell?" urged Pete.
The girl retreated nervously.
"Ah, what deh hell?" repeated he.
Maggie darted into the hall, and up the stairs. She turned and smiled
at him, then disappeared.
Pete walked slowly down the street. He had something of an astonished
expression upon his features. He paused under a lamp-post and breathed
a low breath of surprise.
"Gawd," he said, "I wonner if I've been played fer a duffer." | Pete takes Maggie to a large music hall. An orchestra sits upon a stage near the center of the room. The hall is crowded with working class patrons, some with their families, and numerous waiters who carry trays of beer and make change. Small boys vend cakes to the throng and smoke from the men's pipes lingers high in the air. Pete seizes a table and orders two beers. When the beverages arrive he upbraids the waiter for their size and orders larger beers. Maggie is impressed by Pete's knowledge of the manners of what she considers a very fine establishment. The orchestra strikes some introductory notes and a girl in a short pink dress runs onto the stage. The girl sings a brazen song and the men in the front row accompany her on the chorus. She runs offstage to loud applause. When she returns she flounces her many skirts to reveal her pink stockings. Maggie is awed by the extravagance of the costume. Before leaving the stage the dancer attempts some of the moves popular among the higher-class theaters. The next performer is a ventriloquist who makes two dolls sing songs and tell funny jokes. Maggie is captivated and asks Pete if the little men are truly talking. Pete responds: "Naw, its' some damn fake. See?" Next on the bill are two girls claiming to be sisters who sing a popular duet. Then a woman sings Negro melodies and a mournful air that brings heartfelt applause from the whole audience. For her final song the woman sings a patriotic piece that receives wild cheers and boot thumping. After that a short fat man does a comical song and dance. Pete drinks his beer and watches Maggie. She is obviously pleased. He sees that Maggie breathes heavily and that her eyes glisten. After the show Pete takes her arm and, offering to fight several men along the way, shoves a way for them out of the theater. It is very late at night when they reach the tenement building. Pete asks Maggie for a kiss as payment for having taken her to the show." Naw, Pete," she responds laughing, "dat wasn't in it." Maggie retreats up the stairs but looks back and smiles at him before disappearing. Pete wonders if he's been "played fer a duffer." . |
Book VIII. Mitya Chapter I. Kuzma Samsonov
But Dmitri, to whom Grushenka, flying away to a new life, had left her
last greetings, bidding him remember the hour of her love for ever, knew
nothing of what had happened to her, and was at that moment in a condition
of feverish agitation and activity. For the last two days he had been in
such an inconceivable state of mind that he might easily have fallen ill
with brain fever, as he said himself afterwards. Alyosha had not been able
to find him the morning before, and Ivan had not succeeded in meeting him
at the tavern on the same day. The people at his lodgings, by his orders,
concealed his movements.
He had spent those two days literally rushing in all directions,
"struggling with his destiny and trying to save himself," as he expressed
it himself afterwards, and for some hours he even made a dash out of the
town on urgent business, terrible as it was to him to lose sight of
Grushenka for a moment. All this was explained afterwards in detail, and
confirmed by documentary evidence; but for the present we will only note
the most essential incidents of those two terrible days immediately
preceding the awful catastrophe, that broke so suddenly upon him.
Though Grushenka had, it is true, loved him for an hour, genuinely and
sincerely, yet she tortured him sometimes cruelly and mercilessly. The
worst of it was that he could never tell what she meant to do. To prevail
upon her by force or kindness was also impossible: she would yield to
nothing. She would only have become angry and turned away from him
altogether, he knew that well already. He suspected, quite correctly, that
she, too, was passing through an inward struggle, and was in a state of
extraordinary indecision, that she was making up her mind to something,
and unable to determine upon it. And so, not without good reason, he
divined, with a sinking heart, that at moments she must simply hate him
and his passion. And so, perhaps, it was, but what was distressing
Grushenka he did not understand. For him the whole tormenting question lay
between him and Fyodor Pavlovitch.
Here, we must note, by the way, one certain fact: he was firmly persuaded
that Fyodor Pavlovitch would offer, or perhaps had offered, Grushenka
lawful wedlock, and did not for a moment believe that the old voluptuary
hoped to gain his object for three thousand roubles. Mitya had reached
this conclusion from his knowledge of Grushenka and her character. That
was how it was that he could believe at times that all Grushenka's
uneasiness rose from not knowing which of them to choose, which was most
to her advantage.
Strange to say, during those days it never occurred to him to think of the
approaching return of the "officer," that is, of the man who had been such
a fatal influence in Grushenka's life, and whose arrival she was expecting
with such emotion and dread. It is true that of late Grushenka had been
very silent about it. Yet he was perfectly aware of a letter she had
received a month ago from her seducer, and had heard of it from her own
lips. He partly knew, too, what the letter contained. In a moment of spite
Grushenka had shown him that letter, but to her astonishment he attached
hardly any consequence to it. It would be hard to say why this was.
Perhaps, weighed down by all the hideous horror of his struggle with his
own father for this woman, he was incapable of imagining any danger more
terrible, at any rate for the time. He simply did not believe in a suitor
who suddenly turned up again after five years' disappearance, still less
in his speedy arrival. Moreover, in the "officer's" first letter which had
been shown to Mitya, the possibility of his new rival's visit was very
vaguely suggested. The letter was very indefinite, high-flown, and full of
sentimentality. It must be noted that Grushenka had concealed from him the
last lines of the letter, in which his return was alluded to more
definitely. He had, besides, noticed at that moment, he remembered
afterwards, a certain involuntary proud contempt for this missive from
Siberia on Grushenka's face. Grushenka told him nothing of what had passed
later between her and this rival; so that by degrees he had completely
forgotten the officer's existence.
He felt that whatever might come later, whatever turn things might take,
his final conflict with Fyodor Pavlovitch was close upon him, and must be
decided before anything else. With a sinking heart he was expecting every
moment Grushenka's decision, always believing that it would come suddenly,
on the impulse of the moment. All of a sudden she would say to him: "Take
me, I'm yours for ever," and it would all be over. He would seize her and
bear her away at once to the ends of the earth. Oh, then he would bear her
away at once, as far, far away as possible; to the farthest end of Russia,
if not of the earth, then he would marry her, and settle down with her
incognito, so that no one would know anything about them, there, here, or
anywhere. Then, oh, then, a new life would begin at once!
Of this different, reformed and "virtuous" life ("it must, it must be
virtuous") he dreamed feverishly at every moment. He thirsted for that
reformation and renewal. The filthy morass, in which he had sunk of his
own free will, was too revolting to him, and, like very many men in such
cases, he put faith above all in change of place. If only it were not for
these people, if only it were not for these circumstances, if only he
could fly away from this accursed place--he would be altogether
regenerated, would enter on a new path. That was what he believed in, and
what he was yearning for.
But all this could only be on condition of the first, the _happy_ solution
of the question. There was another possibility, a different and awful
ending. Suddenly she might say to him: "Go away. I have just come to terms
with Fyodor Pavlovitch. I am going to marry him and don't want you"--and
then ... but then.... But Mitya did not know what would happen then. Up to
the last hour he didn't know. That must be said to his credit. He had no
definite intentions, had planned no crime. He was simply watching and
spying in agony, while he prepared himself for the first, happy solution
of his destiny. He drove away any other idea, in fact. But for that ending
a quite different anxiety arose, a new, incidental, but yet fatal and
insoluble difficulty presented itself.
If she were to say to him: "I'm yours; take me away," how could he take
her away? Where had he the means, the money to do it? It was just at this
time that all sources of revenue from Fyodor Pavlovitch, doles which had
gone on without interruption for so many years, ceased. Grushenka had
money, of course, but with regard to this Mitya suddenly evinced
extraordinary pride; he wanted to carry her away and begin the new life
with her himself, at his own expense, not at hers. He could not conceive
of taking her money, and the very idea caused him a pang of intense
repulsion. I won't enlarge on this fact or analyze it here, but confine
myself to remarking that this was his attitude at the moment. All this may
have arisen indirectly and unconsciously from the secret stings of his
conscience for the money of Katerina Ivanovna that he had dishonestly
appropriated. "I've been a scoundrel to one of them, and I shall be a
scoundrel again to the other directly," was his feeling then, as he
explained after: "and when Grushenka knows, she won't care for such a
scoundrel."
Where then was he to get the means, where was he to get the fateful money?
Without it, all would be lost and nothing could be done, "and only because
I hadn't the money. Oh, the shame of it!"
To anticipate things: he did, perhaps, know where to get the money, knew,
perhaps, where it lay at that moment. I will say no more of this here, as
it will all be clear later. But his chief trouble, I must explain however
obscurely, lay in the fact that to have that sum he knew of, to _have the
right_ to take it, he must first restore Katerina Ivanovna's three
thousand--if not, "I'm a common pickpocket, I'm a scoundrel, and I don't
want to begin a new life as a scoundrel," Mitya decided. And so he made up
his mind to move heaven and earth to return Katerina Ivanovna that three
thousand, and that _first of all_. The final stage of this decision, so to
say, had been reached only during the last hours, that is, after his last
interview with Alyosha, two days before, on the high-road, on the evening
when Grushenka had insulted Katerina Ivanovna, and Mitya, after hearing
Alyosha's account of it, had admitted that he was a scoundrel, and told
him to tell Katerina Ivanovna so, if it could be any comfort to her. After
parting from his brother on that night, he had felt in his frenzy that it
would be better "to murder and rob some one than fail to pay my debt to
Katya. I'd rather every one thought me a robber and a murderer, I'd rather
go to Siberia than that Katya should have the right to say that I deceived
her and stole her money, and used her money to run away with Grushenka and
begin a new life! That I can't do!" So Mitya decided, grinding his teeth,
and he might well fancy at times that his brain would give way. But
meanwhile he went on struggling....
Strange to say, though one would have supposed there was nothing left for
him but despair--for what chance had he, with nothing in the world, to
raise such a sum?--yet to the very end he persisted in hoping that he would
get that three thousand, that the money would somehow come to him of
itself, as though it might drop from heaven. That is just how it is with
people who, like Dmitri, have never had anything to do with money, except
to squander what has come to them by inheritance without any effort of
their own, and have no notion how money is obtained. A whirl of the most
fantastic notions took possession of his brain immediately after he had
parted with Alyosha two days before, and threw his thoughts into a tangle
of confusion. This is how it was he pitched first on a perfectly wild
enterprise. And perhaps to men of that kind in such circumstances the most
impossible, fantastic schemes occur first, and seem most practical.
He suddenly determined to go to Samsonov, the merchant who was Grushenka's
protector, and to propose a "scheme" to him, and by means of it to obtain
from him at once the whole of the sum required. Of the commercial value of
his scheme he had no doubt, not the slightest, and was only uncertain how
Samsonov would look upon his freak, supposing he were to consider it from
any but the commercial point of view. Though Mitya knew the merchant by
sight, he was not acquainted with him and had never spoken a word to him.
But for some unknown reason he had long entertained the conviction that
the old reprobate, who was lying at death's door, would perhaps not at all
object now to Grushenka's securing a respectable position, and marrying a
man "to be depended upon." And he believed not only that he would not
object, but that this was what he desired, and, if opportunity arose, that
he would be ready to help. From some rumor, or perhaps from some stray
word of Grushenka's, he had gathered further that the old man would
perhaps prefer him to Fyodor Pavlovitch for Grushenka.
Possibly many of the readers of my novel will feel that in reckoning on
such assistance, and being ready to take his bride, so to speak, from the
hands of her protector, Dmitri showed great coarseness and want of
delicacy. I will only observe that Mitya looked upon Grushenka's past as
something completely over. He looked on that past with infinite pity and
resolved with all the fervor of his passion that when once Grushenka told
him she loved him and would marry him, it would mean the beginning of a
new Grushenka and a new Dmitri, free from every vice. They would forgive
one another and would begin their lives afresh. As for Kuzma Samsonov,
Dmitri looked upon him as a man who had exercised a fateful influence in
that remote past of Grushenka's, though she had never loved him, and who
was now himself a thing of the past, completely done with, and, so to say,
non-existent. Besides, Mitya hardly looked upon him as a man at all, for
it was known to every one in the town that he was only a shattered wreck,
whose relations with Grushenka had changed their character and were now
simply paternal, and that this had been so for a long time.
In any case there was much simplicity on Mitya's part in all this, for in
spite of all his vices, he was a very simple-hearted man. It was an
instance of this simplicity that Mitya was seriously persuaded that, being
on the eve of his departure for the next world, old Kuzma must sincerely
repent of his past relations with Grushenka, and that she had no more
devoted friend and protector in the world than this, now harmless old man.
After his conversation with Alyosha, at the cross-roads, he hardly slept
all night, and at ten o'clock next morning, he was at the house of
Samsonov and telling the servant to announce him. It was a very large and
gloomy old house of two stories, with a lodge and outhouses. In the lower
story lived Samsonov's two married sons with their families, his old
sister, and his unmarried daughter. In the lodge lived two of his clerks,
one of whom also had a large family. Both the lodge and the lower story
were overcrowded, but the old man kept the upper floor to himself, and
would not even let the daughter live there with him, though she waited
upon him, and in spite of her asthma was obliged at certain fixed hours,
and at any time he might call her, to run upstairs to him from below.
This upper floor contained a number of large rooms kept purely for show,
furnished in the old-fashioned merchant style, with long monotonous rows
of clumsy mahogany chairs along the walls, with glass chandeliers under
shades, and gloomy mirrors on the walls. All these rooms were entirely
empty and unused, for the old man kept to one room, a small, remote
bedroom, where he was waited upon by an old servant with a kerchief on her
head, and by a lad, who used to sit on the locker in the passage. Owing to
his swollen legs, the old man could hardly walk at all, and was only
rarely lifted from his leather arm-chair, when the old woman supporting
him led him up and down the room once or twice. He was morose and taciturn
even with this old woman.
When he was informed of the arrival of the "captain," he at once refused
to see him. But Mitya persisted and sent his name up again. Samsonov
questioned the lad minutely: What he looked like? Whether he was drunk?
Was he going to make a row? The answer he received was: that he was sober,
but wouldn't go away. The old man again refused to see him. Then Mitya,
who had foreseen this, and purposely brought pencil and paper with him,
wrote clearly on the piece of paper the words: "On most important business
closely concerning Agrafena Alexandrovna," and sent it up to the old man.
After thinking a little Samsonov told the lad to take the visitor to the
drawing-room, and sent the old woman downstairs with a summons to his
younger son to come upstairs to him at once. This younger son, a man over
six foot and of exceptional physical strength, who was closely-shaven and
dressed in the European style, though his father still wore a kaftan and a
beard, came at once without a comment. All the family trembled before the
father. The old man had sent for this giant, not because he was afraid of
the "captain" (he was by no means of a timorous temper), but in order to
have a witness in case of any emergency. Supported by his son and the
servant-lad, he waddled at last into the drawing-room. It may be assumed
that he felt considerable curiosity. The drawing-room in which Mitya was
awaiting him was a vast, dreary room that laid a weight of depression on
the heart. It had a double row of windows, a gallery, marbled walls, and
three immense chandeliers with glass lusters covered with shades.
Mitya was sitting on a little chair at the entrance, awaiting his fate
with nervous impatience. When the old man appeared at the opposite door,
seventy feet away, Mitya jumped up at once, and with his long, military
stride walked to meet him. Mitya was well dressed, in a frock-coat,
buttoned up, with a round hat and black gloves in his hands, just as he
had been three days before at the elder's, at the family meeting with his
father and brothers. The old man waited for him, standing dignified and
unbending, and Mitya felt at once that he had looked him through and
through as he advanced. Mitya was greatly impressed, too, with Samsonov's
immensely swollen face. His lower lip, which had always been thick, hung
down now, looking like a bun. He bowed to his guest in dignified silence,
motioned him to a low chair by the sofa, and, leaning on his son's arm he
began lowering himself on to the sofa opposite, groaning painfully, so
that Mitya, seeing his painful exertions, immediately felt remorseful and
sensitively conscious of his insignificance in the presence of the
dignified person he had ventured to disturb.
"What is it you want of me, sir?" said the old man, deliberately,
distinctly, severely, but courteously, when he was at last seated.
Mitya started, leapt up, but sat down again. Then he began at once
speaking with loud, nervous haste, gesticulating, and in a positive
frenzy. He was unmistakably a man driven into a corner, on the brink of
ruin, catching at the last straw, ready to sink if he failed. Old Samsonov
probably grasped all this in an instant, though his face remained cold and
immovable as a statue's.
"Most honored sir, Kuzma Kuzmitch, you have no doubt heard more than once
of my disputes with my father, Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov, who robbed me
of my inheritance from my mother ... seeing the whole town is gossiping
about it ... for here every one's gossiping of what they shouldn't ... and
besides, it might have reached you through Grushenka ... I beg your
pardon, through Agrafena Alexandrovna ... Agrafena Alexandrovna, the lady
for whom I have the highest respect and esteem ..."
So Mitya began, and broke down at the first sentence. We will not
reproduce his speech word for word, but will only summarize the gist of
it. Three months ago, he said, he had of express intention (Mitya
purposely used these words instead of "intentionally") consulted a lawyer
in the chief town of the province, "a distinguished lawyer, Kuzma
Kuzmitch, Pavel Pavlovitch Korneplodov. You have perhaps heard of him? A
man of vast intellect, the mind of a statesman ... he knows you, too ...
spoke of you in the highest terms ..." Mitya broke down again. But these
breaks did not deter him. He leapt instantly over the gaps, and struggled
on and on.
This Korneplodov, after questioning him minutely, and inspecting the
documents he was able to bring him (Mitya alluded somewhat vaguely to
these documents, and slurred over the subject with special haste),
reported that they certainly might take proceedings concerning the village
of Tchermashnya, which ought, he said, to have come to him, Mitya, from
his mother, and so checkmate the old villain, his father ... "because
every door was not closed and justice might still find a loophole." In
fact, he might reckon on an additional sum of six or even seven thousand
roubles from Fyodor Pavlovitch, as Tchermashnya was worth, at least,
twenty-five thousand, he might say twenty-eight thousand, in fact,
"thirty, thirty, Kuzma Kuzmitch, and would you believe it, I didn't get
seventeen from that heartless man!" So he, Mitya, had thrown the business
up, for the time, knowing nothing about the law, but on coming here was
struck dumb by a cross-claim made upon him (here Mitya went adrift again
and again took a flying leap forward), "so will not you, excellent and
honored Kuzma Kuzmitch, be willing to take up all my claims against that
unnatural monster, and pay me a sum down of only three thousand?... You
see, you cannot, in any case, lose over it. On my honor, my honor, I swear
that. Quite the contrary, you may make six or seven thousand instead of
three." Above all, he wanted this concluded that very day.
"I'll do the business with you at a notary's, or whatever it is ... in
fact, I'm ready to do anything.... I'll hand over all the deeds ...
whatever you want, sign anything ... and we could draw up the agreement at
once ... and if it were possible, if it were only possible, that very
morning.... You could pay me that three thousand, for there isn't a
capitalist in this town to compare with you, and so would save me from ...
would save me, in fact ... for a good, I might say an honorable action....
For I cherish the most honorable feelings for a certain person, whom you
know well, and care for as a father. I would not have come, indeed, if it
had not been as a father. And, indeed, it's a struggle of three in this
business, for it's fate--that's a fearful thing, Kuzma Kuzmitch! A tragedy,
Kuzma Kuzmitch, a tragedy! And as you've dropped out long ago, it's a tug-
of-war between two. I'm expressing it awkwardly, perhaps, but I'm not a
literary man. You see, I'm on the one side, and that monster on the other.
So you must choose. It's either I or the monster. It all lies in your
hands--the fate of three lives, and the happiness of two.... Excuse me, I'm
making a mess of it, but you understand ... I see from your venerable eyes
that you understand ... and if you don't understand, I'm done for ... so
you see!"
Mitya broke off his clumsy speech with that, "so you see!" and jumping up
from his seat, awaited the answer to his foolish proposal. At the last
phrase he had suddenly become hopelessly aware that it had all fallen
flat, above all, that he had been talking utter nonsense.
"How strange it is! On the way here it seemed all right, and now it's
nothing but nonsense." The idea suddenly dawned on his despairing mind.
All the while he had been talking, the old man sat motionless, watching
him with an icy expression in his eyes. After keeping him for a moment in
suspense, Kuzma Kuzmitch pronounced at last in the most positive and
chilling tone:
"Excuse me, we don't undertake such business."
Mitya suddenly felt his legs growing weak under him.
"What am I to do now, Kuzma Kuzmitch?" he muttered, with a pale smile. "I
suppose it's all up with me--what do you think?"
"Excuse me...."
Mitya remained standing, staring motionless. He suddenly noticed a
movement in the old man's face. He started.
"You see, sir, business of that sort's not in our line," said the old man
slowly. "There's the court, and the lawyers--it's a perfect misery. But if
you like, there is a man here you might apply to."
"Good heavens! Who is it? You're my salvation, Kuzma Kuzmitch," faltered
Mitya.
"He doesn't live here, and he's not here just now. He is a peasant, he
does business in timber. His name is Lyagavy. He's been haggling with
Fyodor Pavlovitch for the last year, over your copse at Tchermashnya. They
can't agree on the price, maybe you've heard? Now he's come back again and
is staying with the priest at Ilyinskoe, about twelve versts from the
Volovya station. He wrote to me, too, about the business of the copse,
asking my advice. Fyodor Pavlovitch means to go and see him himself. So if
you were to be beforehand with Fyodor Pavlovitch and to make Lyagavy the
offer you've made me, he might possibly--"
"A brilliant idea!" Mitya interrupted ecstatically. "He's the very man, it
would just suit him. He's haggling with him for it, being asked too much,
and here he would have all the documents entitling him to the property
itself. Ha ha ha!"
And Mitya suddenly went off into his short, wooden laugh, startling
Samsonov.
"How can I thank you, Kuzma Kuzmitch?" cried Mitya effusively.
"Don't mention it," said Samsonov, inclining his head.
"But you don't know, you've saved me. Oh, it was a true presentiment
brought me to you.... So now to this priest!"
"No need of thanks."
"I'll make haste and fly there. I'm afraid I've overtaxed your strength. I
shall never forget it. It's a Russian says that, Kuzma Kuzmitch, a R-r-
russian!"
"To be sure!"
Mitya seized his hand to press it, but there was a malignant gleam in the
old man's eye. Mitya drew back his hand, but at once blamed himself for
his mistrustfulness.
"It's because he's tired," he thought.
"For her sake! For her sake, Kuzma Kuzmitch! You understand that it's for
her," he cried, his voice ringing through the room. He bowed, turned
sharply round, and with the same long stride walked to the door without
looking back. He was trembling with delight.
"Everything was on the verge of ruin and my guardian angel saved me," was
the thought in his mind. And if such a business man as Samsonov (a most
worthy old man, and what dignity!) had suggested this course, then ...
then success was assured. He would fly off immediately. "I will be back
before night, I shall be back at night and the thing is done. Could the
old man have been laughing at me?" exclaimed Mitya, as he strode towards
his lodging. He could, of course, imagine nothing, but that the advice was
practical "from such a business man" with an understanding of the
business, with an understanding of this Lyagavy (curious surname!). Or--the
old man was laughing at him.
Alas! The second alternative was the correct one. Long afterwards, when
the catastrophe had happened, old Samsonov himself confessed, laughing,
that he had made a fool of the "captain." He was a cold, spiteful and
sarcastic man, liable to violent antipathies. Whether it was the
"captain's" excited face, or the foolish conviction of the "rake and
spendthrift," that he, Samsonov, could be taken in by such a cock-and-bull
story as his scheme, or his jealousy of Grushenka, in whose name this
"scapegrace" had rushed in on him with such a tale to get money which
worked on the old man, I can't tell. But at the instant when Mitya stood
before him, feeling his legs grow weak under him, and frantically
exclaiming that he was ruined, at that moment the old man looked at him
with intense spite, and resolved to make a laughing-stock of him. When
Mitya had gone, Kuzma Kuzmitch, white with rage, turned to his son and
bade him see to it that that beggar be never seen again, and never
admitted even into the yard, or else he'd--
He did not utter his threat. But even his son, who often saw him enraged,
trembled with fear. For a whole hour afterwards, the old man was shaking
with anger, and by evening he was worse, and sent for the doctor. | Meanwhile the novel finally returns to Dmitri. So what's he been up to for the past 200 pages - which take up only two days, by the way, as the narrator reminds us on the first page of this chapter? Dmitri has been making a royal fool of himself, that's what. Ashamed of stealing 3,000 roubles from Katerina only to spend it all on Grushenka, Dmitri decides he must return the money to Katerina somehow to save his honor. Only then can he begin a new life with Grushenka. But Dmitri has no money. So he hatches up the desperate plan of going to see Samsonov, Grushenka's old "patron," to borrow the money to repay Katerina and to whisk away Grushenka. Dmitri arrives at Samsonov's and is taken upstairs to see the old man himself, holed up in a small bedroom with his swollen legs. In Dmitri's confusion, he notices a malicious glint in Samsonov's eyes, but he quickly brushes this aside as the peevish wincing of an old man in constant pain from his gouty leg. Dmitri proposes that Samsonov lend him money, using his inheritance, a woodlot in Chermashnya, as collateral. Of course Dmitri doesn't yet have his inheritance, nor is it likely he will ever receive it because it's being held by his father. Samsonov rejects Dmitri's proposal, but then suggests that Dmitri see a fellow by the name of Lyagavy, who's been trying to purchase the woodlot from his father. Lyagavy is staying with a priest in the village of Ilyinskoye. Dmitri is effusively thankful for the tip and leaves Samsonov. The narrator tells us that it was all a malicious joke on Samsonov's part, and that he was infuriated by Dmitri's visit. |
The recollection of about three days and nights succeeding this is very
dim in my mind. I can recall some sensations felt in that interval; but
few thoughts framed, and no actions performed. I knew I was in a small
room and in a narrow bed. To that bed I seemed to have grown; I lay on
it motionless as a stone; and to have torn me from it would have been
almost to kill me. I took no note of the lapse of time--of the change
from morning to noon, from noon to evening. I observed when any one
entered or left the apartment: I could even tell who they were; I could
understand what was said when the speaker stood near to me; but I could
not answer; to open my lips or move my limbs was equally impossible.
Hannah, the servant, was my most frequent visitor. Her coming disturbed
me. I had a feeling that she wished me away: that she did not understand
me or my circumstances; that she was prejudiced against me. Diana and
Mary appeared in the chamber once or twice a day. They would whisper
sentences of this sort at my bedside--
"It is very well we took her in."
"Yes; she would certainly have been found dead at the door in the morning
had she been left out all night. I wonder what she has gone through?"
"Strange hardships, I imagine--poor, emaciated, pallid wanderer?"
"She is not an uneducated person, I should think, by her manner of
speaking; her accent was quite pure; and the clothes she took off, though
splashed and wet, were little worn and fine."
"She has a peculiar face; fleshless and haggard as it is, I rather like
it; and when in good health and animated, I can fancy her physiognomy
would be agreeable."
Never once in their dialogues did I hear a syllable of regret at the
hospitality they had extended to me, or of suspicion of, or aversion to,
myself. I was comforted.
Mr. St. John came but once: he looked at me, and said my state of
lethargy was the result of reaction from excessive and protracted
fatigue. He pronounced it needless to send for a doctor: nature, he was
sure, would manage best, left to herself. He said every nerve had been
overstrained in some way, and the whole system must sleep torpid a while.
There was no disease. He imagined my recovery would be rapid enough when
once commenced. These opinions he delivered in a few words, in a quiet,
low voice; and added, after a pause, in the tone of a man little
accustomed to expansive comment, "Rather an unusual physiognomy;
certainly, not indicative of vulgarity or degradation."
"Far otherwise," responded Diana. "To speak truth, St. John, my heart
rather warms to the poor little soul. I wish we may be able to benefit
her permanently."
"That is hardly likely," was the reply. "You will find she is some young
lady who has had a misunderstanding with her friends, and has probably
injudiciously left them. We may, perhaps, succeed in restoring her to
them, if she is not obstinate: but I trace lines of force in her face
which make me sceptical of her tractability." He stood considering me
some minutes; then added, "She looks sensible, but not at all handsome."
"She is so ill, St. John."
"Ill or well, she would always be plain. The grace and harmony of beauty
are quite wanting in those features."
On the third day I was better; on the fourth, I could speak, move, rise
in bed, and turn. Hannah had brought me some gruel and dry toast, about,
as I supposed, the dinner-hour. I had eaten with relish: the food was
good--void of the feverish flavour which had hitherto poisoned what I had
swallowed. When she left me, I felt comparatively strong and revived:
ere long satiety of repose and desire for action stirred me. I wished to
rise; but what could I put on? Only my damp and bemired apparel; in
which I had slept on the ground and fallen in the marsh. I felt ashamed
to appear before my benefactors so clad. I was spared the humiliation.
On a chair by the bedside were all my own things, clean and dry. My
black silk frock hung against the wall. The traces of the bog were
removed from it; the creases left by the wet smoothed out: it was quite
decent. My very shoes and stockings were purified and rendered
presentable. There were the means of washing in the room, and a comb and
brush to smooth my hair. After a weary process, and resting every five
minutes, I succeeded in dressing myself. My clothes hung loose on me;
for I was much wasted, but I covered deficiencies with a shawl, and once
more, clean and respectable looking--no speck of the dirt, no trace of
the disorder I so hated, and which seemed so to degrade me, left--I crept
down a stone staircase with the aid of the banisters, to a narrow low
passage, and found my way presently to the kitchen.
It was full of the fragrance of new bread and the warmth of a generous
fire. Hannah was baking. Prejudices, it is well known, are most
difficult to eradicate from the heart whose soil has never been loosened
or fertilised by education: they grow there, firm as weeds among stones.
Hannah had been cold and stiff, indeed, at the first: latterly she had
begun to relent a little; and when she saw me come in tidy and
well-dressed, she even smiled.
"What, you have got up!" she said. "You are better, then. You may sit
you down in my chair on the hearthstone, if you will."
She pointed to the rocking-chair: I took it. She bustled about,
examining me every now and then with the corner of her eye. Turning to
me, as she took some loaves from the oven, she asked bluntly--
"Did you ever go a-begging afore you came here?"
I was indignant for a moment; but remembering that anger was out of the
question, and that I had indeed appeared as a beggar to her, I answered
quietly, but still not without a certain marked firmness--
"You are mistaken in supposing me a beggar. I am no beggar; any more
than yourself or your young ladies."
After a pause she said, "I dunnut understand that: you've like no house,
nor no brass, I guess?"
"The want of house or brass (by which I suppose you mean money) does not
make a beggar in your sense of the word."
"Are you book-learned?" she inquired presently.
"Yes, very."
"But you've never been to a boarding-school?"
"I was at a boarding-school eight years."
She opened her eyes wide. "Whatever cannot ye keep yourself for, then?"
"I have kept myself; and, I trust, shall keep myself again. What are you
going to do with these gooseberries?" I inquired, as she brought out a
basket of the fruit.
"Mak' 'em into pies."
"Give them to me and I'll pick them."
"Nay; I dunnut want ye to do nought."
"But I must do something. Let me have them."
She consented; and she even brought me a clean towel to spread over my
dress, "lest," as she said, "I should mucky it."
"Ye've not been used to sarvant's wark, I see by your hands," she
remarked. "Happen ye've been a dressmaker?"
"No, you are wrong. And now, never mind what I have been: don't trouble
your head further about me; but tell me the name of the house where we
are."
"Some calls it Marsh End, and some calls it Moor House."
"And the gentleman who lives here is called Mr. St. John?"
"Nay; he doesn't live here: he is only staying a while. When he is at
home, he is in his own parish at Morton."
"That village a few miles off?
"Aye."
"And what is he?"
"He is a parson."
I remembered the answer of the old housekeeper at the parsonage, when I
had asked to see the clergyman. "This, then, was his father's
residence?"
"Aye; old Mr. Rivers lived here, and his father, and grandfather, and
gurt (great) grandfather afore him."
"The name, then, of that gentleman, is Mr. St. John Rivers?"
"Aye; St. John is like his kirstened name."
"And his sisters are called Diana and Mary Rivers?"
"Yes."
"Their father is dead?"
"Dead three weeks sin' of a stroke."
"They have no mother?"
"The mistress has been dead this mony a year."
"Have you lived with the family long?"
"I've lived here thirty year. I nursed them all three."
"That proves you must have been an honest and faithful servant. I will
say so much for you, though you have had the incivility to call me a
beggar."
She again regarded me with a surprised stare. "I believe," she said, "I
was quite mista'en in my thoughts of you: but there is so mony cheats
goes about, you mun forgie me."
"And though," I continued, rather severely, "you wished to turn me from
the door, on a night when you should not have shut out a dog."
"Well, it was hard: but what can a body do? I thought more o' th'
childer nor of mysel: poor things! They've like nobody to tak' care on
'em but me. I'm like to look sharpish."
I maintained a grave silence for some minutes.
"You munnut think too hardly of me," she again remarked.
"But I do think hardly of you," I said; "and I'll tell you why--not so
much because you refused to give me shelter, or regarded me as an
impostor, as because you just now made it a species of reproach that I
had no 'brass' and no house. Some of the best people that ever lived
have been as destitute as I am; and if you are a Christian, you ought not
to consider poverty a crime."
"No more I ought," said she: "Mr. St. John tells me so too; and I see I
wor wrang--but I've clear a different notion on you now to what I had.
You look a raight down dacent little crater."
"That will do--I forgive you now. Shake hands."
She put her floury and horny hand into mine; another and heartier smile
illumined her rough face, and from that moment we were friends.
Hannah was evidently fond of talking. While I picked the fruit, and she
made the paste for the pies, she proceeded to give me sundry details
about her deceased master and mistress, and "the childer," as she called
the young people.
Old Mr. Rivers, she said, was a plain man enough, but a gentleman, and of
as ancient a family as could be found. Marsh End had belonged to the
Rivers ever since it was a house: and it was, she affirmed, "aboon two
hundred year old--for all it looked but a small, humble place, naught to
compare wi' Mr. Oliver's grand hall down i' Morton Vale. But she could
remember Bill Oliver's father a journeyman needlemaker; and th' Rivers
wor gentry i' th' owd days o' th' Henrys, as onybody might see by looking
into th' registers i' Morton Church vestry." Still, she allowed, "the
owd maister was like other folk--naught mich out o' t' common way: stark
mad o' shooting, and farming, and sich like." The mistress was
different. She was a great reader, and studied a deal; and the "bairns"
had taken after her. There was nothing like them in these parts, nor
ever had been; they had liked learning, all three, almost from the time
they could speak; and they had always been "of a mak' of their own." Mr.
St. John, when he grew up, would go to college and be a parson; and the
girls, as soon as they left school, would seek places as governesses: for
they had told her their father had some years ago lost a great deal of
money by a man he had trusted turning bankrupt; and as he was now not
rich enough to give them fortunes, they must provide for themselves. They
had lived very little at home for a long while, and were only come now to
stay a few weeks on account of their father's death; but they did so like
Marsh End and Morton, and all these moors and hills about. They had been
in London, and many other grand towns; but they always said there was no
place like home; and then they were so agreeable with each other--never
fell out nor "threaped." She did not know where there was such a family
for being united.
Having finished my task of gooseberry picking, I asked where the two
ladies and their brother were now.
"Gone over to Morton for a walk; but they would be back in half-an-hour
to tea."
They returned within the time Hannah had allotted them: they entered by
the kitchen door. Mr. St. John, when he saw me, merely bowed and passed
through; the two ladies stopped: Mary, in a few words, kindly and calmly
expressed the pleasure she felt in seeing me well enough to be able to
come down; Diana took my hand: she shook her head at me.
"You should have waited for my leave to descend," she said. "You still
look very pale--and so thin! Poor child!--poor girl!"
Diana had a voice toned, to my ear, like the cooing of a dove. She
possessed eyes whose gaze I delighted to encounter. Her whole face
seemed to me full of charm. Mary's countenance was equally
intelligent--her features equally pretty; but her expression was more
reserved, and her manners, though gentle, more distant. Diana looked and
spoke with a certain authority: she had a will, evidently. It was my
nature to feel pleasure in yielding to an authority supported like hers,
and to bend, where my conscience and self-respect permitted, to an active
will.
"And what business have you here?" she continued. "It is not your place.
Mary and I sit in the kitchen sometimes, because at home we like to be
free, even to license--but you are a visitor, and must go into the
parlour."
"I am very well here."
"Not at all, with Hannah bustling about and covering you with flour."
"Besides, the fire is too hot for you," interposed Mary.
"To be sure," added her sister. "Come, you must be obedient." And still
holding my hand she made me rise, and led me into the inner room.
"Sit there," she said, placing me on the sofa, "while we take our things
off and get the tea ready; it is another privilege we exercise in our
little moorland home--to prepare our own meals when we are so inclined,
or when Hannah is baking, brewing, washing, or ironing."
She closed the door, leaving me solus with Mr. St. John, who sat
opposite, a book or newspaper in his hand. I examined first, the
parlour, and then its occupant.
The parlour was rather a small room, very plainly furnished, yet
comfortable, because clean and neat. The old-fashioned chairs were very
bright, and the walnut-wood table was like a looking-glass. A few
strange, antique portraits of the men and women of other days decorated
the stained walls; a cupboard with glass doors contained some books and
an ancient set of china. There was no superfluous ornament in the
room--not one modern piece of furniture, save a brace of workboxes and a
lady's desk in rosewood, which stood on a side-table:
everything--including the carpet and curtains--looked at once well worn
and well saved.
Mr. St. John--sitting as still as one of the dusty pictures on the walls,
keeping his eyes fixed on the page he perused, and his lips mutely
sealed--was easy enough to examine. Had he been a statue instead of a
man, he could not have been easier. He was young--perhaps from twenty-
eight to thirty--tall, slender; his face riveted the eye; it was like a
Greek face, very pure in outline: quite a straight, classic nose; quite
an Athenian mouth and chin. It is seldom, indeed, an English face comes
so near the antique models as did his. He might well be a little shocked
at the irregularity of my lineaments, his own being so harmonious. His
eyes were large and blue, with brown lashes; his high forehead,
colourless as ivory, was partially streaked over by careless locks of
fair hair.
This is a gentle delineation, is it not, reader? Yet he whom it
describes scarcely impressed one with the idea of a gentle, a yielding,
an impressible, or even of a placid nature. Quiescent as he now sat,
there was something about his nostril, his mouth, his brow, which, to my
perceptions, indicated elements within either restless, or hard, or
eager. He did not speak to me one word, nor even direct to me one
glance, till his sisters returned. Diana, as she passed in and out, in
the course of preparing tea, brought me a little cake, baked on the top
of the oven.
"Eat that now," she said: "you must be hungry. Hannah says you have had
nothing but some gruel since breakfast."
I did not refuse it, for my appetite was awakened and keen. Mr. Rivers
now closed his book, approached the table, and, as he took a seat, fixed
his blue pictorial-looking eyes full on me. There was an unceremonious
directness, a searching, decided steadfastness in his gaze now, which
told that intention, and not diffidence, had hitherto kept it averted
from the stranger.
"You are very hungry," he said.
"I am, sir." It is my way--it always was my way, by instinct--ever to
meet the brief with brevity, the direct with plainness.
"It is well for you that a low fever has forced you to abstain for the
last three days: there would have been danger in yielding to the cravings
of your appetite at first. Now you may eat, though still not
immoderately."
"I trust I shall not eat long at your expense, sir," was my very clumsily-
contrived, unpolished answer.
"No," he said coolly: "when you have indicated to us the residence of
your friends, we can write to them, and you may be restored to home."
"That, I must plainly tell you, is out of my power to do; being
absolutely without home and friends."
The three looked at me, but not distrustfully; I felt there was no
suspicion in their glances: there was more of curiosity. I speak
particularly of the young ladies. St. John's eyes, though clear enough
in a literal sense, in a figurative one were difficult to fathom. He
seemed to use them rather as instruments to search other people's
thoughts, than as agents to reveal his own: the which combination of
keenness and reserve was considerably more calculated to embarrass than
to encourage.
"Do you mean to say," he asked, "that you are completely isolated from
every connection?"
"I do. Not a tie links me to any living thing: not a claim do I possess
to admittance under any roof in England."
"A most singular position at your age!"
Here I saw his glance directed to my hands, which were folded on the
table before me. I wondered what he sought there: his words soon
explained the quest.
"You have never been married? You are a spinster?"
Diana laughed. "Why, she can't be above seventeen or eighteen years old,
St. John," said she.
"I am near nineteen: but I am not married. No."
I felt a burning glow mount to my face; for bitter and agitating
recollections were awakened by the allusion to marriage. They all saw
the embarrassment and the emotion. Diana and Mary relieved me by turning
their eyes elsewhere than to my crimsoned visage; but the colder and
sterner brother continued to gaze, till the trouble he had excited forced
out tears as well as colour.
"Where did you last reside?" he now asked.
"You are too inquisitive, St. John," murmured Mary in a low voice; but he
leaned over the table and required an answer by a second firm and
piercing look.
"The name of the place where, and of the person with whom I lived, is my
secret," I replied concisely.
"Which, if you like, you have, in my opinion, a right to keep, both from
St. John and every other questioner," remarked Diana.
"Yet if I know nothing about you or your history, I cannot help you," he
said. "And you need help, do you not?"
"I need it, and I seek it so far, sir, that some true philanthropist will
put me in the way of getting work which I can do, and the remuneration
for which will keep me, if but in the barest necessaries of life."
"I know not whether I am a true philanthropist; yet I am willing to aid
you to the utmost of my power in a purpose so honest. First, then, tell
me what you have been accustomed to do, and what you _can_ do."
I had now swallowed my tea. I was mightily refreshed by the beverage; as
much so as a giant with wine: it gave new tone to my unstrung nerves, and
enabled me to address this penetrating young judge steadily.
"Mr. Rivers," I said, turning to him, and looking at him, as he looked at
me, openly and without diffidence, "you and your sisters have done me a
great service--the greatest man can do his fellow-being; you have rescued
me, by your noble hospitality, from death. This benefit conferred gives
you an unlimited claim on my gratitude, and a claim, to a certain extent,
on my confidence. I will tell you as much of the history of the wanderer
you have harboured, as I can tell without compromising my own peace of
mind--my own security, moral and physical, and that of others.
"I am an orphan, the daughter of a clergyman. My parents died before I
could know them. I was brought up a dependant; educated in a charitable
institution. I will even tell you the name of the establishment, where I
passed six years as a pupil, and two as a teacher--Lowood Orphan Asylum,
---shire: you will have heard of it, Mr. Rivers?--the Rev. Robert
Brocklehurst is the treasurer."
"I have heard of Mr. Brocklehurst, and I have seen the school."
"I left Lowood nearly a year since to become a private governess. I
obtained a good situation, and was happy. This place I was obliged to
leave four days before I came here. The reason of my departure I cannot
and ought not to explain: it would be useless, dangerous, and would sound
incredible. No blame attached to me: I am as free from culpability as
any one of you three. Miserable I am, and must be for a time; for the
catastrophe which drove me from a house I had found a paradise was of a
strange and direful nature. I observed but two points in planning my
departure--speed, secrecy: to secure these, I had to leave behind me
everything I possessed except a small parcel; which, in my hurry and
trouble of mind, I forgot to take out of the coach that brought me to
Whitcross. To this neighbourhood, then, I came, quite destitute. I
slept two nights in the open air, and wandered about two days without
crossing a threshold: but twice in that space of time did I taste food;
and it was when brought by hunger, exhaustion, and despair almost to the
last gasp, that you, Mr. Rivers, forbade me to perish of want at your
door, and took me under the shelter of your roof. I know all your
sisters have done for me since--for I have not been insensible during my
seeming torpor--and I owe to their spontaneous, genuine, genial
compassion as large a debt as to your evangelical charity."
"Don't make her talk any more now, St. John," said Diana, as I paused;
"she is evidently not yet fit for excitement. Come to the sofa and sit
down now, Miss Elliott."
I gave an involuntary half start at hearing the _alias_: I had forgotten
my new name. Mr. Rivers, whom nothing seemed to escape, noticed it at
once.
"You said your name was Jane Elliott?" he observed.
"I did say so; and it is the name by which I think it expedient to be
called at present, but it is not my real name, and when I hear it, it
sounds strange to me."
"Your real name you will not give?"
"No: I fear discovery above all things; and whatever disclosure would
lead to it, I avoid."
"You are quite right, I am sure," said Diana. "Now do, brother, let her
be at peace a while."
But when St. John had mused a few moments he recommenced as imperturbably
and with as much acumen as ever.
"You would not like to be long dependent on our hospitality--you would
wish, I see, to dispense as soon as may be with my sisters' compassion,
and, above all, with my _charity_ (I am quite sensible of the distinction
drawn, nor do I resent it--it is just): you desire to be independent of
us?"
"I do: I have already said so. Show me how to work, or how to seek work:
that is all I now ask; then let me go, if it be but to the meanest
cottage; but till then, allow me to stay here: I dread another essay of
the horrors of homeless destitution."
"Indeed you _shall_ stay here," said Diana, putting her white hand on my
head. "You _shall_," repeated Mary, in the tone of undemonstrative
sincerity which seemed natural to her.
"My sisters, you see, have a pleasure in keeping you," said Mr. St. John,
"as they would have a pleasure in keeping and cherishing a half-frozen
bird, some wintry wind might have driven through their casement. I feel
more inclination to put you in the way of keeping yourself, and shall
endeavour to do so; but observe, my sphere is narrow. I am but the
incumbent of a poor country parish: my aid must be of the humblest sort.
And if you are inclined to despise the day of small things, seek some
more efficient succour than such as I can offer."
"She has already said that she is willing to do anything honest she can
do," answered Diana for me; "and you know, St. John, she has no choice of
helpers: she is forced to put up with such crusty people as you."
"I will be a dressmaker; I will be a plain-workwoman; I will be a
servant, a nurse-girl, if I can be no better," I answered.
"Right," said Mr. St. John, quite coolly. "If such is your spirit, I
promise to aid you, in my own time and way."
He now resumed the book with which he had been occupied before tea. I
soon withdrew, for I had talked as much, and sat up as long, as my
present strength would permit. | Jane remains ill in bed for a few days. Eventually, she is able to dress and go downstairs to the kitchen. She finds Hannah, the servant, stemming gooseberries and offers to help her. Since Hannah has spent a long time with the family, Jane is sure that she must be a very loyal hand. Hannah thanks her for the compliment and apologizes for her previous behavior. Jane merely says that it is not a crime to be poor. Thus she manages to make friends with Hannah. Jane learns from Hannah that the house is known as Marsh End or Moor House, and that it has belonged to the Rivers for many generations. Hannah tells Jane that St. John Rivers is a parson at Morton and that his two sisters are both governesses. All of them, she points out, are fond of reading, just as their mother was. Their father died of a stroke three weeks ago. Now, they have come home to spend a few weeks together on account of his death. When St. John and his sisters return from a walk, Jane joins them in the parlor for tea. She finds St. John to be a presentable young man who speaks little. He asks Jane about her past. She briefly tells him about her life, avoiding any reference to Rochester. She begs them to help her find work. She still does not reveal her true identity. St. John asks her to stay at Marsh End with them. |
[The DUKE's castle.]
Enter LORENZO and BALTHAZAR.
LORENZO. My lord, though Bel-imperia seem thus coy,
Let reason hold you in your wonted joy:
In time the savage bull sustains the yoke,
In time all haggard hawks will stoop to lure,
In time small wedges cleave the hardest oak,
In time the flint is pierc'd with softest shower;
And she in time will fall from her disdain,
And rue the sufferance of your friendly pain.
BAL. No; she is wilder, and more hard withal,
Then beast or bird, or tree or stony wall!
But wherefore blot I Bel-imperia's name?
It is my fault, not she that merits blame.
My feature is not to content her sight;
My words are rude and work her no delight;
The lines I send her are but harsh and ill,
Such as do drop from Pan and Marsya's quill;
My presents are not of sufficient cost;
And, being worthless, all my labours lost.
Yet might she love me for my valiancy.
Aye; but that's slander'd by captivity.
Yet might she love me to content her sire.
Aye; but her reason masters her desire.
Yet might she love me as her brother's friend.
Aye; but her hopes aim at some other end.
Yet might she love me to uprear her state.
Aye; but perhaps she loves some nobler mate.
Yet might she love me as her beauty's thrall.
Aye; but I fear she cannot love at all.
LOR. My lord, for my sake leave these ecstasies,
And doubt not but we'll find some remedy.
Some cause there is that lets you not be lov'd:
First that must needs be known, and then remov'd.
What if my sister love some other knight?
BAL. My summer's day will turn to winter's night.
LOR. I have already found a stratagem
To sound the bottom of this doubtful theme.
My lord, for once you shall be rul'd by me;
Hinder me not what ere you hear or see:
By force or fair means will I cast about
To find the truth of all this question out.
Ho, Pedringano!
PED. Signior.
LOR. Vien qui presto!
Enter PEDRINGANO.
PED. Hath your lordship any service to command me?
LOR. Aye, Pedringano, service of import.
And, not to spend the time in trifling words,
Thus stands the case: it is not long, thou know'st,
Since I did shield thee from my father's wrath
For thy convenience in Andrea's love,
For which thou wert adjudg'd to punishment;
I stood betwixt thee and thy punishment,
And since thou knowest how I have favour'd thee.
Now to these favours will I add reward,
Not with fair words, but store of golden coin
And lands and living join'd with dignities,
If thou but satisfy my just demand;
Tell truth and have me for thy lasting friend.
PED. Whate'er it be your lordship shall demand,
My bounden duty bids me tell the truth,
If case it lie in me to tell the truth.
LOR. Then, Pedringano, this is my demand;
Whom loves my sister Bel-imperia?
For she reposeth all her trust in thee.
Speak, man, and gain both friendship and reward:
I mean, whom loves she in Andrea's place?
PED. Alas, my lord, since Don Andrea's death
I have no credit with her as before,
And therefore know not if she love or no.
LOR. Nay, if thou dally, then I am thy foe,
And fear shall force what friendship cannot win.
Thy death shall bury what thy life conceals.
Thou die'st for more esteeming her than me!
[Draws his sword.]
PED. Oh stay, my lord!
LOR. Yet speak the truth, and I will guerdon thee
And shield thee from whatever can ensue,
And will conceal whate'er proceeds from thee;
But, if thou dally once again, thou diest!
PED. If madame Bel-imperia be in love--
LOR. What, villain! ifs and ands?
PED. Oh stay, my lord! she loves Horatio!
BALTHAZAR starts back.
LOR. What! Don Horatio, our knight-marshall's son?
PED. Even him, my lord.
LOR. Now say but how know'st thou he is her love,
And thou shalt find me kind and liberal.
Stand up, I say, and fearless tell the truth.
PED. She sent him letters,--which myself perus'd,--
Full-fraught with lines and arguments of love,
Preferring him before Prince Balthazar.
LOR. Swear on this cross that what thou say'st is true,
And that thou wilt conceal what thou hast told.
PED. I swear to both, by him that made us all.
LOR. In hope thine oath is true, here's thy reward.
But, if I prove thee perjur'd and unjust,
This very sword whereon thou took'st thine oath
Shall be the worker of thy tragedy.
PED. What I have said is true, and shall, for me,
Be still conceal'd from Bel-imperia.
Besides, your Honour's liberality
Deserves my duteous service ev'n till death.
LOR. Let this be all that thou shall do for me:
Be watchful when and where these lovers meet,
And give me notice in some secret sort.
PED. I will, my lord.
LOR. Then thou shalt find that I am liberal.
Thou know'st that I can more advance thy state
Than she: be therefore wise and fail me not.
Go and attend her as thy custom is,
Least absence make her think thou dost amiss.
Exit PEDRINGANO.
Why, so, Tam armis quam ingenio:
Where words prevail not, violence prevails.
But gold doth more than either of them both.
How likes Prince Balthazar this stratagem?
BAL. Both well and ill; it makes me glad and sad:
Glad, that I know the hind'rer of my love;
Sad, that I fear she hates me whom I love;
Glad, that I know on whom to be reveng'd;
Sad, that she'll fly me if I take revenge.
Yet must I take revenge or die myself;
For love resisted grows impatient.
I think Horatio be my destin'd plague:
First, in his hand he brandished a sword,
And with that sword he fiercely waged war,
And in that war he gave me dangerous wounds,
And by those wounds he forced me to yield,
And by my yielding I became his slave;
Now, in his mouth he carries pleasing words,
Which pleasing words do harbour sweet conceits,
Which sweet conceits are lim'd with sly deceits,
Which sly deceits smooth Bel-imperia's ears,
And through her ears dive down into her heart,
And in her heart set him, where I should stand.
Thus hath he ta'en my body by his force,
And now by sleight would captivate my soul;
But in his fall I'll tempt the Destinies,
And either lose my life or win my love.
LOR. Let's go, my lord; our staying stays revenge.
Do but follow me, and gain your love;
Her favour must be won by his remove.
Exeunt. | The scene opens with Balthazar moping about Bel-Imperia denying his best pick-up lines. Lorenzo tries to assure Balthazar that his sister will eventually give in if he just remains patient, but he does admit that it's possible that she loves another knight. Lorenzo is a forward thinking baddie, so he's got a plan if Bel-Imperia is crushing on a new dude. As soon as he tells Balthazar this, the henchman who will carry out this plan enters the room--his name is Pedringano . Lorenzo reminds Pedringano that he owes him one for a solid in the past. Apparently, Pedringano helped to hide Bel-Imperia's relationship with Andrea from the King. And Lorenzo helped to shield the wormy servant from the king's wrath. After being reminded of his debt, Pedringano is more than willing to give Lorenzo any information he might need--in fact, Pedringano seems to enjoy being bad. His first bad guy move is to rat out the lady he serves. So, Pedringano spills the beans and says that Bel-Imperia now loves Horatio--big trouble. He even goes the extra mile by letting Lorenzo know that he passed love notes to Horatio for Bel-Imperia. Lorenzo happily pays Pedringano for the down low, and says something like, "there's more where that comes from if you wanna help." Pedringano accepts his new role as Lorenzo's moustache-twirling-assistant-villain. And while the money is nice, the job is also a perfect fit for a fellow of Pedringano's character and skill set. After Pedringano exits the scene, Lorenzo tells Balthazar that the only way he'll hook up with Bel-Imperia is if Horatio is dead--man, this guy is really devoted to matchmaking. |
It was seven in the morning when Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout set
foot upon the American continent, if this name can be given to the
floating quay upon which they disembarked. These quays, rising and
falling with the tide, thus facilitate the loading and unloading of
vessels. Alongside them were clippers of all sizes, steamers of all
nationalities, and the steamboats, with several decks rising one above
the other, which ply on the Sacramento and its tributaries. There were
also heaped up the products of a commerce which extends to Mexico,
Chili, Peru, Brazil, Europe, Asia, and all the Pacific islands.
Passepartout, in his joy on reaching at last the American continent,
thought he would manifest it by executing a perilous vault in fine
style; but, tumbling upon some worm-eaten planks, he fell through them.
Put out of countenance by the manner in which he thus "set foot" upon
the New World, he uttered a loud cry, which so frightened the
innumerable cormorants and pelicans that are always perched upon these
movable quays, that they flew noisily away.
Mr. Fogg, on reaching shore, proceeded to find out at what hour the
first train left for New York, and learned that this was at six o'clock
p.m.; he had, therefore, an entire day to spend in the Californian
capital. Taking a carriage at a charge of three dollars, he and Aouda
entered it, while Passepartout mounted the box beside the driver, and
they set out for the International Hotel.
From his exalted position Passepartout observed with much curiosity the
wide streets, the low, evenly ranged houses, the Anglo-Saxon Gothic
churches, the great docks, the palatial wooden and brick warehouses,
the numerous conveyances, omnibuses, horse-cars, and upon the
side-walks, not only Americans and Europeans, but Chinese and Indians.
Passepartout was surprised at all he saw. San Francisco was no longer
the legendary city of 1849--a city of banditti, assassins, and
incendiaries, who had flocked hither in crowds in pursuit of plunder; a
paradise of outlaws, where they gambled with gold-dust, a revolver in
one hand and a bowie-knife in the other: it was now a great commercial
emporium.
The lofty tower of its City Hall overlooked the whole panorama of the
streets and avenues, which cut each other at right-angles, and in the
midst of which appeared pleasant, verdant squares, while beyond
appeared the Chinese quarter, seemingly imported from the Celestial
Empire in a toy-box. Sombreros and red shirts and plumed Indians were
rarely to be seen; but there were silk hats and black coats everywhere
worn by a multitude of nervously active, gentlemanly-looking men. Some
of the streets--especially Montgomery Street, which is to San Francisco
what Regent Street is to London, the Boulevard des Italiens to Paris,
and Broadway to New York--were lined with splendid and spacious
stores, which exposed in their windows the products of the entire world.
When Passepartout reached the International Hotel, it did not seem to
him as if he had left England at all.
The ground floor of the hotel was occupied by a large bar, a sort of
restaurant freely open to all passers-by, who might partake of dried
beef, oyster soup, biscuits, and cheese, without taking out their
purses. Payment was made only for the ale, porter, or sherry which was
drunk. This seemed "very American" to Passepartout. The hotel
refreshment-rooms were comfortable, and Mr. Fogg and Aouda, installing
themselves at a table, were abundantly served on diminutive plates by
negroes of darkest hue.
After breakfast, Mr. Fogg, accompanied by Aouda, started for the
English consulate to have his passport visaed. As he was going out, he
met Passepartout, who asked him if it would not be well, before taking
the train, to purchase some dozens of Enfield rifles and Colt's
revolvers. He had been listening to stories of attacks upon the trains
by the Sioux and Pawnees. Mr. Fogg thought it a useless precaution,
but told him to do as he thought best, and went on to the consulate.
He had not proceeded two hundred steps, however, when, "by the greatest
chance in the world," he met Fix. The detective seemed wholly taken by
surprise. What! Had Mr. Fogg and himself crossed the Pacific
together, and not met on the steamer! At least Fix felt honoured to
behold once more the gentleman to whom he owed so much, and, as his
business recalled him to Europe, he should be delighted to continue the
journey in such pleasant company.
Mr. Fogg replied that the honour would be his; and the detective--who
was determined not to lose sight of him--begged permission to accompany
them in their walk about San Francisco--a request which Mr. Fogg
readily granted.
They soon found themselves in Montgomery Street, where a great crowd
was collected; the side-walks, street, horsecar rails, the shop-doors,
the windows of the houses, and even the roofs, were full of people.
Men were going about carrying large posters, and flags and streamers
were floating in the wind; while loud cries were heard on every hand.
"Hurrah for Camerfield!"
"Hurrah for Mandiboy!"
It was a political meeting; at least so Fix conjectured, who said to
Mr. Fogg, "Perhaps we had better not mingle with the crowd. There may
be danger in it."
"Yes," returned Mr. Fogg; "and blows, even if they are political are
still blows."
Fix smiled at this remark; and, in order to be able to see without
being jostled about, the party took up a position on the top of a
flight of steps situated at the upper end of Montgomery Street.
Opposite them, on the other side of the street, between a coal wharf
and a petroleum warehouse, a large platform had been erected in the
open air, towards which the current of the crowd seemed to be directed.
For what purpose was this meeting? What was the occasion of this
excited assemblage? Phileas Fogg could not imagine. Was it to
nominate some high official--a governor or member of Congress? It was
not improbable, so agitated was the multitude before them.
Just at this moment there was an unusual stir in the human mass. All
the hands were raised in the air. Some, tightly closed, seemed to
disappear suddenly in the midst of the cries--an energetic way, no
doubt, of casting a vote. The crowd swayed back, the banners and flags
wavered, disappeared an instant, then reappeared in tatters. The
undulations of the human surge reached the steps, while all the heads
floundered on the surface like a sea agitated by a squall. Many of the
black hats disappeared, and the greater part of the crowd seemed to
have diminished in height.
"It is evidently a meeting," said Fix, "and its object must be an
exciting one. I should not wonder if it were about the Alabama,
despite the fact that that question is settled."
"Perhaps," replied Mr. Fogg, simply.
"At least, there are two champions in presence of each other, the
Honourable Mr. Camerfield and the Honourable Mr. Mandiboy."
Aouda, leaning upon Mr. Fogg's arm, observed the tumultuous scene with
surprise, while Fix asked a man near him what the cause of it all was.
Before the man could reply, a fresh agitation arose; hurrahs and
excited shouts were heard; the staffs of the banners began to be used
as offensive weapons; and fists flew about in every direction. Thumps
were exchanged from the tops of the carriages and omnibuses which had
been blocked up in the crowd. Boots and shoes went whirling through
the air, and Mr. Fogg thought he even heard the crack of revolvers
mingling in the din, the rout approached the stairway, and flowed over
the lower step. One of the parties had evidently been repulsed; but
the mere lookers-on could not tell whether Mandiboy or Camerfield had
gained the upper hand.
"It would be prudent for us to retire," said Fix, who was anxious that
Mr. Fogg should not receive any injury, at least until they got back to
London. "If there is any question about England in all this, and we
were recognised, I fear it would go hard with us."
"An English subject--" began Mr. Fogg.
He did not finish his sentence; for a terrific hubbub now arose on the
terrace behind the flight of steps where they stood, and there were
frantic shouts of, "Hurrah for Mandiboy! Hip, hip, hurrah!"
It was a band of voters coming to the rescue of their allies, and
taking the Camerfield forces in flank. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Fix found
themselves between two fires; it was too late to escape. The torrent
of men, armed with loaded canes and sticks, was irresistible. Phileas
Fogg and Fix were roughly hustled in their attempts to protect their
fair companion; the former, as cool as ever, tried to defend himself
with the weapons which nature has placed at the end of every
Englishman's arm, but in vain. A big brawny fellow with a red beard,
flushed face, and broad shoulders, who seemed to be the chief of the
band, raised his clenched fist to strike Mr. Fogg, whom he would have
given a crushing blow, had not Fix rushed in and received it in his
stead. An enormous bruise immediately made its appearance under the
detective's silk hat, which was completely smashed in.
"Yankee!" exclaimed Mr. Fogg, darting a contemptuous look at the
ruffian.
"Englishman!" returned the other. "We will meet again!"
"When you please."
"What is your name?"
"Phileas Fogg. And yours?"
"Colonel Stamp Proctor."
The human tide now swept by, after overturning Fix, who speedily got
upon his feet again, though with tattered clothes. Happily, he was not
seriously hurt. His travelling overcoat was divided into two unequal
parts, and his trousers resembled those of certain Indians, which fit
less compactly than they are easy to put on. Aouda had escaped
unharmed, and Fix alone bore marks of the fray in his black and blue
bruise.
"Thanks," said Mr. Fogg to the detective, as soon as they were out of
the crowd.
"No thanks are necessary," replied. Fix; "but let us go."
"Where?"
"To a tailor's."
Such a visit was, indeed, opportune. The clothing of both Mr. Fogg and
Fix was in rags, as if they had themselves been actively engaged in the
contest between Camerfield and Mandiboy. An hour after, they were once
more suitably attired, and with Aouda returned to the International
Hotel.
Passepartout was waiting for his master, armed with half a dozen
six-barrelled revolvers. When he perceived Fix, he knit his brows; but
Aouda having, in a few words, told him of their adventure, his
countenance resumed its placid expression. Fix evidently was no longer
an enemy, but an ally; he was faithfully keeping his word.
Dinner over, the coach which was to convey the passengers and their
luggage to the station drew up to the door. As he was getting in, Mr.
Fogg said to Fix, "You have not seen this Colonel Proctor again?"
"No."
"I will come back to America to find him," said Phileas Fogg calmly.
"It would not be right for an Englishman to permit himself to be
treated in that way, without retaliating."
The detective smiled, but did not reply. It was clear that Mr. Fogg
was one of those Englishmen who, while they do not tolerate duelling at
home, fight abroad when their honour is attacked.
At a quarter before six the travellers reached the station, and found
the train ready to depart. As he was about to enter it, Mr. Fogg
called a porter, and said to him: "My friend, was there not some
trouble to-day in San Francisco?"
"It was a political meeting, sir," replied the porter.
"But I thought there was a great deal of disturbance in the streets."
"It was only a meeting assembled for an election."
"The election of a general-in-chief, no doubt?" asked Mr. Fogg.
"No, sir; of a justice of the peace."
Phileas Fogg got into the train, which started off at full speed. | After docking at San Francisco, Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout have a whole day before a train they intend to catch leaves for New York. Fogg and Aouda go out to eat and "by chance" bump into Fix. The three go on a small tour of the city. They get caught up in a political rally and are afraid for Aouda's safety as things start to get rough and rowdy between the two parties. An all-out brawl occurs before the three can make their way out of it. A man with a red goatee tries to punch Phileas but misses him and hits Fix instead. Fogg calls him a "Yankee"--ouch, what an insult--and the goatee calls him "Englishman." Sick burns all around. Then the goatee calls him out. He challenges Phileas to a duel and we find out the goatee belongs to one Colonel Stamp Proctor. Both Phileas and Fix are in need of new clothes after the brawl, but Aouda is unhurt. Fogg swears he will have the duel with Proctor, even if it means he has to come back to America after winning the "around the world" bet. |
DINAH, who had risen when the gentlemen came in, but still kept hold of
the sheet she was mending, curtsied respectfully when she saw Mr. Irwine
looking at her and advancing towards her. He had never yet spoken to
her, or stood face to face with her, and her first thought, as her eyes
met his, was, "What a well-favoured countenance! Oh that the good seed
might fall on that soil, for it would surely flourish." The agreeable
impression must have been mutual, for Mr. Irwine bowed to her with a
benignant deference, which would have been equally in place if she had
been the most dignified lady of his acquaintance.
"You are only a visitor in this neighbourhood, I think?" were his first
words, as he seated himself opposite to her.
"No, sir, I come from Snowfield, in Stonyshire. But my aunt was very
kind, wanting me to have rest from my work there, because I'd been ill,
and she invited me to come and stay with her for a while."
"Ah, I remember Snowfield very well; I once had occasion to go there.
It's a dreary bleak place. They were building a cotton-mill there; but
that's many years ago now. I suppose the place is a good deal changed by
the employment that mill must have brought."
"It IS changed so far as the mill has brought people there, who get a
livelihood for themselves by working in it, and make it better for the
tradesfolks. I work in it myself, and have reason to be grateful, for
thereby I have enough and to spare. But it's still a bleak place, as you
say, sir--very different from this country."
"You have relations living there, probably, so that you are attached to
the place as your home?"
"I had an aunt there once; she brought me up, for I was an orphan. But
she was taken away seven years ago, and I have no other kindred that I
know of, besides my Aunt Poyser, who is very good to me, and would
have me come and live in this country, which to be sure is a good land,
wherein they eat bread without scarceness. But I'm not free to leave
Snowfield, where I was first planted, and have grown deep into it, like
the small grass on the hill-top."
"Ah, I daresay you have many religious friends and companions there; you
are a Methodist--a Wesleyan, I think?"
"Yes, my aunt at Snowfield belonged to the Society, and I have cause
to be thankful for the privileges I have had thereby from my earliest
childhood."
"And have you been long in the habit of preaching? For I understand you
preached at Hayslope last night."
"I first took to the work four years since, when I was twenty-one."
"Your Society sanctions women's preaching, then?"
"It doesn't forbid them, sir, when they've a clear call to the work,
and when their ministry is owned by the conversion of sinners and the
strengthening of God's people. Mrs. Fletcher, as you may have heard
about, was the first woman to preach in the Society, I believe, before
she was married, when she was Miss Bosanquet; and Mr. Wesley approved
of her undertaking the work. She had a great gift, and there are many
others now living who are precious fellow-helpers in the work of the
ministry. I understand there's been voices raised against it in the
Society of late, but I cannot but think their counsel will come to
nought. It isn't for men to make channels for God's Spirit, as they
make channels for the watercourses, and say, 'Flow here, but flow not
there.'"
"But don't you find some danger among your people--I don't mean to say
that it is so with you, far from it--but don't you find sometimes that
both men and women fancy themselves channels for God's Spirit, and are
quite mistaken, so that they set about a work for which they are unfit
and bring holy things into contempt?"
"Doubtless it is so sometimes; for there have been evil-doers among us
who have sought to deceive the brethren, and some there are who deceive
their own selves. But we are not without discipline and correction to
put a check upon these things. There's a very strict order kept among
us, and the brethren and sisters watch for each other's souls as they
that must give account. They don't go every one his own way and say, 'Am
I my brother's keeper?'"
"But tell me--if I may ask, and I am really interested in knowing
it--how you first came to think of preaching?"
"Indeed, sir, I didn't think of it at all--I'd been used from the time
I was sixteen to talk to the little children, and teach them, and
sometimes I had had my heart enlarged to speak in class, and was much
drawn out in prayer with the sick. But I had felt no call to preach, for
when I'm not greatly wrought upon, I'm too much given to sit still and
keep by myself. It seems as if I could sit silent all day long with the
thought of God overflowing my soul--as the pebbles lie bathed in the
Willow Brook. For thoughts are so great--aren't they, sir? They seem to
lie upon us like a deep flood; and it's my besetment to forget where
I am and everything about me, and lose myself in thoughts that I could
give no account of, for I could neither make a beginning nor ending of
them in words. That was my way as long as I can remember; but sometimes
it seemed as if speech came to me without any will of my own, and words
were given to me that came out as the tears come, because our hearts
are full and we can't help it. And those were always times of great
blessing, though I had never thought it could be so with me before
a congregation of people. But, sir, we are led on, like the little
children, by a way that we know not. I was called to preach quite
suddenly, and since then I have never been left in doubt about the work
that was laid upon me."
"But tell me the circumstances--just how it was, the very day you began
to preach."
"It was one Sunday I walked with brother Marlowe, who was an aged
man, one of the local preachers, all the way to Hetton-Deeps--that's a
village where the people get their living by working in the lead-mines,
and where there's no church nor preacher, but they live like sheep
without a shepherd. It's better than twelve miles from Snowfield, so
we set out early in the morning, for it was summertime; and I had a
wonderful sense of the Divine love as we walked over the hills, where
there's no trees, you know, sir, as there is here, to make the sky look
smaller, but you see the heavens stretched out like a tent, and you feel
the everlasting arms around you. But before we got to Hetton, brother
Marlowe was seized with a dizziness that made him afraid of falling, for
he overworked himself sadly, at his years, in watching and praying,
and walking so many miles to speak the Word, as well as carrying on his
trade of linen-weaving. And when we got to the village, the people were
expecting him, for he'd appointed the time and the place when he was
there before, and such of them as cared to hear the Word of Life were
assembled on a spot where the cottages was thickest, so as others might
be drawn to come. But he felt as he couldn't stand up to preach, and
he was forced to lie down in the first of the cottages we came to. So I
went to tell the people, thinking we'd go into one of the houses, and I
would read and pray with them. But as I passed along by the cottages and
saw the aged and trembling women at the doors, and the hard looks of the
men, who seemed to have their eyes no more filled with the sight of the
Sabbath morning than if they had been dumb oxen that never looked up to
the sky, I felt a great movement in my soul, and I trembled as if I
was shaken by a strong spirit entering into my weak body. And I went to
where the little flock of people was gathered together, and stepped on
the low wall that was built against the green hillside, and I spoke the
words that were given to me abundantly. And they all came round me out
of all the cottages, and many wept over their sins, and have since been
joined to the Lord. That was the beginning of my preaching, sir, and
I've preached ever since."
Dinah had let her work fall during this narrative, which she uttered in
her usual simple way, but with that sincere articulate, thrilling treble
by which she always mastered her audience. She stooped now to gather up
her sewing, and then went on with it as before. Mr. Irwine was deeply
interested. He said to himself, "He must be a miserable prig who would
act the pedagogue here: one might as well go and lecture the trees for
growing in their own shape."
"And you never feel any embarrassment from the sense of your youth--that
you are a lovely young woman on whom men's eyes are fixed?" he said
aloud.
"No, I've no room for such feelings, and I don't believe the people ever
take notice about that. I think, sir, when God makes His presence felt
through us, we are like the burning bush: Moses never took any heed
what sort of bush it was--he only saw the brightness of the Lord. I've
preached to as rough ignorant people as can be in the villages about
Snowfield--men that looked very hard and wild--but they never said an
uncivil word to me, and often thanked me kindly as they made way for me
to pass through the midst of them."
"THAT I can believe--that I can well believe," said Mr. Irwine,
emphatically. "And what did you think of your hearers last night, now?
Did you find them quiet and attentive?"
"Very quiet, sir, but I saw no signs of any great work upon them, except
in a young girl named Bessy Cranage, towards whom my heart yearned
greatly, when my eyes first fell on her blooming youth, given up
to folly and vanity. I had some private talk and prayer with her
afterwards, and I trust her heart is touched. But I've noticed that
in these villages where the people lead a quiet life among the green
pastures and the still waters, tilling the ground and tending the
cattle, there's a strange deadness to the Word, as different as can
be from the great towns, like Leeds, where I once went to visit a holy
woman who preaches there. It's wonderful how rich is the harvest of
souls up those high-walled streets, where you seemed to walk as in a
prison-yard, and the ear is deafened with the sounds of worldly toil.
I think maybe it is because the promise is sweeter when this life is so
dark and weary, and the soul gets more hungry when the body is ill at
ease."
"Why, yes, our farm-labourers are not easily roused. They take life
almost as slowly as the sheep and cows. But we have some intelligent
workmen about here. I daresay you know the Bedes; Seth Bede, by the by,
is a Methodist."
"Yes, I know Seth well, and his brother Adam a little. Seth is a
gracious young man--sincere and without offence; and Adam is like the
patriarch Joseph, for his great skill and knowledge and the kindness he
shows to his brother and his parents."
"Perhaps you don't know the trouble that has just happened to them?
Their father, Matthias Bede, was drowned in the Willow Brook last night,
not far from his own door. I'm going now to see Adam."
"Ah, their poor aged mother!" said Dinah, dropping her hands and looking
before her with pitying eyes, as if she saw the object of her sympathy.
"She will mourn heavily, for Seth has told me she's of an anxious,
troubled heart. I must go and see if I can give her any help."
As she rose and was beginning to fold up her work, Captain Donnithorne,
having exhausted all plausible pretexts for remaining among the
milk-pans, came out of the dairy, followed by Mrs. Poyser. Mr. Irwine
now rose also, and, advancing towards Dinah, held out his hand, and
said, "Good-bye. I hear you are going away soon; but this will not be
the last visit you will pay your aunt--so we shall meet again, I hope."
His cordiality towards Dinah set all Mrs. Poyser's anxieties at rest,
and her face was brighter than usual, as she said, "I've never asked
after Mrs. Irwine and the Miss Irwines, sir; I hope they're as well as
usual."
"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Poyser, except that Miss Anne has one of her bad
headaches to-day. By the by, we all liked that nice cream-cheese you
sent us--my mother especially."
"I'm very glad, indeed, sir. It is but seldom I make one, but I
remembered Mrs. Irwine was fond of 'em. Please to give my duty to her,
and to Miss Kate and Miss Anne. They've never been to look at my poultry
this long while, and I've got some beautiful speckled chickens, black
and white, as Miss Kate might like to have some of amongst hers."
"Well, I'll tell her; she must come and see them. Good-bye," said the
rector, mounting his horse.
"Just ride slowly on, Irwine," said Captain Donnithorne, mounting also.
"I'll overtake you in three minutes. I'm only going to speak to the
shepherd about the whelps. Good-bye, Mrs. Poyser; tell your husband I
shall come and have a long talk with him soon."
Mrs. Poyser curtsied duly, and watched the two horses until they had
disappeared from the yard, amidst great excitement on the part of the
pigs and the poultry, and under the furious indignation of the bull-dog,
who performed a Pyrrhic dance, that every moment seemed to threaten the
breaking of his chain. Mrs. Poyser delighted in this noisy exit; it was
a fresh assurance to her that the farm-yard was well guarded, and that
no loiterers could enter unobserved; and it was not until the gate had
closed behind the captain that she turned into the kitchen again, where
Dinah stood with her bonnet in her hand, waiting to speak to her aunt,
before she set out for Lisbeth Bede's cottage.
Mrs. Poyser, however, though she noticed the bonnet, deferred remarking
on it until she had disburdened herself of her surprise at Mr. Irwine's
behaviour.
"Why, Mr. Irwine wasn't angry, then? What did he say to you, Dinah?
Didn't he scold you for preaching?"
"No, he was not at all angry; he was very friendly to me. I was quite
drawn out to speak to him; I hardly know how, for I had always thought
of him as a worldly Sadducee. But his countenance is as pleasant as the
morning sunshine."
"Pleasant! And what else did y' expect to find him but pleasant?" said
Mrs. Poyser impatiently, resuming her knitting. "I should think his
countenance is pleasant indeed! And him a gentleman born, and's got a
mother like a picter. You may go the country round and not find such
another woman turned sixty-six. It's summat-like to see such a man as
that i' the desk of a Sunday! As I say to Poyser, it's like looking at
a full crop o' wheat, or a pasture with a fine dairy o' cows in it; it
makes you think the world's comfortable-like. But as for such creaturs
as you Methodisses run after, I'd as soon go to look at a lot o'
bare-ribbed runts on a common. Fine folks they are to tell you what's
right, as look as if they'd never tasted nothing better than bacon-sword
and sour-cake i' their lives. But what did Mr. Irwine say to you about
that fool's trick o' preaching on the Green?"
"He only said he'd heard of it; he didn't seem to feel any displeasure
about it. But, dear aunt, don't think any more about that. He told me
something that I'm sure will cause you sorrow, as it does me. Thias Bede
was drowned last night in the Willow Brook, and I'm thinking that the
aged mother will be greatly in need of comfort. Perhaps I can be of use
to her, so I have fetched my bonnet and am going to set out."
"Dear heart, dear heart! But you must have a cup o' tea first, child,"
said Mrs. Poyser, falling at once from the key of B with five sharps to
the frank and genial C. "The kettle's boiling--we'll have it ready in
a minute; and the young uns 'ull be in and wanting theirs directly. I'm
quite willing you should go and see th' old woman, for you're one as
is allays welcome in trouble, Methodist or no Methodist; but, for the
matter o' that, it's the flesh and blood folks are made on as makes the
difference. Some cheeses are made o' skimmed milk and some o' new milk,
and it's no matter what you call 'em, you may tell which is which by the
look and the smell. But as to Thias Bede, he's better out o' the way nor
in--God forgi' me for saying so--for he's done little this ten year but
make trouble for them as belonged to him; and I think it 'ud be well
for you to take a little bottle o' rum for th' old woman, for I daresay
she's got never a drop o' nothing to comfort her inside. Sit down,
child, and be easy, for you shan't stir out till you've had a cup o'
tea, and so I tell you."
During the latter part of this speech, Mrs. Poyser had been reaching
down the tea-things from the shelves, and was on her way towards
the pantry for the loaf (followed close by Totty, who had made her
appearance on the rattling of the tea-cups), when Hetty came out of
the dairy relieving her tired arms by lifting them up, and clasping her
hands at the back of her head.
"Molly," she said, rather languidly, "just run out and get me a bunch of
dock-leaves: the butter's ready to pack up now."
"D' you hear what's happened, Hetty?" said her aunt.
"No; how should I hear anything?" was the answer, in a pettish tone.
"Not as you'd care much, I daresay, if you did hear; for you're too
feather-headed to mind if everybody was dead, so as you could stay
upstairs a-dressing yourself for two hours by the clock. But anybody
besides yourself 'ud mind about such things happening to them as think
a deal more of you than you deserve. But Adam Bede and all his kin might
be drownded for what you'd care--you'd be perking at the glass the next
minute."
"Adam Bede--drowned?" said Hetty, letting her arms fall and looking
rather bewildered, but suspecting that her aunt was as usual
exaggerating with a didactic purpose.
"No, my dear, no," said Dinah kindly, for Mrs. Poyser had passed on to
the pantry without deigning more precise information. "Not Adam. Adam's
father, the old man, is drowned. He was drowned last night in the Willow
Brook. Mr. Irwine has just told me about it."
"Oh, how dreadful!" said Hetty, looking serious, but not deeply
affected; and as Molly now entered with the dock-leaves, she took them
silently and returned to the dairy without asking further questions. | A Vocation Both Dinah Morris and Mr. Irwine have a favorable opinion of one another at first glance, for they are both sincere and generous people. Irwine questions her about her life in the cotton-mill at Snowfield and her preaching She explains that there are women preachers among the Methodists, though it isn't common, and then tells how it was that she began to speak when another preacher was taken ill. The words seem to come divinely out of her with no will of her own. Mr. Irwine sees she is genuine and has no desire to dispute her right to preach, but he does wonder if men do not try to court or hassle her. She says they do not, and she has no time for personal feelings. They then discuss the death of Thais Bede, and Dinah puts away her work, inspired to go to Seth's mother to comfort her. Aunt Poyser admits that even if she is a Methodist, Dinah has a comforting way and people like to have her around in a crisis. When she tells Hetty about Mr. Bede drowning, however, Hetty seems barely interested, lost in her own thoughts about Arthur. Aunt Poyser criticizes her as being "feather-headed" . |
Slaveholders pride themselves upon being honorable men; but if you were to
hear the enormous lies they tell their slaves, you would have small respect
for their veracity. I have spoken plain English. Pardon me. I cannot use a
milder term. When they visit the north, and return home, they tell their
slaves of the runaways they have seen, and describe them to be in the most
deplorable condition. A slaveholder once told me that he had seen a runaway
friend of mine in New York, and that she besought him to take her back to
her master, for she was literally dying of starvation; that many days she
had only one cold potato to eat, and at other times could get nothing at
all. He said he refused to take her, because he knew her master would not
thank him for bringing such a miserable wretch to his house. He ended by
saying to me, "This is the punishment she brought on herself for running
away from a kind master."
This whole story was false. I afterwards staid with that friend in New
York, and found her in comfortable circumstances. She had never thought of
such a thing as wishing to go back to slavery. Many of the slaves believe
such stories, and think it is not worth while to exchange slavery for such
a hard kind of freedom. It is difficult to persuade such that freedom could
make them useful men, and enable them to protect their wives and children.
If those heathen in our Christian land had as much teaching as some
Hindoos, they would think otherwise. They would know that liberty is more
valuable than life. They would begin to understand their own capabilities,
and exert themselves to become men and women.
But while the Free States sustain a law which hurls fugitives back into
slavery, how can the slaves resolve to become men? There are some who
strive to protect wives and daughters from the insults of their masters;
but those who have such sentiments have had advantages above the general
mass of slaves. They have been partially civilized and Christianized by
favorable circumstances. Some are bold enough to _utter_ such sentiments to
their masters. O, that there were more of them!
Some poor creatures have been so brutalized by the lash that they will
sneak out of the way to give their masters free access to their wives and
daughters. Do you think this proves the black man to belong to an inferior
order of beings? What would _you_ be, if you had been born and brought up a
slave, with generations of slaves for ancestors? I admit that the black man
_is_ inferior. But what is it that makes him so? It is the ignorance in
which white men compel him to live; it is the torturing whip that lashes
manhood out of him; it is the fierce bloodhounds of the South, and the
scarcely less cruel human bloodhounds of the north, who enforce the
Fugitive Slave Law. _They_ do the work.
Southern gentlemen indulge in the most contemptuous expressions about the
Yankees, while they, on their part, consent to do the vilest work for them,
such as the ferocious bloodhounds and the despised negro-hunters are
employed to do at home. When southerners go to the north, they are proud to
do them honor; but the northern man is not welcome south of Mason and
Dixon's line, unless he suppresses every thought and feeling at variance
with their "peculiar institution." Nor is it enough to be silent. The
masters are not pleased, unless they obtain a greater degree of
subservience than that; and they are generally accommodated. Do they
respect the northerner for this? I trow not. Even the slaves despise "a
northern man with southern principles;" and that is the class they
generally see. When northerners go to the south to reside, they prove very
apt scholars. They soon imbibe the sentiments and disposition of their
neighbors, and generally go beyond their teachers. Of the two, they are
proverbially the hardest masters.
They seem to satisfy their consciences with the doctrine that God created
the Africans to be slaves. What a libel upon the heavenly Father, who "made
of one blood all nations of men!" And then who _are_ Africans? Who can
measure the amount of Anglo-Saxon blood coursing in the veins of American
slaves?
I have spoken of the pains slaveholders take to give their slaves a bad
opinion of the north; but, notwithstanding this, intelligent slaves are
aware that they have many friends in the Free States. Even the most
ignorant have some confused notions about it. They knew that I could read;
and I was often asked if I had seen any thing in the newspapers about white
folks over in the big north, who were trying to get their freedom for them.
Some believe that the abolitionists have already made them free, and that
it is established by law, but that their masters prevent the law from going
into effect. One woman begged me to get a newspaper and read it over. She
said her husband told her that the black people had sent word to the queen
of 'Merica that they were all slaves; that she didn't believe it, and went
to Washington city to see the president about it. They quarrelled; she drew
her sword upon him, and swore that he should help her to make them all
free.
That poor, ignorant woman thought that America was governed by a Queen, to
whom the President was subordinate. I wish the President was subordinate to
Queen Justice.
There was a planter in the country, not far from us, whom I will call Mr.
Litch. He was an ill-bred, uneducated man, but very wealthy. He had six
hundred slaves, many of whom he did not know by sight. His extensive
plantation was managed by well-paid overseers. There was a jail and a
whipping post on his grounds; and whatever cruelties were perpetrated
there, they passed without comment. He was so effectually screened by his
great wealth that he was called to no account for his crimes, not even for
murder.
Various were the punishments resorted to. A favorite one was to tie a rope
round a man's body, and suspend him from the ground. A fire was kindled
over him, from which was suspended a piece of fat pork. As this cooked, the
scalding drops of fat continually fell on the bare flesh. On his own
plantation, he required very strict obedience to the eighth commandment.
But depredations on the neighbors were allowable, provided the culprit
managed to evade detection or suspicion. If a neighbor brought a charge of
theft against any of his slaves, he was browbeaten by the master, who
assured him that his slaves had enough of every thing at home, and had no
inducement to steal. No sooner was the neighbor's back turned, than the
accused was sought out, and whipped for his lack of discretion. If a slave
stole from him even a pound of meat or a peck of corn, if detection
followed, he was put in chains and imprisoned, and so kept till his form
was attentuated by hunger and suffering.
A freshnet once bore his wine cellar and meat house miles away from the
plantation. Some slaves followed, and secured bits of meat and bottles of
wine. Two were detected; a ham and some liquor being found in their huts.
They were summoned by their master. No words were used, but a club felled
them to the ground. A rough box was their coffin, and their interment was a
dog's burial. Nothing was said.
Murder was so common on his plantation that he feared to be alone after
nightfall. He might have believed in ghosts.
His brother, if not equal in wealth, was at least equal in cruelty. His
bloodhounds were well trained. Their pen was spacious, and a terror to the
slaves. They were let loose on a runway, and, if they tracked him, they
literally tore the flesh from his bones. When this slaveholder died, his
shrieks and groans were so frightful that they appalled his own friends.
His last words were, "I am going to hell; bury my money with me."
After death his eyes remained open. To press the lids down, silver dollars
were laid on them. These were buried with him. From this circumstance, a
rumor went abroad that his coffin was filled with money. Three times his
grave was opened, and his coffin taken out. The last time, his body was
found on the ground, and a flock of buzzards were pecking at it. He was
again interred, and a sentinel set over his grave. The perpetrators were
never discovered.
Cruelty is contagious in uncivilized communities. Mr. Conant, a neighbor of
Mr. Litch, returned from town one evening in a partial state of
intoxication. His body servant gave him some offence. He was divested of
his clothes, except his shirt, whipped, and tied to a large tree in front
of the house. It was a stormy night in winter. The wind blew bitterly cold,
and the boughs of the old tree crackled under falling sleet. A member of
the family, fearing he would freeze to death, begged that he might be taken
down; but the master would not relent. He remained there three hours; and,
when he was cut down, he was more dead than alive. Another slave, who stole
a pig from this master, to appease his hunger, was terribly flogged. In
desperation, he tried to run away. But at the end of two miles, he was so
faint with loss of blood, he thought he was dying. He had a wife, and he
longed to see her once more. Too sick to walk, he crept back that long
distance on his hands and knees. When he reached his master's, it was
night. He had not strength to rise and open the gate. He moaned, and tried
to call for help. I had a friend living in the same family. At last his cry
reached her. She went out and found the prostrate man at the gate. She ran
back to the house for assistance, and two men returned with her. They
carried him in, and laid him on the floor. The back of his shirt was one
clot of blood. By means of lard, my friend loosened it from the raw flesh.
She bandaged him, gave him cool drink, and left him to rest. The master
said he deserved a hundred more lashes. When his own labor was stolen from
him, he had stolen food to appease his hunger. This was his crime.
Another neighbor was a Mrs. Wade. At no hour of the day was there cessation
of the lash on her premises. Her labors began with the dawn, and did not
cease till long after nightfall. The barn was her particular place of
torture. There she lashed the slaves with the might of a man. An old slave
of hers once said to me, "It is hell in missis's house. 'Pears I can never
get out. Day and night I prays to die."
The mistress died before the old woman, and, when dying, entreated her
husband not to permit any one of her slaves to look on her after death. A
slave who had nursed her children, and had still a child in her care,
watched her chance, and stole with it in her arms to the room where lay her
dead mistress. She gazed a while on her, then raised her hand and dealt two
blows on her face, saying, as she did so, "The devil is got you _now_!" She
forgot that the child was looking on. She had just begun to talk; and she
said to her father, "I did see ma, and mammy did strike ma, so," striking
her own face with her little hand. The master was startled. He could not
imagine how the nurse could obtain access to the room where the corpse lay;
for he kept the door locked. He questioned her. She confessed that what the
child had said was true, and told how she had procured the key. She was
sold to Georgia.
In my childhood I knew a valuable slave, named Charity, and loved her, as
all children did. Her young mistress married, and took her to Louisiana.
Her little boy, James, was sold to a good sort of master. He became
involved in debt, and James was sold again to a wealthy slaveholder, noted
for his cruelty. With this man he grew up to manhood, receiving the
treatment of a dog. After a severe whipping, to save himself from further
infliction of the lash, with which he was threatened, he took to the woods.
He was in a most miserable condition--cut by the cowskin, half naked, half
starved, and without the means of procuring a crust of bread.
Some weeks after his escape, he was captured, tied, and carried back to his
master's plantation. This man considered punishment in his jail, on bread
and water, after receiving hundreds of lashes, too mild for the poor
slave's offence. Therefore he decided, after the overseer should have
whipped him to his satisfaction, to have him placed between the screws of
the cotton gin, to stay as long as he had been in the woods. This wretched
creature was cut with the whip from his head to his feet, then washed with
strong brine, to prevent the flesh from mortifying, and make it heal sooner
than it otherwise would. He was then put into the cotton gin, which was
screwed down, only allowing him room to turn on his side when he could not
lie on his back. Every morning a slave was sent with a piece of bread and
bowl of water, which was placed within reach of the poor fellow. The slave
was charged, under penalty of severe punishment, not to speak to him.
Four days passed, and the slave continued to carry the bread and water. On
the second morning, he found the bread gone, but the water untouched. When
he had been in the press four days and five night, the slave informed his
master that the water had not been used for four mornings, and that
horrible stench came from the gin house. The overseer was sent to examine
into it. When the press was unscrewed, the dead body was found partly eaten
by rats and vermin. Perhaps the rats that devoured his bread had gnawed him
before life was extinct. Poor Charity! Grandmother and I often asked each
other how her affectionate heart would bear the news, if she should ever
hear of the murder of her son. We had known her husband, and knew that
James was like him in manliness and intelligence. These were the qualities
that made it so hard for him to be a plantation slave. They put him into a
rough box, and buried him with less feeling than would have been manifested
for an old house dog. Nobody asked any questions. He was a slave; and the
feeling was that the master had a right to do what he pleased with his own
property. And what did _he_ care for the value of a slave? He had hundreds
of them. When they had finished their daily toil, they must hurry to eat
their little morsels, and be ready to extinguish their pine knots before
nine o'clock, when the overseer went his patrol rounds. He entered every
cabin, to see that men and their wives had gone to bed together, lest the
men, from over-fatigue, should fall asleep in the chimney corner, and
remain there till the morning horn called them to their daily task. Women
are considered of no value, unless they continually increase their owner's
stock. They are put on a par with animals. This same master shot a woman
through the head, who had run away and been brought back to him. No one
called him to account for it. If a slave resisted being whipped, the
bloodhounds were unpacked, and set upon him, to tear his flesh from his
bones. The master who did these things was highly educated, and styled a
perfect gentleman. He also boasted the name and standing of a Christian,
though Satan never had a truer follower.
I could tell of more slaveholders as cruel as those I have described. They
are not exceptions to the general rule. I do not say there are no humane
slaveholders. Such characters do exist, notwithstanding the hardening
influences around them. But they are "like angels' visits--few and far
between."
I knew a young lady who was one of these rare specimens. She was an orphan,
and inherited as slaves a woman and her six children. Their father was a
free man. They had a comfortable home of their own, parents and children
living together. The mother and eldest daughter served their mistress
during the day, and at night returned to their dwelling, which was on the
premises. The young lady was very pious, and there was some reality in her
religion. She taught her slaves to lead pure lives, and wished them to
enjoy the fruit of their own industry. _Her_ religion was not a garb put on
for Sunday, and laid aside till Sunday returned again. The eldest daughter
of the slave mother was promised in marriage to a free man; and the day
before the wedding this good mistress emancipated her, in order that her
marriage might have the sanction of _law_.
Report said that this young lady cherished an unrequited affection for a
man who had resolved to marry for wealth. In the course of time a rich
uncle of hers died. He left six thousand dollars to his two sons by a
colored woman, and the remainder of his property to this orphan niece. The
metal soon attracted the magnet. The lady and her weighty purse became his.
She offered to manumit her slaves--telling them that her marriage might
make unexpected changes in their destiny, and she wished to insure their
happiness. They refused to take their freedom, saying that she had always
been their best friend, and they could not be so happy any where as with
her. I was not surprised. I had often seen them in their comfortable home,
and thought that the whole town did not contain a happier family. They had
never felt slavery; and, when it was too late, they were convinced of its
reality.
When the new master claimed this family as his property, the father became
furious, and went to his mistress for protection. "I can do nothing for you
now, Harry," said she. "I no longer have the power I had a week ago. I have
succeeded in obtaining the freedom of your wife; but I cannot obtain it for
your children." The unhappy father swore that nobody should take his
children from him. He concealed them in the woods for some days; but they
were discovered and taken. The father was put in jail, and the two oldest
boys sold to Georgia. One little girl, too young to be of service to her
master, was left with the wretched mother. The other three were carried to
their master's plantation. The eldest soon became a mother; and when the
slaveholder's wife looked at the babe, she wept bitterly. She knew that her
own husband had violated the purity she had so carefully inculcated. She
had a second child by her master, and then he sold her and his offspring to
his brother. She bore two children to the brother and was sold again. The
next sister went crazy. The life she was compelled to lead drove her mad.
The third one became the mother of five daughters. Before the birth of the
fourth the pious mistress died. To the last, she rendered every kindness to
the slaves that her unfortunate circumstances permitted. She passed away
peacefully, glad to close her eyes on a life which had been made so
wretched by the man she loved.
This man squandered the fortune he had received, and sought to retrieve his
affairs by a second marriage; but, having retired after a night of drunken
debauch, he was found dead in the morning. He was called a good master; for
he fed and clothed his slaves better than most masters, and the lash was
not heard on his plantation so frequently as on many others. Had it not
been for slavery, he would have been a better man, and his wife a happier
woman.
No pen can give an adequate description of the all-pervading corruption
produced by slavery. The slave girl is reared in an atmosphere of
licentiousness and fear. The lash and the foul talk of her master and his
sons are her teachers. When she is fourteen or fifteen, her owner, or his
sons, or the overseer, or perhaps all of them, begin to bribe her with
presents. If these fail to accomplish their purpose, she is whipped or
starved into submission to their will. She may have had religious
principles inculcated by some pious mother or grandmother, or some good
mistress; she may have a lover, whose good opinion and peace of mind are
dear to her heart; or the profligate men who have power over her may be
exceedingly odious to her. But resistance is hopeless.
The poor worm
Shall prove her contest vain. Life's little day
Shall pass, and she is gone!
The slaveholder's sons are, of course, vitiated, even while boys, by the
unclean influences every where around them. Nor do the master's daughters
always escape. Severe retributions sometimes come upon him for the wrongs
he does to the daughters of the slaves. The white daughters early hear
their parents quarrelling about some female slave. Their curiosity is
excited, and they soon learn the cause. They are attended by the young
slave girls whom their father has corrupted; and they hear such talk as
should never meet youthful ears, or any other ears. They know that the
woman slaves are subject to their father's authority in all things; and in
some cases they exercise the same authority over the men slaves. I have
myself seen the master of such a household whose head was bowed down in
shame; for it was known in the neighborhood that his daughter had selected
one of the meanest slaves on his plantation to be the father of his first
grandchild. She did not make her advances to her equals, nor even to her
father's more intelligent servants. She selected the most brutalized, over
whom her authority could be exercised with less fear of exposure. Her
father, half frantic with rage, sought to revenge himself on the offending
black man; but his daughter, foreseeing the storm that would arise, had
given him free papers, and sent him out of the state.
In such cases the infant is smothered, or sent where it is never seen by
any who know its history. But if the white parent is the _father_, instead
of the mother, the offspring are unblushingly reared for the market. If
they are girls, I have indicated plainly enough what will be their
inevitable destiny.
You may believe what I say; for I write only that whereof I know. I was
twenty-one years in that cage of obscene birds. I can testify, from my own
experience and observation, that slavery is a curse to the whites as well
as to the blacks. It makes white fathers cruel and sensual; the sons
violent and licentious; it contaminates the daughters, and makes the wives
wretched. And as for the colored race, it needs an abler pen than mine to
describe the extremity of their sufferings, the depth of their degradation.
Yet few slaveholders seem to be aware of the widespread moral ruin
occasioned by this wicked system. Their talk is of blighted cotton
crops--not of the blight on their children's souls.
If you want to be fully convinced of the abominations of slavery, go on a
southern plantation, and call yourself a negro trader. Then there will be
no concealment; and you will see and hear things that will seem to you
impossible among human beings with immortal souls. | In Chapters 8 and 9, Linda digresses from her personal narrative to address some broader issues concerning the conditions of slaves and the institution of slavery. In these two chapters, she focuses on the reasons that many slaves didn't defy the slaveholders or attempt escape. In Chapter 8, Linda discusses the lies and misinformation that slaveholders communicated to slaves in order to discourage them from running away. For example, one slaveholder shares a story about a runaway facing death from starvation. She also holds Northerners accountable for their complicity in slavery, especially for enforcing the Fugitive Slave Law. Briefly in Chapter 8 and throughout Chapter 9, Linda describes the physical violence inflicted on slaves by slaveholders. Linda presents harrowing tales concerning the murder, torture, and abuse of slaves on plantations owned by three neighboring slaveholders: Mr. Litch, Mr. Conant, and Mrs. Wade. |
CHAPTER XXXI. OF THE KINGDOME OF GOD BY NATURE
The Scope Of The Following Chapters
That the condition of meer Nature, that is to say, of absolute Liberty,
such as is theirs, that neither are Soveraigns, nor Subjects, is
Anarchy, and the condition of Warre: That the Praecepts, by which men
are guided to avoyd that condition, are the Lawes of Nature: That
a Common-wealth, without Soveraign Power, is but a word, without
substance, and cannot stand: That Subjects owe to Soveraigns, simple
Obedience, in all things, wherein their obedience is not repugnant
to the Lawes of God, I have sufficiently proved, in that which I have
already written. There wants onely, for the entire knowledge of Civill
duty, to know what are those Lawes of God. For without that, a man knows
not, when he is commanded any thing by the Civill Power, whether it be
contrary to the Law of God, or not: and so, either by too much civill
obedience, offends the Divine Majesty, or through feare of offending
God, transgresses the commandements of the Common-wealth. To avoyd both
these Rocks, it is necessary to know what are the Lawes Divine. And
seeing the knowledge of all Law, dependeth on the knowledge of the
Soveraign Power; I shall say something in that which followeth, of the
KINGDOME OF GOD.
Who Are Subjects In The Kingdome Of God
"God is King, let the Earth rejoice," saith the Psalmist. (Psal. 96. 1).
And again, "God is King though the Nations be angry; and he that sitteth
on the Cherubins, though the earth be moved." (Psal. 98. 1). Whether
men will or not, they must be subject alwayes to the Divine Power. By
denying the Existence, or Providence of God, men may shake off their
Ease, but not their Yoke. But to call this Power of God, which extendeth
it selfe not onely to Man, but also to Beasts, and Plants, and Bodies
inanimate, by the name of Kingdome, is but a metaphoricall use of
the word. For he onely is properly said to Raigne, that governs his
Subjects, by his Word, and by promise of Rewards to those that obey
it, and by threatning them with Punishment that obey it not. Subjects
therefore in the Kingdome of God, are not Bodies Inanimate, nor
creatures Irrationall; because they understand no Precepts as his: Nor
Atheists; nor they that believe not that God has any care of the actions
of mankind; because they acknowledge no Word for his, nor have hope of
his rewards, or fear of his threatnings. They therefore that believe
there is a God that governeth the world, and hath given Praecepts, and
propounded Rewards, and Punishments to Mankind, are Gods Subjects; all
the rest, are to be understood as Enemies.
A Threefold Word Of God, Reason, Revelation, Prophecy
To rule by Words, requires that such Words be manifestly made known;
for else they are no Lawes: For to the nature of Lawes belongeth a
sufficient, and clear Promulgation, such as may take away the excuse of
Ignorance; which in the Lawes of men is but of one onely kind, and that
is, Proclamation, or Promulgation by the voyce of man. But God
declareth his Lawes three wayes; by the Dictates of Naturall Reason, By
Revelation, and by the Voyce of some Man, to whom by the operation of
Miracles, he procureth credit with the rest. From hence there ariseth
a triple Word of God, Rational, Sensible, and Prophetique: to which
Correspondeth a triple Hearing; Right Reason, Sense Supernaturall, and
Faith. As for Sense Supernaturall, which consisteth in Revelation, or
Inspiration, there have not been any Universall Lawes so given, because
God speaketh not in that manner, but to particular persons, and to
divers men divers things.
A Twofold Kingdome Of God, Naturall And Prophetique From the difference
between the other two kinds of Gods Word, Rationall, and Prophetique,
there may be attributed to God, a two-fold Kingdome, Naturall, and
Prophetique: Naturall, wherein he governeth as many of Mankind as
acknowledge his Providence, by the naturall Dictates of Right Reason;
And Prophetique, wherein having chosen out one peculiar Nation (the
Jewes) for his Subjects, he governed them, and none but them, not onely
by naturall Reason, but by Positive Lawes, which he gave them by the
mouths of his holy Prophets. Of the Naturall Kingdome of God I intend to
speak in this Chapter.
The Right Of Gods Soveraignty Is Derived From His Omnipotence The Right
of Nature, whereby God reigneth over men, and punisheth those that
break his Lawes, is to be derived, not from his Creating them, as if
he required obedience, as of Gratitude for his benefits; but from his
Irresistible Power. I have formerly shewn, how the Soveraign Right
ariseth from Pact: To shew how the same Right may arise from Nature,
requires no more, but to shew in what case it is never taken away.
Seeing all men by Nature had Right to All things, they had Right every
one to reigne over all the rest. But because this Right could not be
obtained by force, it concerned the safety of every one, laying by that
Right, to set up men (with Soveraign Authority) by common consent,
to rule and defend them: whereas if there had been any man of Power
Irresistible; there had been no reason, why he should not by that Power
have ruled, and defended both himselfe, and them, according to his own
discretion. To those therefore whose Power is irresistible, the dominion
of all men adhaereth naturally by their excellence of Power; and
consequently it is from that Power, that the Kingdome over men, and
the Right of afflicting men at his pleasure, belongeth Naturally to God
Almighty; not as Creator, and Gracious; but as Omnipotent. And though
Punishment be due for Sinne onely, because by that word is understood
Affliction for Sinne; yet the Right of Afflicting, is not alwayes
derived from mens Sinne, but from Gods Power.
Sinne Not The Cause Of All Affliction
This question, "Why Evill men often Prosper, and Good men suffer
Adversity," has been much disputed by the Antient, and is the same
with this of ours, "By what Right God dispenseth the Prosperities and
Adversities of this life;" and is of that difficulty, as it hath shaken
the faith, not onely of the Vulgar, but of Philosophers, and which is
more, of the Saints, concerning the Divine Providence. "How Good," saith
David, "is the God of Israel to those that are Upright in Heart; and yet
my feet were almost gone, my treadings had well-nigh slipt; for I was
grieved at the Wicked, when I saw the Ungodly in such Prosperity."
And Job, how earnestly does he expostulate with God, for the many
Afflictions he suffered, notwithstanding his Righteousnesse? This
question in the case of Job, is decided by God himselfe, not by
arguments derived from Job's Sinne, but his own Power. For whereas the
friends of Job drew their arguments from his Affliction to his Sinne,
and he defended himselfe by the conscience of his Innocence, God
himselfe taketh up the matter, and having justified the Affliction by
arguments drawn from his Power, such as this "Where was thou when I
layd the foundations of the earth," and the like, both approved
Job's Innocence, and reproved the Erroneous doctrine of his friends.
Conformable to this doctrine is the sentence of our Saviour, concerning
the man that was born Blind, in these words, "Neither hath this man
sinned, nor his fathers; but that the works of God might be made
manifest in him." And though it be said "That Death entred into the
world by sinne," (by which is meant that if Adam had never sinned, he had
never dyed, that is, never suffered any separation of his soule from his
body,) it follows not thence, that God could not justly have Afflicted
him, though he had not Sinned, as well as he afflicteth other living
creatures, that cannot sinne.
Divine Lawes
Having spoken of the Right of Gods Soveraignty, as grounded onely on
Nature; we are to consider next, what are the Divine Lawes, or Dictates
of Naturall Reason; which Lawes concern either the naturall Duties of
one man to another, or the Honour naturally due to our Divine Soveraign.
The first are the same Lawes of Nature, of which I have spoken already
in the 14. and 15. Chapters of this Treatise; namely, Equity, Justice,
Mercy, Humility, and the rest of the Morall Vertues. It remaineth
therefore that we consider, what Praecepts are dictated to men, by their
Naturall Reason onely, without other word of God, touching the Honour
and Worship of the Divine Majesty.
Honour And Worship What
Honour consisteth in the inward thought, and opinion of the Power, and
Goodnesse of another: and therefore to Honour God, is to think as Highly
of his Power and Goodnesse, as is possible. And of that opinion, the
externall signes appearing in the Words, and Actions of men, are called
Worship; which is one part of that which the Latines understand by the
word Cultus: For Cultus signifieth properly, and constantly, that labour
which a man bestowes on any thing, with a purpose to make benefit by it.
Now those things whereof we make benefit, are either subject to us, and
the profit they yeeld, followeth the labour we bestow upon them, as a
naturall effect; or they are not subject to us, but answer our labour,
according to their own Wills. In the first sense the labour bestowed on
the Earth, is called Culture; and the education of Children a Culture of
their mindes. In the second sense, where mens wills are to be wrought to
our purpose, not by Force, but by Compleasance, it signifieth as much as
Courting, that is, a winning of favour by good offices; as by praises,
by acknowledging their Power, and by whatsoever is pleasing to them from
whom we look for any benefit. And this is properly Worship: in which
sense Publicola, is understood for a Worshipper of the People, and
Cultus Dei, for the Worship of God.
Severall Signes Of Honour
From internall Honour, consisting in the opinion of Power and Goodnesse,
arise three Passions; Love, which hath reference to Goodnesse; and Hope,
and Fear, that relate to Power: And three parts of externall worship;
Praise, Magnifying, and Blessing: The subject of Praise, being
Goodnesse; the subject of Magnifying, and Blessing, being Power, and the
effect thereof Felicity. Praise, and Magnifying are significant both by
Words, and Actions: By Words, when we say a man is Good, or Great:
By Actions, when we thank him for his Bounty, and obey his Power. The
opinion of the Happinesse of another, can onely be expressed by words.
Worship Naturall And Arbitrary
There be some signes of Honour, (both in Attributes and Actions,) that
be Naturally so; as amongst Attributes, Good, Just, Liberall, and the
like; and amongst Actions, Prayers, Thanks, and Obedience. Others are
so by Institution, or Custome of men; and in some times and places are
Honourable; in others Dishonourable; in others Indifferent: such as are
the Gestures in Salutation, Prayer, and Thanksgiving, in different
times and places, differently used. The former is Naturall; the later
Arbitrary Worship.
Worship Commanded And Free
And of Arbitrary Worship, there bee two differences: For sometimes it is
a Commanded, sometimes Voluntary Worship: Commanded, when it is such
as hee requireth, who is Worshipped: Free, when it is such as the
Worshipper thinks fit. When it is Commanded, not the words, or gestures,
but the obedience is the Worship. But when Free, the Worship consists
in the opinion of the beholders: for if to them the words, or actions by
which we intend honour, seem ridiculous, and tending to contumely; they
are not Worship; because a signe is not a signe to him that giveth it,
but to him to whom it is made; that is, to the spectator.
Worship Publique And Private
Again, there is a Publique, and a Private Worship. Publique, is the
Worship that a Common-wealth performeth, as one Person. Private, is that
which a Private person exhibiteth. Publique, in respect of the whole
Common-wealth, is Free; but in respect of Particular men it is not so.
Private, is in secret Free; but in the sight of the multitude, it is
never without some Restraint, either from the Lawes, or from the Opinion
of men; which is contrary to the nature of Liberty.
The End Of Worship
The End of Worship amongst men, is Power. For where a man seeth another
worshipped he supposeth him powerfull, and is the readier to obey him;
which makes his Power greater. But God has no Ends: the worship we do
him, proceeds from our duty, and is directed according to our capacity,
by those rules of Honour, that Reason dictateth to be done by the weak
to the more potent men, in hope of benefit, for fear of dammage, or in
thankfulnesse for good already received from them.
Attributes Of Divine Honour
That we may know what worship of God is taught us by the light of
Nature, I will begin with his Attributes. Where, First, it is manifest,
we ought to attribute to him Existence: For no man can have the will to
honour that, which he thinks not to have any Beeing.
Secondly, that those Philosophers, who sayd the World, or the Soule of
the World was God, spake unworthily of him; and denyed his Existence:
For by God, is understood the cause of the World; and to say the World
is God, is to say there is no cause of it, that is, no God.
Thirdly, to say the World was not Created, but Eternall, (seeing that
which is Eternall has no cause,) is to deny there is a God.
Fourthly, that they who attributing (as they think) Ease to God, take
from him the care of Mankind; take from him his Honour: for it takes
away mens love, and fear of him; which is the root of Honour.
Fifthly, in those things that signifie Greatnesse, and Power; to say he
is Finite, is not to Honour him: For it is not a signe of the Will to
Honour God, to attribute to him lesse than we can; and Finite, is lesse
than we can; because to Finite, it is easie to adde more.
Therefore to attribute Figure to him, is not Honour; for all Figure is
Finite:
Nor to say we conceive, and imagine, or have an Idea of him, in our
mind: for whatsoever we conceive is Finite:
Not to attribute to him Parts, or Totality; which are the Attributes
onely of things Finite:
Nor to say he is this, or that Place: for whatsoever is in Place, is
bounded, and Finite:
Nor that he is Moved, or Resteth: for both these Attributes ascribe to
him Place:
Nor that there be more Gods than one; because it implies them all
Finite: for there cannot be more than one Infinite: Nor to ascribe to
him (unlesse Metaphorically, meaning not the Passion, but the Effect)
Passions that partake of Griefe; as Repentance, Anger, Mercy: or of
Want; as Appetite, Hope, Desire; or of any Passive faculty: For Passion,
is Power limited by somewhat else.
And therefore when we ascribe to God a Will, it is not to be understood,
as that of Man, for a Rationall Appetite; but as the Power, by which he
effecteth every thing.
Likewise when we attribute to him Sight, and other acts of Sense; as
also Knowledge, and Understanding; which in us is nothing else, but
a tumult of the mind, raised by externall things that presse the
organicall parts of mans body: For there is no such thing in God; and
being things that depend on naturall causes, cannot be attributed to
him.
Hee that will attribute to God, nothing but what is warranted by
naturall Reason, must either use such Negative Attributes, as Infinite,
Eternall, Incomprehensible; or Superlatives, as Most High, Most Great,
and the like; or Indefinite, as Good, Just, Holy, Creator; and in such
sense, as if he meant not to declare what he is, (for that were to
circumscribe him within the limits of our Fancy,) but how much wee
admire him, and how ready we would be to obey him; which is a signe of
Humility, and of a Will to honour him as much as we can: For there is
but one Name to signifie our Conception of his Nature, and that is, I
AM: and but one Name of his Relation to us, and that is God; in which is
contained Father, King, and Lord.
Actions That Are Signes Of Divine Honour
Concerning the actions of Divine Worship, it is a most generall Precept
of Reason, that they be signes of the Intention to Honour God; such as
are, First, Prayers: For not the Carvers, when they made Images, were
thought to make them Gods; but the People that Prayed to them.
Secondly, Thanksgiving; which differeth from Prayer in Divine Worship,
no otherwise, than that Prayers precede, and Thanks succeed the benefit;
the end both of the one, and the other, being to acknowledge God, for
Author of all benefits, as well past, as future.
Thirdly, Gifts; that is to say, Sacrifices, and Oblations, (if they be
of the best,) are signes of Honour: for they are Thanksgivings.
Fourthly, Not to swear by any but God, is naturally a signe of Honour:
for it is a confession that God onely knoweth the heart; and that no
mans wit, or strength can protect a man against Gods vengence on the
perjured.
Fifthly, it is a part of Rationall Worship, to speak Considerately
of God; for it argues a Fear of him, and Fear, is a confession of his
Power. Hence followeth, That the name of God is not to be used rashly,
and to no purpose; for that is as much, as in Vain: And it is to
no purpose; unlesse it be by way of Oath, and by order of the
Common-wealth, to make Judgements certain; or between Common-wealths,
to avoyd Warre. And that disputing of Gods nature is contrary to his
Honour: For it is supposed, that in this naturall Kingdome of God, there
is no other way to know any thing, but by naturall Reason; that is, from
the Principles of naturall Science; which are so farre from teaching us
any thing of Gods nature, as they cannot teach us our own nature, nor
the nature of the smallest creature living. And therefore, when men out
of the Principles of naturall Reason, dispute of the Attributes of God,
they but dishonour him: For in the Attributes which we give to God, we
are not to consider the signification of Philosophicall Truth; but the
signification of Pious Intention, to do him the greatest Honour we are
able. From the want of which consideration, have proceeded the volumes
of disputation about the Nature of God, that tend not to his Honour, but
to the honour of our own wits, and learning; and are nothing else but
inconsiderate, and vain abuses of his Sacred Name.
Sixthly, in Prayers, Thanksgivings, Offerings and Sacrifices, it is a
Dictate of naturall Reason, that they be every one in his kind the
best, and most significant of Honour. As for example, that Prayers, and
Thanksgiving, be made in Words and Phrases, not sudden, nor light, nor
Plebeian; but beautifull and well composed; For else we do not God
as much honour as we can. And therefore the Heathens did absurdly, to
worship Images for Gods: But their doing it in Verse, and with Musick,
both of Voyce, and Instruments, was reasonable. Also that the Beasts
they offered in sacrifice, and the Gifts they offered, and their actions
in Worshipping, were full of submission, and commemorative of benefits
received, was according to reason, as proceeding from an intention to
honour him.
Seventhly, Reason directeth not onely to worship God in Secret; but
also, and especially, in Publique, and in the sight of men: For without
that, (that which in honour is most acceptable) the procuring others to
honour him, is lost.
Lastly, Obedience to his Lawes (that is, in this case to the Lawes
of Nature,) is the greatest worship of all. For as Obedience is
more acceptable to God than sacrifice; so also to set light by his
Commandements, is the greatest of all contumelies. And these are the
Lawes of that Divine Worship, which naturall Reason dictateth to private
men.
Publique Worship Consisteth In Uniformity
But seeing a Common-wealth is but one Person, it ought also to exhibite
to God but one Worship; which then it doth, when it commandeth it to be
exhibited by Private men, Publiquely. And this is Publique Worship; the
property whereof, is to be Uniforme: For those actions that are done
differently, by different men, cannot be said to be a Publique Worship.
And therefore, where many sorts of Worship be allowed, proceeding from
the different Religions of Private men, it cannot be said there is any
Publique Worship, nor that the Common-wealth is of any Religion at all.
All Attributes Depend On The Lawes Civill
And because words (and consequently the Attributes of God) have their
signification by agreement, and constitution of men; those Attributes
are to be held significative of Honour, that men intend shall so be; and
whatsoever may be done by the wills of particular men, where there is no
Law but Reason, may be done by the will of the Common-wealth, by Lawes
Civill. And because a Common-wealth hath no Will, nor makes no Lawes,
but those that are made by the Will of him, or them that have the
Soveraign Power; it followeth, that those Attributes which the Soveraign
ordaineth, in the Worship of God, for signes of Honour, ought to be
taken and used for such, by private men in their publique Worship.
Not All Actions
But because not all Actions are signes by Constitution; but some are
Naturally signes of Honour, others of Contumely, these later (which are
those that men are ashamed to do in the sight of them they reverence)
cannot be made by humane power a part of Divine worship; nor the former
(such as are decent, modest, humble Behaviour) ever be separated from
it. But whereas there be an infinite number of Actions, and Gestures, of
an indifferent nature; such of them as the Common-wealth shall ordain to
be Publiquely and Universally in use, as signes of Honour, and part of
Gods Worship, are to be taken and used for such by the Subjects. And
that which is said in the Scripture, "It is better to obey God than
men," hath place in the kingdome of God by Pact, and not by Nature.
Naturall Punishments
Having thus briefly spoken of the Naturall Kingdome of God, and his
Naturall Lawes, I will adde onely to this Chapter a short declaration of
his Naturall Punishments. There is no action of man in this life, that
is not the beginning of so long a chayn of Consequences, as no humane
Providence, is high enough, to give a man a prospect to the end. And
in this Chayn, there are linked together both pleasing and unpleasing
events; in such manner, as he that will do any thing for his pleasure,
must engage himselfe to suffer all the pains annexed to it; and these
pains, are the Naturall Punishments of those actions, which are the
beginning of more Harme that Good. And hereby it comes to passe, that
Intemperance, is naturally punished with Diseases; Rashnesse, with
Mischances; Injustice, with the Violence of Enemies; Pride, with Ruine;
Cowardise, with Oppression; Negligent government of Princes, with
Rebellion; and Rebellion, with Slaughter. For seeing Punishments
are consequent to the breach of Lawes; Naturall Punishments must be
naturally consequent to the breach of the Lawes of Nature; and therfore
follow them as their naturall, not arbitrary effects.
The Conclusion Of The Second Part
And thus farre concerning the Constitution, Nature, and Right of
Soveraigns; and concerning the Duty of Subjects, derived from the
Principles of Naturall Reason. And now, considering how different
this Doctrine is, from the Practise of the greatest part of the world,
especially of these Western parts, that have received their Morall
learning from Rome, and Athens; and how much depth of Morall Philosophy
is required, in them that have the Administration of the Soveraign
Power; I am at the point of believing this my labour, as uselesse,
and the Common-wealth of Plato; For he also is of opinion that it is
impossible for the disorders of State, and change of Governments by
Civill Warre, ever to be taken away, till Soveraigns be Philosophers.
But when I consider again, that the Science of Naturall Justice, is the
onely Science necessary for Soveraigns, and their principall Ministers;
and that they need not be charged with the Sciences Mathematicall, (as
by Plato they are,) further, than by good Lawes to encourage men to
the study of them; and that neither Plato, nor any other Philosopher
hitherto, hath put into order, and sufficiently, or probably proved all
the Theoremes of Morall doctrine, that men may learn thereby, both how
to govern, and how to obey; I recover some hope, that one time or other,
this writing of mine, may fall into the hands of a Soveraign, who will
consider it himselfe, (for it is short, and I think clear,) without the
help of any interested, or envious Interpreter; and by the exercise of
entire Soveraignty, in protecting the Publique teaching of it, convert
this Truth of Speculation, into the Utility of Practice. | Everyone in the walker debates what to do, but no one knows what to do except Deryn, who asks Alek for an axe. They have to move the walker fast, so Deryn runs back to the chain and tries to cut the sleigh free. She manages to free the sleigh, but the momentum starts the sleigh down the slope toward the walker. Riding the sleigh, Deryn yells for Dr. Barlow, who comes out and realizes what's happening. Deryn rides the sleigh toward the walker, hoping the two don't collide with her in the middle. Dr. Barlow throws out the ladder from the walker's belly, indicating that Deryn should grab it and climb aboard. As she passes the walker, Deryn leaps for the ladder, catches it, and Bauer and Hoffman help her aboard. |
WICK CUTTER was the money-lender who had fleeced poor Russian Peter. When
a farmer once got into the habit of going to Cutter, it was like gambling
or the lottery; in an hour of discouragement he went back.
Cutter's first name was Wycliffe, and he liked to talk about his pious
bringing-up. He contributed regularly to the Protestant churches, "for
sentiment's sake," as he said with a flourish of the hand. He came from a
town in Iowa where there were a great many Swedes, and could speak a
little Swedish, which gave him a great advantage with the early
Scandinavian settlers.
In every frontier settlement there are men who have come there to escape
restraint. Cutter was one of the "fast set" of Black Hawk business men. He
was an inveterate gambler, though a poor loser. When we saw a light
burning in his office late at night, we knew that a game of poker was
going on. Cutter boasted that he never drank anything stronger than
sherry, and he said he got his start in life by saving the money that
other young men spent for cigars. He was full of moral maxims for boys.
When he came to our house on business, he quoted "Poor Richard's Almanack"
to me, and told me he was delighted to find a town boy who could milk a
cow. He was particularly affable to grandmother, and whenever they met he
would begin at once to talk about "the good old times" and simple living.
I detested his pink, bald head, and his yellow whiskers, always soft and
glistening. It was said he brushed them every night, as a woman does her
hair. His white teeth looked factory-made. His skin was red and rough, as
if from perpetual sunburn; he often went away to hot springs to take mud
baths. He was notoriously dissolute with women. Two Swedish girls who had
lived in his house were the worse for the experience. One of them he had
taken to Omaha and established in the business for which he had fitted
her. He still visited her.
Cutter lived in a state of perpetual warfare with his wife, and yet,
apparently, they never thought of separating. They dwelt in a fussy,
scroll-work house, painted white and buried in thick evergreens, with a
fussy white fence and barn. Cutter thought he knew a great deal about
horses, and usually had a colt which he was training for the track. On
Sunday mornings one could see him out at the fair grounds, speeding around
the race-course in his trotting-buggy, wearing yellow gloves and a
black-and-white-check traveling cap, his whiskers blowing back in the
breeze. If there were any boys about, Cutter would offer one of them a
quarter to hold the stop-watch, and then drive off, saying he had no
change and would "fix it up next time." No one could cut his lawn or wash
his buggy to suit him. He was so fastidious and prim about his place that
a boy would go to a good deal of trouble to throw a dead cat into his back
yard, or to dump a sackful of tin cans in his alley. It was a peculiar
combination of old-maidishness and licentiousness that made Cutter seem so
despicable.
He had certainly met his match when he married Mrs. Cutter. She was a
terrifying-looking person; almost a giantess in height, raw-boned, with
iron-gray hair, a face always flushed, and prominent, hysterical eyes.
When she meant to be entertaining and agreeable, she nodded her head
incessantly and snapped her eyes at one. Her teeth were long and curved,
like a horse's; people said babies always cried if she smiled at them. Her
face had a kind of fascination for me; it was the very color and shape of
anger. There was a gleam of something akin to insanity in her full,
intense eyes. She was formal in manner, and made calls in rustling,
steel-gray brocades and a tall bonnet with bristling aigrettes.
Mrs. Cutter painted china so assiduously that even her washbowls and
pitchers, and her husband's shaving-mug, were covered with violets and
lilies. Once when Cutter was exhibiting some of his wife's china to a
caller, he dropped a piece. Mrs. Cutter put her handkerchief to her lips
as if she were going to faint and said grandly: "Mr. Cutter, you have
broken all the Commandments--spare the finger-bowls!"
They quarreled from the moment Cutter came into the house until they went
to bed at night, and their hired girls reported these scenes to the town
at large. Mrs. Cutter had several times cut paragraphs about unfaithful
husbands out of the newspapers and mailed them to Cutter in a disguised
handwriting. Cutter would come home at noon, find the mutilated journal in
the paper-rack, and triumphantly fit the clipping into the space from
which it had been cut. Those two could quarrel all morning about whether
he ought to put on his heavy or his light underwear, and all evening about
whether he had taken cold or not.
The Cutters had major as well as minor subjects for dispute. The chief of
these was the question of inheritance: Mrs. Cutter told her husband it was
plainly his fault they had no children. He insisted that Mrs. Cutter had
purposely remained childless, with the determination to outlive him and to
share his property with her "people," whom he detested. To this she would
reply that unless he changed his mode of life, she would certainly outlive
him. After listening to her insinuations about his physical soundness,
Cutter would resume his dumb-bell practice for a month, or rise daily at
the hour when his wife most liked to sleep, dress noisily, and drive out
to the track with his trotting-horse.
Once when they had quarreled about household expenses, Mrs. Cutter put on
her brocade and went among their friends soliciting orders for painted
china, saying that Mr. Cutter had compelled her "to live by her brush."
Cutter was n't shamed as she had expected; he was delighted!
Cutter often threatened to chop down the cedar trees which half-buried the
house. His wife declared she would leave him if she were stripped of the
"privacy" which she felt these trees afforded her. That was his
opportunity, surely; but he never cut down the trees. The Cutters seemed
to find their relations to each other interesting and stimulating, and
certainly the rest of us found them so. Wick Cutter was different from any
other rascal I have ever known, but I have found Mrs. Cutters all over the
world; sometimes founding new religions, sometimes being forcibly
fed--easily recognizable, even when superficially tamed. | Antonia is discovered by the young men of the town at the Vannis dance nights. Before these nights, she had always been considered more of a ward of the Harlings than one of the hired girls. Antonia is the best dancer of all of them. Jim can hear rumors among the town folk that Antonia will soon be causing Mrs. Harling a great deal of trouble. Antonia cant get enough of the life of the tent. She rushes through her duties so she can get off in time to go to the dances. Now, the iceman stays around after delivering the ice so he can talk to her as do the delivery boys. One Saturday night when Mr. Harling had gone to the cellar for a beer, he heard Antonia outside the back door slapping a boy who had tried to kiss her against her will. When she comes in, he tells her she can no longer work for them if she doesnt stop going to dances. She refuses to stop going to dances. The next day Mrs. Harling tries to talk to her. She says she cant go back on what Mr. Harling says since it is his house. Antonia tells her she will leave and go work for the Cutters. Mrs. Harling is shocked and says she cannot speak to Antonia if she works for the Cutters. Antonia says she will take care of herself. Mrs. Harling wishes she had never become so fond of Antonia. |
Mrs. Elton was first seen at church: but though devotion might be
interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and
it must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid, to
settle whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or
not pretty at all.
Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to make
her resolve on not being the last to pay her respects; and she made a
point of Harriet's going with her, that the worst of the business might
be gone through as soon as possible.
She could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to
which she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to
lace up her boot, without _recollecting_. A thousand vexatious thoughts
would recur. Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was
not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too; but
she behaved very well, and was only rather pale and silent. The visit
was of course short; and there was so much embarrassment and occupation
of mind to shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself entirely to
form an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give one, beyond the
nothing-meaning terms of being "elegantly dressed, and very pleasing."
She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to find fault,
but she suspected that there was no elegance;--ease, but not elegance.--
She was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there
was too much ease. Her person was rather good; her face not unpretty;
but neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant. Emma
thought at least it would turn out so.
As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear--but no, she would not
permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners. It was an
awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man
had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman
was better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the
privilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense to
depend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr.
Elton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just
married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had
been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as
little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as
could be.
"Well, Miss Woodhouse," said Harriet, when they had quitted the
house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; "Well, Miss
Woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do you think of her?--Is not she
very charming?"
There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.
"Oh! yes--very--a very pleasing young woman."
"I think her beautiful, quite beautiful."
"Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown."
"I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love."
"Oh! no--there is nothing to surprize one at all.--A pretty fortune; and
she came in his way."
"I dare say," returned Harriet, sighing again, "I dare say she was very
much attached to him."
"Perhaps she might; but it is not every man's fate to marry the woman
who loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home, and thought this
the best offer she was likely to have."
"Yes," said Harriet earnestly, "and well she might, nobody could ever
have a better. Well, I wish them happy with all my heart. And now, Miss
Woodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again. He is just as
superior as ever;--but being married, you know, it is quite a different
thing. No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I can sit and
admire him now without any great misery. To know that he has not thrown
himself away, is such a comfort!--She does seem a charming young woman,
just what he deserves. Happy creature! He called her 'Augusta.' How
delightful!"
When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind. She could then see
more and judge better. From Harriet's happening not to be at Hartfield,
and her father's being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter
of an hour of the lady's conversation to herself, and could composedly
attend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that
Mrs. Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with herself, and
thinking much of her own importance; that she meant to shine and be very
superior, but with manners which had been formed in a bad school, pert
and familiar; that all her notions were drawn from one set of people,
and one style of living; that if not foolish she was ignorant, and that
her society would certainly do Mr. Elton no good.
Harriet would have been a better match. If not wise or refined herself,
she would have connected him with those who were; but Miss Hawkins, it
might be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been the best of
her own set. The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the
alliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of him.
The very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, "My brother
Mr. Suckling's seat;"--a comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove. The
grounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty; and the house was
modern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed
by the size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or
imagine. "Very like Maple Grove indeed!--She was quite struck by the
likeness!--That room was the very shape and size of the morning-room
at Maple Grove; her sister's favourite room."--Mr. Elton was appealed
to.--"Was not it astonishingly like?--She could really almost fancy
herself at Maple Grove."
"And the staircase--You know, as I came in, I observed how very like the
staircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house. I really
could not help exclaiming! I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very
delightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to
as Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there! (with a little
sigh of sentiment). A charming place, undoubtedly. Every body who
sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a home.
Whenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will
understand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing at all like
what one has left behind. I always say this is quite one of the evils of
matrimony."
Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient
for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.
"So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the house--the
grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like.
The laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand
very much in the same way--just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse
of a fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in
mind! My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. People
who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing
in the same style."
Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that
people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the
extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to attack
an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply,
"When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think you
have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties."
"Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you
know. Surry is the garden of England."
"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many
counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as
Surry."
"No, I fancy not," replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile.
"I never heard any county but Surry called so."
Emma was silenced.
"My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or summer
at farthest," continued Mrs. Elton; "and that will be our time for
exploring. While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare
say. They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds four
perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_ carriage,
we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely well. They
would hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season of the
year. Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly recommend their
bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much preferable.
When people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you know, Miss
Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as possible; and Mr.
Suckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored to King's-Weston
twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully, just after their
first having the barouche-landau. You have many parties of that kind
here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?"
"No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very
striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and we
are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home
than engage in schemes of pleasure."
"Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can
be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at Maple
Grove. Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to Bristol,
'I really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I absolutely must
go in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the barouche-landau
without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will,
would never stir beyond the park paling.' Many a time has she said so;
and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I think, on the contrary,
when people shut themselves up entirely from society, it is a very
bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to mix in the world in
a proper degree, without living in it either too much or too little. I
perfectly understand your situation, however, Miss Woodhouse--(looking
towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your father's state of health must be a great
drawback. Why does not he try Bath?--Indeed he should. Let me recommend
Bath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of its doing Mr. Woodhouse
good."
"My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any
benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you,
does not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now."
"Ah! that's a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the
waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath
life, I have seen such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place,
that it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse's spirits,
which, I understand, are sometimes much depressed. And as to its
recommendations to _you_, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell
on them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally
understood. It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived
so secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best
society in the place. A line from me would bring you a little host of
acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have
always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any
attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public
with."
It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea
of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an
_introduction_--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend
of Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the
help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!--The dignity of Miss
Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed!
She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have
given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going to Bath was
quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that
the place might suit her better than her father." And then, to prevent
farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.
"I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions,
a lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long known
that you are a superior performer."
"Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior
performer!--very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial
a quarter your information came. I am doatingly fond of
music--passionately fond;--and my friends say I am not entirely devoid
of taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is
_mediocre_ to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play
delightfully. I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction,
comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got
into. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a necessary of life to
me; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at
Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I
honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future
home, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be
disagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too--knowing what I had
been accustomed to--of course he was not wholly without apprehension.
When he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that _the_
_world_ I could give up--parties, balls, plays--for I had no fear of
retirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was
not necessary to _me_. I could do very well without it. To those who had
no resources it was a different thing; but my resources made me quite
independent. And as to smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I
really could not give it a thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal to any
sacrifice of that description. Certainly I had been accustomed to every
luxury at Maple Grove; but I did assure him that two carriages were not
necessary to my happiness, nor were spacious apartments. 'But,' said I,
'to be quite honest, I do not think I can live without something of a
musical society. I condition for nothing else; but without music, life
would be a blank to me.'"
"We cannot suppose," said Emma, smiling, "that Mr. Elton would hesitate
to assure you of there being a _very_ musical society in Highbury; and
I hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than may be
pardoned, in consideration of the motive."
"No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am delighted to
find myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have many sweet little
concerts together. I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I must establish a
musical club, and have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours.
Will not it be a good plan? If _we_ exert ourselves, I think we shall
not be long in want of allies. Something of that nature would be
particularly desirable for _me_, as an inducement to keep me in
practice; for married women, you know--there is a sad story against
them, in general. They are but too apt to give up music."
"But you, who are so extremely fond of it--there can be no danger,
surely?"
"I should hope not; but really when I look around among my acquaintance,
I tremble. Selina has entirely given up music--never touches the
instrument--though she played sweetly. And the same may be said of Mrs.
Jeffereys--Clara Partridge, that was--and of the two Milmans, now Mrs.
Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can enumerate. Upon my
word it is enough to put one in a fright. I used to be quite angry with
Selina; but really I begin now to comprehend that a married woman has
many things to call her attention. I believe I was half an hour this
morning shut up with my housekeeper."
"But every thing of that kind," said Emma, "will soon be in so regular a
train--"
"Well," said Mrs. Elton, laughing, "we shall see."
Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music, had nothing
more to say; and, after a moment's pause, Mrs. Elton chose another
subject.
"We have been calling at Randalls," said she, "and found them both at
home; and very pleasant people they seem to be. I like them extremely.
Mr. Weston seems an excellent creature--quite a first-rate favourite
with me already, I assure you. And _she_ appears so truly good--there is
something so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one
directly. She was your governess, I think?"
Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton hardly
waited for the affirmative before she went on.
"Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to find her so very
lady-like! But she is really quite the gentlewoman."
"Mrs. Weston's manners," said Emma, "were always particularly good.
Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest
model for any young woman."
"And who do you think came in while we were there?"
Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance--and
how could she possibly guess?
"Knightley!" continued Mrs. Elton; "Knightley himself!--Was not it
lucky?--for, not being within when he called the other day, I had never
seen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E.'s,
I had a great curiosity. 'My friend Knightley' had been so often
mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I must do my
caro sposo the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his friend.
Knightley is quite the gentleman. I like him very much. Decidedly, I
think, a very gentleman-like man."
Happily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and Emma could
breathe.
"Insufferable woman!" was her immediate exclamation. "Worse than I had
supposed. Absolutely insufferable! Knightley!--I could not have
believed it. Knightley!--never seen him in her life before, and call
him Knightley!--and discover that he is a gentleman! A little upstart,
vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her _caro_ _sposo_, and her
resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery.
Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether
he will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could
not have believed it! And to propose that she and I should unite to
form a musical club! One would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs.
Weston!--Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a
gentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her equal. Much beyond
my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank
Churchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted he
would be! Ah! there I am--thinking of him directly. Always the first
person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes
as regularly into my mind!"--
All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father
had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons' departure, and was
ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending.
"Well, my dear," he deliberately began, "considering we never saw her
before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she
was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little
quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe
I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and
poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved
young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think
he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not
having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I
said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to
have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews
what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage
Lane."
"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you."
"Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her
if possible. It was being very deficient."
"But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why
should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to
be no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you
make so much of them."
"No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always
wish to pay every proper attention to a lady--and a bride, especially,
is never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to _her_. A bride, you
know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who
they may."
"Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what
is. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to
such vanity-baits for poor young ladies."
"My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere
common politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any
encouragement to people to marry."
Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand
_her_. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton's offences, and long, very long,
did they occupy her. | Mrs. Elton arrives in town. Emma immediately dislikes her. Her clothes are garish and pretentious - and her manners match her clothes. Even Mr. Elton's manners seem to have changed. He's not the perfect gentleman anymore. He simpers over his wife. Harriet doesn't seem to notice how coarse the new Mrs. Elton is - she's too invested in thinking that everything Mr. Elton does is perfect. Of course, manners are manners. Even if you hate someone's guts, you still pay them social visits. Accordingly, Emma pays Mrs. Elton a social visit. As they talk, Emma realizes that she dislikes Mrs. Elton even more than she originally thought possible. Mrs. Elton peppers her conversation with references to "her brother, Mr. Suckling" . Mr. Suckling's name should speak for itself. Moreover, Mrs. Elton has the nerve to compare Emma's ancestral home, Hartfield, to the home that the Sucklings bought, Maple Grove. The quick and dirty version, however, goes something like this: Good families have had the same home for generations. Really, really good families have had the same home since the time of the cavemen. The Sucklings have had Maple Grove for about eleven years. In other words, they sort of suck. Moreover, talking about your property all the time is just about as vulgar as leaving the price tag on a new Prada. It's not cool if you've got to point it out. Mrs. Elton chatters a lot. She even offers to introduce Emma to her friends . As if that weren't enough, Mrs. Elton brings up the fact that Mrs. Weston was once Emma's governess. In fact, Mrs. Elton was surprised to find Mrs. Weston to be so well-mannered. Moreover, Mrs. Elton just met Mr. Knightley - and she was surprised to find that he was actually a gentleman! That's enough for Emma. She loses it. Luckily, she's too angry to speak. The Eltons leave, convinced that Mrs. Elton has made a new best friend. Emma spends a good deal of time thinking about all the nasty things she'll have to say about the Eltons when Frank Churchill returns. |
When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if
he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite
impassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked
over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of
Victor's face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility.
There was nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to be
on his guard.
Speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the house-keeper that he
wanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to
send two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man
left the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. Or was
that merely his own fancy?
After a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned thread
mittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library. He
asked her for the key of the schoolroom.
"The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?" she exclaimed. "Why, it is full of
dust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it.
It is not fit for you to see, sir. It is not, indeed."
"I don't want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key."
"Well, sir, you'll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. Why, it
hasn't been opened for nearly five years--not since his lordship died."
He winced at the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memories
of him. "That does not matter," he answered. "I simply want to see
the place--that is all. Give me the key."
"And here is the key, sir," said the old lady, going over the contents
of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. "Here is the key. I'll
have it off the bunch in a moment. But you don't think of living up
there, sir, and you so comfortable here?"
"No, no," he cried petulantly. "Thank you, Leaf. That will do."
She lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of
the household. He sighed and told her to manage things as she thought
best. She left the room, wreathed in smiles.
As the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked round
the room. His eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavily
embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century
Venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna.
Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps
served often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that
had a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death
itself--something that would breed horrors and yet would never die.
What the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image
on the canvas. They would mar its beauty and eat away its grace. They
would defile it and make it shameful. And yet the thing would still
live on. It would be always alive.
He shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told Basil
the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. Basil
would have helped him to resist Lord Henry's influence, and the still
more poisonous influences that came from his own temperament. The love
that he bore him--for it was really love--had nothing in it that was
not noble and intellectual. It was not that mere physical admiration
of beauty that is born of the senses and that dies when the senses
tire. It was such love as Michelangelo had known, and Montaigne, and
Winckelmann, and Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him.
But it was too late now. The past could always be annihilated.
Regret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that. But the future was
inevitable. There were passions in him that would find their terrible
outlet, dreams that would make the shadow of their evil real.
He took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that
covered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen.
Was the face on the canvas viler than before? It seemed to him that it
was unchanged, and yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold hair,
blue eyes, and rose-red lips--they all were there. It was simply the
expression that had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty.
Compared to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow Basil's
reproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!--how shallow, and of what little
account! His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas and
calling him to judgement. A look of pain came across him, and he flung
the rich pall over the picture. As he did so, a knock came to the
door. He passed out as his servant entered.
"The persons are here, Monsieur."
He felt that the man must be got rid of at once. He must not be
allowed to know where the picture was being taken to. There was
something sly about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes.
Sitting down at the writing-table he scribbled a note to Lord Henry,
asking him to send him round something to read and reminding him that
they were to meet at eight-fifteen that evening.
"Wait for an answer," he said, handing it to him, "and show the men in
here."
In two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Hubbard
himself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in
with a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was a
florid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was
considerably tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the
artists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. He
waited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception in
favour of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmed
everybody. It was a pleasure even to see him.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?" he said, rubbing his fat freckled
hands. "I thought I would do myself the honour of coming round in
person. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a
sale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably
suited for a religious subject, Mr. Gray."
"I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr.
Hubbard. I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame--though I
don't go in much at present for religious art--but to-day I only want a
picture carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so
I thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men."
"No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to
you. Which is the work of art, sir?"
"This," replied Dorian, moving the screen back. "Can you move it,
covering and all, just as it is? I don't want it to get scratched
going upstairs."
"There will be no difficulty, sir," said the genial frame-maker,
beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from
the long brass chains by which it was suspended. "And, now, where
shall we carry it to, Mr. Gray?"
"I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you will kindly follow me.
Or perhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the
top of the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is
wider."
He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and
began the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made the
picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious
protests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesman's spirited dislike
of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it
so as to help them.
"Something of a load to carry, sir," gasped the little man when they
reached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead.
"I am afraid it is rather heavy," murmured Dorian as he unlocked the
door that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious
secret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men.
He had not entered the place for more than four years--not, indeed,
since he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and then
as a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large,
well-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last Lord
Kelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness
to his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and
desired to keep at a distance. It appeared to Dorian to have but
little changed. There was the huge Italian _cassone_, with its
fantastically painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which
he had so often hidden himself as a boy. There the satinwood book-case
filled with his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall behind it was
hanging the same ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen
were playing chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by,
carrying hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists. How well he
remembered it all! Every moment of his lonely childhood came back to
him as he looked round. He recalled the stainless purity of his boyish
life, and it seemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait
was to be hidden away. How little he had thought, in those dead days,
of all that was in store for him!
But there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as
this. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its
purple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden,
and unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself
would not see it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption of his
soul? He kept his youth--that was enough. And, besides, might not
his nature grow finer, after all? There was no reason that the future
should be so full of shame. Some love might come across his life, and
purify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be already
stirring in spirit and in flesh--those curious unpictured sins whose
very mystery lent them their subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, some
day, the cruel look would have passed away from the scarlet sensitive
mouth, and he might show to the world Basil Hallward's masterpiece.
No; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing
upon the canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness of
sin, but the hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks would
become hollow or flaccid. Yellow crow's feet would creep round the
fading eyes and make them horrible. The hair would lose its
brightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross,
as the mouths of old men are. There would be the wrinkled throat, the
cold, blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the
grandfather who had been so stern to him in his boyhood. The picture
had to be concealed. There was no help for it.
"Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please," he said, wearily, turning round.
"I am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else."
"Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray," answered the frame-maker, who
was still gasping for breath. "Where shall we put it, sir?"
"Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I don't want to have it hung up.
Just lean it against the wall. Thanks."
"Might one look at the work of art, sir?"
Dorian started. "It would not interest you, Mr. Hubbard," he said,
keeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and fling
him to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that
concealed the secret of his life. "I shan't trouble you any more now.
I am much obliged for your kindness in coming round."
"Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you,
sir." And Mr. Hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant,
who glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough
uncomely face. He had never seen any one so marvellous.
When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the door
and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever
look upon the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see his shame.
On reaching the library, he found that it was just after five o'clock
and that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table of
dark perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from Lady
Radley, his guardian's wife, a pretty professional invalid who had
spent the preceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry,
and beside it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn
and the edges soiled. A copy of the third edition of _The St. James's
Gazette_ had been placed on the tea-tray. It was evident that Victor had
returned. He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were
leaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing.
He would be sure to miss the picture--had no doubt missed it already,
while he had been laying the tea-things. The screen had not been set
back, and a blank space was visible on the wall. Perhaps some night he
might find him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of the
room. It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one's house. He had
heard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some
servant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked
up a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower
or a shred of crumpled lace.
He sighed, and having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry's
note. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper,
and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at
eight-fifteen. He opened _The St. James's_ languidly, and looked through
it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drew
attention to the following paragraph:
INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.--An inquest was held this morning at the Bell
Tavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on the body of
Sibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre,
Holborn. A verdict of death by misadventure was returned.
Considerable sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who
was greatly affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of
Dr. Birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased.
He frowned, and tearing the paper in two, went across the room and
flung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real
ugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for
having sent him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to have
marked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knew
more than enough English for that.
Perhaps he had read it and had begun to suspect something. And, yet,
what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane's
death? There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her.
His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was
it, he wondered. He went towards the little, pearl-coloured octagonal
stand that had always looked to him like the work of some strange
Egyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung
himself into an arm-chair and began to turn over the leaves. After a
few minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had
ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the
delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb
show before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly
made real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually
revealed.
It was a novel without a plot and with only one character, being,
indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian who
spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the
passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his
own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through
which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere
artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue,
as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The
style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid
and obscure at once, full of _argot_ and of archaisms, of technical
expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work
of some of the finest artists of the French school of _Symbolistes_.
There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in
colour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical
philosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the
spiritual ecstasies of some mediaeval saint or the morbid confessions
of a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour of
incense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The
mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so
full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated,
produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter,
a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of
the falling day and creeping shadows.
Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed
through the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read no
more. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the
lateness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placed
the book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his
bedside and began to dress for dinner.
It was almost nine o'clock before he reached the club, where he found
Lord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored.
"I am so sorry, Harry," he cried, "but really it is entirely your
fault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the
time was going."
"Yes, I thought you would like it," replied his host, rising from his
chair.
"I didn't say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a
great difference."
"Ah, you have discovered that?" murmured Lord Henry. And they passed
into the dining-room. | For most of this chapter, Dorian is concerned with moving the portrait to an attic room where it will be safely hidden. He calls for Victor, his servant, who enters the room. It occurs to Dorian that the servant has had access to the portrait and may have looked behind the screen. He tells Victor to summon the housekeeper, Mrs. Leaf, and then to go to Mr. Hubbard, the frame maker, and ask him to send over two of his men. From Mrs. Leaf, Dorian wants the key to his old schoolroom, a spacious attic area. Mrs. Leaf wants to clean the schoolroom before Dorian sees it; Dorian finally secures the key and sends Mrs. Leaf away. Dorian locates a piece of richly-colored fabric with which to cover the portrait. Ironically, the fabric previously had been used to cover coffins, and Dorian contemplates that it will now conceal the death and degeneration of the portrait. For a moment, he wonders if he should have confessed his secret to Basil after all and asked his assistance in escaping Lord Henry's influence. He realizes that Basil could have saved him from the sins he will surely commit, but he decides that it is "too late now." The future looks inevitably bleak to Dorian. Dorian covers it just before Victor returns with the movers. Dorian is suspicious of Victor, worried that he may discover the secret of the portrait and blackmail him. He sends the servant on another errand to get him out of the house, carrying a note to Lord Henry requesting reading material and reminding his mentor of dinner plans that evening. Mr. Hubbard arrives with a rugged-looking assistant, and the two men carry the painting up the stairs to the schoolroom. When Dorian reaches the attic, he is flooded with childhood memories and regrets having to leave the portrait there to decay. However, the attic is the most secure and private place for it because Dorian has the only key to the room. He briefly considers that his nature might improve and that the evil already lurking in his soul may pass. Even so, the portrait will age, and Dorian hates the hideousness of growing old. He continues with his plans to conceal the portrait. After the movers leave, Dorian locks the door to the schoolroom and goes down to the library. Victor has already returned, leaving Dorian's tea and, from Lord Henry, a note, a well-worn book bound in yellow paper, and a newspaper. In the newspaper, Lord Henry has marked an article regarding the inquest into the death of Sibyl Vane. Dorian finds the article about Sibyl's death horribly ugly, and he frets that ugliness makes things seem too real. He is annoyed with Lord Henry for marking the article, which Victor may have noticed. Still, he reasons that he shouldn't worry about Victor reading the article because he did not kill the girl. Dorian finds the book more interesting. He begins reading, and in a short time he is engrossed by it. The book tells a story in which the sins of the world seem to be passing in review before him. Fascinated by this novel with no plot and only one character, he reads until Victor reminds him of his appointment with Lord Henry. Finally, Dorian dresses for dinner. When Dorian meets Lord Henry at the club, Lord Henry seems quietly pleased -- and not at all surprised -- that Dorian should like the book that he sent to him. |
Oliver reached the stile at which the by-path terminated; and once more
gained the high-road. It was eight o'clock now. Though he was nearly
five miles away from the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by
turns, till noon: fearing that he might be pursued and overtaken. Then
he sat down to rest by the side of the milestone, and began to think,
for the first time, where he had better go and try to live.
The stone by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an
intimation that it was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The
name awakened a new train of ideas in the boy's mind.
London!--that great place!--nobody--not even Mr. Bumble--could ever
find him there! He had often heard the old men in the workhouse, too,
say that no lad of spirit need want in London; and that there were ways
of living in that vast city, which those who had been bred up in
country parts had no idea of. It was the very place for a homeless
boy, who must die in the streets unless some one helped him. As these
things passed through his thoughts, he jumped upon his feet, and again
walked forward.
He had diminished the distance between himself and London by full four
miles more, before he recollected how much he must undergo ere he could
hope to reach his place of destination. As this consideration forced
itself upon him, he slackened his pace a little, and meditated upon his
means of getting there. He had a crust of bread, a coarse shirt, and
two pairs of stockings, in his bundle. He had a penny too--a gift of
Sowerberry's after some funeral in which he had acquitted himself more
than ordinarily well--in his pocket. 'A clean shirt,' thought Oliver,
'is a very comfortable thing; and so are two pairs of darned stockings;
and so is a penny; but they are small helps to a sixty-five miles' walk
in winter time.' But Oliver's thoughts, like those of most other
people, although they were extremely ready and active to point out his
difficulties, were wholly at a loss to suggest any feasible mode of
surmounting them; so, after a good deal of thinking to no particular
purpose, he changed his little bundle over to the other shoulder, and
trudged on.
Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time tasted nothing
but the crust of dry bread, and a few draughts of water, which he
begged at the cottage-doors by the road-side. When the night came, he
turned into a meadow; and, creeping close under a hay-rick, determined
to lie there, till morning. He felt frightened at first, for the wind
moaned dismally over the empty fields: and he was cold and hungry, and
more alone than he had ever felt before. Being very tired with his
walk, however, he soon fell asleep and forgot his troubles.
He felt cold and stiff, when he got up next morning, and so hungry that
he was obliged to exchange the penny for a small loaf, in the very
first village through which he passed. He had walked no more than
twelve miles, when night closed in again. His feet were sore, and his
legs so weak that they trembled beneath him. Another night passed in
the bleak damp air, made him worse; when he set forward on his journey
next morning he could hardly crawl along.
He waited at the bottom of a steep hill till a stage-coach came up, and
then begged of the outside passengers; but there were very few who took
any notice of him: and even those told him to wait till they got to the
top of the hill, and then let them see how far he could run for a
halfpenny. Poor Oliver tried to keep up with the coach a little way,
but was unable to do it, by reason of his fatigue and sore feet. When
the outsides saw this, they put their halfpence back into their pockets
again, declaring that he was an idle young dog, and didn't deserve
anything; and the coach rattled away and left only a cloud of dust
behind.
In some villages, large painted boards were fixed up: warning all
persons who begged within the district, that they would be sent to
jail. This frightened Oliver very much, and made him glad to get out
of those villages with all possible expedition. In others, he would
stand about the inn-yards, and look mournfully at every one who passed:
a proceeding which generally terminated in the landlady's ordering one
of the post-boys who were lounging about, to drive that strange boy out
of the place, for she was sure he had come to steal something. If he
begged at a farmer's house, ten to one but they threatened to set the
dog on him; and when he showed his nose in a shop, they talked about
the beadle--which brought Oliver's heart into his mouth,--very often
the only thing he had there, for many hours together.
In fact, if it had not been for a good-hearted turnpike-man, and a
benevolent old lady, Oliver's troubles would have been shortened by the
very same process which had put an end to his mother's; in other words,
he would most assuredly have fallen dead upon the king's highway. But
the turnpike-man gave him a meal of bread and cheese; and the old lady,
who had a shipwrecked grandson wandering barefoot in some distant part
of the earth, took pity upon the poor orphan, and gave him what little
she could afford--and more--with such kind and gentle words, and such
tears of sympathy and compassion, that they sank deeper into Oliver's
soul, than all the sufferings he had ever undergone.
Early on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, Oliver
limped slowly into the little town of Barnet. The window-shutters were
closed; the street was empty; not a soul had awakened to the business
of the day. The sun was rising in all its splendid beauty; but the
light only served to show the boy his own lonesomeness and desolation,
as he sat, with bleeding feet and covered with dust, upon a door-step.
By degrees, the shutters were opened; the window-blinds were drawn up;
and people began passing to and fro. Some few stopped to gaze at
Oliver for a moment or two, or turned round to stare at him as they
hurried by; but none relieved him, or troubled themselves to inquire
how he came there. He had no heart to beg. And there he sat.
He had been crouching on the step for some time: wondering at the great
number of public-houses (every other house in Barnet was a tavern,
large or small), gazing listlessly at the coaches as they passed
through, and thinking how strange it seemed that they could do, with
ease, in a few hours, what it had taken him a whole week of courage and
determination beyond his years to accomplish: when he was roused by
observing that a boy, who had passed him carelessly some minutes
before, had returned, and was now surveying him most earnestly from the
opposite side of the way. He took little heed of this at first; but
the boy remained in the same attitude of close observation so long,
that Oliver raised his head, and returned his steady look. Upon this,
the boy crossed over; and walking close up to Oliver, said,
'Hullo, my covey! What's the row?'
The boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer, was about his
own age: but one of the queerest looking boys that Oliver had even
seen. He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and
as dirty a juvenile as one would wish to see; but he had about him all
the airs and manners of a man. He was short of his age: with rather
bow-legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top
of his head so lightly, that it threatened to fall off every
moment--and would have done so, very often, if the wearer had not had a
knack of every now and then giving his head a sudden twitch, which
brought it back to its old place again. He wore a man's coat, which
reached nearly to his heels. He had turned the cuffs back, half-way up
his arm, to get his hands out of the sleeves: apparently with the
ultimate view of thrusting them into the pockets of his corduroy
trousers; for there he kept them. He was, altogether, as roystering
and swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood four feet six, or
something less, in the bluchers.
'Hullo, my covey! What's the row?' said this strange young gentleman
to Oliver.
'I am very hungry and tired,' replied Oliver: the tears standing in his
eyes as he spoke. 'I have walked a long way. I have been walking these
seven days.'
'Walking for sivin days!' said the young gentleman. 'Oh, I see. Beak's
order, eh? But,' he added, noticing Oliver's look of surprise, 'I
suppose you don't know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on.'
Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird's mouth
described by the term in question.
'My eyes, how green!' exclaimed the young gentleman. 'Why, a beak's a
madgst'rate; and when you walk by a beak's order, it's not straight
forerd, but always agoing up, and niver a coming down agin. Was you
never on the mill?'
'What mill?' inquired Oliver.
'What mill! Why, _the_ mill--the mill as takes up so little room that
it'll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when the wind's
low with people, than when it's high; acos then they can't get workmen.
But come,' said the young gentleman; 'you want grub, and you shall have
it. I'm at low-water-mark myself--only one bob and a magpie; but, as
far as it goes, I'll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins.
There! Now then! 'Morrice!'
Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent
chandler's shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham
and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, 'a fourpenny
bran!' the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the
ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a
portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under
his arm, the young gentlman turned into a small public-house, and led
the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer
was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver,
falling to, at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal,
during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time
with great attention.
'Going to London?' said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length
concluded.
'Yes.'
'Got any lodgings?'
'No.'
'Money?'
'No.'
The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as
the big coat-sleeves would let them go.
'Do you live in London?' inquired Oliver.
'Yes. I do, when I'm at home,' replied the boy. 'I suppose you want
some place to sleep in to-night, don't you?'
'I do, indeed,' answered Oliver. 'I have not slept under a roof since I
left the country.'
'Don't fret your eyelids on that score,' said the young gentleman.
'I've got to be in London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old
gentleman as lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and
never ask for the change--that is, if any genelman he knows interduces
you. And don't he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means.
Certainly not!'
The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments
of discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did
so.
This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted;
especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the
old gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a
comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly
and confidential dialogue; from which Oliver discovered that his
friend's name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet and
protege of the elderly gentleman before mentioned.
Mr. Dawkin's appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the
comforts which his patron's interest obtained for those whom he took
under his protection; but, as he had a rather flightly and dissolute
mode of conversing, and furthermore avowed that among his intimate
friends he was better known by the sobriquet of 'The Artful Dodger,'
Oliver concluded that, being of a dissipated and careless turn, the
moral precepts of his benefactor had hitherto been thrown away upon
him. Under this impression, he secretly resolved to cultivate the good
opinion of the old gentleman as quickly as possible; and, if he found
the Dodger incorrigible, as he more than half suspected he should, to
decline the honour of his farther acquaintance.
As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it
was nearly eleven o'clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington.
They crossed from the Angel into St. John's Road; struck down the small
street which terminates at Sadler's Wells Theatre; through Exmouth
Street and Coppice Row; down the little court by the side of the
workhouse; across the classic ground which once bore the name of
Hockley-in-the-Hole; thence into Little Saffron Hill; and so into
Saffron Hill the Great: along which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace,
directing Oliver to follow close at his heels.
Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of
his leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either
side of the way, as he passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place
he had never seen. The street was very narrow and muddy, and the air
was impregnated with filthy odours.
There were a good many small shops; but the only stock in trade
appeared to be heaps of children, who, even at that time of night, were
crawling in and out at the doors, or screaming from the inside. The
sole places that seemed to prosper amid the general blight of the
place, were the public-houses; and in them, the lowest orders of Irish
were wrangling with might and main. Covered ways and yards, which here
and there diverged from the main street, disclosed little knots of
houses, where drunken men and women were positively wallowing in filth;
and from several of the door-ways, great ill-looking fellows were
cautiously emerging, bound, to all appearance, on no very well-disposed
or harmless errands.
Oliver was just considering whether he hadn't better run away, when
they reached the bottom of the hill. His conductor, catching him by
the arm, pushed open the door of a house near Field Lane; and drawing
him into the passage, closed it behind them.
'Now, then!' cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the
Dodger.
'Plummy and slam!' was the reply.
This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right; for the
light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the
passage; and a man's face peeped out, from where a balustrade of the
old kitchen staircase had been broken away.
'There's two on you,' said the man, thrusting the candle farther out,
and shielding his eyes with his hand. 'Who's the t'other one?'
'A new pal,' replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.
'Where did he come from?'
'Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?'
'Yes, he's a sortin' the wipes. Up with you!' The candle was drawn
back, and the face disappeared.
Oliver, groping his way with one hand, and having the other firmly
grasped by his companion, ascended with much difficulty the dark and
broken stairs: which his conductor mounted with an ease and expedition
that showed he was well acquainted with them.
He threw open the door of a back-room, and drew Oliver in after him.
The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and
dirt. There was a deal table before the fire: upon which were a
candle, stuck in a ginger-beer bottle, two or three pewter pots, a loaf
and butter, and a plate. In a frying-pan, which was on the fire, and
which was secured to the mantelshelf by a string, some sausages were
cooking; and standing over them, with a toasting-fork in his hand, was
a very old shrivelled Jew, whose villainous-looking and repulsive face
was obscured by a quantity of matted red hair. He was dressed in a
greasy flannel gown, with his throat bare; and seemed to be dividing
his attention between the frying-pan and the clothes-horse, over which
a great number of silk handkerchiefs were hanging. Several rough beds
made of old sacks, were huddled side by side on the floor. Seated round
the table were four or five boys, none older than the Dodger, smoking
long clay pipes, and drinking spirits with the air of middle-aged men.
These all crowded about their associate as he whispered a few words to
the Jew; and then turned round and grinned at Oliver. So did the Jew
himself, toasting-fork in hand.
'This is him, Fagin,' said Jack Dawkins;'my friend Oliver Twist.'
The Jew grinned; and, making a low obeisance to Oliver, took him by the
hand, and hoped he should have the honour of his intimate acquaintance.
Upon this, the young gentleman with the pipes came round him, and shook
both his hands very hard--especially the one in which he held his
little bundle. One young gentleman was very anxious to hang up his cap
for him; and another was so obliging as to put his hands in his
pockets, in order that, as he was very tired, he might not have the
trouble of emptying them, himself, when he went to bed. These
civilities would probably be extended much farther, but for a liberal
exercise of the Jew's toasting-fork on the heads and shoulders of the
affectionate youths who offered them.
'We are very glad to see you, Oliver, very,' said the Jew. 'Dodger,
take off the sausages; and draw a tub near the fire for Oliver. Ah,
you're a-staring at the pocket-handkerchiefs! eh, my dear. There are a
good many of 'em, ain't there? We've just looked 'em out, ready for the
wash; that's all, Oliver; that's all. Ha! ha! ha!'
The latter part of this speech, was hailed by a boisterous shout from
all the hopeful pupils of the merry old gentleman. In the midst of
which they went to supper.
Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot
gin-and-water: telling him he must drink it off directly, because
another gentleman wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as he was desired.
Immediately afterwards he felt himself gently lifted on to one of the
sacks; and then he sunk into a deep sleep. | Oliver is at the very edge of town, and it is now eight in the morning. He's so afraid of being caught by the parish authorities or the Sowerberrys that he runs, dodging between hedges, until noon. Oliver stops to rest by a milestone that says that he is seventy miles from London. Oliver remembers having heard about London from the old men at the workhouse, and decides it's "the very place for a homeless boy, who must die in the streets unless some one helped him" . Oliver walks five miles before stopping to take stock of his supplies: he only has a crust of bread, an extra shirt, two spare pairs of stockings , and a penny, and he now has sixty-five miles more to go. He walks twenty miles that day, and only eats the crust of bread he has with him, and spends the night under a hay-rick in a meadow. He wakes up so hungry that he has to spend his only penny on a loaf of bread, and he's so tired from the events of the last few days that he's only able to walk twelve miles that day. He tries to beg from some people on the outside of a stagecoach . But they ignore him. Some folks threaten to set their dogs on him for begging, some assume he's planning to steal from them, and some towns have signs up saying that anyone begging within the city limits will be sent to jail. The only two people who have any compassion on poor Oliver are two poor people who can't really afford to--a turnpike-man , and an old lady who is reminded of her own lost grandson when she sees Oliver. After a week of walking from his hometown, Oliver arrives at the town of Barnet . He arrives at sunrise, but "the light only seemed to show the boy his own lonesomeness and desolation as he sat with bleeding feet and covered with dust upon a cold door-step" . As the town wakes up, passersby seem suspicious of him, but don't offer him any help. A boy notices Oliver sitting there, and after looking at him for a while, comes over and says, "Hullo! My covey, what's the row?" Before translating this odd speech for his readers, Dickens backs up to describe the boy: he's about Oliver's age, but swaggers around like a full-grown man, and wears grown-up clothes with the sleeves and legs turned up. He asks Oliver some more questions that Oliver doesn't understand and his explanations aren't much more clear than the original. For now, suffice to say that all the novelists who were writing about crime liked to work some criminal slang into their novels to spice things up a bit, and make it seem like they really knew how criminals communicated. Did criminals really talk like that in the nineteenth century? Hard to say-- you'll hear different answers from different people. In any case, the mix of Oliver's innocence and the Dodger's slang is pretty hilarious. Back to the story. After some more misunderstandings, the young man offers to buy Oliver some food, which Oliver obviously accepts. As he eats, he tells the boy that he's going to London. The boy asks if he knows where he's going to stay, or if he has any money. When Oliver answers "no" to both, the boy says that he knows of a "genelman" in London who will give Oliver a place to stay "for nothink," so long as Oliver is introduced by this boy. Of course Oliver can't say no to an offer like this--he's been sleeping outside for a week, and it's the middle of winter. The boy introduces himself as "Jack Dawkins," but he's more often known as "the Artful Dodger" . Oliver decides that the Dodger is probably not a very moral person, and decides that he'll avoid spending much time with him in the future if that turns out to be true. They arrive in London after eleven o'clock at night, and pass through a dirty neighborhood to a tiny alley called Field-Lane . Okay, back to the story. Besides Fagin, the room is full of various other young boys. There are a whole lot of pocket handkerchiefs spread out around the room, which Fagin tells Oliver are being sorted for the laundry. All the boys seem to find this hilarious. After giving him a dinner of sausage, they give him a tumbler of gin and water. Even watered down, you can imagine the effect that much liquor has on a small boy: he drops right off to sleep. |
"Oh, rescue her! I am her brother now,
And you her father. Every gentle maid
Should have a guardian in each gentleman."
It was wonderful to Sir James Chettam how well he continued to like
going to the Grange after he had once encountered the difficulty of
seeing Dorothea for the first time in the light of a woman who was
engaged to another man. Of course the forked lightning seemed to pass
through him when he first approached her, and he remained conscious
throughout the interview of hiding uneasiness; but, good as he was, it
must be owned that his uneasiness was less than it would have been if
he had thought his rival a brilliant and desirable match. He had no
sense of being eclipsed by Mr. Casaubon; he was only shocked that
Dorothea was under a melancholy illusion, and his mortification lost
some of its bitterness by being mingled with compassion.
Nevertheless, while Sir James said to himself that he had completely
resigned her, since with the perversity of a Desdemona she had not
affected a proposed match that was clearly suitable and according to
nature; he could not yet be quite passive under the idea of her
engagement to Mr. Casaubon. On the day when he first saw them together
in the light of his present knowledge, it seemed to him that he had not
taken the affair seriously enough. Brooke was really culpable; he
ought to have hindered it. Who could speak to him? Something might be
done perhaps even now, at least to defer the marriage. On his way home
he turned into the Rectory and asked for Mr. Cadwallader. Happily, the
Rector was at home, and his visitor was shown into the study, where all
the fishing tackle hung. But he himself was in a little room
adjoining, at work with his turning apparatus, and he called to the
baronet to join him there. The two were better friends than any other
landholder and clergyman in the county--a significant fact which was in
agreement with the amiable expression of their faces.
Mr. Cadwallader was a large man, with full lips and a sweet smile; very
plain and rough in his exterior, but with that solid imperturbable ease
and good-humor which is infectious, and like great grassy hills in the
sunshine, quiets even an irritated egoism, and makes it rather ashamed
of itself. "Well, how are you?" he said, showing a hand not quite fit
to be grasped. "Sorry I missed you before. Is there anything
particular? You look vexed."
Sir James's brow had a little crease in it, a little depression of the
eyebrow, which he seemed purposely to exaggerate as he answered.
"It is only this conduct of Brooke's. I really think somebody should
speak to him."
"What? meaning to stand?" said Mr. Cadwallader, going on with the
arrangement of the reels which he had just been turning. "I hardly
think he means it. But where's the harm, if he likes it? Any one who
objects to Whiggery should be glad when the Whigs don't put up the
strongest fellow. They won't overturn the Constitution with our friend
Brooke's head for a battering ram."
"Oh, I don't mean that," said Sir James, who, after putting down his
hat and throwing himself into a chair, had begun to nurse his leg and
examine the sole of his boot with much bitterness. "I mean this
marriage. I mean his letting that blooming young girl marry Casaubon."
"What is the matter with Casaubon? I see no harm in him--if the girl
likes him."
"She is too young to know what she likes. Her guardian ought to
interfere. He ought not to allow the thing to be done in this headlong
manner. I wonder a man like you, Cadwallader--a man with daughters,
can look at the affair with indifference: and with such a heart as
yours! Do think seriously about it."
"I am not joking; I am as serious as possible," said the Rector, with a
provoking little inward laugh. "You are as bad as Elinor. She has
been wanting me to go and lecture Brooke; and I have reminded her that
her friends had a very poor opinion of the match she made when she
married me."
"But look at Casaubon," said Sir James, indignantly. "He must be
fifty, and I don't believe he could ever have been much more than the
shadow of a man. Look at his legs!"
"Confound you handsome young fellows! you think of having it all your
own way in the world. You don't under stand women. They don't admire
you half so much as you admire yourselves. Elinor used to tell her
sisters that she married me for my ugliness--it was so various and
amusing that it had quite conquered her prudence."
"You! it was easy enough for a woman to love you. But this is no
question of beauty. I don't _like_ Casaubon." This was Sir James's
strongest way of implying that he thought ill of a man's character.
"Why? what do you know against him?" said the Rector laying down his
reels, and putting his thumbs into his armholes with an air of
attention.
Sir James paused. He did not usually find it easy to give his reasons:
it seemed to him strange that people should not know them without being
told, since he only felt what was reasonable. At last he said--
"Now, Cadwallader, has he got any heart?"
"Well, yes. I don't mean of the melting sort, but a sound kernel,
_that_ you may be sure of. He is very good to his poor relations:
pensions several of the women, and is educating a young fellow at a
good deal of expense. Casaubon acts up to his sense of justice. His
mother's sister made a bad match--a Pole, I think--lost herself--at any
rate was disowned by her family. If it had not been for that, Casaubon
would not have had so much money by half. I believe he went himself to
find out his cousins, and see what he could do for them. Every man
would not ring so well as that, if you tried his metal. _You_ would,
Chettam; but not every man."
"I don't know," said Sir James, coloring. "I am not so sure of
myself." He paused a moment, and then added, "That was a right thing
for Casaubon to do. But a man may wish to do what is right, and yet be
a sort of parchment code. A woman may not be happy with him. And I
think when a girl is so young as Miss Brooke is, her friends ought to
interfere a little to hinder her from doing anything foolish. You
laugh, because you fancy I have some feeling on my own account. But
upon my honor, it is not that. I should feel just the same if I were
Miss Brooke's brother or uncle."
"Well, but what should you do?"
"I should say that the marriage must not be decided on until she was of
age. And depend upon it, in that case, it would never come off. I
wish you saw it as I do--I wish you would talk to Brooke about it."
Sir James rose as he was finishing his sentence, for he saw Mrs.
Cadwallader entering from the study. She held by the hand her youngest
girl, about five years old, who immediately ran to papa, and was made
comfortable on his knee.
"I hear what you are talking about," said the wife. "But you will make
no impression on Humphrey. As long as the fish rise to his bait,
everybody is what he ought to be. Bless you, Casaubon has got a
trout-stream, and does not care about fishing in it himself: could
there be a better fellow?"
"Well, there is something in that," said the Rector, with his quiet,
inward laugh. "It is a very good quality in a man to have a
trout-stream."
"But seriously," said Sir James, whose vexation had not yet spent
itself, "don't you think the Rector might do some good by speaking?"
"Oh, I told you beforehand what he would say," answered Mrs.
Cadwallader, lifting up her eyebrows. "I have done what I could: I
wash my hands of the marriage."
"In the first place," said the Rector, looking rather grave, "it would
be nonsensical to expect that I could convince Brooke, and make him act
accordingly. Brooke is a very good fellow, but pulpy; he will run into
any mould, but he won't keep shape."
"He might keep shape long enough to defer the marriage," said Sir James.
"But, my dear Chettam, why should I use my influence to Casaubon's
disadvantage, unless I were much surer than I am that I should be
acting for the advantage of Miss Brooke? I know no harm of Casaubon.
I don't care about his Xisuthrus and Fee-fo-fum and the rest; but then
he doesn't care about my fishing-tackle. As to the line he took on the
Catholic Question, that was unexpected; but he has always been civil to
me, and I don't see why I should spoil his sport. For anything I can
tell, Miss Brooke may be happier with him than she would be with any
other man."
"Humphrey! I have no patience with you. You know you would rather
dine under the hedge than with Casaubon alone. You have nothing to say
to each other."
"What has that to do with Miss Brooke's marrying him? She does not do
it for my amusement."
"He has got no good red blood in his body," said Sir James.
"No. Somebody put a drop under a magnifying-glass and it was all
semicolons and parentheses," said Mrs. Cadwallader.
"Why does he not bring out his book, instead of marrying," said Sir
James, with a disgust which he held warranted by the sound feeling of
an English layman.
"Oh, he dreams footnotes, and they run away with all his brains. They
say, when he was a little boy, he made an abstract of 'Hop o' my
Thumb,' and he has been making abstracts ever since. Ugh! And that is
the man Humphrey goes on saying that a woman may be happy with."
"Well, he is what Miss Brooke likes," said the Rector. "I don't
profess to understand every young lady's taste."
"But if she were your own daughter?" said Sir James.
"That would be a different affair. She is _not_ my daughter, and I
don't feel called upon to interfere. Casaubon is as good as most of
us. He is a scholarly clergyman, and creditable to the cloth. Some
Radical fellow speechifying at Middlemarch said Casaubon was the
learned straw-chopping incumbent, and Freke was the brick-and-mortar
incumbent, and I was the angling incumbent. And upon my word, I don't
see that one is worse or better than the other." The Rector ended with
his silent laugh. He always saw the joke of any satire against
himself. His conscience was large and easy, like the rest of him: it
did only what it could do without any trouble.
Clearly, there would be no interference with Miss Brooke's marriage
through Mr. Cadwallader; and Sir James felt with some sadness that she
was to have perfect liberty of misjudgment. It was a sign of his good
disposition that he did not slacken at all in his intention of carrying
out Dorothea's design of the cottages. Doubtless this persistence was
the best course for his own dignity: but pride only helps us to be
generous; it never makes us so, any more than vanity makes us witty.
She was now enough aware of Sir James's position with regard to her, to
appreciate the rectitude of his perseverance in a landlord's duty, to
which he had at first been urged by a lover's complaisance, and her
pleasure in it was great enough to count for something even in her
present happiness. Perhaps she gave to Sir James Chettam's cottages
all the interest she could spare from Mr. Casaubon, or rather from the
symphony of hopeful dreams, admiring trust, and passionate self
devotion which that learned gentleman had set playing in her soul.
Hence it happened that in the good baronet's succeeding visits, while
he was beginning to pay small attentions to Celia, he found himself
talking with more and more pleasure to Dorothea. She was perfectly
unconstrained and without irritation towards him now, and he was
gradually discovering the delight there is in frank kindness and
companionship between a man and a woman who have no passion to hide or
confess. | Sir James, in spite of Dorothea's engagement, begins to like visiting the Grange, her home, once again; he is stung by her rejection, and cannot understand her attraction to Casaubon at all. He goes to speak to Mr. Cadwallader, a great friend, to clear his mind about this issue. Sir James cannot help his great pride, but at least he is very civil to Dorothea, and does not let his distaste for her marriage interfere with his plans to make the cottages she proposed. |
My young mistress, Miss Emily Flint, did not return any answer to my letter
requesting her to consent to my being sold. But after a while, I received a
reply, which purported to be written by her younger brother. In order
rightly to enjoy the contents of this letter, the reader must bear in mind
that the Flint family supposed I had been at the north many years. They had
no idea that I knew of the doctor's three excursions to New York in search
of me; that I had heard his voice, when he came to borrow five hundred
dollars for that purpose; and that I had seen him pass on his way to the
steamboat. Neither were they aware that all the particulars of aunt Nancy's
death and burial were conveyed to me at the time they occurred. I have kept
the letter, of which I herewith subjoin a copy:--
Your letter to sister was received a few days ago. I gather from
it that you are desirous of returning to your native place, among
your friends and relatives. We were all gratified with the
contents of your letter; and let me assure you that if any
members of the family have had any feeling of resentment towards
you, they feel it no longer. We all sympathize with you in your
unfortunate condition, and are ready to do all in our power to
make you contented and happy. It is difficult for you to return
home as a free person. If you were purchased by your grandmother,
it is doubtful whether you would be permitted to remain, although
it would be lawful for you to do so. If a servant should be
allowed to purchase herself, after absenting herself so long from
her owners, and return free, it would have an injurious effect.
From your letter, I think your situation must be hard and
uncomfortable. Come home. You have it in your power to be
reinstated in our affections. We would receive you with open arms
and tears of joy. You need not apprehend any unkind treatment, as
we have not put ourselves to any trouble or expense to get you.
Had we done so, perhaps we should feel otherwise. You know my
sister was always attached to you, and that you were never
treated as a slave. You were never put to hard work, nor exposed
to field labor. On the contrary, you were taken into the house,
and treated as one of us, and almost as free; and we, at least,
felt that you were above disgracing yourself by running away.
Believing you may be induced to come home voluntarily has induced
me to write for my sister. The family will be rejoiced to see
you; and your poor old grandmother expressed a great desire to
have you come, when she heard your letter read. In her old age
she needs the consolation of having her children round her.
Doubtless you have heard of the death of your aunt. She was a
faithful servant, and a faithful member of the Episcopal church.
In her Christian life she taught us how to live--and, O, too high
the price of knowledge, she taught us how to die! Could you have
seen us round her death bed, with her mother, all mingling our
tears in one common stream, you would have thought the same
heartfelt tie existed between a master and his servant, as
between a mother and her child. But this subject is too painful
to dwell upon. I must bring my letter to a close. If you are
contented to stay away from your old grandmother, your child, and
the friends who love you, stay where you are. We shall never
trouble ourselves to apprehend you. But should you prefer to come
home, we will do all that we can to make you happy. If you do not
wish to remain in the family, I know that father, by our
persuasion, will be induced to let you be purchased by any person
you may choose in our community. You will please answer this as
soon as possible, and let us know your decision. Sister sends
much love to you. In the mean time believe me your sincere friend
and well wisher.
This letter was signed by Emily's brother, who was as yet a mere lad. I
knew, by the style, that it was not written by a person of his age, and
though the writing was disguised, I had been made too unhappy by it, in
former years, not to recognize at once the hand of Dr. Flint. O, the
hypocrisy of slaveholders! Did the old fox suppose I was goose enough to go
into such a trap? Verily, he relied too much on "the stupidity of the
African race." I did not return the family of Flints any thanks for their
cordial invitation--a remissness for which I was, no doubt, charged with
base ingratitude.
Not long afterwards I received a letter from one of my friends at the
south, informing me that Dr. Flint was about to visit the north. The letter
had been delayed, and I supposed he might be already on the way. Mrs. Bruce
did not know I was a fugitive. I told her that important business called me
to Boston, where my brother then was, and asked permission to bring a
friend to supply my place as nurse, for a fortnight. I started on my
journey immediately; and as soon as I arrived, I wrote to my grandmother
that if Benny came, he must be sent to Boston. I knew she was only waiting
for a good chance to send him north, and, fortunately, she had the legal
power to do so, without asking leave of any body. She was a free woman; and
when my children were purchased, Mr. Sands preferred to have the bill of
sale drawn up in her name. It was conjectured that he advanced the money,
but it was not known. At the south, a gentleman may have a shoal of colored
children without any disgrace; but if he is known to purchase them, with
the view of setting them free, the example is thought to be dangerous to
their "peculiar institution," and he becomes unpopular.
There was a good opportunity to send Benny in a vessel coming directly to
New York. He was put on board with a letter to a friend, who was requested
to see him off to Boston. Early one morning, there was a loud rap at my
door, and in rushed Benjamin, all out of breath. "O mother!" he exclaimed,
"here I am! I run all the way; and I come all alone. How d'you do?"
O reader, can you imagine my joy? No, you cannot, unless you have been a
slave mother. Benjamin rattled away as fast as his tongue could go.
"Mother, why don't you bring Ellen here? I went over to Brooklyn to see
her, and she felt very bad when I bid her good by. She said, 'O Ben, I wish
I was going too.' I thought she'd know ever so much; but she don't know so
much as I do; for I can read, and she can't. And, mother, I lost all my
clothes coming. What can I do to get some more? I 'spose free boys can get
along here at the north as well as white boys."
I did not like to tell the sanguine, happy little fellow how much he was
mistaken. I took him to a tailor, and procured a change of clothes. The
rest of the day was spent in mutual asking and answering of questions, with
the wish constantly repeated that the good old grandmother was with us, and
frequent injunctions from Benny to write to her immediately, and be sure to
tell her every thing about his voyage, and his journey to Boston.
Dr. Flint made his visit to New York, and made every exertion to call upon
me, and invite me to return with him, but not being able to ascertain where
I was, his hospitable intentions were frustrated, and the affectionate
family, who were waiting for me with "open arms," were doomed to
disappointment.
As soon as I knew he was safely at home, I placed Benjamin in the care of
my brother William, and returned to Mrs. Bruce. There I remained through
the winter and spring, endeavoring to perform my duties faithfully, and
finding a good degree of happiness in the attractions of baby Mary, the
considerate kindness of her excellent mother, and occasional interviews
with my darling daughter.
But when summer came, the old feeling of insecurity haunted me. It was
necessary for me to take little Mary out daily, for exercise and fresh air,
and the city was swarming with Southerners, some of whom might recognize
me. Hot weather brings out snakes and slaveholders, and I like one class of
the venomous creatures as little as I do the other. What a comfort it is,
to be free to _say_ so! | Linda receives a letter urging her to come "home," purportedly written by Emily Flint's brother. She recognizes the letter as being from Dr. Flint. She does not respond, and soon thereafter receives another letter from a friend, informing her of Dr. Flint's plans to visit the North. Determined to avoid him, Linda tells Mrs. Bruce she needs two weeks off to attend to urgent business in Boston. Upon arriving in Boston, she writes to her grandmother and asks her to send her son, Ben, to Boston instead of New York. Several days later, she reunites with her son. Meanwhile, Linda learns that Dr. Flint is in New York looking for her. As soon as she hears that he has gone, she leaves Ben with her brother William and returns to New York. |
Nothing is more painful to the human mind, than, after the feelings have
been worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of
inaction and certainty which follows, and deprives the soul both of hope
and fear. Justine died; she rested; and I was alive. The blood flowed
freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my
heart, which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered
like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief beyond
description horrible, and more, much more, (I persuaded myself) was yet
behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness, and the love of virtue. I
had begun life with benevolent intentions, and thirsted for the moment
when I should put them in practice, and make myself useful to my
fellow-beings. Now all was blasted: instead of that serenity of
conscience, which allowed me to look back upon the past with
self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of new hopes, I
was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to
a hell of intense tortures, such as no language can describe.
This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had entirely recovered
from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned the face of man; all
sound of joy or complacency was torture to me; solitude was my only
consolation--deep, dark, death-like solitude.
My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my
disposition and habits, and endeavoured to reason with me on the folly
of giving way to immoderate grief. "Do you think, Victor," said he,
"that I do not suffer also? No one could love a child more than I loved
your brother;" (tears came into his eyes as he spoke); "but is it not a
duty to the survivors, that we should refrain from augmenting their
unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed
to yourself; for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or
even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for
society."
This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I
should have been the first to hide my grief, and console my friends, if
remorse had not mingled its bitterness with my other sensations. Now I
could only answer my father with a look of despair, and endeavour to
hide myself from his view.
About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change was
particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at ten
o'clock, and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that
hour, had rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome
to me. I was now free. Often, after the rest of the family had retired
for the night, I took the boat, and passed many hours upon the water.
Sometimes, with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and sometimes,
after rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to pursue its
own course, and gave way to my own miserable reflections. I was often
tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the only unquiet thing
that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and heavenly, if I except
some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted croaking was heard
only when I approached the shore--often, I say, I was tempted to plunge
into the silent lake, that the waters might close over me and my
calamities for ever. But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic
and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was
bound up in mine. I thought also of my father, and surviving brother:
should I by my base desertion leave them exposed and unprotected to the
malice of the fiend whom I had let loose among them?
At these moments I wept bitterly, and wished that peace would revisit my
mind only that I might afford them consolation and happiness. But that
could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope. I had been the author of
unalterable evils; and I lived in daily fear, lest the monster whom I
had created should perpetrate some new wickedness. I had an obscure
feeling that all was not over, and that he would still commit some
signal crime, which by its enormity should almost efface the
recollection of the past. There was always scope for fear, so long as
any thing I loved remained behind. My abhorrence of this fiend cannot be
conceived. When I thought of him, I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became
inflamed, and I ardently wished to extinguish that life which I had so
thoughtlessly bestowed. When I reflected on his crimes and malice, my
hatred and revenge burst all bounds of moderation. I would have made a
pilgrimage to the highest peak of the Andes, could I, when there, have
precipitated him to their base. I wished to see him again, that I might
wreak the utmost extent of anger on his head, and avenge the deaths of
William and Justine.
Our house was the house of mourning. My father's health was deeply
shaken by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and
desponding; she no longer took delight in her ordinary occupations; all
pleasure seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears
she then thought was the just tribute she should pay to innocence so
blasted and destroyed. She was no longer that happy creature, who in
earlier youth wandered with me on the banks of the lake, and talked with
ecstacy of our future prospects. She had become grave, and often
conversed of the inconstancy of fortune, and the instability of human
life.
"When I reflect, my dear cousin," said she, "on the miserable death of
Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before
appeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and
injustice, that I read in books or heard from others, as tales of
ancient days, or imaginary evils; at least they were remote, and more
familiar to reason than to the imagination; but now misery has come
home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other's blood.
Yet I am certainly unjust. Every body believed that poor girl to be
guilty; and if she could have committed the crime for which she
suffered, assuredly she would have been the most depraved of human
creatures. For the sake of a few jewels, to have murdered the son of her
benefactor and friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and
appeared to love as if it had been her own! I could not consent to the
death of any human being; but certainly I should have thought such a
creature unfit to remain in the society of men. Yet she was innocent. I
know, I feel she was innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that
confirms me. Alas! Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth,
who can assure themselves of certain happiness? I feel as if I were
walking on the edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are
crowding, and endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss. William and
Justine were assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the
world free, and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to
suffer on the scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places
with such a wretch."
I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed,
but in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my
countenance, and kindly taking my hand said, "My dearest cousin, you
must calm yourself. These events have affected me, God knows how deeply;
but I am not so wretched as you are. There is an expression of despair,
and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance, that makes me tremble. Be
calm, my dear Victor; I would sacrifice my life to your peace. We surely
shall be happy: quiet in our native country, and not mingling in the
world, what can disturb our tranquillity?"
She shed tears as she said this, distrusting the very solace that she
gave; but at the same time she smiled, that she might chase away the
fiend that lurked in my heart. My father, who saw in the unhappiness
that was painted in my face only an exaggeration of that sorrow which I
might naturally feel, thought that an amusement suited to my taste would
be the best means of restoring to me my wonted serenity. It was from
this cause that he had removed to the country; and, induced by the same
motive, he now proposed that we should all make an excursion to the
valley of Chamounix. I had been there before, but Elizabeth and Ernest
never had; and both had often expressed an earnest desire to see the
scenery of this place, which had been described to them as so wonderful
and sublime. Accordingly we departed from Geneva on this tour about the
middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of
Justine.
The weather was uncommonly fine; and if mine had been a sorrow to be
chased away by any fleeting circumstance, this excursion would certainly
have had the effect intended by my father. As it was, I was somewhat
interested in the scene; it sometimes lulled, although it could not
extinguish my grief. During the first day we travelled in a carriage. In
the morning we had seen the mountains at a distance, towards which we
gradually advanced. We perceived that the valley through which we wound,
and which was formed by the river Arve, whose course we followed, closed
in upon us by degrees; and when the sun had set, we beheld immense
mountains and precipices overhanging us on every side, and heard the
sound of the river raging among rocks, and the dashing of water-falls
around.
The next day we pursued our journey upon mules; and as we ascended still
higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character.
Ruined castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains; the
impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from
among the trees, formed a scene of singular beauty. But it was augmented
and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and shining
pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging to another earth, the
habitations of another race of beings.
We passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine, which the river
forms, opened before us, and we began to ascend the mountain that
overhangs it. Soon after we entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley
is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque as
that of Servox, through which we had just passed. The high and snowy
mountains were its immediate boundaries; but we saw no more ruined
castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers approached the road; we
heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche, and marked the
smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont
Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding _aiguilles_, and its
tremendous _dome_ overlooked the valley.
During this journey, I sometimes joined Elizabeth, and exerted myself to
point out to her the various beauties of the scene. I often suffered my
mule to lag behind, and indulged in the misery of reflection. At other
times I spurred on the animal before my companions, that I might forget
them, the world, and, more than all, myself. When at a distance, I
alighted, and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by horror and
despair. At eight in the evening I arrived at Chamounix. My father and
Elizabeth were very much fatigued; Ernest, who accompanied us, was
delighted, and in high spirits: the only circumstance that detracted
from his pleasure was the south wind, and the rain it seemed to promise
for the next day.
We retired early to our apartments, but not to sleep; at least I did
not. I remained many hours at the window, watching the pallid lightning
that played above Mont Blanc, and listening to the rushing of the Arve,
which ran below my window. | After Justine's execution, Victor becomes increasingly melancholy. He considers suicide but restrains himself by thinking of Elizabeth and his father. Alphonse, hoping to cheer up his son, takes his children on an excursion to the family home at Belrive. From there, Victor wanders alone toward the valley of Chamounix. The beautiful scenery cheers him somewhat, but his respite from grief is short-lived |
"I do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world that those
children should have the measles just now," said Meg, one April day, as
she stood packing the 'go abroady' trunk in her room, surrounded by her
sisters.
"And so nice of Annie Moffat not to forget her promise. A whole
fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid," replied Jo, looking like
a windmill as she folded skirts with her long arms.
"And such lovely weather, I'm so glad of that," added Beth, tidily
sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the great
occasion.
"I wish I was going to have a fine time and wear all these nice
things," said Amy with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically
replenished her sister's cushion.
"I wish you were all going, but as you can't, I shall keep my
adventures to tell you when I come back. I'm sure it's the least I can
do when you have been so kind, lending me things and helping me get
ready," said Meg, glancing round the room at the very simple outfit,
which seemed nearly perfect in their eyes.
"What did Mother give you out of the treasure box?" asked Amy, who had
not been present at the opening of a certain cedar chest in which Mrs.
March kept a few relics of past splendor, as gifts for her girls when
the proper time came.
"A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue
sash. I wanted the violet silk, but there isn't time to make it over,
so I must be contented with my old tarlaton."
"It will look nice over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it
off beautifully. I wish I hadn't smashed my coral bracelet, for you
might have had it," said Jo, who loved to give and lend, but whose
possessions were usually too dilapidated to be of much use.
"There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure chest, but
Mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a young girl,
and Laurie promised to send me all I want," replied Meg. "Now, let me
see, there's my new gray walking suit, just curl up the feather in my
hat, Beth, then my poplin for Sunday and the small party, it looks
heavy for spring, doesn't it? The violet silk would be so nice. Oh,
dear!"
"Never mind, you've got the tarlaton for the big party, and you always
look like an angel in white," said Amy, brooding over the little store
of finery in which her soul delighted.
"It isn't low-necked, and it doesn't sweep enough, but it will have to
do. My blue housedress looks so well, turned and freshly trimmed, that
I feel as if I'd got a new one. My silk sacque isn't a bit the
fashion, and my bonnet doesn't look like Sallie's. I didn't like to
say anything, but I was sadly disappointed in my umbrella. I told
Mother black with a white handle, but she forgot and bought a green one
with a yellowish handle. It's strong and neat, so I ought not to
complain, but I know I shall feel ashamed of it beside Annie's silk one
with a gold top," sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with great
disfavor.
"Change it," advised Jo.
"I won't be so silly, or hurt Marmee's feelings, when she took so much
pains to get my things. It's a nonsensical notion of mine, and I'm not
going to give up to it. My silk stockings and two pairs of new gloves
are my comfort. You are a dear to lend me yours, Jo. I feel so rich
and sort of elegant, with two new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up
for common." And Meg took a refreshing peep at her glove box.
"Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her nightcaps. Would you put
some on mine?" she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy muslins,
fresh from Hannah's hands.
"No, I wouldn't, for the smart caps won't match the plain gowns without
any trimming on them. Poor folks shouldn't rig," said Jo decidedly.
"I wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real lace on my
clothes and bows on my caps?" said Meg impatiently.
"You said the other day that you'd be perfectly happy if you could only
go to Annie Moffat's," observed Beth in her quiet way.
"So I did! Well, I am happy, and I won't fret, but it does seem as if
the more one gets the more one wants, doesn't it? There now, the trays
are ready, and everything in but my ball dress, which I shall leave for
Mother to pack," said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced from the
half-filled trunk to the many times pressed and mended white tarlaton,
which she called her 'ball dress' with an important air.
The next day was fine, and Meg departed in style for a fortnight of
novelty and pleasure. Mrs. March had consented to the visit rather
reluctantly, fearing that Margaret would come back more discontented
than she went. But she begged so hard, and Sallie had promised to take
good care of her, and a little pleasure seemed so delightful after a
winter of irksome work that the mother yielded, and the daughter went
to take her first taste of fashionable life.
The Moffats were very fashionable, and simple Meg was rather daunted,
at first, by the splendor of the house and the elegance of its
occupants. But they were kindly people, in spite of the frivolous life
they led, and soon put their guest at her ease. Perhaps Meg felt,
without understanding why, that they were not particularly cultivated
or intelligent people, and that all their gilding could not quite
conceal the ordinary material of which they were made. It certainly
was agreeable to fare sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage, wear her
best frock every day, and do nothing but enjoy herself. It suited her
exactly, and soon she began to imitate the manners and conversation of
those about her, to put on little airs and graces, use French phrases,
crimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk about the fashions as
well as she could. The more she saw of Annie Moffat's pretty things,
the more she envied her and sighed to be rich. Home now looked bare
and dismal as she thought of it, work grew harder than ever, and she
felt that she was a very destitute and much-injured girl, in spite of
the new gloves and silk stockings.
She had not much time for repining, however, for the three young girls
were busily employed in 'having a good time'. They shopped, walked,
rode, and called all day, went to theaters and operas or frolicked at
home in the evening, for Annie had many friends and knew how to
entertain them. Her older sisters were very fine young ladies, and one
was engaged, which was extremely interesting and romantic, Meg thought.
Mr. Moffat was a fat, jolly old gentleman, who knew her father, and
Mrs. Moffat, a fat, jolly old lady, who took as great a fancy to Meg as
her daughter had done. Everyone petted her, and 'Daisey', as they
called her, was in a fair way to have her head turned.
When the evening for the small party came, she found that the poplin
wouldn't do at all, for the other girls were putting on thin dresses
and making themselves very fine indeed. So out came the tarlatan,
looking older, limper, and shabbier than ever beside Sallie's crisp new
one. Meg saw the girls glance at it and then at one another, and her
cheeks began to burn, for with all her gentleness she was very proud.
No one said a word about it, but Sallie offered to dress her hair, and
Annie to tie her sash, and Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white
arms. But in their kindness Meg saw only pity for her poverty, and her
heart felt very heavy as she stood by herself, while the others
laughed, chattered, and flew about like gauzy butterflies. The hard,
bitter feeling was getting pretty bad, when the maid brought in a box
of flowers. Before she could speak, Annie had the cover off, and all
were exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath, and fern within.
"It's for Belle, of course, George always sends her some, but these are
altogether ravishing," cried Annie, with a great sniff.
"They are for Miss March, the man said. And here's a note," put in the
maid, holding it to Meg.
"What fun! Who are they from? Didn't know you had a lover," cried the
girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosity and surprise.
"The note is from Mother, and the flowers from Laurie," said Meg
simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.
"Oh, indeed!" said Annie with a funny look, as Meg slipped the note
into her pocket as a sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and false
pride, for the few loving words had done her good, and the flowers
cheered her up by their beauty.
Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses for
herself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for the
breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, offering them so prettily that
Clara, the elder sister, told her she was 'the sweetest little thing
she ever saw', and they looked quite charmed with her small attention.
Somehow the kind act finished her despondency, and when all the rest
went to show themselves to Mrs. Moffat, she saw a happy, bright-eyed
face in the mirror, as she laid her ferns against her rippling hair and
fastened the roses in the dress that didn't strike her as so very
shabby now.
She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her
heart's content. Everyone was very kind, and she had three
compliments. Annie made her sing, and some one said she had a
remarkably fine voice. Major Lincoln asked who 'the fresh little girl
with the beautiful eyes' was, and Mr. Moffat insisted on dancing with
her because she 'didn't dawdle, but had some spring in her', as he
gracefully expressed it. So altogether she had a very nice time, till
she overheard a bit of conversation, which disturbed her extremely.
She was sitting just inside the conservatory, waiting for her partner
to bring her an ice, when she heard a voice ask on the other side of
the flowery wall...
"How old is he?"
"Sixteen or seventeen, I should say," replied another voice.
"It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn't it? Sallie
says they are very intimate now, and the old man quite dotes on them."
"Mrs. M. has made her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards well,
early as it is. The girl evidently doesn't think of it yet," said Mrs.
Moffat.
"She told that fib about her momma, as if she did know, and colored up
when the flowers came quite prettily. Poor thing! She'd be so nice if
she was only got up in style. Do you think she'd be offended if we
offered to lend her a dress for Thursday?" asked another voice.
"She's proud, but I don't believe she'd mind, for that dowdy tarlaton
is all she has got. She may tear it tonight, and that will be a good
excuse for offering a decent one."
Here Meg's partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed and
rather agitated. She was proud, and her pride was useful just then,
for it helped her hide her mortification, anger, and disgust at what
she had just heard. For, innocent and unsuspicious as she was, she
could not help understanding the gossip of her friends. She tried to
forget it, but could not, and kept repeating to herself, "Mrs. M. has
made her plans," "that fib about her mamma," and "dowdy tarlaton," till
she was ready to cry and rush home to tell her troubles and ask for
advice. As that was impossible, she did her best to seem gay, and
being rather excited, she succeeded so well that no one dreamed what an
effort she was making. She was very glad when it was all over and she
was quiet in her bed, where she could think and wonder and fume till
her head ached and her hot cheeks were cooled by a few natural tears.
Those foolish, yet well meant words, had opened a new world to Meg, and
much disturbed the peace of the old one in which till now she had lived
as happily as a child. Her innocent friendship with Laurie was spoiled
by the silly speeches she had overheard. Her faith in her mother was a
little shaken by the worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat,
who judged others by herself, and the sensible resolution to be
contented with the simple wardrobe which suited a poor man's daughter
was weakened by the unnecessary pity of girls who thought a shabby
dress one of the greatest calamities under heaven.
Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half
resentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself for not
speaking out frankly and setting everything right. Everybody dawdled
that morning, and it was noon before the girls found energy enough even
to take up their worsted work. Something in the manner of her friends
struck Meg at once. They treated her with more respect, she thought,
took quite a tender interest in what she said, and looked at her with
eyes that plainly betrayed curiosity. All this surprised and flattered
her, though she did not understand it till Miss Belle looked up from
her writing, and said, with a sentimental air...
"Daisy, dear, I've sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Laurence, for
Thursday. We should like to know him, and it's only a proper
compliment to you."
Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply
demurely, "You are very kind, but I'm afraid he won't come."
"Why not, Cherie?" asked Miss Belle.
"He's too old."
"My child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg to know!" cried
Miss Clara.
"Nearly seventy, I believe," answered Meg, counting stitches to hide
the merriment in her eyes.
"You sly creature! Of course we meant the young man," exclaimed Miss
Belle, laughing.
"There isn't any, Laurie is only a little boy." And Meg laughed also
at the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described her
supposed lover.
"About your age," Nan said.
"Nearer my sister Jo's; I am seventeen in August," returned Meg,
tossing her head.
"It's very nice of him to send you flowers, isn't it?" said Annie,
looking wise about nothing.
"Yes, he often does, to all of us, for their house is full, and we are
so fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you know,
so it is quite natural that we children should play together," and Meg
hoped they would say no more.
"It's evident Daisy isn't out yet," said Miss Clara to Belle with a nod.
"Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round," returned Miss Belle
with a shrug.
"I'm going out to get some little matters for my girls. Can I do
anything for you, young ladies?" asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in like
an elephant in silk and lace.
"No, thank you, ma'am," replied Sallie. "I've got my new pink silk for
Thursday and don't want a thing."
"Nor I..." began Meg, but stopped because it occurred to her that she
did want several things and could not have them.
"What shall you wear?" asked Sallie.
"My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen, it got sadly
torn last night," said Meg, trying to speak quite easily, but feeling
very uncomfortable.
"Why don't you send home for another?" said Sallie, who was not an
observing young lady.
"I haven't got any other." It cost Meg an effort to say that, but
Sallie did not see it and exclaimed in amiable surprise, "Only that?
How funny..." She did not finish her speech, for Belle shook her head
at her and broke in, saying kindly...
"Not at all. Where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she
isn't out yet? There's no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had
a dozen, for I've got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I've outgrown,
and you shall wear it to please me, won't you, dear?"
"You are very kind, but I don't mind my old dress if you don't, it does
well enough for a little girl like me," said Meg.
"Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to
do it, and you'd be a regular little beauty with a touch here and
there. I shan't let anyone see you till you are done, and then we'll
burst upon them like Cinderella and her godmother going to the ball,"
said Belle in her persuasive tone.
Meg couldn't refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if
she would be 'a little beauty' after touching up caused her to accept
and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings toward the Moffats.
On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid, and
between them they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped and curled
her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder,
touched her lips with coralline salve to make them redder, and Hortense
would have added 'a soupcon of rouge', if Meg had not rebelled. They
laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly
breathe and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in
the mirror. A set of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace,
brooch, and even earrings, for Hortense tied them on with a bit of pink
silk which did not show. A cluster of tea-rose buds at the bosom, and
a ruche, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty, white shoulders,
and a pair of high-heeled silk boots satisfied the last wish of her
heart. A lace handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a shoulder
holder finished her off, and Miss Belle surveyed her with the
satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.
"Mademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie, is she not?" cried Hortense,
clasping her hands in an affected rapture.
"Come and show yourself," said Miss Belle, leading the way to the room
where the others were waiting.
As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her earrings
tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her
fun had really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that
she was 'a little beauty'. Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase
enthusiastically, and for several minutes she stood, like a jackdaw in
the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like
a party of magpies.
"While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her skirt
and those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Take your silver
butterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head,
Clara, and don't any of you disturb the charming work of my hands,"
said Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success.
"You don't look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. I'm nowhere
beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you're quite French, I
assure you. Let your flowers hang, don't be so careful of them, and be
sure you don't trip," returned Sallie, trying not to care that Meg was
prettier than herself.
Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely down stairs
and sailed into the drawing rooms where the Moffats and a few early
guests were assembled. She very soon discovered that there is a charm
about fine clothes which attracts a certain class of people and secures
their respect. Several young ladies, who had taken no notice of her
before, were very affectionate all of a sudden. Several young
gentlemen, who had only stared at her at the other party, now not only
stared, but asked to be introduced, and said all manner of foolish but
agreeable things to her, and several old ladies, who sat on the sofas,
and criticized the rest of the party, inquired who she was with an air
of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them...
"Daisy March--father a colonel in the army--one of our first families,
but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the Laurences;
sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild about her."
"Dear me!" said the old lady, putting up her glass for another
observation of Meg, who tried to look as if she had not heard and been
rather shocked at Mrs. Moffat's fibs. The 'queer feeling' did not pass
away, but she imagined herself acting the new part of fine lady and so
got on pretty well, though the tight dress gave her a side-ache, the
train kept getting under her feet, and she was in constant fear lest
her earrings should fly off and get lost or broken. She was flirting
her fan and laughing at the feeble jokes of a young gentleman who tried
to be witty, when she suddenly stopped laughing and looked confused,
for just opposite, she saw Laurie. He was staring at her with
undisguised surprise, and disapproval also, she thought, for though he
bowed and smiled, yet something in his honest eyes made her blush and
wish she had her old dress on. To complete her confusion, she saw Belle
nudge Annie, and both glance from her to Laurie, who, she was happy to
see, looked unusually boyish and shy.
"Silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head. I won't care for
it, or let it change me a bit," thought Meg, and rustled across the
room to shake hands with her friend.
"I'm glad you came, I was afraid you wouldn't." she said, with her most
grown-up air.
"Jo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so I did," answered
Laurie, without turning his eyes upon her, though he half smiled at her
maternal tone.
"What shall you tell her?" asked Meg, full of curiosity to know his
opinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him for the first time.
"I shall say I didn't know you, for you look so grown-up and unlike
yourself, I'm quite afraid of you," he said, fumbling at his glove
button.
"How absurd of you! The girls dressed me up for fun, and I rather like
it. Wouldn't Jo stare if she saw me?" said Meg, bent on making him say
whether he thought her improved or not.
"Yes, I think she would," returned Laurie gravely.
"Don't you like me so?" asked Meg.
"No, I don't," was the blunt reply.
"Why not?" in an anxious tone.
He glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders, and fantastically
trimmed dress with an expression that abashed her more than his answer,
which had not a particle of his usual politeness in it.
"I don't like fuss and feathers."
That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself, and Meg
walked away, saying petulantly, "You are the rudest boy I ever saw."
Feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet window to cool
her cheeks, for the tight dress gave her an uncomfortably brilliant
color. As she stood there, Major Lincoln passed by, and a minute after
she heard him saying to his mother...
"They are making a fool of that little girl. I wanted you to see her,
but they have spoiled her entirely. She's nothing but a doll tonight."
"Oh, dear!" sighed Meg. "I wish I'd been sensible and worn my own
things, then I should not have disgusted other people, or felt so
uncomfortable and ashamed of myself."
She leaned her forehead on the cool pane, and stood half hidden by the
curtains, never minding that her favorite waltz had begun, till some
one touched her, and turning, she saw Laurie, looking penitent, as he
said, with his very best bow and his hand out...
"Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me."
"I'm afraid it will be too disagreeable to you," said Meg, trying to
look offended and failing entirely.
"Not a bit of it, I'm dying to do it. Come, I'll be good. I don't like
your gown, but I do think you are just splendid." And he waved his
hands, as if words failed to express his admiration.
Meg smiled and relented, and whispered as they stood waiting to catch
the time, "Take care my skirt doesn't trip you up. It's the plague of
my life and I was a goose to wear it."
"Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful," said Laurie,
looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently approved of.
Away they went fleetly and gracefully, for having practiced at home,
they were well matched, and the blithe young couple were a pleasant
sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round, feeling more
friendly than ever after their small tiff.
"Laurie, I want you to do me a favor, will you?" said Meg, as he stood
fanning her when her breath gave out, which it did very soon though she
would not own why.
"Won't I!" said Laurie, with alacrity.
"Please don't tell them at home about my dress tonight. They won't
understand the joke, and it will worry Mother."
"Then why did you do it?" said Laurie's eyes, so plainly that Meg
hastily added...
"I shall tell them myself all about it, and 'fess' to Mother how silly
I've been. But I'd rather do it myself. So you'll not tell, will you?"
"I give you my word I won't, only what shall I say when they ask me?"
"Just say I looked pretty well and was having a good time."
"I'll say the first with all my heart, but how about the other? You
don't look as if you were having a good time. Are you?" And Laurie
looked at her with an expression which made her answer in a whisper...
"No, not just now. Don't think I'm horrid. I only wanted a little
fun, but this sort doesn't pay, I find, and I'm getting tired of it."
"Here comes Ned Moffat. What does he want?" said Laurie, knitting his
black brows as if he did not regard his young host in the light of a
pleasant addition to the party.
"He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he's coming for
them. What a bore!" said Meg, assuming a languid air which amused
Laurie immensely.
He did not speak to her again till suppertime, when he saw her drinking
champagne with Ned and his friend Fisher, who were behaving 'like a
pair of fools', as Laurie said to himself, for he felt a brotherly sort
of right to watch over the Marches and fight their battles whenever a
defender was needed.
"You'll have a splitting headache tomorrow, if you drink much of that.
I wouldn't, Meg, your mother doesn't like it, you know," he whispered,
leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her glass and Fisher
stooped to pick up her fan.
"I'm not Meg tonight, I'm 'a doll' who does all sorts of crazy things.
Tomorrow I shall put away my 'fuss and feathers' and be desperately
good again," she answered with an affected little laugh.
"Wish tomorrow was here, then," muttered Laurie, walking off,
ill-pleased at the change he saw in her.
Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other girls did.
After supper she undertook the German, and blundered through it, nearly
upsetting her partner with her long skirt, and romping in a way that
scandalized Laurie, who looked on and meditated a lecture. But he got
no chance to deliver it, for Meg kept away from him till he came to say
good night.
"Remember!" she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache had
already begun.
"Silence a la mort," replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as
he went away.
This little bit of byplay excited Annie's curiosity, but Meg was too
tired for gossip and went to bed, feeling as if she had been to a
masquerade and hadn't enjoyed herself as much as she expected. She was
sick all the next day, and on Saturday went home, quite used up with
her fortnight's fun and feeling that she had 'sat in the lap of luxury'
long enough.
"It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company manners on all
the time. Home is a nice place, though it isn't splendid," said Meg,
looking about her with a restful expression, as she sat with her mother
and Jo on the Sunday evening.
"I'm glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would seem
dull and poor to you after your fine quarters," replied her mother, who
had given her many anxious looks that day. For motherly eyes are quick
to see any change in children's faces.
Meg had told her adventures gayly and said over and over what a
charming time she had had, but something still seemed to weigh upon her
spirits, and when the younger girls were gone to bed, she sat
thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little and looking worried.
As the clock struck nine and Jo proposed bed, Meg suddenly left her
chair and, taking Beth's stool, leaned her elbows on her mother's knee,
saying bravely...
"Marmee, I want to 'fess'."
"I thought so. What is it, dear?"
"Shall I go away?" asked Jo discreetly.
"Of course not. Don't I always tell you everything? I was ashamed to
speak of it before the younger children, but I want you to know all the
dreadful things I did at the Moffats'."
"We are prepared," said Mrs. March, smiling but looking a little
anxious.
"I told you they dressed me up, but I didn't tell you that they
powdered and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a
fashion-plate. Laurie thought I wasn't proper. I know he did, though
he didn't say so, and one man called me 'a doll'. I knew it was silly,
but they flattered me and said I was a beauty, and quantities of
nonsense, so I let them make a fool of me."
"Is that all?" asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the downcast
face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her heart to
blame her little follies.
"No, I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was
altogether abominable," said Meg self-reproachfully.
"There is something more, I think." And Mrs. March smoothed the soft
cheek, which suddenly grew rosy as Meg answered slowly...
"Yes. It's very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have
people say and think such things about us and Laurie."
Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffats',
and as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly, as if ill
pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg's innocent mind.
"Well, if that isn't the greatest rubbish I ever heard," cried Jo
indignantly. "Why didn't you pop out and tell them so on the spot?"
"I couldn't, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn't help hearing at
first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn't remember that I
ought to go away."
"Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I'll show you how to settle
such ridiculous stuff. The idea of having 'plans' and being kind to
Laurie because he's rich and may marry us by-and-by! Won't he shout
when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor children?"
And Jo laughed, as if on second thoughts the thing struck her as a good
joke.
"If you tell Laurie, I'll never forgive you! She mustn't, must she,
Mother?" said Meg, looking distressed.
"No, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you
can," said Mrs. March gravely. "I was very unwise to let you go among
people of whom I know so little, kind, I dare say, but worldly,
ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young people. I am more
sorry than I can express for the mischief this visit may have done you,
Meg."
"Don't be sorry, I won't let it hurt me. I'll forget all the bad and
remember only the good, for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank you
very much for letting me go. I'll not be sentimental or dissatisfied,
Mother. I know I'm a silly little girl, and I'll stay with you till
I'm fit to take care of myself. But it is nice to be praised and
admired, and I can't help saying I like it," said Meg, looking half
ashamed of the confession.
"That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking does not
become a passion and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things.
Learn to know and value the praise which is worth having, and to excite
the admiration of excellent people by being modest as well as pretty,
Meg."
Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands behind
her, looking both interested and a little perplexed, for it was a new
thing to see Meg blushing and talking about admiration, lovers, and
things of that sort. And Jo felt as if during that fortnight her
sister had grown up amazingly, and was drifting away from her into a
world where she could not follow.
"Mother, do you have 'plans', as Mrs. Moffat said?" asked Meg bashfully.
"Yes, my dear, I have a great many, all mothers do, but mine differ
somewhat from Mrs. Moffat's, I suspect. I will tell you some of them,
for the time has come when a word may set this romantic little head and
heart of yours right, on a very serious subject. You are young, Meg,
but not too young to understand me, and mothers' lips are the fittest
to speak of such things to girls like you. Jo, your turn will come in
time, perhaps, so listen to my 'plans' and help me carry them out, if
they are good."
Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought they
were about to join in some very solemn affair. Holding a hand of each,
and watching the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March said, in her
serious yet cheery way...
"I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good. To be
admired, loved, and respected. To have a happy youth, to be well and
wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care
and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen
by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a
woman, and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful
experience. It is natural to think of it, Meg, right to hope and wait
for it, and wise to prepare for it, so that when the happy time comes,
you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy. My dear
girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the
world, marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid
houses, which are not homes because love is wanting. Money is a
needful and precious thing, and when well used, a noble thing, but I
never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for.
I'd rather see you poor men's wives, if you were happy, beloved,
contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace."
"Poor girls don't stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put
themselves forward," sighed Meg.
"Then we'll be old maids," said Jo stoutly.
"Right, Jo. Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or
unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands," said Mrs. March
decidedly. "Don't be troubled, Meg, poverty seldom daunts a sincere
lover. Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor girls,
but so love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave
these things to time. Make this home happy, so that you may be fit for
homes of your own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they
are not. One thing remember, my girls. Mother is always ready to be
your confidant, Father to be your friend, and both of us hope and trust
that our daughters, whether married or single, will be the pride and
comfort of our lives."
"We will, Marmee, we will!" cried both, with all their hearts, as she
bade them good night. | Meg spends a couple of weeks with the fashionable Moffats where she has an opportunity to party, dance and shop to her hearts content. The experience is not quite as much fun as she anticipated as the other girls exchange superior glances over Megs out-of-style, well-worn tarleton gown. A delivery of flowers from Laurie and a note from her mother enable her to shake off her embarrassment and almost enjoy an evening of dancing until she hears people talking about her on the other side of a thin divider wall. They speak of her "dowdy tarleton," the "fib about her mamma" , and the "plans" of Mrs. M. Meg allows the girls to loan her a very low cut blue gown for the next party. They adorn her with jewels, flowers, and makeup, making her look like something out of a fashion magazine more than herself. Although Meg doesnt feel quite right, she tries to act the part of a fashionable lady, flirting with her fan and laughing at feeble jokes told by young men. Her discomfort is complete when Laurie appears at the dance and is obviously displeased at her appearance. She is hurt and angry at Laurie until she overhears one of the guests say that "they have spoilt her entirely, shes nothing but a doll tonight." Laurie promises not to tell Marmee and the girls about Megs dress, but when Meg gets home she confesses, telling her mother that she "drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt and was, altogether, abominable." Marmee and the girls discuss the problems caused by putting too much emphasis on money and fine things rather than on love, happiness and self respect. |
About a quarter to seven there was an unusual appearance of excitement
in the village of Hayslope, and through the whole length of its
little street, from the Donnithorne Arms to the churchyard gate, the
inhabitants had evidently been drawn out of their houses by something
more than the pleasure of lounging in the evening sunshine. The
Donnithorne Arms stood at the entrance of the village, and a small
farmyard and stackyard which flanked it, indicating that there was a
pretty take of land attached to the inn, gave the traveller a promise
of good feed for himself and his horse, which might well console him
for the ignorance in which the weather-beaten sign left him as to the
heraldic bearings of that ancient family, the Donnithornes. Mr. Casson,
the landlord, had been for some time standing at the door with his hands
in his pockets, balancing himself on his heels and toes and looking
towards a piece of unenclosed ground, with a maple in the middle of it,
which he knew to be the destination of certain grave-looking men and
women whom he had observed passing at intervals.
Mr. Casson's person was by no means of that common type which can be
allowed to pass without description. On a front view it appeared to
consist principally of two spheres, bearing about the same relation to
each other as the earth and the moon: that is to say, the lower sphere
might be said, at a rough guess, to be thirteen times larger than the
upper which naturally performed the function of a mere satellite and
tributary. But here the resemblance ceased, for Mr. Casson's head was
not at all a melancholy-looking satellite nor was it a "spotty globe,"
as Milton has irreverently called the moon; on the contrary, no head and
face could look more sleek and healthy, and its expression--which was
chiefly confined to a pair of round and ruddy cheeks, the slight
knot and interruptions forming the nose and eyes being scarcely worth
mention--was one of jolly contentment, only tempered by that sense of
personal dignity which usually made itself felt in his attitude and
bearing. This sense of dignity could hardly be considered excessive in
a man who had been butler to "the family" for fifteen years, and who, in
his present high position, was necessarily very much in contact with
his inferiors. How to reconcile his dignity with the satisfaction of his
curiosity by walking towards the Green was the problem that Mr. Casson
had been revolving in his mind for the last five minutes; but when
he had partly solved it by taking his hands out of his pockets, and
thrusting them into the armholes of his waistcoat, by throwing his
head on one side, and providing himself with an air of contemptuous
indifference to whatever might fall under his notice, his thoughts were
diverted by the approach of the horseman whom we lately saw pausing to
have another look at our friend Adam, and who now pulled up at the door
of the Donnithorne Arms.
"Take off the bridle and give him a drink, ostler," said the traveller
to the lad in a smock-frock, who had come out of the yard at the sound
of the horse's hoofs.
"Why, what's up in your pretty village, landlord?" he continued, getting
down. "There seems to be quite a stir."
"It's a Methodis' preaching, sir; it's been gev hout as a young woman's
a-going to preach on the Green," answered Mr. Casson, in a treble and
wheezy voice, with a slightly mincing accent. "Will you please to step
in, sir, an' tek somethink?"
"No, I must be getting on to Rosseter. I only want a drink for my horse.
And what does your parson say, I wonder, to a young woman preaching just
under his nose?"
"Parson Irwine, sir, doesn't live here; he lives at Brox'on, over the
hill there. The parsonage here's a tumble-down place, sir, not fit for
gentry to live in. He comes here to preach of a Sunday afternoon, sir,
an' puts up his hoss here. It's a grey cob, sir, an' he sets great store
by't. He's allays put up his hoss here, sir, iver since before I hed the
Donnithorne Arms. I'm not this countryman, you may tell by my tongue,
sir. They're cur'ous talkers i' this country, sir; the gentry's hard
work to hunderstand 'em. I was brought hup among the gentry, sir, an'
got the turn o' their tongue when I was a bye. Why, what do you think
the folks here says for 'hevn't you?'--the gentry, you know, says,
'hevn't you'--well, the people about here says 'hanna yey.' It's what
they call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir. That's what I've heared
Squire Donnithorne say many a time; it's the dileck, says he."
"Aye, aye," said the stranger, smiling. "I know it very well. But you've
not got many Methodists about here, surely--in this agricultural spot? I
should have thought there would hardly be such a thing as a Methodist to
be found about here. You're all farmers, aren't you? The Methodists can
seldom lay much hold on THEM."
"Why, sir, there's a pretty lot o' workmen round about, sir. There's
Mester Burge as owns the timber-yard over there, he underteks a good bit
o' building an' repairs. An' there's the stone-pits not far off. There's
plenty of emply i' this countryside, sir. An' there's a fine batch o'
Methodisses at Treddles'on--that's the market town about three mile
off--you'll maybe ha' come through it, sir. There's pretty nigh a score
of 'em on the Green now, as come from there. That's where our people
gets it from, though there's only two men of 'em in all Hayslope: that's
Will Maskery, the wheelwright, and Seth Bede, a young man as works at
the carpenterin'."
"The preacher comes from Treddleston, then, does she?"
"Nay, sir, she comes out o' Stonyshire, pretty nigh thirty mile off.
But she's a-visitin' hereabout at Mester Poyser's at the Hall Farm--it's
them barns an' big walnut-trees, right away to the left, sir. She's own
niece to Poyser's wife, an' they'll be fine an' vexed at her for making
a fool of herself i' that way. But I've heared as there's no holding
these Methodisses when the maggit's once got i' their head: many of 'em
goes stark starin' mad wi' their religion. Though this young woman's
quiet enough to look at, by what I can make out; I've not seen her
myself."
"Well, I wish I had time to wait and see her, but I must get on. I've
been out of my way for the last twenty minutes to have a look at that
place in the valley. It's Squire Donnithorne's, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir, that's Donnithorne Chase, that is. Fine hoaks there, isn't
there, sir? I should know what it is, sir, for I've lived butler there
a-going i' fifteen year. It's Captain Donnithorne as is th' heir,
sir--Squire Donnithorne's grandson. He'll be comin' of hage this
'ay-'arvest, sir, an' we shall hev fine doin's. He owns all the land
about here, sir, Squire Donnithorne does."
"Well, it's a pretty spot, whoever may own it," said the traveller,
mounting his horse; "and one meets some fine strapping fellows about
too. I met as fine a young fellow as ever I saw in my life, about
half an hour ago, before I came up the hill--a carpenter, a tall,
broad-shouldered fellow with black hair and black eyes, marching along
like a soldier. We want such fellows as he to lick the French."
"Aye, sir, that's Adam Bede, that is, I'll be bound--Thias Bede's son
everybody knows him hereabout. He's an uncommon clever stiddy fellow,
an' wonderful strong. Lord bless you, sir--if you'll hexcuse me for
saying so--he can walk forty mile a-day, an' lift a matter o' sixty
ston'. He's an uncommon favourite wi' the gentry, sir: Captain
Donnithorne and Parson Irwine meks a fine fuss wi' him. But he's a
little lifted up an' peppery-like."
"Well, good evening to you, landlord; I must get on."
"Your servant, sir; good evenin'."
The traveller put his horse into a quick walk up the village, but when
he approached the Green, the beauty of the view that lay on his right
hand, the singular contrast presented by the groups of villagers with
the knot of Methodists near the maple, and perhaps yet more, curiosity
to see the young female preacher, proved too much for his anxiety to get
to the end of his journey, and he paused.
The Green lay at the extremity of the village, and from it the road
branched off in two directions, one leading farther up the hill by the
church, and the other winding gently down towards the valley. On the
side of the Green that led towards the church, the broken line of
thatched cottages was continued nearly to the churchyard gate; but on
the opposite northwestern side, there was nothing to obstruct the view
of gently swelling meadow, and wooded valley, and dark masses of distant
hill. That rich undulating district of Loamshire to which Hayslope
belonged lies close to a grim outskirt of Stonyshire, overlooked by its
barren hills as a pretty blooming sister may sometimes be seen linked in
the arm of a rugged, tall, swarthy brother; and in two or three hours'
ride the traveller might exchange a bleak treeless region, intersected
by lines of cold grey stone, for one where his road wound under the
shelter of woods, or up swelling hills, muffled with hedgerows and long
meadow-grass and thick corn; and where at every turn he came upon some
fine old country-seat nestled in the valley or crowning the slope, some
homestead with its long length of barn and its cluster of golden ricks,
some grey steeple looking out from a pretty confusion of trees and
thatch and dark-red tiles. It was just such a picture as this last
that Hayslope Church had made to the traveller as he began to mount the
gentle slope leading to its pleasant uplands, and now from his station
near the Green he had before him in one view nearly all the other
typical features of this pleasant land. High up against the horizon were
the huge conical masses of hill, like giant mounds intended to fortify
this region of corn and grass against the keen and hungry winds of the
north; not distant enough to be clothed in purple mystery, but with
sombre greenish sides visibly specked with sheep, whose motion was only
revealed by memory, not detected by sight; wooed from day to day by the
changing hours, but responding with no change in themselves--left for
ever grim and sullen after the flush of morning, the winged gleams of
the April noonday, the parting crimson glory of the ripening summer
sun. And directly below them the eye rested on a more advanced line of
hanging woods, divided by bright patches of pasture or furrowed crops,
and not yet deepened into the uniform leafy curtains of high summer, but
still showing the warm tints of the young oak and the tender green of
the ash and lime. Then came the valley, where the woods grew thicker,
as if they had rolled down and hurried together from the patches left
smooth on the slope, that they might take the better care of the tall
mansion which lifted its parapets and sent its faint blue summer smoke
among them. Doubtless there was a large sweep of park and a broad glassy
pool in front of that mansion, but the swelling slope of meadow would
not let our traveller see them from the village green. He saw instead
a foreground which was just as lovely--the level sunlight lying like
transparent gold among the gently curving stems of the feathered grass
and the tall red sorrel, and the white ambels of the hemlocks lining
the bushy hedgerows. It was that moment in summer when the sound of
the scythe being whetted makes us cast more lingering looks at the
flower-sprinkled tresses of the meadows.
He might have seen other beauties in the landscape if he had turned
a little in his saddle and looked eastward, beyond Jonathan Burge's
pasture and woodyard towards the green corn-fields and walnut-trees of
the Hall Farm; but apparently there was more interest for him in the
living groups close at hand. Every generation in the village was there,
from old "Feyther Taft" in his brown worsted night-cap, who was bent
nearly double, but seemed tough enough to keep on his legs a long while,
leaning on his short stick, down to the babies with their little round
heads lolling forward in quilted linen caps. Now and then there was a
new arrival; perhaps a slouching labourer, who, having eaten his supper,
came out to look at the unusual scene with a slow bovine gaze, willing
to hear what any one had to say in explanation of it, but by no means
excited enough to ask a question. But all took care not to join the
Methodists on the Green, and identify themselves in that way with the
expectant audience, for there was not one of them that would not have
disclaimed the imputation of having come out to hear the "preacher
woman"--they had only come out to see "what war a-goin' on, like." The
men were chiefly gathered in the neighbourhood of the blacksmith's shop.
But do not imagine them gathered in a knot. Villagers never swarm: a
whisper is unknown among them, and they seem almost as incapable of an
undertone as a cow or a stag. Your true rustic turns his back on his
interlocutor, throwing a question over his shoulder as if he meant to
run away from the answer, and walking a step or two farther off when the
interest of the dialogue culminates. So the group in the vicinity of the
blacksmith's door was by no means a close one, and formed no screen in
front of Chad Cranage, the blacksmith himself, who stood with his black
brawny arms folded, leaning against the door-post, and occasionally
sending forth a bellowing laugh at his own jokes, giving them a
marked preference over the sarcasms of Wiry Ben, who had renounced the
pleasures of the Holly Bush for the sake of seeing life under a new
form. But both styles of wit were treated with equal contempt by Mr.
Joshua Rann. Mr. Rann's leathern apron and subdued griminess can leave
no one in any doubt that he is the village shoemaker; the thrusting out
of his chin and stomach and the twirling of his thumbs are more subtle
indications, intended to prepare unwary strangers for the discovery that
they are in the presence of the parish clerk. "Old Joshway," as he
is irreverently called by his neighbours, is in a state of simmering
indignation; but he has not yet opened his lips except to say, in a
resounding bass undertone, like the tuning of a violoncello, "Sehon,
King of the Amorites; for His mercy endureth for ever; and Og the King
of Basan: for His mercy endureth for ever"--a quotation which may seem
to have slight bearing on the present occasion, but, as with every other
anomaly, adequate knowledge will show it to be a natural sequence. Mr.
Rann was inwardly maintaining the dignity of the Church in the face of
this scandalous irruption of Methodism, and as that dignity was bound up
with his own sonorous utterance of the responses, his argument naturally
suggested a quotation from the psalm he had read the last Sunday
afternoon.
The stronger curiosity of the women had drawn them quite to the edge of
the Green, where they could examine more closely the Quakerlike costume
and odd deportment of the female Methodists. Underneath the maple there
was a small cart, which had been brought from the wheelwright's to serve
as a pulpit, and round this a couple of benches and a few chairs had
been placed. Some of the Methodists were resting on these, with their
eyes closed, as if wrapt in prayer or meditation. Others chose to
continue standing, and had turned their faces towards the villagers
with a look of melancholy compassion, which was highly amusing to Bessy
Cranage, the blacksmith's buxom daughter, known to her neighbours as
Chad's Bess, who wondered "why the folks war amakin' faces a that'ns."
Chad's Bess was the object of peculiar compassion, because her hair,
being turned back under a cap which was set at the top of her head,
exposed to view an ornament of which she was much prouder than of her
red cheeks--namely, a pair of large round ear-rings with false garnets
in them, ornaments condemned not only by the Methodists, but by her own
cousin and namesake Timothy's Bess, who, with much cousinly feeling,
often wished "them ear-rings" might come to good.
Timothy's Bess, though retaining her maiden appellation among her
familiars, had long been the wife of Sandy Jim, and possessed a handsome
set of matronly jewels, of which it is enough to mention the heavy
baby she was rocking in her arms, and the sturdy fellow of five in
knee-breeches, and red legs, who had a rusty milk-can round his neck by
way of drum, and was very carefully avoided by Chad's small terrier.
This young olive-branch, notorious under the name of Timothy's Bess's
Ben, being of an inquiring disposition, unchecked by any false modesty,
had advanced beyond the group of women and children, and was walking
round the Methodists, looking up in their faces with his mouth wide
open, and beating his stick against the milk-can by way of musical
accompaniment. But one of the elderly women bending down to take him by
the shoulder, with an air of grave remonstrance, Timothy's Bess's Ben
first kicked out vigorously, then took to his heels and sought refuge
behind his father's legs.
"Ye gallows young dog," said Sandy Jim, with some paternal pride, "if
ye donna keep that stick quiet, I'll tek it from ye. What dy'e mane by
kickin' foulks?"
"Here! Gie him here to me, Jim," said Chad Cranage; "I'll tie hirs up
an' shoe him as I do th' hosses. Well, Mester Casson," he continued,
as that personage sauntered up towards the group of men, "how are ye
t' naight? Are ye coom t' help groon? They say folks allays groon when
they're hearkenin' to th' Methodys, as if they war bad i' th' inside.
I mane to groon as loud as your cow did th' other naight, an' then the
praicher 'ull think I'm i' th' raight way."
"I'd advise you not to be up to no nonsense, Chad," said Mr. Casson,
with some dignity; "Poyser wouldn't like to hear as his wife's niece was
treated any ways disrespectful, for all he mayn't be fond of her taking
on herself to preach."
"Aye, an' she's a pleasant-looked un too," said Wiry Ben. "I'll stick
up for the pretty women preachin'; I know they'd persuade me over a deal
sooner nor th' ugly men. I shouldna wonder if I turn Methody afore the
night's out, an' begin to coort the preacher, like Seth Bede."
"Why, Seth's looking rether too high, I should think," said Mr. Casson.
"This woman's kin wouldn't like her to demean herself to a common
carpenter."
"Tchu!" said Ben, with a long treble intonation, "what's folks's kin got
to do wi't? Not a chip. Poyser's wife may turn her nose up an' forget
bygones, but this Dinah Morris, they tell me, 's as poor as iver she
was--works at a mill, an's much ado to keep hersen. A strappin' young
carpenter as is a ready-made Methody, like Seth, wouldna be a bad match
for her. Why, Poysers make as big a fuss wi' Adam Bede as if he war a
nevvy o' their own."
"Idle talk! idle talk!" said Mr. Joshua Rann. "Adam an' Seth's two men;
you wunna fit them two wi' the same last."
"Maybe," said Wiry Ben, contemptuously, "but Seth's the lad for me,
though he war a Methody twice o'er. I'm fair beat wi' Seth, for I've
been teasin' him iver sin' we've been workin' together, an' he bears me
no more malice nor a lamb. An' he's a stout-hearted feller too, for when
we saw the old tree all afire a-comin' across the fields one night, an'
we thought as it war a boguy, Seth made no more ado, but he up to't
as bold as a constable. Why, there he comes out o' Will Maskery's; an'
there's Will hisself, lookin' as meek as if he couldna knock a nail o'
the head for fear o' hurtin't. An' there's the pretty preacher woman! My
eye, she's got her bonnet off. I mun go a bit nearer."
Several of the men followed Ben's lead, and the traveller pushed his
horse on to the Green, as Dinah walked rather quickly and in advance of
her companions towards the cart under the maple-tree. While she was near
Seth's tall figure, she looked short, but when she had mounted the cart,
and was away from all comparison, she seemed above the middle height of
woman, though in reality she did not exceed it--an effect which was due
to the slimness of her figure and the simple line of her black stuff
dress. The stranger was struck with surprise as he saw her approach and
mount the cart--surprise, not so much at the feminine delicacy of
her appearance, as at the total absence of self-consciousness in her
demeanour. He had made up his mind to see her advance with a measured
step and a demure solemnity of countenance; he had felt sure that her
face would be mantled with the smile of conscious saintship, or
else charged with denunciatory bitterness. He knew but two types of
Methodist--the ecstatic and the bilious. But Dinah walked as simply as
if she were going to market, and seemed as unconscious of her outward
appearance as a little boy: there was no blush, no tremulousness, which
said, "I know you think me a pretty woman, too young to preach"; no
casting up or down of the eyelids, no compression of the lips, no
attitude of the arms that said, "But you must think of me as a saint."
She held no book in her ungloved hands, but let them hang down lightly
crossed before her, as she stood and turned her grey eyes on the people.
There was no keenness in the eyes; they seemed rather to be shedding
love than making observations; they had the liquid look which tells that
the mind is full of what it has to give out, rather than impressed by
external objects. She stood with her left hand towards the descending
sun, and leafy boughs screened her from its rays; but in this sober
light the delicate colouring of her face seemed to gather a calm
vividness, like flowers at evening. It was a small oval face, of a
uniform transparent whiteness, with an egg-like line of cheek and chin,
a full but firm mouth, a delicate nostril, and a low perpendicular brow,
surmounted by a rising arch of parting between smooth locks of pale
reddish hair. The hair was drawn straight back behind the ears, and
covered, except for an inch or two above the brow, by a net Quaker cap.
The eyebrows, of the same colour as the hair, were perfectly horizontal
and firmly pencilled; the eyelashes, though no darker, were long and
abundant--nothing was left blurred or unfinished. It was one of those
faces that make one think of white flowers with light touches of colour
on their pure petals. The eyes had no peculiar beauty, beyond that of
expression; they looked so simple, so candid, so gravely loving, that
no accusing scowl, no light sneer could help melting away before their
glance. Joshua Rann gave a long cough, as if he were clearing his throat
in order to come to a new understanding with himself; Chad Cranage
lifted up his leather skull-cap and scratched his head; and Wiry Ben
wondered how Seth had the pluck to think of courting her.
"A sweet woman," the stranger said to himself, "but surely nature never
meant her for a preacher."
Perhaps he was one of those who think that nature has theatrical
properties and, with the considerate view of facilitating art and
psychology, "makes up," her characters, so that there may be no mistake
about them. But Dinah began to speak.
"Dear friends," she said in a clear but not loud voice "let us pray for
a blessing."
She closed her eyes, and hanging her head down a little continued in the
same moderate tone, as if speaking to some one quite near her: "Saviour
of sinners! When a poor woman laden with sins, went out to the well to
draw water, she found Thee sitting at the well. She knew Thee not; she
had not sought Thee; her mind was dark; her life was unholy. But Thou
didst speak to her, Thou didst teach her, Thou didst show her that her
life lay open before Thee, and yet Thou wast ready to give her that
blessing which she had never sought. Jesus, Thou art in the midst of us,
and Thou knowest all men: if there is any here like that poor woman--if
their minds are dark, their lives unholy--if they have come out not
seeking Thee, not desiring to be taught; deal with them according to the
free mercy which Thou didst show to her. Speak to them, Lord, open their
ears to my message, bring their sins to their minds, and make them
thirst for that salvation which Thou art ready to give.
"Lord, Thou art with Thy people still: they see Thee in the
night-watches, and their hearts burn within them as Thou talkest with
them by the way. And Thou art near to those who have not known Thee:
open their eyes that they may see Thee--see Thee weeping over them,
and saying 'Ye will not come unto me that ye might have life'--see Thee
hanging on the cross and saying, 'Father, forgive them, for they know
not what they do'--see Thee as Thou wilt come again in Thy glory to
judge them at the last. Amen."
Dinah opened her eyes again and paused, looking at the group of
villagers, who were now gathered rather more closely on her right hand.
"Dear friends," she began, raising her voice a little, "you have all of
you been to church, and I think you must have heard the clergyman
read these words: 'The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath
anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor.' Jesus Christ spoke those
words--he said he came TO PREACH THE GOSPEL TO THE POOR. I don't know
whether you ever thought about those words much, but I will tell you
when I remember first hearing them. It was on just such a sort of
evening as this, when I was a little girl, and my aunt as brought me up
took me to hear a good man preach out of doors, just as we are here. I
remember his face well: he was a very old man, and had very long white
hair; his voice was very soft and beautiful, not like any voice I had
ever heard before. I was a little girl and scarcely knew anything, and
this old man seemed to me such a different sort of a man from anybody
I had ever seen before that I thought he had perhaps come down from
the sky to preach to us, and I said, 'Aunt, will he go back to the sky
to-night, like the picture in the Bible?'
"That man of God was Mr. Wesley, who spent his life in doing what our
blessed Lord did--preaching the Gospel to the poor--and he entered into
his rest eight years ago. I came to know more about him years after, but
I was a foolish thoughtless child then, and I remembered only one thing
he told us in his sermon. He told us as 'Gospel' meant 'good news.' The
Gospel, you know, is what the Bible tells us about God.
"Think of that now! Jesus Christ did really come down from heaven, as
I, like a silly child, thought Mr. Wesley did; and what he came down
for was to tell good news about God to the poor. Why, you and me, dear
friends, are poor. We have been brought up in poor cottages and have
been reared on oat-cake, and lived coarse; and we haven't been to school
much, nor read books, and we don't know much about anything but what
happens just round us. We are just the sort of people that want to
hear good news. For when anybody's well off, they don't much mind about
hearing news from distant parts; but if a poor man or woman's in trouble
and has hard work to make out a living, they like to have a letter to
tell 'em they've got a friend as will help 'em. To be sure, we can't
help knowing something about God, even if we've never heard the Gospel,
the good news that our Saviour brought us. For we know everything comes
from God: don't you say almost every day, 'This and that will happen,
please God,' and 'We shall begin to cut the grass soon, please God to
send us a little more sunshine'? We know very well we are altogether
in the hands of God. We didn't bring ourselves into the world, we can't
keep ourselves alive while we're sleeping; the daylight, and the wind,
and the corn, and the cows to give us milk--everything we have comes
from God. And he gave us our souls and put love between parents and
children, and husband and wife. But is that as much as we want to know
about God? We see he is great and mighty, and can do what he will: we
are lost, as if we was struggling in great waters, when we try to think
of him.
"But perhaps doubts come into your mind like this: Can God take much
notice of us poor people? Perhaps he only made the world for the great
and the wise and the rich. It doesn't cost him much to give us our
little handful of victual and bit of clothing; but how do we know he
cares for us any more than we care for the worms and things in the
garden, so as we rear our carrots and onions? Will God take care of us
when we die? And has he any comfort for us when we are lame and sick and
helpless? Perhaps, too, he is angry with us; else why does the blight
come, and the bad harvests, and the fever, and all sorts of pain and
trouble? For our life is full of trouble, and if God sends us good, he
seems to send bad too. How is it? How is it?
"Ah, dear friends, we are in sad want of good news about God; and what
does other good news signify if we haven't that? For everything else
comes to an end, and when we die we leave it all. But God lasts when
everything else is gone. What shall we do if he is not our friend?"
Then Dinah told how the good news had been brought, and how the mind
of God towards the poor had been made manifest in the life of Jesus,
dwelling on its lowliness and its acts of mercy.
"So you see, dear friends," she went on, "Jesus spent his time almost
all in doing good to poor people; he preached out of doors to them, and
he made friends of poor workmen, and taught them and took pains with
them. Not but what he did good to the rich too, for he was full of love
to all men, only he saw as the poor were more in want of his help. So
he cured the lame and the sick and the blind, and he worked miracles to
feed the hungry because, he said, he was sorry for them; and he was
very kind to the little children and comforted those who had lost their
friends; and he spoke very tenderly to poor sinners that were sorry for
their sins.
"Ah, wouldn't you love such a man if you saw him--if he were here in
this village? What a kind heart he must have! What a friend he would be
to go to in trouble! How pleasant it must be to be taught by him.
"Well, dear friends, who WAS this man? Was he only a good man--a very
good man, and no more--like our dear Mr. Wesley, who has been taken from
us?...He was the Son of God--'in the image of the Father,' the Bible
says; that means, just like God, who is the beginning and end of all
things--the God we want to know about. So then, all the love that
Jesus showed to the poor is the same love that God has for us. We can
understand what Jesus felt, because he came in a body like ours and
spoke words such as we speak to each other. We were afraid to think what
God was before--the God who made the world and the sky and the thunder
and lightning. We could never see him; we could only see the things he
had made; and some of these things was very terrible, so as we might
well tremble when we thought of him. But our blessed Saviour has showed
us what God is in a way us poor ignorant people can understand; he has
showed us what God's heart is, what are his feelings towards us.
"But let us see a little more about what Jesus came on earth for.
Another time he said, 'I came to seek and to save that which was lost';
and another time, 'I came not to call the righteous but sinners to
repentance.'
"The LOST!...SINNERS!...Ah, dear friends, does that mean you and me?"
Hitherto the traveller had been chained to the spot against his will
by the charm of Dinah's mellow treble tones, which had a variety of
modulation like that of a fine instrument touched with the unconscious
skill of musical instinct. The simple things she said seemed like
novelties, as a melody strikes us with a new feeling when we hear
it sung by the pure voice of a boyish chorister; the quiet depth of
conviction with which she spoke seemed in itself an evidence for the
truth of her message. He saw that she had thoroughly arrested her
hearers. The villagers had pressed nearer to her, and there was no
longer anything but grave attention on all faces. She spoke slowly,
though quite fluently, often pausing after a question, or before any
transition of ideas. There was no change of attitude, no gesture; the
effect of her speech was produced entirely by the inflections of her
voice, and when she came to the question, "Will God take care of us
when we die?" she uttered it in such a tone of plaintive appeal that
the tears came into some of the hardest eyes. The stranger had ceased
to doubt, as he had done at the first glance, that she could fix the
attention of her rougher hearers, but still he wondered whether she
could have that power of rousing their more violent emotions, which
must surely be a necessary seal of her vocation as a Methodist preacher,
until she came to the words, "Lost!--Sinners!" when there was a great
change in her voice and manner. She had made a long pause before the
exclamation, and the pause seemed to be filled by agitating thoughts
that showed themselves in her features. Her pale face became paler;
the circles under her eyes deepened, as they did when tears half-gather
without falling; and the mild loving eyes took an expression of appalled
pity, as if she had suddenly discerned a destroying angel hovering over
the heads of the people. Her voice became deep and muffled, but there
was still no gesture. Nothing could be less like the ordinary type of
the Ranter than Dinah. She was not preaching as she heard others preach,
but speaking directly from her own emotions and under the inspiration of
her own simple faith.
But now she had entered into a new current of feeling. Her manner became
less calm, her utterance more rapid and agitated, as she tried to bring
home to the people their guilt, their wilful darkness, their state of
disobedience to God--as she dwelt on the hatefulness of sin, the Divine
holiness, and the sufferings of the Saviour, by which a way had been
opened for their salvation. At last it seemed as if, in her yearning
desire to reclaim the lost sheep, she could not be satisfied by
addressing her hearers as a body. She appealed first to one and then to
another, beseeching them with tears to turn to God while there was
yet time; painting to them the desolation of their souls, lost in sin,
feeding on the husks of this miserable world, far away from God their
Father; and then the love of the Saviour, who was waiting and watching
for their return.
There was many a responsive sigh and groan from her fellow-Methodists,
but the village mind does not easily take fire, and a little smouldering
vague anxiety that might easily die out again was the utmost effect
Dinah's preaching had wrought in them at present. Yet no one had
retired, except the children and "old Feyther Taft," who being too deaf
to catch many words, had some time ago gone back to his inglenook. Wiry
Ben was feeling very uncomfortable, and almost wishing he had not come
to hear Dinah; he thought what she said would haunt him somehow. Yet he
couldn't help liking to look at her and listen to her, though he dreaded
every moment that she would fix her eyes on him and address him in
particular. She had already addressed Sandy Jim, who was now holding the
baby to relieve his wife, and the big soft-hearted man had rubbed away
some tears with his fist, with a confused intention of being a better
fellow, going less to the Holly Bush down by the Stone-pits, and
cleaning himself more regularly of a Sunday.
In front of Sandy Jim stood Chad's Bess, who had shown an unwonted
quietude and fixity of attention ever since Dinah had begun to speak.
Not that the matter of the discourse had arrested her at once, for she
was lost in a puzzling speculation as to what pleasure and satisfaction
there could be in life to a young woman who wore a cap like Dinah's.
Giving up this inquiry in despair, she took to studying Dinah's nose,
eyes, mouth, and hair, and wondering whether it was better to have such
a sort of pale face as that, or fat red cheeks and round black eyes like
her own. But gradually the influence of the general gravity told upon
her, and she became conscious of what Dinah was saying. The gentle
tones, the loving persuasion, did not touch her, but when the more
severe appeals came she began to be frightened. Poor Bessy had always
been considered a naughty girl; she was conscious of it; if it was
necessary to be very good, it was clear she must be in a bad way. She
couldn't find her places at church as Sally Rann could, she had often
been tittering when she "curcheyed" to Mr. Irwine; and these religious
deficiencies were accompanied by a corresponding slackness in the minor
morals, for Bessy belonged unquestionably to that unsoaped lazy class of
feminine characters with whom you may venture to "eat an egg, an apple,
or a nut." All this she was generally conscious of, and hitherto had not
been greatly ashamed of it. But now she began to feel very much as if
the constable had come to take her up and carry her before the justice
for some undefined offence. She had a terrified sense that God, whom she
had always thought of as very far off, was very near to her, and that
Jesus was close by looking at her, though she could not see him. For
Dinah had that belief in visible manifestations of Jesus, which is
common among the Methodists, and she communicated it irresistibly to her
hearers: she made them feel that he was among them bodily, and might at
any moment show himself to them in some way that would strike anguish
and penitence into their hearts.
"See!" she exclaimed, turning to the left, with her eyes fixed on a
point above the heads of the people. "See where our blessed Lord stands
and weeps and stretches out his arms towards you. Hear what he says:
'How often would I have gathered you as a hen gathereth her chickens
under her wings, and ye would not!'...and ye would not," she repeated,
in a tone of pleading reproach, turning her eyes on the people again.
"See the print of the nails on his dear hands and feet. It is your sins
that made them! Ah! How pale and worn he looks! He has gone through all
that great agony in the garden, when his soul was exceeding sorrowful
even unto death, and the great drops of sweat fell like blood to the
ground. They spat upon him and buffeted him, they scourged him, they
mocked him, they laid the heavy cross on his bruised shoulders. Then
they nailed him up. Ah, what pain! His lips are parched with thirst, and
they mock him still in this great agony; yet with those parched lips he
prays for them, 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.'
Then a horror of great darkness fell upon him, and he felt what sinners
feel when they are for ever shut out from God. That was the last drop
in the cup of bitterness. 'My God, my God!' he cries, 'why hast Thou
forsaken me?'
"All this he bore for you! For you--and you never think of him; for
you--and you turn your backs on him; you don't care what he has gone
through for you. Yet he is not weary of toiling for you: he has risen
from the dead, he is praying for you at the right hand of God--'Father,
forgive them, for they know not what they do.' And he is upon this earth
too; he is among us; he is there close to you now; I see his wounded
body and his look of love."
Here Dinah turned to Bessy Cranage, whose bonny youth and evident vanity
had touched her with pity.
"Poor child! Poor child! He is beseeching you, and you don't listen to
him. You think of ear-rings and fine gowns and caps, and you never think
of the Saviour who died to save your precious soul. Your cheeks will be
shrivelled one day, your hair will be grey, your poor body will be thin
and tottering! Then you will begin to feel that your soul is not saved;
then you will have to stand before God dressed in your sins, in your
evil tempers and vain thoughts. And Jesus, who stands ready to help you
now, won't help you then; because you won't have him to be your Saviour,
he will be your judge. Now he looks at you with love and mercy and says,
'Come to me that you may have life'; then he will turn away from you,
and say, 'Depart from me into ever-lasting fire!'"
Poor Bessy's wide-open black eyes began to fill with tears, her great
red cheeks and lips became quite pale, and her face was distorted like a
little child's before a burst of crying.
"Ah, poor blind child!" Dinah went on, "think if it should happen to you
as it once happened to a servant of God in the days of her vanity. SHE
thought of her lace caps and saved all her money to buy 'em; she thought
nothing about how she might get a clean heart and a right spirit--she
only wanted to have better lace than other girls. And one day when she
put her new cap on and looked in the glass, she saw a bleeding Face
crowned with thorns. That face is looking at you now"--here Dinah
pointed to a spot close in front of Bessy--"Ah, tear off those follies!
Cast them away from you, as if they were stinging adders. They ARE
stinging you--they are poisoning your soul--they are dragging you down
into a dark bottomless pit, where you will sink for ever, and for ever,
and for ever, further away from light and God."
Bessy could bear it no longer: a great terror was upon her, and
wrenching her ear-rings from her ears, she threw them down before her,
sobbing aloud. Her father, Chad, frightened lest he should be "laid hold
on" too, this impression on the rebellious Bess striking him as nothing
less than a miracle, walked hastily away and began to work at his anvil
by way of reassuring himself. "Folks mun ha' hoss-shoes, praichin' or
no praichin': the divil canna lay hould o' me for that," he muttered to
himself.
But now Dinah began to tell of the joys that were in store for the
penitent, and to describe in her simple way the divine peace and love
with which the soul of the believer is filled--how the sense of God's
love turns poverty into riches and satisfies the soul so that no uneasy
desire vexes it, no fear alarms it: how, at last, the very temptation
to sin is extinguished, and heaven is begun upon earth, because no cloud
passes between the soul and God, who is its eternal sun.
"Dear friends," she said at last, "brothers and sisters, whom I love
as those for whom my Lord has died, believe me, I know what this great
blessedness is; and because I know it, I want you to have it too. I am
poor, like you: I have to get my living with my hands; but no lord nor
lady can be so happy as me, if they haven't got the love of God in their
souls. Think what it is--not to hate anything but sin; to be full of
love to every creature; to be frightened at nothing; to be sure that all
things will turn to good; not to mind pain, because it is our Father's
will; to know that nothing--no, not if the earth was to be burnt up, or
the waters come and drown us--nothing could part us from God who loves
us, and who fills our souls with peace and joy, because we are sure that
whatever he wills is holy, just, and good.
"Dear friends, come and take this blessedness; it is offered to you; it
is the good news that Jesus came to preach to the poor. It is not like
the riches of this world, so that the more one gets the less the rest
can have. God is without end; his love is without end--"
Its streams the whole creation reach,
So plenteous is the store;
Enough for all, enough for each,
Enough for evermore.
Dinah had been speaking at least an hour, and the reddening light of the
parting day seemed to give a solemn emphasis to her closing words. The
stranger, who had been interested in the course of her sermon as if
it had been the development of a drama--for there is this sort of
fascination in all sincere unpremeditated eloquence, which opens to one
the inward drama of the speaker's emotions--now turned his horse aside
and pursued his way, while Dinah said, "Let us sing a little, dear
friends"; and as he was still winding down the slope, the voices of the
Methodists reached him, rising and falling in that strange blending of
exultation and sadness which belongs to the cadence of a hymn. | It's "about a quarter to seven," and there's more commotion than usual in Hayslope . By now, that elderly horseman is done staring at Adam and arrives in the center of the village. He stops near the town inn and asks the innkeeper, Mr. Casson, what the hullabaloo is all about. Mr. Casson informs the horseman, "It's a Methodis' preaching, sir; it's been gev hout as a young woman's a-going to preach on the Green" . The elderly horseman is still looking around in admiration. Soon, however, he notices that a considerable group of the townspeople have gathered to hear the woman preacher. And what a group they are. An old man named Father Taft, the blacksmith Chad Cranage, the shoemaker Joshua Rann, Wiry Ben , and other characters of little or no importance to the rest of the novel. Now the woman preacher appears. To the great surprise of the elderly traveler--who "had felt sure that her face would be mantled with the smile of conscious saintship, or else charged with denunciatory bitterness"--she is a kind, confident, very pretty, thoroughly normal woman . Yeah, normal. What were you expecting? Then the preacher, Dinah Morris, begins to speak. After her opening blessing, Dinah tells the story of Mr. Wesley, an old man who "spent his life in doing what our blessed Lord did--preaching the Gospel to the poor" . Turns out Mr. Wesley had was one of Dinah's own inspirations. But bear in mind: Preaching "the Gospel to the poor" can be harsh business. In no time at all, Dinah goes from praising God's power to calling her listeners a bunch of "Lost!--Sinners!" . One of those sinners, er, listeners is Bessy Cranage, a vain young woman. In the course of her speech on sin, Dinah directs many of her remarks at Bessy. Finally, overcome with "a great terror," Bessy pulls off her showy new earrings and throws them on the ground. But that's no way to end a sermon. Dinah mellows down for the home stretch and reassures the people of Hayslope that God's love "is without end" . And with that, the commotion is over, and the old horseman leaves. |
The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack
from the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no
dread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where
victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at
neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for
her at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden
recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to
disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to
fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself.
They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose
beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object
from almost every opening in Bath.
"I never look at it," said Catherine, as they walked along the side of
the river, "without thinking of the south of France."
"You have been abroad then?" said Henry, a little surprised.
"Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind
of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The
Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?"
"Why not?"
"Because they are not clever enough for you--gentlemen read better
books."
"The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good
novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe's
works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho,
when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember
finishing it in two days--my hair standing on end the whole time."
"Yes," added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you undertook to read it
aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to
answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the
Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it."
"Thank you, Eleanor--a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland,
the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on,
refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise
I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most
interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to
observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on
it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion."
"I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of
liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised
novels amazingly."
"It is amazingly; it may well suggest amazement if they do--for they
read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds.
Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and
Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing
inquiry of 'Have you read this?' and 'Have you read that?' I shall soon
leave you as far behind me as--what shall I say?--I want an appropriate
simile.--as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when
she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had
the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were
a good little girl working your sampler at home!"
"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho
the nicest book in the world?"
"The nicest--by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend
upon the binding."
"Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he
is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding
fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking
the same liberty with you. The word 'nicest,' as you used it, did not
suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall
be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way."
"I am sure," cried Catherine, "I did not mean to say anything wrong; but
it is a nice book, and why should not I call it so?"
"Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day, and we are taking
a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a
very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it
was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or
refinement--people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or
their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised
in that one word."
"While, in fact," cried his sister, "it ought only to be applied to you,
without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come,
Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost
propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms we
like best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of
reading?"
"To say the truth, I do not much like any other."
"Indeed!"
"That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and
do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be
interested in. Can you?"
"Yes, I am fond of history."
"I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me
nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and
kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for
nothing, and hardly any women at all--it is very tiresome: and yet I
often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it
must be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes' mouths,
their thoughts and designs--the chief of all this must be invention, and
invention is what delights me in other books."
"Historians, you think," said Miss Tilney, "are not happy in their
flights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I
am fond of history--and am very well contented to take the false with
the true. In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence
in former histories and records, which may be as much depended on,
I conclude, as anything that does not actually pass under one's own
observation; and as for the little embellishments you speak of, they are
embellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn up,
I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made--and probably with
much greater, if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than if
the genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great."
"You are fond of history! And so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I have
two brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my small
circle of friends is remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity the
writers of history any longer. If people like to read their books, it
is all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling great volumes,
which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look into, to be
labouring only for the torment of little boys and girls, always struck
me as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very right and necessary,
I have often wondered at the person's courage that could sit down on
purpose to do it."
"That little boys and girls should be tormented," said Henry, "is what
no one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can
deny; but in behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must observe
that they might well be offended at being supposed to have no higher
aim, and that by their method and style, they are perfectly well
qualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature
time of life. I use the verb 'to torment,' as I observed to be your own
method, instead of 'to instruct,' supposing them to be now admitted as
synonymous."
"You think me foolish to call instruction a torment, but if you had been
as much used as myself to hear poor little children first learning their
letters and then learning to spell, if you had ever seen how stupid they
can be for a whole morning together, and how tired my poor mother is
at the end of it, as I am in the habit of seeing almost every day of my
life at home, you would allow that 'to torment' and 'to instruct' might
sometimes be used as synonymous words."
"Very probably. But historians are not accountable for the difficulty
of learning to read; and even you yourself, who do not altogether seem
particularly friendly to very severe, very intense application, may
perhaps be brought to acknowledge that it is very well worth-while to
be tormented for two or three years of one's life, for the sake of
being able to read all the rest of it. Consider--if reading had not been
taught, Mrs. Radcliffe would have written in vain--or perhaps might not
have written at all."
Catherine assented--and a very warm panegyric from her on that lady's
merits closed the subject. The Tilneys were soon engaged in another on
which she had nothing to say. They were viewing the country with the
eyes of persons accustomed to drawing, and decided on its capability of
being formed into pictures, with all the eagerness of real taste. Here
Catherine was quite lost. She knew nothing of drawing--nothing of taste:
and she listened to them with an attention which brought her little
profit, for they talked in phrases which conveyed scarcely any idea
to her. The little which she could understand, however, appeared to
contradict the very few notions she had entertained on the matter
before. It seemed as if a good view were no longer to be taken from the
top of an high hill, and that a clear blue sky was no longer a proof
of a fine day. She was heartily ashamed of her ignorance. A misplaced
shame. Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant.
To come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of
administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would
always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of
knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.
The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already
set forth by the capital pen of a sister author; and to her treatment
of the subject I will only add, in justice to men, that though to the
larger and more trifling part of the sex, imbecility in females is a
great enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion of them
too reasonable and too well informed themselves to desire anything
more in woman than ignorance. But Catherine did not know her own
advantages--did not know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate
heart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever young
man, unless circumstances are particularly untoward. In the present
instance, she confessed and lamented her want of knowledge, declared
that she would give anything in the world to be able to draw; and
a lecture on the picturesque immediately followed, in which his
instructions were so clear that she soon began to see beauty in
everything admired by him, and her attention was so earnest that he
became perfectly satisfied of her having a great deal of natural taste.
He talked of foregrounds, distances, and second distances--side-screens
and perspectives--lights and shades; and Catherine was so hopeful a
scholar that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily
rejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a landscape.
Delighted with her progress, and fearful of wearying her with too much
wisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject to decline, and by an easy
transition from a piece of rocky fragment and the withered oak which
he had placed near its summit, to oaks in general, to forests, the
enclosure of them, waste lands, crown lands and government, he shortly
found himself arrived at politics; and from politics, it was an
easy step to silence. The general pause which succeeded his short
disquisition on the state of the nation was put an end to by Catherine,
who, in rather a solemn tone of voice, uttered these words, "I have
heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London."
Miss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and
hastily replied, "Indeed! And of what nature?"
"That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard that it is
to be more horrible than anything we have met with yet."
"Good heaven! Where could you hear of such a thing?"
"A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter from
London yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect murder
and everything of the kind."
"You speak with astonishing composure! But I hope your friend's accounts
have been exaggerated; and if such a design is known beforehand, proper
measures will undoubtedly be taken by government to prevent its coming
to effect."
"Government," said Henry, endeavouring not to smile, "neither desires
nor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and
government cares not how much."
The ladies stared. He laughed, and added, "Come, shall I make you
understand each other, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation as
you can? No--I will be noble. I will prove myself a man, no less by the
generosity of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have no patience
with such of my sex as disdain to let themselves sometimes down to the
comprehension of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are neither sound
nor acute--neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want observation,
discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit."
"Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness to
satisfy me as to this dreadful riot."
"Riot! What riot?"
"My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion
there is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more
dreadful than a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three
duodecimo volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with
a frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern--do you
understand? And you, Miss Morland--my stupid sister has mistaken all
your clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors in London--and
instead of instantly conceiving, as any rational creature would have
done, that such words could relate only to a circulating library, she
immediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand men assembling
in St. George's Fields, the Bank attacked, the Tower threatened, the
streets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the Twelfth Light
Dragoons (the hopes of the nation) called up from Northampton to quell
the insurgents, and the gallant Captain Frederick Tilney, in the
moment of charging at the head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a
brickbat from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. The fears of the
sister have added to the weakness of the woman; but she is by no means a
simpleton in general."
Catherine looked grave. "And now, Henry," said Miss Tilney, "that you
have made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland
understand yourself--unless you mean to have her think you intolerably
rude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in
general. Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways."
"I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with them."
"No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present."
"What am I to do?"
"You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before
her. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of women."
"Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding of all the women
in the world--especially of those--whoever they may be--with whom I
happen to be in company."
"That is not enough. Be more serious."
"Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the understanding of
women than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much that they
never find it necessary to use more than half."
"We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is
not in a sober mood. But I do assure you that he must be entirely
misunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an unjust thing of any woman
at all, or an unkind one of me."
It was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never
be wrong. His manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must
always be just: and what she did not understand, she was almost as ready
to admire, as what she did. The whole walk was delightful, and though it
ended too soon, its conclusion was delightful too; her friends attended
her into the house, and Miss Tilney, before they parted, addressing
herself with respectful form, as much to Mrs. Allen as to Catherine,
petitioned for the pleasure of her company to dinner on the day after
the next. No difficulty was made on Mrs. Allen's side, and the only
difficulty on Catherine's was in concealing the excess of her pleasure.
The morning had passed away so charmingly as to banish all her
friendship and natural affection, for no thought of Isabella or James
had crossed her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, she
became amiable again, but she was amiable for some time to little
effect; Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that could relieve her
anxiety; she had heard nothing of any of them. Towards the end of the
morning, however, Catherine, having occasion for some indispensable yard
of ribbon which must be bought without a moment's delay, walked out into
the town, and in Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe as she was
loitering towards Edgar's Buildings between two of the sweetest girls in
the world, who had been her dear friends all the morning. From her, she
soon learned that the party to Clifton had taken place. "They set off at
eight this morning," said Miss Anne, "and I am sure I do not envy
them their drive. I think you and I are very well off to be out of the
scrape. It must be the dullest thing in the world, for there is not a
soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went with your brother, and
John drove Maria."
Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part of the
arrangement.
"Oh! yes," rejoined the other, "Maria is gone. She was quite wild to go.
She thought it would be something very fine. I cannot say I admire her
taste; and for my part, I was determined from the first not to go, if
they pressed me ever so much."
Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, "I wish
you could have gone too. It is a pity you could not all go."
"Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Indeed, I
would not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and Sophia
when you overtook us."
Catherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the
friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu
without much uneasiness, and returned home, pleased that the party had
not been prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily wishing
that it might be too pleasant to allow either James or Isabella to
resent her resistance any longer. | The morning arrives with no fresh invitations from James, Isabella, and John. Catherine goes on her walk with Henry and Eleanor. Catherine, timid from her encounter with John, mentions novels, but suggests that Henry might not read them since they are not "clever enough" for gentlemen like him. Henry responds that those who have no pleasure in a novel must be "intolerably stupid. Henry allows himself a little vanity by noting the "hundreds and hundreds" of novels that he has read. Henry quibbles with Catherine's use of the word "nice," revealing himself to be a linguistic perfectionist, for which Eleanor playfully chides him. Catherine notes how much she prefers novels to history books, and Henry tries to defend historians and the value of the books they write. The Tilneys then begin to discuss the landscape in terms of drawing, and Catherine soon finds herself out of her element. She knows none of the artistic terms, and is a little ashamed of her ignorance. The narrator defends Catherine by noting that many men are attracted to well-mannered women with an ignorant mind if they are eager to learn. After Catherine asks many questions, Henry begins teaching her to see the world through the eyes of an artist, and is satisfied that she has "a good deal of natural taste. Catherine notes that something "shocking will soon come out in London," referring to a new Gothic novel; but Eleanor mistakenly thinks Catherine means something like a riot or a conspiracy of war. Henry makes light fun of the intelligence of women. Eleanor assures Catherine that he does not really think this way, but Henry remains playfully defiant. Upon returning to Bath, Catherine discovers from one of Isabella's younger sisters that James, Isabella, and John went to Clifton anyway, with one of the other Thorpe sisters |
A few days after the tragic passage-at-arms between Hollingsworth and
me, I appeared at the dinner-table actually dressed in a coat, instead
of my customary blouse; with a satin cravat, too, a white vest, and
several other things that made me seem strange and outlandish to
myself. As for my companions, this unwonted spectacle caused a great
stir upon the wooden benches that bordered either side of our homely
board.
"What's in the wind now, Miles?" asked one of them. "Are you deserting
us?"
"Yes, for a week or two," said I. "It strikes me that my health demands
a little relaxation of labor, and a short visit to the seaside, during
the dog-days."
"You look like it!" grumbled Silas Foster, not greatly pleased with the
idea of losing an efficient laborer before the stress of the season was
well over. "Now, here's a pretty fellow! His shoulders have broadened
a matter of six inches since he came among us; he can do his day's
work, if he likes, with any man or ox on the farm; and yet he talks
about going to the seashore for his health! Well, well, old woman,"
added he to his wife, "let me have a plateful of that pork and cabbage!
I begin to feel in a very weakly way. When the others have had their
turn, you and I will take a jaunt to Newport or Saratoga!"
"Well, but, Mr. Foster," said I, "you must allow me to take a little
breath."
"Breath!" retorted the old yeoman. "Your lungs have the play of a pair
of blacksmith's bellows already. What on earth do you want more? But
go along! I understand the business. We shall never see your face
here again. Here ends the reformation of the world, so far as Miles
Coverdale has a hand in it!"
"By no means," I replied. "I am resolute to die in the last ditch, for
the good of the cause."
"Die in a ditch!" muttered gruff Silas, with genuine Yankee intolerance
of any intermission of toil, except on Sunday, the Fourth of July, the
autumnal cattle-show, Thanksgiving, or the annual Fast,--"die in a
ditch! I believe, in my conscience, you would, if there were no
steadier means than your own labor to keep you out of it!"
The truth was, that an intolerable discontent and irksomeness had come
over me. Blithedale was no longer what it had been. Everything was
suddenly faded. The sunburnt and arid aspect of our woods and
pastures, beneath the August sky, did but imperfectly symbolize the
lack of dew and moisture, that, since yesterday, as it were, had
blighted my fields of thought, and penetrated to the innermost and
shadiest of my contemplative recesses. The change will be recognized
by many, who, after a period of happiness, have endeavored to go on
with the same kind of life, in the same scene, in spite of the
alteration or withdrawal of some principal circumstance. They discover
(what heretofore, perhaps, they had not known) that it was this which
gave the bright color and vivid reality to the whole affair.
I stood on other terms than before, not only with Hollingsworth, but
with Zenobia and Priscilla. As regarded the two latter, it was that
dreamlike and miserable sort of change that denies you the privilege to
complain, because you can assert no positive injury, nor lay your
finger on anything tangible. It is a matter which you do not see, but
feel, and which, when you try to analyze it, seems to lose its very
existence, and resolve itself into a sickly humor of your own. Your
understanding, possibly, may put faith in this denial. But your heart
will not so easily rest satisfied. It incessantly remonstrates,
though, most of the time, in a bass-note, which you do not separately
distinguish; but, now and then, with a sharp cry, importunate to be
heard, and resolute to claim belief. "Things are not as they were!" it
keeps saying. "You shall not impose on me! I will never be quiet! I
will throb painfully! I will be heavy, and desolate, and shiver with
cold! For I, your deep heart, know when to be miserable, as once I
knew when to be happy! All is changed for us! You are beloved no
more!" And were my life to be spent over again, I would invariably
lend my ear to this Cassandra of the inward depths, however clamorous
the music and the merriment of a more superficial region.
My outbreak with Hollingsworth, though never definitely known to our
associates, had really an effect upon the moral atmosphere of the
Community. It was incidental to the closeness of relationship into
which we had brought ourselves, that an unfriendly state of feeling
could not occur between any two members without the whole society being
more or less commoted and made uncomfortable thereby. This species of
nervous sympathy (though a pretty characteristic enough, sentimentally
considered, and apparently betokening an actual bond of love among us)
was yet found rather inconvenient in its practical operation, mortal
tempers being so infirm and variable as they are. If one of us happened
to give his neighbor a box on the ear, the tingle was immediately felt
on the same side of everybody's head. Thus, even on the supposition
that we were far less quarrelsome than the rest of the world, a great
deal of time was necessarily wasted in rubbing our ears.
Musing on all these matters, I felt an inexpressible longing for at
least a temporary novelty. I thought of going across the Rocky
Mountains, or to Europe, or up the Nile; of offering myself a volunteer
on the Exploring Expedition; of taking a ramble of years, no matter in
what direction, and coming back on the other side of the world. Then,
should the colonists of Blithedale have established their enterprise on
a permanent basis, I might fling aside my pilgrim staff and dusty
shoon, and rest as peacefully here as elsewhere. Or, in case
Hollingsworth should occupy the ground with his School of Reform, as he
now purposed, I might plead earthly guilt enough, by that time, to give
me what I was inclined to think the only trustworthy hold on his
affections. Meanwhile, before deciding on any ultimate plan, I
determined to remove myself to a little distance, and take an exterior
view of what we had all been about.
In truth, it was dizzy work, amid such fermentation of opinions as was
going on in the general brain of the Community. It was a kind of
Bedlam, for the time being, although out of the very thoughts that were
wildest and most destructive might grow a wisdom, holy, calm, and pure,
and that should incarnate itself with the substance of a noble and
happy life. But, as matters now were, I felt myself (and, having a
decided tendency towards the actual, I never liked to feel it) getting
quite out of my reckoning, with regard to the existing state of the
world. I was beginning to lose the sense of what kind of a world it
was, among innumerable schemes of what it might or ought to be. It was
impossible, situated as we were, not to imbibe the idea that everything
in nature and human existence was fluid, or fast becoming so; that the
crust of the earth in many places was broken, and its whole surface
portentously upheaving; that it was a day of crisis, and that we
ourselves were in the critical vortex. Our great globe floated in the
atmosphere of infinite space like an unsubstantial bubble. No
sagacious man will long retain his sagacity, if he live exclusively
among reformers and progressive people, without periodically returning
into the settled system of things, to correct himself by a new
observation from that old standpoint.
It was now time for me, therefore, to go and hold a little talk with
the conservatives, the writers of "The North American Review," the
merchants, the politicians, the Cambridge men, and all those
respectable old blockheads who still, in this intangibility and
mistiness of affairs, kept a death-grip on one or two ideas which had
not come into vogue since yesterday morning.
The brethren took leave of me with cordial kindness; and as for the
sisterhood, I had serious thoughts of kissing them all round, but
forbore to do so, because, in all such general salutations, the penance
is fully equal to the pleasure. So I kissed none of them; and nobody,
to say the truth, seemed to expect it.
"Do you wish me," I said to Zenobia, "to announce in town, and at the
watering-places, your purpose to deliver a course of lectures on the
rights of women?"
"Women possess no rights," said Zenobia, with a half-melancholy smile;
"or, at all events, only little girls and grandmothers would have the
force to exercise them."
She gave me her hand freely and kindly, and looked at me, I thought,
with a pitying expression in her eyes; nor was there any settled light
of joy in them on her own behalf, but a troubled and passionate flame,
flickering and fitful.
"I regret, on the whole, that you are leaving us," she said; "and all
the more, since I feel that this phase of our life is finished, and can
never be lived over again. Do you know, Mr. Coverdale, that I have
been several times on the point of making you my confidant, for lack of
a better and wiser one? But you are too young to be my father
confessor; and you would not thank me for treating you like one of
those good little handmaidens who share the bosom secrets of a
tragedy-queen."
"I would, at least, be loyal and faithful," answered I; "and would
counsel you with an honest purpose, if not wisely."
"Yes," said Zenobia, "you would be only too wise, too honest. Honesty
and wisdom are such a delightful pastime, at another person's expense!"
"Ah, Zenobia," I exclaimed, "if you would but let me speak!"
"By no means," she replied, "especially when you have just resumed the
whole series of social conventionalisms, together with that
strait-bodied coat. I would as lief open my heart to a lawyer or a
clergyman! No, no, Mr. Coverdale; if I choose a counsellor, in the
present aspect of my affairs, it must be either an angel or a madman;
and I rather apprehend that the latter would be likeliest of the two to
speak the fitting word. It needs a wild steersman when we voyage
through chaos! The anchor is up,--farewell!"
Priscilla, as soon as dinner was over, had betaken herself into a
corner, and set to work on a little purse. As I approached her, she
let her eyes rest on me with a calm, serious look; for, with all her
delicacy of nerves, there was a singular self-possession in Priscilla,
and her sensibilities seemed to lie sheltered from ordinary commotion,
like the water in a deep well.
"Will you give me that purse, Priscilla," said I, "as a parting
keepsake?"
"Yes," she answered, "if you will wait till it is finished."
"I must not wait, even for that," I replied. "Shall I find you here,
on my return?"
"I never wish to go away," said she.
"I have sometimes thought," observed I, smiling, "that you, Priscilla,
are a little prophetess, or, at least, that you have spiritual
intimations respecting matters which are dark to us grosser people. If
that be the case, I should like to ask you what is about to happen; for
I am tormented with a strong foreboding that, were I to return even so
soon as to-morrow morning, I should find everything changed. Have you
any impressions of this nature?"
"Ah, no," said Priscilla, looking at me apprehensively. "If any such
misfortune is coming, the shadow has not reached me yet. Heaven
forbid! I should be glad if there might never be any change, but one
summer follow another, and all just like this."
"No summer ever came back, and no two summers ever were alike," said I,
with a degree of Orphic wisdom that astonished myself. "Times change,
and people change; and if our hearts do not change as readily, so much
the worse for us. Good-by, Priscilla!"
I gave her hand a pressure, which, I think, she neither resisted nor
returned. Priscilla's heart was deep, but of small compass; it had
room but for a very few dearest ones, among whom she never reckoned me.
On the doorstep I met Hollingsworth. I had a momentary impulse to hold
out my hand, or at least to give a parting nod, but resisted both.
When a real and strong affection has come to an end, it is not well to
mock the sacred past with any show of those commonplace civilities that
belong to ordinary intercourse. Being dead henceforth to him, and he
to me, there could be no propriety in our chilling one another with the
touch of two corpse-like hands, or playing at looks of courtesy with
eyes that were impenetrable beneath the glaze and the film. We passed,
therefore, as if mutually invisible.
I can nowise explain what sort of whim, prank, or perversity it was,
that, after all these leave-takings, induced me to go to the pigsty,
and take leave of the swine! There they lay, buried as deeply among
the straw as they could burrow, four huge black grunters, the very
symbols of slothful ease and sensual comfort. They were asleep,
drawing short and heavy breaths, which heaved their big sides up and
down. Unclosing their eyes, however, at my approach, they looked dimly
forth at the outer world, and simultaneously uttered a gentle grunt;
not putting themselves to the trouble of an additional breath for that
particular purpose, but grunting with their ordinary inhalation. They
were involved, and almost stifled and buried alive, in their own
corporeal substance. The very unreadiness and oppression wherewith
these greasy citizens gained breath enough to keep their life-machinery
in sluggish movement appeared to make them only the more sensible of
the ponderous and fat satisfaction of their existence. Peeping at me
an instant out of their small, red, hardly perceptible eyes, they dropt
asleep again; yet not so far asleep but that their unctuous bliss was
still present to them, betwixt dream and reality.
"You must come back in season to eat part of a spare-rib," said Silas
Foster, giving my hand a mighty squeeze. "I shall have these fat
fellows hanging up by the heels, heads downward, pretty soon, I tell
you!"
"O cruel Silas, what a horrible idea!" cried I. "All the rest of us,
men, women, and livestock, save only these four porkers, are bedevilled
with one grief or another; they alone are happy,--and you mean to cut
their throats and eat them! It would be more for the general comfort
to let them eat us; and bitter and sour morsels we should be!" | Coverdale decides he will take leave of the Community for a few days. Silas Foster is gruffly irritated, wondering if he will return. Truthfully, Coverdale feels as if the luster of Blithedale has dimmed; he is not on good terms with his former friends, and the whole Community has felt the effect of his break with Hollingsworth. Coverdale thus wants to travel elsewhere and get away from the bedlam of the Community. He thinks he has lost touch with the actual world since they only discuss how the world ought to be. On his way out he asks Zenobia if he should promote any intention of hers to deliver a lecture on women's rights, to which she sadly says they have none. She looks at him and tells him she has a sense that a phase of their lives is finished. She once thought he could be a confidant but thought he was too young to be a Father Confessor and was not a girlish friend. Now, she says, if she had a confidant it would have to be an angel or a madman. He also bids farewell to Priscilla, whom he calls a little prophetess, and asks if she senses anything foreboding, or a major change. She does not. He passes mutely by Hollingsworth, but actually goes to say farewell to the pigs outside. He marvels at their comfortable indolence and their deep sleep amid their own weight. He is sad when Silas Foster comments that they will eat them soon |
Chapter VIII. The Scandalous Scene
Miuesov, as a man of breeding and delicacy, could not but feel some inward
qualms, when he reached the Father Superior's with Ivan: he felt ashamed
of having lost his temper. He felt that he ought to have disdained that
despicable wretch, Fyodor Pavlovitch, too much to have been upset by him
in Father Zossima's cell, and so to have forgotten himself. "The monks
were not to blame, in any case," he reflected, on the steps. "And if
they're decent people here (and the Father Superior, I understand, is a
nobleman) why not be friendly and courteous with them? I won't argue, I'll
fall in with everything, I'll win them by politeness, and ... and ... show
them that I've nothing to do with that AEsop, that buffoon, that Pierrot,
and have merely been taken in over this affair, just as they have."
He determined to drop his litigation with the monastery, and relinquish
his claims to the wood-cutting and fishery rights at once. He was the more
ready to do this because the rights had become much less valuable, and he
had indeed the vaguest idea where the wood and river in question were.
These excellent intentions were strengthened when he entered the Father
Superior's dining-room, though, strictly speaking, it was not a dining-
room, for the Father Superior had only two rooms altogether; they were,
however, much larger and more comfortable than Father Zossima's. But there
was no great luxury about the furnishing of these rooms either. The
furniture was of mahogany, covered with leather, in the old-fashioned
style of 1820; the floor was not even stained, but everything was shining
with cleanliness, and there were many choice flowers in the windows; the
most sumptuous thing in the room at the moment was, of course, the
beautifully decorated table. The cloth was clean, the service shone; there
were three kinds of well-baked bread, two bottles of wine, two of
excellent mead, and a large glass jug of kvas--both the latter made in the
monastery, and famous in the neighborhood. There was no vodka. Rakitin
related afterwards that there were five dishes: fish-soup made of
sterlets, served with little fish patties; then boiled fish served in a
special way; then salmon cutlets, ice pudding and compote, and finally,
blanc-mange. Rakitin found out about all these good things, for he could
not resist peeping into the kitchen, where he already had a footing. He
had a footing everywhere, and got information about everything. He was of
an uneasy and envious temper. He was well aware of his own considerable
abilities, and nervously exaggerated them in his self-conceit. He knew he
would play a prominent part of some sort, but Alyosha, who was attached to
him, was distressed to see that his friend Rakitin was dishonorable, and
quite unconscious of being so himself, considering, on the contrary, that
because he would not steal money left on the table he was a man of the
highest integrity. Neither Alyosha nor any one else could have influenced
him in that.
Rakitin, of course, was a person of too little consequence to be invited
to the dinner, to which Father Iosif, Father Paissy, and one other monk
were the only inmates of the monastery invited. They were already waiting
when Miuesov, Kalganov, and Ivan arrived. The other guest, Maximov, stood a
little aside, waiting also. The Father Superior stepped into the middle of
the room to receive his guests. He was a tall, thin, but still vigorous
old man, with black hair streaked with gray, and a long, grave, ascetic
face. He bowed to his guests in silence. But this time they approached to
receive his blessing. Miuesov even tried to kiss his hand, but the Father
Superior drew it back in time to avoid the salute. But Ivan and Kalganov
went through the ceremony in the most simple-hearted and complete manner,
kissing his hand as peasants do.
"We must apologize most humbly, your reverence," began Miuesov, simpering
affably, and speaking in a dignified and respectful tone. "Pardon us for
having come alone without the gentleman you invited, Fyodor Pavlovitch. He
felt obliged to decline the honor of your hospitality, and not without
reason. In the reverend Father Zossima's cell he was carried away by the
unhappy dissension with his son, and let fall words which were quite out
of keeping ... in fact, quite unseemly ... as"--he glanced at the
monks--"your reverence is, no doubt, already aware. And therefore,
recognizing that he had been to blame, he felt sincere regret and shame,
and begged me, and his son Ivan Fyodorovitch, to convey to you his
apologies and regrets. In brief, he hopes and desires to make amends
later. He asks your blessing, and begs you to forget what has taken
place."
As he uttered the last word of his tirade, Miuesov completely recovered his
self-complacency, and all traces of his former irritation disappeared. He
fully and sincerely loved humanity again.
The Father Superior listened to him with dignity, and, with a slight bend
of the head, replied:
"I sincerely deplore his absence. Perhaps at our table he might have
learnt to like us, and we him. Pray be seated, gentlemen."
He stood before the holy image, and began to say grace, aloud. All bent
their heads reverently, and Maximov clasped his hands before him, with
peculiar fervor.
It was at this moment that Fyodor Pavlovitch played his last prank. It
must be noted that he really had meant to go home, and really had felt the
impossibility of going to dine with the Father Superior as though nothing
had happened, after his disgraceful behavior in the elder's cell. Not that
he was so very much ashamed of himself--quite the contrary perhaps. But
still he felt it would be unseemly to go to dinner. Yet his creaking
carriage had hardly been brought to the steps of the hotel, and he had
hardly got into it, when he suddenly stopped short. He remembered his own
words at the elder's: "I always feel when I meet people that I am lower
than all, and that they all take me for a buffoon; so I say let me play
the buffoon, for you are, every one of you, stupider and lower than I." He
longed to revenge himself on every one for his own unseemliness. He
suddenly recalled how he had once in the past been asked, "Why do you hate
so and so, so much?" And he had answered them, with his shameless
impudence, "I'll tell you. He has done me no harm. But I played him a
dirty trick, and ever since I have hated him."
Remembering that now, he smiled quietly and malignantly, hesitating for a
moment. His eyes gleamed, and his lips positively quivered. "Well, since I
have begun, I may as well go on," he decided. His predominant sensation at
that moment might be expressed in the following words, "Well, there is no
rehabilitating myself now. So let me shame them for all I am worth. I will
show them I don't care what they think--that's all!"
He told the coachman to wait, while with rapid steps he returned to the
monastery and straight to the Father Superior's. He had no clear idea what
he would do, but he knew that he could not control himself, and that a
touch might drive him to the utmost limits of obscenity, but only to
obscenity, to nothing criminal, nothing for which he could be legally
punished. In the last resort, he could always restrain himself, and had
marveled indeed at himself, on that score, sometimes. He appeared in the
Father Superior's dining-room, at the moment when the prayer was over, and
all were moving to the table. Standing in the doorway, he scanned the
company, and laughing his prolonged, impudent, malicious chuckle, looked
them all boldly in the face. "They thought I had gone, and here I am
again," he cried to the whole room.
For one moment every one stared at him without a word; and at once every
one felt that something revolting, grotesque, positively scandalous, was
about to happen. Miuesov passed immediately from the most benevolent frame
of mind to the most savage. All the feelings that had subsided and died
down in his heart revived instantly.
"No! this I cannot endure!" he cried. "I absolutely cannot! and ... I
certainly cannot!"
The blood rushed to his head. He positively stammered; but he was beyond
thinking of style, and he seized his hat.
"What is it he cannot?" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, "that he absolutely
cannot and certainly cannot? Your reverence, am I to come in or not? Will
you receive me as your guest?"
"You are welcome with all my heart," answered the Superior. "Gentlemen!"
he added, "I venture to beg you most earnestly to lay aside your
dissensions, and to be united in love and family harmony--with prayer to
the Lord at our humble table."
"No, no, it is impossible!" cried Miuesov, beside himself.
"Well, if it is impossible for Pyotr Alexandrovitch, it is impossible for
me, and I won't stop. That is why I came. I will keep with Pyotr
Alexandrovitch everywhere now. If you will go away, Pyotr Alexandrovitch,
I will go away too, if you remain, I will remain. You stung him by what
you said about family harmony, Father Superior, he does not admit he is my
relation. That's right, isn't it, von Sohn? Here's von Sohn. How are you,
von Sohn?"
"Do you mean me?" muttered Maximov, puzzled.
"Of course I mean you," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch. "Who else? The Father
Superior could not be von Sohn."
"But I am not von Sohn either. I am Maximov."
"No, you are von Sohn. Your reverence, do you know who von Sohn was? It
was a famous murder case. He was killed in a house of harlotry--I believe
that is what such places are called among you--he was killed and robbed,
and in spite of his venerable age, he was nailed up in a box and sent from
Petersburg to Moscow in the luggage van, and while they were nailing him
up, the harlots sang songs and played the harp, that is to say, the piano.
So this is that very von Sohn. He has risen from the dead, hasn't he, von
Sohn?"
"What is happening? What's this?" voices were heard in the group of monks.
"Let us go," cried Miuesov, addressing Kalganov.
"No, excuse me," Fyodor Pavlovitch broke in shrilly, taking another step
into the room. "Allow me to finish. There in the cell you blamed me for
behaving disrespectfully just because I spoke of eating gudgeon, Pyotr
Alexandrovitch. Miuesov, my relation, prefers to have _plus de noblesse que
de sincerite_ in his words, but I prefer in mine _plus de sincerite que de
noblesse_, and--damn the _noblesse_! That's right, isn't it, von Sohn?
Allow me, Father Superior, though I am a buffoon and play the buffoon, yet
I am the soul of honor, and I want to speak my mind. Yes, I am the soul of
honor, while in Pyotr Alexandrovitch there is wounded vanity and nothing
else. I came here perhaps to have a look and speak my mind. My son,
Alexey, is here, being saved. I am his father; I care for his welfare, and
it is my duty to care. While I've been playing the fool, I have been
listening and having a look on the sly; and now I want to give you the
last act of the performance. You know how things are with us? As a thing
falls, so it lies. As a thing once has fallen, so it must lie for ever.
Not a bit of it! I want to get up again. Holy Father, I am indignant with
you. Confession is a great sacrament, before which I am ready to bow down
reverently; but there in the cell, they all kneel down and confess aloud.
Can it be right to confess aloud? It was ordained by the holy Fathers to
confess in secret: then only your confession will be a mystery, and so it
was of old. But how can I explain to him before every one that I did this
and that ... well, you understand what--sometimes it would not be proper to
talk about it--so it is really a scandal! No, Fathers, one might be carried
along with you to the Flagellants, I dare say ... at the first opportunity
I shall write to the Synod, and I shall take my son, Alexey, home."
We must note here that Fyodor Pavlovitch knew where to look for the weak
spot. There had been at one time malicious rumors which had even reached
the Archbishop (not only regarding our monastery, but in others where the
institution of elders existed) that too much respect was paid to the
elders, even to the detriment of the authority of the Superior, that the
elders abused the sacrament of confession and so on and so on--absurd
charges which had died away of themselves everywhere. But the spirit of
folly, which had caught up Fyodor Pavlovitch, and was bearing him on the
current of his own nerves into lower and lower depths of ignominy,
prompted him with this old slander. Fyodor Pavlovitch did not understand a
word of it, and he could not even put it sensibly, for on this occasion no
one had been kneeling and confessing aloud in the elder's cell, so that he
could not have seen anything of the kind. He was only speaking from
confused memory of old slanders. But as soon as he had uttered his foolish
tirade, he felt he had been talking absurd nonsense, and at once longed to
prove to his audience, and above all to himself, that he had not been
talking nonsense. And, though he knew perfectly well that with each word
he would be adding more and more absurdity, he could not restrain himself,
and plunged forward blindly.
"How disgraceful!" cried Pyotr Alexandrovitch.
"Pardon me!" said the Father Superior. "It was said of old, 'Many have
begun to speak against me and have uttered evil sayings about me. And
hearing it I have said to myself: it is the correction of the Lord and He
has sent it to heal my vain soul.' And so we humbly thank you, honored
guest!" and he made Fyodor Pavlovitch a low bow.
"Tut--tut--tut--sanctimoniousness and stock phrases! Old phrases and old
gestures. The old lies and formal prostrations. We know all about them. A
kiss on the lips and a dagger in the heart, as in Schiller's _Robbers_. I
don't like falsehood, Fathers, I want the truth. But the truth is not to
be found in eating gudgeon and that I proclaim aloud! Father monks, why do
you fast? Why do you expect reward in heaven for that? Why, for reward
like that I will come and fast too! No, saintly monk, you try being
virtuous in the world, do good to society, without shutting yourself up in
a monastery at other people's expense, and without expecting a reward up
aloft for it--you'll find that a bit harder. I can talk sense, too, Father
Superior. What have they got here?" He went up to the table. "Old port
wine, mead brewed by the Eliseyev Brothers. Fie, fie, fathers! That is
something beyond gudgeon. Look at the bottles the fathers have brought
out, he he he! And who has provided it all? The Russian peasant, the
laborer, brings here the farthing earned by his horny hand, wringing it
from his family and the tax-gatherer! You bleed the people, you know, holy
fathers."
"This is too disgraceful!" said Father Iosif.
Father Paissy kept obstinately silent. Miuesov rushed from the room, and
Kalganov after him.
"Well, Father, I will follow Pyotr Alexandrovitch! I am not coming to see
you again. You may beg me on your knees, I shan't come. I sent you a
thousand roubles, so you have begun to keep your eye on me. He he he! No,
I'll say no more. I am taking my revenge for my youth, for all the
humiliation I endured." He thumped the table with his fist in a paroxysm
of simulated feeling. "This monastery has played a great part in my life!
It has cost me many bitter tears. You used to set my wife, the crazy one,
against me. You cursed me with bell and book, you spread stories about me
all over the place. Enough, fathers! This is the age of Liberalism, the
age of steamers and railways. Neither a thousand, nor a hundred roubles,
no, nor a hundred farthings will you get out of me!"
It must be noted again that our monastery never had played any great part
in his life, and he never had shed a bitter tear owing to it. But he was
so carried away by his simulated emotion, that he was for one moment
almost believing it himself. He was so touched he was almost weeping. But
at that very instant, he felt that it was time to draw back.
The Father Superior bowed his head at his malicious lie, and again spoke
impressively:
"It is written again, 'Bear circumspectly and gladly dishonor that cometh
upon thee by no act of thine own, be not confounded and hate not him who
hath dishonored thee.' And so will we."
"Tut, tut, tut! Bethinking thyself and the rest of the rigmarole. Bethink
yourselves, Fathers, I will go. But I will take my son, Alexey, away from
here for ever, on my parental authority. Ivan Fyodorovitch, my most
dutiful son, permit me to order you to follow me. Von Sohn, what have you
to stay for? Come and see me now in the town. It is fun there. It is only
one short verst; instead of lenten oil, I will give you sucking-pig and
kasha. We will have dinner with some brandy and liqueur to it.... I've
cloudberry wine. Hey, von Sohn, don't lose your chance." He went out,
shouting and gesticulating.
It was at that moment Rakitin saw him and pointed him out to Alyosha.
"Alexey!" his father shouted, from far off, catching sight of him. "You
come home to me to-day, for good, and bring your pillow and mattress, and
leave no trace behind."
Alyosha stood rooted to the spot, watching the scene in silence.
Meanwhile, Fyodor Pavlovitch had got into the carriage, and Ivan was about
to follow him in grim silence without even turning to say good-by to
Alyosha. But at this point another almost incredible scene of grotesque
buffoonery gave the finishing touch to the episode. Maximov suddenly
appeared by the side of the carriage. He ran up, panting, afraid of being
too late. Rakitin and Alyosha saw him running. He was in such a hurry that
in his impatience he put his foot on the step on which Ivan's left foot
was still resting, and clutching the carriage he kept trying to jump in.
"I am going with you!" he kept shouting, laughing a thin mirthful laugh
with a look of reckless glee in his face. "Take me, too."
"There!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, delighted. "Did I not say he was von
Sohn. It is von Sohn himself, risen from the dead. Why, how did you tear
yourself away? What did you _vonsohn_ there? And how could you get away
from the dinner? You must be a brazen-faced fellow! I am that myself, but
I am surprised at you, brother! Jump in, jump in! Let him pass, Ivan. It
will be fun. He can lie somewhere at our feet. Will you lie at our feet,
von Sohn? Or perch on the box with the coachman. Skip on to the box, von
Sohn!"
But Ivan, who had by now taken his seat, without a word gave Maximov a
violent punch in the breast and sent him flying. It was quite by chance he
did not fall.
"Drive on!" Ivan shouted angrily to the coachman.
"Why, what are you doing, what are you about? Why did you do that?" Fyodor
Pavlovitch protested.
But the carriage had already driven away. Ivan made no reply.
"Well, you are a fellow," Fyodor Pavlovitch said again.
After a pause of two minutes, looking askance at his son, "Why, it was you
got up all this monastery business. You urged it, you approved of it. Why
are you angry now?"
"You've talked rot enough. You might rest a bit now," Ivan snapped
sullenly.
Fyodor Pavlovitch was silent again for two minutes.
"A drop of brandy would be nice now," he observed sententiously, but Ivan
made no response.
"You shall have some, too, when we get home."
Ivan was still silent.
Fyodor Pavlovitch waited another two minutes.
"But I shall take Alyosha away from the monastery, though you will dislike
it so much, most honored Karl von Moor."
Ivan shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and turning away stared at the
road. And they did not speak again all the way home. | While Alyosha was helping Zosima in his cell, Miusov, Kalganov, and Ivan proceeded on to the Father Superior's. Miusov had just finished apologizing for Fyodor's behavior when Fyodor popped in. Fyodor had been planning on skipping the lunch, having caused enough commotion already, but in his carriage he had changed his mind and decided he had a couple more tricks up his sleeve. Fyodor at first accuses Maximov the landowner of being somebody else - some dude named von Sohn who, according to Fyodor, had died a grotesque death in a brothel. Next, Fyodor attacks the Father Superior and the monastery in general. He accuses them of stealing the peasants' money and spending it on lavish spreads like the dinner they're about to enjoy. He also accuses them of turning his second wife, the "shrieker" against him. During these tirades, the Father Superior's only reaction is to thank Fyodor for giving them all a dose of humility, which Fyodor ignores. Miusov can't stand Fyodor's behavior anymore and leaves, followed by Kalganov. Fyodor also leaves, demanding that Alyosha leave the monastery as well. Ivan follows Fyodor. As they get into their carriage, the landowner Maximov comes running after, thinking that the real party's with Fyodor. But Ivan pushes him away from the carriage and orders the driver to leave. In their carriage, Fyodor tries to get Ivan to talk, but Ivan coldly ignores him. |
VI. Hundreds of People
The quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not
far from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the
waves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason, and carried
it, as to the public interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis
Lorry walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived,
on his way to dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into
business-absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor's friend, and the
quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life.
On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho, early in
the afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because, on fine
Sundays, he often walked out, before dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie;
secondly, because, on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with
them as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out of window, and
generally getting through the day; thirdly, because he happened to have
his own little shrewd doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the
Doctor's household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving
them.
A quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, was not to be
found in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of
the Doctor's lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of street that
had a congenial air of retirement on it. There were few buildings then,
north of the Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers
grew, and the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a
consequence, country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom,
instead of languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a
settlement; and there was many a good south wall, not far off, on which
the peaches ripened in their season.
The summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part
of the day; but, when the streets grew hot, the corner was in shadow,
though not in shadow so remote but that you could see beyond it into a
glare of brightness. It was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful
place for echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets.
There ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage, and
there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large stiff house, where
several callings purported to be pursued by day, but whereof little was
audible any day, and which was shunned by all of them at night. In
a building at the back, attainable by a courtyard where a plane-tree
rustled its green leaves, church-organs claimed to be made, and silver
to be chased, and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant
who had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall--as if
he had beaten himself precious, and menaced a similar conversion of all
visitors. Very little of these trades, or of a lonely lodger rumoured
to live up-stairs, or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have
a counting-house below, was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a stray
workman putting his coat on, traversed the hall, or a stranger peered
about there, or a distant clink was heard across the courtyard, or a
thump from the golden giant. These, however, were only the exceptions
required to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind
the house, and the echoes in the corner before it, had their own way
from Sunday morning unto Saturday night.
Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old reputation, and
its revival in the floating whispers of his story, brought him.
His scientific knowledge, and his vigilance and skill in conducting
ingenious experiments, brought him otherwise into moderate request, and
he earned as much as he wanted.
These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry's knowledge, thoughts, and
notice, when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil house in the corner,
on the fine Sunday afternoon.
"Doctor Manette at home?"
Expected home.
"Miss Lucie at home?"
Expected home.
"Miss Pross at home?"
Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for handmaid to
anticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the
fact.
"As I am at home myself," said Mr. Lorry, "I'll go upstairs."
Although the Doctor's daughter had known nothing of the country of her
birth, she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to
make much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most
agreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off
by so many little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy,
that its effect was delightful. The disposition of everything in the
rooms, from the largest object to the least; the arrangement of colours,
the elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles, by
delicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense; were at once so pleasant in
themselves, and so expressive of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry
stood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him,
with something of that peculiar expression which he knew so well by this
time, whether he approved?
There were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which they
communicated being put open that the air might pass freely through them
all, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of that fanciful resemblance which
he detected all around him, walked from one to another. The first was
the best room, and in it were Lucie's birds, and flowers, and books,
and desk, and work-table, and box of water-colours; the second was
the Doctor's consulting-room, used also as the dining-room; the third,
changingly speckled by the rustle of the plane-tree in the yard, was the
Doctor's bedroom, and there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker's
bench and tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor of the
dismal house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris.
"I wonder," said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, "that he keeps
that reminder of his sufferings about him!"
"And why wonder at that?" was the abrupt inquiry that made him start.
It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose
acquaintance he had first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and
had since improved.
"I should have thought--" Mr. Lorry began.
"Pooh! You'd have thought!" said Miss Pross; and Mr. Lorry left off.
"How do you do?" inquired that lady then--sharply, and yet as if to
express that she bore him no malice.
"I am pretty well, I thank you," answered Mr. Lorry, with meekness; "how
are you?"
"Nothing to boast of," said Miss Pross.
"Indeed?"
"Ah! indeed!" said Miss Pross. "I am very much put out about my
Ladybird."
"Indeed?"
"For gracious sake say something else besides 'indeed,' or you'll
fidget me to death," said Miss Pross: whose character (dissociated from
stature) was shortness.
"Really, then?" said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment.
"Really, is bad enough," returned Miss Pross, "but better. Yes, I am
very much put out."
"May I ask the cause?"
"I don't want dozens of people who are not at all worthy of Ladybird, to
come here looking after her," said Miss Pross.
"_Do_ dozens come for that purpose?"
"Hundreds," said Miss Pross.
It was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people before her
time and since) that whenever her original proposition was questioned,
she exaggerated it.
"Dear me!" said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of.
"I have lived with the darling--or the darling has lived with me, and
paid me for it; which she certainly should never have done, you may take
your affidavit, if I could have afforded to keep either myself or her
for nothing--since she was ten years old. And it's really very hard,"
said Miss Pross.
Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook his head;
using that important part of himself as a sort of fairy cloak that would
fit anything.
"All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy of the pet,
are always turning up," said Miss Pross. "When you began it--"
"_I_ began it, Miss Pross?"
"Didn't you? Who brought her father to life?"
"Oh! If _that_ was beginning it--" said Mr. Lorry.
"It wasn't ending it, I suppose? I say, when you began it, it was hard
enough; not that I have any fault to find with Doctor Manette, except
that he is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation on
him, for it was not to be expected that anybody should be, under any
circumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds
and multitudes of people turning up after him (I could have forgiven
him), to take Ladybird's affections away from me."
Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew her by
this time to be, beneath the service of her eccentricity, one of those
unselfish creatures--found only among women--who will, for pure love and
admiration, bind themselves willing slaves, to youth when they have lost
it, to beauty that they never had, to accomplishments that they were
never fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shone upon
their own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there
is nothing in it better than the faithful service of the heart; so
rendered and so free from any mercenary taint, he had such an exalted
respect for it, that in the retributive arrangements made by his own
mind--we all make such arrangements, more or less--he stationed Miss
Pross much nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasurably
better got up both by Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellson's.
"There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of Ladybird," said
Miss Pross; "and that was my brother Solomon, if he hadn't made a
mistake in life."
Here again: Mr. Lorry's inquiries into Miss Pross's personal history had
established the fact that her brother Solomon was a heartless scoundrel
who had stripped her of everything she possessed, as a stake to
speculate with, and had abandoned her in her poverty for evermore, with
no touch of compunction. Miss Pross's fidelity of belief in Solomon
(deducting a mere trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious
matter with Mr. Lorry, and had its weight in his good opinion of her.
"As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people of
business," he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room and had
sat down there in friendly relations, "let me ask you--does the Doctor,
in talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemaking time, yet?"
"Never."
"And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?"
"Ah!" returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. "But I don't say he don't
refer to it within himself."
"Do you believe that he thinks of it much?"
"I do," said Miss Pross.
"Do you imagine--" Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross took him up
short with:
"Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all."
"I stand corrected; do you suppose--you go so far as to suppose,
sometimes?"
"Now and then," said Miss Pross.
"Do you suppose," Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing twinkle in his
bright eye, as it looked kindly at her, "that Doctor Manette has any
theory of his own, preserved through all those years, relative to
the cause of his being so oppressed; perhaps, even to the name of his
oppressor?"
"I don't suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells me."
"And that is--?"
"That she thinks he has."
"Now don't be angry at my asking all these questions; because I am a
mere dull man of business, and you are a woman of business."
"Dull?" Miss Pross inquired, with placidity.
Rather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry replied, "No, no,
no. Surely not. To return to business:--Is it not remarkable that Doctor
Manette, unquestionably innocent of any crime as we are all well assured
he is, should never touch upon that question? I will not say with me,
though he had business relations with me many years ago, and we are now
intimate; I will say with the fair daughter to whom he is so devotedly
attached, and who is so devotedly attached to him? Believe me, Miss
Pross, I don't approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of
zealous interest."
"Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad's the best, you'll tell
me," said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the apology, "he is afraid
of the whole subject."
"Afraid?"
"It's plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It's a dreadful
remembrance. Besides that, his loss of himself grew out of it. Not
knowing how he lost himself, or how he recovered himself, he may never
feel certain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn't make the
subject pleasant, I should think."
It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. "True," said
he, "and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt lurks in my mind, Miss
Pross, whether it is good for Doctor Manette to have that suppression
always shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness
it sometimes causes me that has led me to our present confidence."
"Can't be helped," said Miss Pross, shaking her head. "Touch that
string, and he instantly changes for the worse. Better leave it alone.
In short, must leave it alone, like or no like. Sometimes, he gets up in
the dead of the night, and will be heard, by us overhead there, walking
up and down, walking up and down, in his room. Ladybird has learnt to
know then that his mind is walking up and down, walking up and down, in
his old prison. She hurries to him, and they go on together, walking up
and down, walking up and down, until he is composed. But he never says
a word of the true reason of his restlessness, to her, and she finds it
best not to hint at it to him. In silence they go walking up and down
together, walking up and down together, till her love and company have
brought him to himself."
Notwithstanding Miss Pross's denial of her own imagination, there was a
perception of the pain of being monotonously haunted by one sad idea,
in her repetition of the phrase, walking up and down, which testified to
her possessing such a thing.
The corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for echoes; it
had begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of coming feet, that it
seemed as though the very mention of that weary pacing to and fro had
set it going.
"Here they are!" said Miss Pross, rising to break up the conference;
"and now we shall have hundreds of people pretty soon!"
It was such a curious corner in its acoustical properties, such a
peculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the open window,
looking for the father and daughter whose steps he heard, he fancied
they would never approach. Not only would the echoes die away, as though
the steps had gone; but, echoes of other steps that never came would be
heard in their stead, and would die away for good when they seemed close
at hand. However, father and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross
was ready at the street door to receive them.
Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and grim, taking
off her darling's bonnet when she came up-stairs, and touching it up
with the ends of her handkerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and
folding her mantle ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair with
as much pride as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she
had been the vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleasant
sight too, embracing her and thanking her, and protesting against
her taking so much trouble for her--which last she only dared to do
playfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would have retired to her own
chamber and cried. The Doctor was a pleasant sight too, looking on at
them, and telling Miss Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with
eyes that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would
have had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight too,
beaming at all this in his little wig, and thanking his bachelor
stars for having lighted him in his declining years to a Home. But, no
Hundreds of people came to see the sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain
for the fulfilment of Miss Pross's prediction.
Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the arrangements of
the little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions, and
always acquitted herself marvellously. Her dinners, of a very modest
quality, were so well cooked and so well served, and so neat in their
contrivances, half English and half French, that nothing could be
better. Miss Pross's friendship being of the thoroughly practical
kind, she had ravaged Soho and the adjacent provinces, in search of
impoverished French, who, tempted by shillings and half-crowns, would
impart culinary mysteries to her. From these decayed sons and daughters
of Gaul, she had acquired such wonderful arts, that the woman and girl
who formed the staff of domestics regarded her as quite a Sorceress,
or Cinderella's Godmother: who would send out for a fowl, a rabbit,
a vegetable or two from the garden, and change them into anything she
pleased.
On Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor's table, but on other days
persisted in taking her meals at unknown periods, either in the lower
regions, or in her own room on the second floor--a blue chamber, to
which no one but her Ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion,
Miss Pross, responding to Ladybird's pleasant face and pleasant efforts
to please her, unbent exceedingly; so the dinner was very pleasant, too.
It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie proposed that the
wine should be carried out under the plane-tree, and they should sit
there in the air. As everything turned upon her, and revolved about her,
they went out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for
the special benefit of Mr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some
time before, as Mr. Lorry's cup-bearer; and while they sat under the
plane-tree, talking, she kept his glass replenished. Mysterious backs
and ends of houses peeped at them as they talked, and the plane-tree
whispered to them in its own way above their heads.
Still, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. Mr. Darnay
presented himself while they were sitting under the plane-tree, but he
was only One.
Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. But, Miss Pross
suddenly became afflicted with a twitching in the head and body, and
retired into the house. She was not unfrequently the victim of this
disorder, and she called it, in familiar conversation, "a fit of the
jerks."
The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially young. The
resemblance between him and Lucie was very strong at such times, and as
they sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting
his arm on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace the
likeness.
He had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual
vivacity. "Pray, Doctor Manette," said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the
plane-tree--and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand,
which happened to be the old buildings of London--"have you seen much of
the Tower?"
"Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We have seen enough of
it, to know that it teems with interest; little more."
"_I_ have been there, as you remember," said Darnay, with a smile,
though reddening a little angrily, "in another character, and not in a
character that gives facilities for seeing much of it. They told me a
curious thing when I was there."
"What was that?" Lucie asked.
"In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old dungeon, which
had been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of
its inner wall was covered by inscriptions which had been carved by
prisoners--dates, names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone
in an angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to
execution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They were done with
some very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand.
At first, they were read as D. I. C.; but, on being more carefully
examined, the last letter was found to be G. There was no record or
legend of any prisoner with those initials, and many fruitless guesses
were made what the name could have been. At length, it was suggested
that the letters were not initials, but the complete word, DIG. The
floor was examined very carefully under the inscription, and, in the
earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found
the ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small leathern case
or bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he
had written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler."
"My father," exclaimed Lucie, "you are ill!"
He had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner and
his look quite terrified them all.
"No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and they
made me start. We had better go in."
He recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really falling in large
drops, and he showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he
said not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told
of, and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry
either detected, or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned
towards Charles Darnay, the same singular look that had been upon it
when it turned towards him in the passages of the Court House.
He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry had doubts of
his business eye. The arm of the golden giant in the hall was not more
steady than he was, when he stopped under it to remark to them that he
was not yet proof against slight surprises (if he ever would be), and
that the rain had startled him.
Tea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of the jerks upon
her, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. Carton had lounged in, but he
made only Two.
The night was so very sultry, that although they sat with doors and
windows open, they were overpowered by heat. When the tea-table was
done with, they all moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the
heavy twilight. Lucie sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton
leaned against a window. The curtains were long and white, and some of
the thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, caught them up to the
ceiling, and waved them like spectral wings.
"The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few," said Doctor
Manette. "It comes slowly."
"It comes surely," said Carton.
They spoke low, as people watching and waiting mostly do; as people in a
dark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always do.
There was a great hurry in the streets of people speeding away to
get shelter before the storm broke; the wonderful corner for echoes
resounded with the echoes of footsteps coming and going, yet not a
footstep was there.
"A multitude of people, and yet a solitude!" said Darnay, when they had
listened for a while.
"Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?" asked Lucie. "Sometimes, I have
sat here of an evening, until I have fancied--but even the shade of
a foolish fancy makes me shudder to-night, when all is so black and
solemn--"
"Let us shudder too. We may know what it is."
"It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only impressive as we
originate them, I think; they are not to be communicated. I have
sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made
the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming
by-and-bye into our lives."
"There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be so,"
Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way.
The footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them became more and more
rapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the tread of feet; some,
as it seemed, under the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some
coming, some going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in
the distant streets, and not one within sight.
"Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, Miss Manette, or
are we to divide them among us?"
"I don't know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish fancy, but you
asked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I have been alone, and
then I have imagined them the footsteps of the people who are to come
into my life, and my father's."
"I take them into mine!" said Carton. "_I_ ask no questions and make no
stipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon us, Miss Manette,
and I see them--by the Lightning." He added the last words, after there
had been a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the window.
"And I hear them!" he added again, after a peal of thunder. "Here they
come, fast, fierce, and furious!"
It was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it stopped him,
for no voice could be heard in it. A memorable storm of thunder and
lightning broke with that sweep of water, and there was not a moment's
interval in crash, and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at
midnight.
The great bell of Saint Paul's was striking one in the cleared air, when
Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted and bearing a lantern, set
forth on his return-passage to Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches
of road on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful
of foot-pads, always retained Jerry for this service: though it was
usually performed a good two hours earlier.
"What a night it has been! Almost a night, Jerry," said Mr. Lorry, "to
bring the dead out of their graves."
"I never see the night myself, master--nor yet I don't expect to--what
would do that," answered Jerry.
"Good night, Mr. Carton," said the man of business. "Good night, Mr.
Darnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together!"
Perhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rush and roar,
bearing down upon them, too. | Four months have passed since the trial, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay, and Sydney Carton have become regular visitors at the Manettes' home in Soho, where Miss Pross, Lucie's governess, also lives. While there one Sunday, Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross discuss the numerous suitors for Lucie's hand and the progress of Doctor Manette 's recovery, and Darnay tells a story of a prisoner in the Tower of London who wrote the word "dig"on a wall. Years later, when workmen found the old cell, they dug into the floor beneath the inscription and found ashes of a paper inside a leather case. Doctor Manette reacts badly to this story, jumping as if startled and looking ill. Later in the evening, as the group drinks tea and listens to the rain, they hear the echoes of people's footsteps from other streets. Lucie shares a fancy she has sometimes that the echoing footsteps are "the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming by-and-by into our lives."Carton comments that by the sound of the footsteps, there will be "a great crowd coming one day into our lives." |
The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss
Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who
continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined
their party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear.
Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching
the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by
messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and
Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.
Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in
attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual
commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness
of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern
with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was
exactly in unison with her opinion of each.
"How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!"
He made no answer.
"You write uncommonly fast."
"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."
"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the
year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!"
"It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours."
"Pray tell your sister that I long to see her."
"I have already told her so once, by your desire."
"I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend
pens remarkably well."
"Thank you--but I always mend my own."
"How can you contrive to write so even?"
He was silent.
"Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp,
and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful
little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss
Grantley's."
"Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again?--At
present I have not room to do them justice."
"Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you
always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?"
"They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me
to determine."
"It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter, with
ease, cannot write ill."
"That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline," cried her
brother--"because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for
words of four syllables.--Do not you, Darcy?"
"My style of writing is very different from yours."
"Oh!" cried Miss Bingley, "Charles writes in the most careless way
imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest."
"My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which
means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents."
"Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth, "must disarm reproof."
"Nothing is more deceitful," said Darcy, "than the appearance of
humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an
indirect boast."
"And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?"
"The indirect boast;--for you are really proud of your defects in
writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of
thought and carelessness of execution, which if not estimable, you think
at least highly interesting. The power of doing any thing with
quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any
attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs.
Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield
you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of
panegyric, of compliment to yourself--and yet what is there so very
laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business
undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or any one else?"
"Nay," cried Bingley, "this is too much, to remember at night all the
foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I
believed what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this
moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless
precipitance merely to shew off before the ladies."
"I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you
would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as
dependant on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were
mounting your horse, a friend were to say, 'Bingley, you had better stay
till next week,' you would probably do it, you would probably not
go--and, at another word, might stay a month."
"You have only proved by this," cried Elizabeth, "that Mr. Bingley did
not do justice to his own disposition. You have shewn him off now much
more than he did himself."
"I am exceedingly gratified," said Bingley, "by your converting what my
friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am
afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means
intend; for he would certainly think the better of me, if under such a
circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I
could."
"Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention
as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?"
"Upon my word I cannot exactly explain the matter, Darcy must speak for
himself."
"You expect me to account for opinions which you chuse to call mine, but
which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to stand
according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that
the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the
delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering one
argument in favour of its propriety."
"To yield readily--easily--to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit
with you."
"To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of
either."
"You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of
friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make
one readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason
one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have
supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the
circumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour
thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend,
where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no
very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying
with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?"
"Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange
with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to
appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting
between the parties?"
"By all means," cried Bingley; "let us hear all the particulars, not
forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more
weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure
you that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with
myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not
know a more aweful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in
particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening
when he has nothing to do."
Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was
rather offended; and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly
resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her
brother for talking such nonsense.
"I see your design, Bingley," said his friend.--"You dislike an
argument, and want to silence this."
"Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss
Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very
thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me."
"What you ask," said Elizabeth, "is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr.
Darcy had much better finish his letter."
Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.
When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth
for the indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with alacrity to
the piano-forte, and after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead
the way, which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she
seated herself.
Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed
Elizabeth could not help observing as she turned over some music books
that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed
on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of
admiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her because
he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine however
at last, that she drew his notice because there was a something about
her more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than
in any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked
him too little to care for his approbation.
After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a
lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near
Elizabeth, said to her--
"Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an
opportunity of dancing a reel?"
She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some
surprise at her silence.
"Oh!" said she, "I heard you before; but I could not immediately
determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,'
that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always
delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of
their premeditated contempt. I have therefore made up my mind to tell
you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all--and now despise me if
you dare."
"Indeed I do not dare."
Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his
gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her
manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody; and Darcy had
never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really
believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he
should be in some danger.
Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great
anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane, received some
assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.
She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of
their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.
"I hope," said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the
next day, "you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this
desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue;
and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after
the officers.--And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to
check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence,
which your lady possesses."
"Have you any thing else to propose for my domestic felicity?"
"Oh! yes.--Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be
placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great uncle
the judge. They are in the same profession, you know; only in different
lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not attempt to have it
taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?"
"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their
colour and shape, and the eye-lashes, so remarkably fine, might be
copied."
At that moment they were met from another walk, by Mrs. Hurst and
Elizabeth herself.
"I did not know that you intended to walk," said Miss Bingley, in some
confusion, lest they had been overheard.
"You used us abominably ill," answered Mrs. Hurst, "in running away
without telling us that you were coming out."
Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk
by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness
and immediately said,--
"This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the
avenue."
But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them,
laughingly answered,
"No, no; stay where you are.--You are charmingly group'd, and appear to
uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a
fourth. Good bye."
She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of
being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered
as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.
When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister,
and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the
drawing-room; where she was welcomed by her two friends with many
professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable
as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared.
Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an
entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh
at their acquaintance with spirit.
But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object.
Miss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned towards Darcy, and she had
something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed
himself directly to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst
also made her a slight bow, and said he was "very glad;" but diffuseness
and warmth remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full of joy and
attention. The first half hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she
should suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire to
the other side of the fire-place, that she might be farther from the
door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to any one else.
Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great
delight.
When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the
card-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr.
Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open
petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the
silence of the whole party on the subject, seemed to justify her. Mr.
Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the
sophas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same;
and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and
rings, joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss
Bennet.
Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr.
Darcy's progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she was
perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She
could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her
question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be
amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the
second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, "How pleasant it
is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no
enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a
book!--When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not
an excellent library."
No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and
cast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when hearing
her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly
towards him and said,
"By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at
Netherfield?--I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult
the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not
some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a
pleasure."
"If you mean Darcy," cried her brother, "he may go to bed, if he chuses,
before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and
as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my
cards."
"I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were
carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably
tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much
more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the
day."
"Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be
near so much like a ball."
Miss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and walked about
the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well;--but Darcy, at
whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation
of her feelings she resolved on one effort more; and, turning to
Elizabeth, said,
"Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a
turn about the room.--I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting
so long in one attitude."
Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley
succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked
up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as
Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was
directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing,
that he could imagine but two motives for their chusing to walk up and
down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them
would interfere. "What could he mean? she was dying to know what could
be his meaning"--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand
him?
"Not at all," was her answer; "but depend upon it, he means to be severe
on us, and our surest way of disappointing him, will be to ask nothing
about it."
Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in any
thing, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two
motives.
"I have not the smallest objection to explaining them," said he, as soon
as she allowed him to speak. "You either chuse this method of passing
the evening because you are in each other's confidence and have secret
affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures
appear to the greatest advantage in walking;--if the first, I should be
completely in your way;--and if the second, I can admire you much better
as I sit by the fire."
"Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard any thing so
abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?"
"Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We
can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him--laugh at
him.--Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done."
"But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not
yet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No,
no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose
ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr.
Darcy may hug himself."
"Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth. "That is an
uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would
be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a
laugh."
"Miss Bingley," said he, "has given me credit for more than can be. The
wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions,
may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a
joke."
"Certainly," replied Elizabeth--"there are such people, but I hope I am
not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies
and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I
laugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely what
you are without."
"Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of
my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong
understanding to ridicule."
"Such as vanity and pride."
"Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real
superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation."
Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
"Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss
Bingley;--"and pray what is the result?"
"I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it
himself without disguise."
"No"--said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough,
but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch
for.--It is I believe too little yielding--certainly too little for the
convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of
others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My
feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper
would perhaps be called resentful.--My good opinion once lost is lost
for ever."
"_That_ is a failing indeed!"--cried Elizabeth. "Implacable resentment
_is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I
really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me."
"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular
evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome."
"And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate every body."
"And yours," he replied with a smile, "is wilfully to misunderstand
them."
"Do let us have a little music,"--cried Miss Bingley, tired of a
conversation in which she had no share.--"Louisa, you will not mind my
waking Mr. Hurst."
Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the piano-forte was
opened, and Darcy, after a few moments recollection, was not sorry for
it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention. | Jane nears full health at Netherfield, and Elizabeth is looking forward to returning home. She has to undergo the daily drawing room meetings with the household, but she is not intimidated by this, and views her dialogue with Darcy as a challenge. As Jane now joins them in the drawing room, Bingley and Jane spend most of their time together leaving Elizabeth alone with the Bingley sisters and Darcy. Finally Jane and Elizabeth return home, and on their arrival they hear that William Collins is to visit. |
'So the day has come at length, Susan,' said Florence to the excellent
Nipper, 'when we are going back to our quiet home!'
Susan drew in her breath with an amount of expression not easily
described, further relieving her feelings with a smart cough, answered,
'Very quiet indeed, Miss Floy, no doubt. Excessive so.'
'When I was a child,' said Florence, thoughtfully, and after musing for
some moments, 'did you ever see that gentleman who has taken the trouble
to ride down here to speak to me, now three times--three times, I think,
Susan?'
'Three times, Miss,' returned the Nipper. 'Once when you was out a
walking with them Sket--'
Florence gently looked at her, and Miss Nipper checked herself.
'With Sir Barnet and his lady, I mean to say, Miss, and the young
gentleman. And two evenings since then.'
'When I was a child, and when company used to come to visit Papa, did
you ever see that gentleman at home, Susan?' asked Florence.
'Well, Miss,' returned her maid, after considering, 'I really couldn't
say I ever did. When your poor dear Ma died, Miss Floy, I was very new
in the family, you see, and my element:' the Nipper bridled, as opining
that her merits had been always designedly extinguished by Mr Dombey:
'was the floor below the attics.'
'To be sure,' said Florence, still thoughtfully; 'you are not likely to
have known who came to the house. I quite forgot.'
'Not, Miss, but what we talked about the family and visitors,' said
Susan, 'and but what I heard much said, although the nurse before Mrs
Richards make unpleasant remarks when I was in company, and hint
at little Pitchers, but that could only be attributed, poor thing,'
observed Susan, with composed forbearance, 'to habits of intoxication,
for which she was required to leave, and did.'
Florence, who was seated at her chamber window, with her face resting
on her hand, sat looking out, and hardly seemed to hear what Susan said,
she was so lost in thought.
'At all events, Miss,' said Susan, 'I remember very well that this same
gentleman, Mr Carker, was almost, if not quite, as great a gentleman
with your Papa then, as he is now. It used to be said in the house then,
Miss, that he was at the head of all your Pa's affairs in the City, and
managed the whole, and that your Pa minded him more than anybody, which,
begging your pardon, Miss Floy, he might easy do, for he never minded
anybody else. I knew that, Pitcher as I might have been.'
Susan Nipper, with an injured remembrance of the nurse before Mrs
Richards, emphasised 'Pitcher' strongly.
'And that Mr Carker has not fallen off, Miss,' she pursued, 'but has
stood his ground, and kept his credit with your Pa, I know from what
is always said among our people by that Perch, whenever he comes to the
house; and though he's the weakest weed in the world, Miss Floy, and no
one can have a moment's patience with the man, he knows what goes on in
the City tolerable well, and says that your Pa does nothing without Mr
Carker, and leaves all to Mr Carker, and acts according to Mr Carker,
and has Mr Carker always at his elbow, and I do believe that he believes
(that washiest of Perches!) that after your Pa, the Emperor of India is
the child unborn to Mr Carker.'
Not a word of this was lost on Florence, who, with an awakened interest
in Susan's speech, no longer gazed abstractedly on the prospect without,
but looked at her, and listened with attention.
'Yes, Susan,' she said, when that young lady had concluded. 'He is in
Papa's confidence, and is his friend, I am sure.'
Florence's mind ran high on this theme, and had done for some days. Mr
Carker, in the two visits with which he had followed up his first one,
had assumed a confidence between himself and her--a right on his part
to be mysterious and stealthy, in telling her that the ship was still
unheard of--a kind of mildly restrained power and authority over
her--that made her wonder, and caused her great uneasiness. She had
no means of repelling it, or of freeing herself from the web he was
gradually winding about her; for that would have required some art and
knowledge of the world, opposed to such address as his; and Florence had
none. True, he had said no more to her than that there was no news of
the ship, and that he feared the worst; but how he came to know that
she was interested in the ship, and why he had the right to signify
his knowledge to her, so insidiously and darkly, troubled Florence very
much.
This conduct on the part of Mr Carker, and her habit of often
considering it with wonder and uneasiness, began to invest him with
an uncomfortable fascination in Florence's thoughts. A more distinct
remembrance of his features, voice, and manner: which she sometimes
courted, as a means of reducing him to the level of a real personage,
capable of exerting no greater charm over her than another: did not
remove the vague impression. And yet he never frowned, or looked upon
her with an air of dislike or animosity, but was always smiling and
serene.
Again, Florence, in pursuit of her strong purpose with reference to
her father, and her steady resolution to believe that she was herself
unwittingly to blame for their so cold and distant relations, would
recall to mind that this gentleman was his confidential friend, and
would think, with an anxious heart, could her struggling tendency to
dislike and fear him be a part of that misfortune in her, which had
turned her father's love adrift, and left her so alone? She dreaded that
it might be; sometimes believed it was: then she resolved that she
would try to conquer this wrong feeling; persuaded herself that she was
honoured and encouraged by the notice of her father's friend; and hoped
that patient observation of him and trust in him would lead her bleeding
feet along that stony road which ended in her father's heart.
Thus, with no one to advise her--for she could advise with no one
without seeming to complain against him--gentle Florence tossed on an
uneasy sea of doubt and hope; and Mr Carker, like a scaly monster of the
deep, swam down below, and kept his shining eye upon her.
Florence had a new reason in all this for wishing to be at home again.
Her lonely life was better suited to her course of timid hope and doubt;
and she feared sometimes, that in her absence she might miss some
hopeful chance of testifying her affection for her father. Heaven knows,
she might have set her mind at rest, poor child! on this last point; but
her slighted love was fluttering within her, and, even in her sleep, it
flew away in dreams, and nestled, like a wandering bird come home, upon
her father's neck.
Of Walter she thought often. Ah! how often, when the night was gloomy,
and the wind was blowing round the house! But hope was strong in her
breast. It is so difficult for the young and ardent, even with such
experience as hers, to imagine youth and ardour quenched like a weak
flame, and the bright day of life merging into night, at noon, that hope
was strong yet. Her tears fell frequently for Walter's sufferings; but
rarely for his supposed death, and never long.
She had written to the old Instrument-maker, but had received no
answer to her note: which indeed required none. Thus matters stood with
Florence on the morning when she was going home, gladly, to her old
secluded life.
Doctor and Mrs Blimber, accompanied (much against his will) by their
valued charge, Master Barnet, were already gone back to Brighton, where
that young gentleman and his fellow-pilgrims to Parnassus were then, no
doubt, in the continual resumption of their studies. The holiday time
was past and over; most of the juvenile guests at the villa had taken
their departure; and Florence's long visit was come to an end.
There was one guest, however, albeit not resident within the house, who
had been very constant in his attentions to the family, and who still
remained devoted to them. This was Mr Toots, who after renewing, some
weeks ago, the acquaintance he had had the happiness of forming with
Skettles Junior, on the night when he burst the Blimberian bonds and
soared into freedom with his ring on, called regularly every other day,
and left a perfect pack of cards at the hall-door; so many indeed, that
the ceremony was quite a deal on the part of Mr Toots, and a hand at
whist on the part of the servant.
Mr Toots, likewise, with the bold and happy idea of preventing the
family from forgetting him (but there is reason to suppose that
this expedient originated in the teeming brain of the Chicken), had
established a six-oared cutter, manned by aquatic friends of the
Chicken's and steered by that illustrious character in person, who wore
a bright red fireman's coat for the purpose, and concealed the perpetual
black eye with which he was afflicted, beneath a green shade. Previous
to the institution of this equipage, Mr Toots sounded the Chicken on a
hypothetical case, as, supposing the Chicken to be enamoured of a young
lady named Mary, and to have conceived the intention of starting a boat
of his own, what would he call that boat? The Chicken replied, with
divers strong asseverations, that he would either christen it Poll or
The Chicken's Delight. Improving on this idea, Mr Toots, after deep
study and the exercise of much invention, resolved to call his boat
The Toots's Joy, as a delicate compliment to Florence, of which no man
knowing the parties, could possibly miss the appreciation.
Stretched on a crimson cushion in his gallant bark, with his shoes
in the air, Mr Toots, in the exercise of his project, had come up the
river, day after day, and week after week, and had flitted to and fro,
near Sir Barnet's garden, and had caused his crew to cut across and
across the river at sharp angles, for his better exhibition to any
lookers-out from Sir Barnet's windows, and had had such evolutions
performed by the Toots's Joy as had filled all the neighbouring part
of the water-side with astonishment. But whenever he saw anyone in Sir
Barnet's garden on the brink of the river, Mr Toots always feigned to be
passing there, by a combination of coincidences of the most singular and
unlikely description.
'How are you, Toots?' Sir Barnet would say, waving his hand from the
lawn, while the artful Chicken steered close in shore.
'How de do, Sir Barnet?' Mr Toots would answer, 'What a surprising thing
that I should see you here!'
Mr Toots, in his sagacity, always said this, as if, instead of that
being Sir Barnet's house, it were some deserted edifice on the banks of
the Nile, or Ganges.
'I never was so surprised!' Mr Toots would exclaim.--'Is Miss Dombey
there?'
Whereupon Florence would appear, perhaps.
'Oh, Diogenes is quite well, Miss Dombey,' Toots would cry. 'I called to
ask this morning.'
'Thank you very much!' the pleasant voice of Florence would reply.
'Won't you come ashore, Toots?' Sir Barnet would say then. 'Come! you're
in no hurry. Come and see us.'
'Oh, it's of no consequence, thank you!' Mr Toots would blushingly
rejoin. 'I thought Miss Dombey might like to know, that's all.
Good-bye!' And poor Mr Toots, who was dying to accept the invitation,
but hadn't the courage to do it, signed to the Chicken, with an aching
heart, and away went the Joy, cleaving the water like an arrow.
The Joy was lying in a state of extraordinary splendour, at the garden
steps, on the morning of Florence's departure. When she went downstairs
to take leave, after her talk with Susan, she found Mr Toots awaiting
her in the drawing-room.
'Oh, how de do, Miss Dombey?' said the stricken Toots, always dreadfully
disconcerted when the desire of his heart was gained, and he was
speaking to her; 'thank you, I'm very well indeed, I hope you're the
same, so was Diogenes yesterday.'
'You are very kind,' said Florence.
'Thank you, it's of no consequence,' retorted Mr Toots. 'I thought
perhaps you wouldn't mind, in this fine weather, coming home by water,
Miss Dombey. There's plenty of room in the boat for your maid.'
'I am very much obliged to you,' said Florence, hesitating. 'I really
am--but I would rather not.'
'Oh, it's of no consequence,' retorted Mr Toots. 'Good morning.'
'Won't you wait and see Lady Skettles?' asked Florence, kindly.
'Oh no, thank you,' returned Mr Toots, 'it's of no consequence at all.'
So shy was Mr Toots on such occasions, and so flurried! But Lady
Skettles entering at the moment, Mr Toots was suddenly seized with a
passion for asking her how she did, and hoping she was very well; nor
could Mr Toots by any possibility leave off shaking hands with her,
until Sir Barnet appeared: to whom he immediately clung with the
tenacity of desperation.
'We are losing, today, Toots,' said Sir Barnet, turning towards
Florence, 'the light of our house, I assure you'
'Oh, it's of no conseq--I mean yes, to be sure,' faltered the
embarrassed Mr Toots. 'Good morning!'
Notwithstanding the emphatic nature of this farewell, Mr Toots, instead
of going away, stood leering about him, vacantly. Florence, to relieve
him, bade adieu, with many thanks, to Lady Skettles, and gave her arm to
Sir Barnet.
'May I beg of you, my dear Miss Dombey,' said her host, as he conducted
her to the carriage, 'to present my best compliments to your dear Papa?'
It was distressing to Florence to receive the commission, for she felt
as if she were imposing on Sir Barnet by allowing him to believe that a
kindness rendered to her, was rendered to her father. As she could not
explain, however, she bowed her head and thanked him; and again she
thought that the dull home, free from such embarrassments, and such
reminders of her sorrow, was her natural and best retreat.
Such of her late friends and companions as were yet remaining at the
villa, came running from within, and from the garden, to say good-bye.
They were all attached to her, and very earnest in taking leave of
her. Even the household were sorry for her going, and the servants came
nodding and curtseying round the carriage door. As Florence looked round
on the kind faces, and saw among them those of Sir Barnet and his lady,
and of Mr Toots, who was chuckling and staring at her from a distance,
she was reminded of the night when Paul and she had come from Doctor
Blimber's: and when the carriage drove away, her face was wet with
tears.
Sorrowful tears, but tears of consolation, too; for all the softer
memories connected with the dull old house to which she was returning
made it dear to her, as they rose up. How long it seemed since she had
wandered through the silent rooms: since she had last crept, softly and
afraid, into those her father occupied: since she had felt the solemn
but yet soothing influence of the beloved dead in every action of her
daily life! This new farewell reminded her, besides, of her parting
with poor Walter: of his looks and words that night: and of the gracious
blending she had noticed in him, of tenderness for those he left behind,
with courage and high spirit. His little history was associated with
the old house too, and gave it a new claim and hold upon her heart.
Even Susan Nipper softened towards the home of so many years, as they
were on their way towards it. Gloomy as it was, and rigid justice as she
rendered to its gloom, she forgave it a great deal. 'I shall be glad to
see it again, I don't deny, Miss,' said the Nipper. 'There ain't much in
it to boast of, but I wouldn't have it burnt or pulled down, neither!'
'You'll be glad to go through the old rooms, won't you, Susan?' said
Florence, smiling.
'Well, Miss,' returned the Nipper, softening more and more towards the
house, as they approached it nearer, 'I won't deny but what I shall,
though I shall hate 'em again, to-morrow, very likely.'
Florence felt that, for her, there was greater peace within it than
elsewhere. It was better and easier to keep her secret shut up there,
among the tall dark walls, than to carry it abroad into the light, and
try to hide it from a crowd of happy eyes. It was better to pursue the
study of her loving heart, alone, and find no new discouragements in
loving hearts about her. It was easier to hope, and pray, and love
on, all uncared for, yet with constancy and patience, in the tranquil
sanctuary of such remembrances: although it mouldered, rusted, and
decayed about her: than in a new scene, let its gaiety be what it would.
She welcomed back her old enchanted dream of life, and longed for the
old dark door to close upon her, once again.
Full of such thoughts, they turned into the long and sombre street.
Florence was not on that side of the carriage which was nearest to her
home, and as the distance lessened between them and it, she looked out
of her window for the children over the way.
She was thus engaged, when an exclamation from Susan caused her to turn
quickly round.
'Why, Gracious me!' cried Susan, breathless, 'where's our house!'
'Our house!' said Florence.
Susan, drawing in her head from the window, thrust it out again, drew
it in again as the carriage stopped, and stared at her mistress in
amazement.
There was a labyrinth of scaffolding raised all round the house, from
the basement to the roof. Loads of bricks and stones, and heaps of
mortar, and piles of wood, blocked up half the width and length of
the broad street at the side. Ladders were raised against the walls;
labourers were climbing up and down; men were at work upon the steps of
the scaffolding; painters and decorators were busy inside; great rolls
of ornamental paper were being delivered from a cart at the door; an
upholsterer's waggon also stopped the way; no furniture was to be seen
through the gaping and broken windows in any of the rooms; nothing but
workmen, and the implements of their several trades, swarming from
the kitchens to the garrets. Inside and outside alike: bricklayers,
painters, carpenters, masons: hammer, hod, brush, pickaxe, saw, and
trowel: all at work together, in full chorus!
Florence descended from the coach, half doubting if it were, or could be
the right house, until she recognised Towlinson, with a sun-burnt face,
standing at the door to receive her.
'There is nothing the matter?' inquired Florence.
'Oh no, Miss.'
'There are great alterations going on.'
'Yes, Miss, great alterations,' said Towlinson.
Florence passed him as if she were in a dream, and hurried upstairs. The
garish light was in the long-darkened drawing-room and there were steps
and platforms, and men in paper caps, in the high places. Her mother's
picture was gone with the rest of the moveables, and on the mark where
it had been, was scrawled in chalk, 'this room in panel. Green and
gold.' The staircase was a labyrinth of posts and planks like the
outside of the house, and a whole Olympus of plumbers and glaziers was
reclining in various attitudes, on the skylight. Her own room was not
yet touched within, but there were beams and boards raised against
it without, baulking the daylight. She went up swiftly to that other
bedroom, where the little bed was; and a dark giant of a man with a pipe
in his mouth, and his head tied up in a pocket-handkerchief, was staring
in at the window.
It was here that Susan Nipper, who had been in quest of Florence, found
her, and said, would she go downstairs to her Papa, who wished to speak
to her.
'At home! and wishing to speak to me!' cried Florence, trembling.
Susan, who was infinitely more distraught than Florence herself,
repeated her errand; and Florence, pale and agitated, hurried down
again, without a moment's hesitation. She thought upon the way down,
would she dare to kiss him? The longing of her heart resolved her, and
she thought she would.
Her father might have heard that heart beat, when it came into his
presence. One instant, and it would have beat against his breast.
But he was not alone. There were two ladies there; and Florence stopped.
Striving so hard with her emotion, that if her brute friend Di had not
burst in and overwhelmed her with his caresses as a welcome home--at
which one of the ladies gave a little scream, and that diverted her
attention from herself--she would have swooned upon the floor.
'Florence,' said her father, putting out his hand: so stiffly that it
held her off: 'how do you do?'
Florence took the hand between her own, and putting it timidly to her
lips, yielded to its withdrawal. It touched the door in shutting it,
with quite as much endearment as it had touched her.
'What dog is that?' said Mr Dombey, displeased.
'It is a dog, Papa--from Brighton.'
'Well!' said Mr Dombey; and a cloud passed over his face, for he
understood her.
'He is very good-tempered,' said Florence, addressing herself with her
natural grace and sweetness to the two lady strangers. 'He is only glad
to see me. Pray forgive him.'
She saw in the glance they interchanged, that the lady who had screamed,
and who was seated, was old; and that the other lady, who stood near her
Papa, was very beautiful, and of an elegant figure.
'Mrs Skewton,' said her father, turning to the first, and holding out
his hand, 'this is my daughter Florence.'
'Charming, I am sure,' observed the lady, putting up her glass. 'So
natural! My darling Florence, you must kiss me, if you please.'
Florence having done so, turned towards the other lady, by whom her
father stood waiting.
'Edith,' said Mr Dombey, 'this is my daughter Florence. Florence, this
lady will soon be your Mama.'
Florence started, and looked up at the beautiful face in a conflict
of emotions, among which the tears that name awakened, struggled for a
moment with surprise, interest, admiration, and an indefinable sort of
fear. Then she cried out, 'Oh, Papa, may you be happy! may you be very,
very happy all your life!' and then fell weeping on the lady's bosom.
There was a short silence. The beautiful lady, who at first had seemed
to hesitate whether or no she should advance to Florence, held her to
her breast, and pressed the hand with which she clasped her, close about
her waist, as if to reassure her and comfort her. Not one word passed
the lady's lips. She bent her head down over Florence, and she kissed
her on the cheek, but she said no word.
'Shall we go on through the rooms,' said Mr Dombey, 'and see how our
workmen are doing? Pray allow me, my dear madam.'
He said this in offering his arm to Mrs Skewton, who had been looking
at Florence through her glass, as though picturing to herself what she
might be made, by the infusion--from her own copious storehouse, no
doubt--of a little more Heart and Nature. Florence was still sobbing on
the lady's breast, and holding to her, when Mr Dombey was heard to say
from the Conservatory:
'Let us ask Edith. Dear me, where is she?'
'Edith, my dear!' cried Mrs Skewton, 'where are you? Looking for Mr
Dombey somewhere, I know. We are here, my love.'
The beautiful lady released her hold of Florence, and pressing her lips
once more upon her face, withdrew hurriedly, and joined them. Florence
remained standing in the same place: happy, sorry, joyful, and in tears,
she knew not how, or how long, but all at once: when her new Mama came
back, and took her in her arms again.
'Florence,' said the lady, hurriedly, and looking into her face with
great earnestness. 'You will not begin by hating me?'
'By hating you, Mama?' cried Florence, winding her arm round her neck,
and returning the look.
'Hush! Begin by thinking well of me,' said the beautiful lady. 'Begin by
believing that I will try to make you happy, and that I am prepared to
love you, Florence. Good-bye. We shall meet again soon. Good-bye! Don't
stay here, now.'
Again she pressed her to her breast she had spoken in a rapid manner,
but firmly--and Florence saw her rejoin them in the other room.
And now Florence began to hope that she would learn from her new and
beautiful Mama, how to gain her father's love; and in her sleep that
night, in her lost old home, her own Mama smiled radiantly upon the
hope, and blessed it. Dreaming Florence! | Florence is getting ready to leave the Skettles house, and asks Nipper if Carker regularly visited the Dombey house during her childhood. Nipper says that Carker has always had a reputation for being a close confidante of Mr. Dombey and having lots of authority at the firm. Florence is troubled by the extent of knowledge Carker seems to have, as well as a menacing impression she gets from him. While she has been at the Skettles', Toots has called on her regularly, and on the day of her departure he offers to take her home by boat; Florence politely declines. She leaves everyone very sad to see her go, and travels with Nipper back to the house. They are shocked to find, upon their arrival, that the Dombey house is in the midst of renovations. Before she can determine what is happening, Florence is summoned to see her father. He is accompanied by Mrs. Skewton and Edith, to whom he is now engaged. Florence is hopeful that this change will bring her closer to her father, and Edith seems to show kindness to her |
On the morrow of that Monday, Earnshaw being still unable to follow his
ordinary employments, and therefore remaining about the house, I speedily
found it would be impracticable to retain my charge beside me, as
heretofore. She got downstairs before me, and out into the garden, where
she had seen her cousin performing some easy work; and when I went to bid
them come to breakfast, I saw she had persuaded him to clear a large
space of ground from currant and gooseberry bushes, and they were busy
planning together an importation of plants from the Grange.
I was terrified at the devastation which had been accomplished in a brief
half-hour; the black-currant trees were the apple of Joseph's eye, and
she had just fixed her choice of a flower-bed in the midst of them.
'There! That will be all shown to the master,' I exclaimed, 'the minute
it is discovered. And what excuse have you to offer for taking such
liberties with the garden? We shall have a fine explosion on the head of
it: see if we don't! Mr. Hareton, I wonder you should have no more wit
than to go and make that mess at her bidding!'
'I'd forgotten they were Joseph's,' answered Earnshaw, rather puzzled;
'but I'll tell him I did it.'
We always ate our meals with Mr. Heathcliff. I held the mistress's post
in making tea and carving; so I was indispensable at table. Catherine
usually sat by me, but to-day she stole nearer to Hareton; and I
presently saw she would have no more discretion in her friendship than
she had in her hostility.
'Now, mind you don't talk with and notice your cousin too much,' were my
whispered instructions as we entered the room. 'It will certainly annoy
Mr. Heathcliff, and he'll be mad at you both.'
'I'm not going to,' she answered.
The minute after, she had sidled to him, and was sticking primroses in
his plate of porridge.
He dared not speak to her there: he dared hardly look; and yet she went
on teasing, till he was twice on the point of being provoked to laugh. I
frowned, and then she glanced towards the master: whose mind was occupied
on other subjects than his company, as his countenance evinced; and she
grew serious for an instant, scrutinizing him with deep gravity.
Afterwards she turned, and recommenced her nonsense; at last, Hareton
uttered a smothered laugh. Mr. Heathcliff started; his eye rapidly
surveyed our faces, Catherine met it with her accustomed look of
nervousness and yet defiance, which he abhorred.
'It is well you are out of my reach,' he exclaimed. 'What fiend
possesses you to stare back at me, continually, with those infernal eyes?
Down with them! and don't remind me of your existence again. I thought I
had cured you of laughing.'
'It was me,' muttered Hareton.
'What do you say?' demanded the master.
Hareton looked at his plate, and did not repeat the confession. Mr.
Heathcliff looked at him a bit, and then silently resumed his breakfast
and his interrupted musing. We had nearly finished, and the two young
people prudently shifted wider asunder, so I anticipated no further
disturbance during that sitting: when Joseph appeared at the door,
revealing by his quivering lip and furious eyes that the outrage
committed on his precious shrubs was detected. He must have seen Cathy
and her cousin about the spot before he examined it, for while his jaws
worked like those of a cow chewing its cud, and rendered his speech
difficult to understand, he began:--
'I mun hev' my wage, and I mun goa! I _hed_ aimed to dee wheare I'd
sarved fur sixty year; and I thowt I'd lug my books up into t' garret,
and all my bits o' stuff, and they sud hev' t' kitchen to theirseln; for
t' sake o' quietness. It wur hard to gie up my awn hearthstun, but I
thowt I _could_ do that! But nah, shoo's taan my garden fro' me, and by
th' heart, maister, I cannot stand it! Yah may bend to th' yoak an ye
will--I noan used to 't, and an old man doesn't sooin get used to new
barthens. I'd rayther arn my bite an' my sup wi' a hammer in th' road!'
'Now, now, idiot!' interrupted Heathcliff, 'cut it short! What's your
grievance? I'll interfere in no quarrels between you and Nelly. She may
thrust you into the coal-hole for anything I care.'
'It's noan Nelly!' answered Joseph. 'I sudn't shift for Nelly--nasty ill
nowt as shoo is. Thank God! _shoo_ cannot stale t' sowl o' nob'dy! Shoo
wer niver soa handsome, but what a body mud look at her 'bout winking.
It's yon flaysome, graceless quean, that's witched our lad, wi' her bold
een and her forrard ways--till--Nay! it fair brusts my heart! He's
forgotten all I've done for him, and made on him, and goan and riven up a
whole row o' t' grandest currant-trees i' t' garden!' and here he
lamented outright; unmanned by a sense of his bitter injuries, and
Earnshaw's ingratitude and dangerous condition.
'Is the fool drunk?' asked Mr. Heathcliff. 'Hareton, is it you he's
finding fault with?'
'I've pulled up two or three bushes,' replied the young man; 'but I'm
going to set 'em again.'
'And why have you pulled them up?' said the master.
Catherine wisely put in her tongue.
'We wanted to plant some flowers there,' she cried. 'I'm the only person
to blame, for I wished him to do it.'
'And who the devil gave _you_ leave to touch a stick about the place?'
demanded her father-in-law, much surprised. 'And who ordered _you_ to
obey her?' he added, turning to Hareton.
The latter was speechless; his cousin replied--'You shouldn't grudge a
few yards of earth for me to ornament, when you have taken all my land!'
'Your land, insolent slut! You never had any,' said Heathcliff.
'And my money,' she continued; returning his angry glare, and meantime
biting a piece of crust, the remnant of her breakfast.
'Silence!' he exclaimed. 'Get done, and begone!'
'And Hareton's land, and his money,' pursued the reckless thing. 'Hareton
and I are friends now; and I shall tell him all about you!'
The master seemed confounded a moment: he grew pale, and rose up, eyeing
her all the while, with an expression of mortal hate.
'If you strike me, Hareton will strike you,' she said; 'so you may as
well sit down.'
'If Hareton does not turn you out of the room, I'll strike him to hell,'
thundered Heathcliff. 'Damnable witch! dare you pretend to rouse him
against me? Off with her! Do you hear? Fling her into the kitchen!
I'll kill her, Ellen Dean, if you let her come into my sight again!'
Hareton tried, under his breath, to persuade her to go.
'Drag her away!' he cried, savagely. 'Are you staying to talk?' And he
approached to execute his own command.
'He'll not obey you, wicked man, any more,' said Catherine; 'and he'll
soon detest you as much as I do.'
'Wisht! wisht!' muttered the young man, reproachfully; 'I will not hear
you speak so to him. Have done.'
'But you won't let him strike me?' she cried.
'Come, then,' he whispered earnestly.
It was too late: Heathcliff had caught hold of her.
'Now, _you_ go!' he said to Earnshaw. 'Accursed witch! this time she has
provoked me when I could not bear it; and I'll make her repent it for
ever!'
He had his hand in her hair; Hareton attempted to release her locks,
entreating him not to hurt her that once. Heathcliff's black eyes
flashed; he seemed ready to tear Catherine in pieces, and I was just
worked up to risk coming to the rescue, when of a sudden his fingers
relaxed; he shifted his grasp from her head to her arm, and gazed
intently in her face. Then he drew his hand over his eyes, stood a
moment to collect himself apparently, and turning anew to Catherine,
said, with assumed calmness--'You must learn to avoid putting me in a
passion, or I shall really murder you some time! Go with Mrs. Dean, and
keep with her; and confine your insolence to her ears. As to Hareton
Earnshaw, if I see him listen to you, I'll send him seeking his bread
where he can get it! Your love will make him an outcast and a beggar.
Nelly, take her; and leave me, all of you! Leave me!'
I led my young lady out: she was too glad of her escape to resist; the
other followed, and Mr. Heathcliff had the room to himself till dinner. I
had counselled Catherine to dine up-stairs; but, as soon as he perceived
her vacant seat, he sent me to call her. He spoke to none of us, ate
very little, and went out directly afterwards, intimating that he should
not return before evening.
The two new friends established themselves in the house during his
absence; where I heard Hareton sternly check his cousin, on her offering
a revelation of her father-in-law's conduct to his father. He said he
wouldn't suffer a word to be uttered in his disparagement: if he were the
devil, it didn't signify; he would stand by him; and he'd rather she
would abuse himself, as she used to, than begin on Mr. Heathcliff.
Catherine was waxing cross at this; but he found means to make her hold
her tongue, by asking how she would like _him_ to speak ill of her
father? Then she comprehended that Earnshaw took the master's reputation
home to himself; and was attached by ties stronger than reason could
break--chains, forged by habit, which it would be cruel to attempt to
loosen. She showed a good heart, thenceforth, in avoiding both
complaints and expressions of antipathy concerning Heathcliff; and
confessed to me her sorrow that she had endeavoured to raise a bad spirit
between him and Hareton: indeed, I don't believe she has ever breathed a
syllable, in the latter's hearing, against her oppressor since.
When this slight disagreement was over, they were friends again, and as
busy as possible in their several occupations of pupil and teacher. I
came in to sit with them, after I had done my work; and I felt so soothed
and comforted to watch them, that I did not notice how time got on. You
know, they both appeared in a measure my children: I had long been proud
of one; and now, I was sure, the other would be a source of equal
satisfaction. His honest, warm, and intelligent nature shook off rapidly
the clouds of ignorance and degradation in which it had been bred; and
Catherine's sincere commendations acted as a spur to his industry. His
brightening mind brightened his features, and added spirit and nobility
to their aspect: I could hardly fancy it the same individual I had beheld
on the day I discovered my little lady at Wuthering Heights, after her
expedition to the Crags. While I admired and they laboured, dusk drew
on, and with it returned the master. He came upon us quite unexpectedly,
entering by the front way, and had a full view of the whole three, ere we
could raise our heads to glance at him. Well, I reflected, there was
never a pleasanter, or more harmless sight; and it will be a burning
shame to scold them. The red fire-light glowed on their two bonny heads,
and revealed their faces animated with the eager interest of children;
for, though he was twenty-three and she eighteen, each had so much of
novelty to feel and learn, that neither experienced nor evinced the
sentiments of sober disenchanted maturity.
They lifted their eyes together, to encounter Mr. Heathcliff: perhaps you
have never remarked that their eyes are precisely similar, and they are
those of Catherine Earnshaw. The present Catherine has no other likeness
to her, except a breadth of forehead, and a certain arch of the nostril
that makes her appear rather haughty, whether she will or not. With
Hareton the resemblance is carried farther: it is singular at all times,
_then_ it was particularly striking; because his senses were alert, and
his mental faculties wakened to unwonted activity. I suppose this
resemblance disarmed Mr. Heathcliff: he walked to the hearth in evident
agitation; but it quickly subsided as he looked at the young man: or, I
should say, altered its character; for it was there yet. He took the
book from his hand, and glanced at the open page, then returned it
without any observation; merely signing Catherine away: her companion
lingered very little behind her, and I was about to depart also, but he
bid me sit still.
'It is a poor conclusion, is it not?' he observed, having brooded awhile
on the scene he had just witnessed: 'an absurd termination to my violent
exertions? I get levers and mattocks to demolish the two houses, and
train myself to be capable of working like Hercules, and when everything
is ready and in my power, I find the will to lift a slate off either roof
has vanished! My old enemies have not beaten me; now would be the
precise time to revenge myself on their representatives: I could do it;
and none could hinder me. But where is the use? I don't care for
striking: I can't take the trouble to raise my hand! That sounds as if I
had been labouring the whole time only to exhibit a fine trait of
magnanimity. It is far from being the case: I have lost the faculty of
enjoying their destruction, and I am too idle to destroy for nothing.
'Nelly, there is a strange change approaching; I'm in its shadow at
present. I take so little interest in my daily life that I hardly
remember to eat and drink. Those two who have left the room are the only
objects which retain a distinct material appearance to me; and that
appearance causes me pain, amounting to agony. About _her_ I won't
speak; and I don't desire to think; but I earnestly wish she were
invisible: her presence invokes only maddening sensations. _He_ moves me
differently: and yet if I could do it without seeming insane, I'd never
see him again! You'll perhaps think me rather inclined to become so,' he
added, making an effort to smile, 'if I try to describe the thousand
forms of past associations and ideas he awakens or embodies. But you'll
not talk of what I tell you; and my mind is so eternally secluded in
itself, it is tempting at last to turn it out to another.
'Five minutes ago Hareton seemed a personification of my youth, not a
human being; I felt to him in such a variety of ways, that it would have
been impossible to have accosted him rationally. In the first place, his
startling likeness to Catherine connected him fearfully with her. That,
however, which you may suppose the most potent to arrest my imagination,
is actually the least: for what is not connected with her to me? and what
does not recall her? I cannot look down to this floor, but her features
are shaped in the flags! In every cloud, in every tree--filling the air
at night, and caught by glimpses in every object by day--I am surrounded
with her image! The most ordinary faces of men and women--my own
features--mock me with a resemblance. The entire world is a dreadful
collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her!
Well, Hareton's aspect was the ghost of my immortal love; of my wild
endeavours to hold my right; my degradation, my pride, my happiness, and
my anguish--
'But it is frenzy to repeat these thoughts to you: only it will let you
know why, with a reluctance to be always alone, his society is no
benefit; rather an aggravation of the constant torment I suffer: and it
partly contributes to render me regardless how he and his cousin go on
together. I can give them no attention any more.'
'But what do you mean by a _change_, Mr. Heathcliff?' I said, alarmed at
his manner: though he was neither in danger of losing his senses, nor
dying, according to my judgment: he was quite strong and healthy; and, as
to his reason, from childhood he had a delight in dwelling on dark
things, and entertaining odd fancies. He might have had a monomania on
the subject of his departed idol; but on every other point his wits were
as sound as mine.
'I shall not know that till it comes,' he said; 'I'm only half conscious
of it now.'
'You have no feeling of illness, have you?' I asked.
'No, Nelly, I have not,' he answered.
'Then you are not afraid of death?' I pursued.
'Afraid? No!' he replied. 'I have neither a fear, nor a presentiment,
nor a hope of death. Why should I? With my hard constitution and
temperate mode of living, and unperilous occupations, I ought to, and
probably _shall_, remain above ground till there is scarcely a black hair
on my head. And yet I cannot continue in this condition! I have to
remind myself to breathe--almost to remind my heart to beat! And it is
like bending back a stiff spring: it is by compulsion that I do the
slightest act not prompted by one thought; and by compulsion that I
notice anything alive or dead, which is not associated with one universal
idea. I have a single wish, and my whole being and faculties are
yearning to attain it. They have yearned towards it so long, and so
unwaveringly, that I'm convinced it will be reached--and soon--because it
has devoured my existence: I am swallowed up in the anticipation of its
fulfilment. My confessions have not relieved me; but they may account
for some otherwise unaccountable phases of humour which I show. O God!
It is a long fight; I wish it were over!'
He began to pace the room, muttering terrible things to himself, till I
was inclined to believe, as he said Joseph did, that conscience had
turned his heart to an earthly hell. I wondered greatly how it would
end. Though he seldom before had revealed this state of mind, even by
looks, it was his habitual mood, I had no doubt: he asserted it himself;
but not a soul, from his general bearing, would have conjectured the
fact. You did not when you saw him, Mr. Lockwood: and at the period of
which I speak, he was just the same as then; only fonder of continued
solitude, and perhaps still more laconic in company. | Later Catherine talks against Heathcliff, but Hareton asks her how she would like it if he talked against her father, so she does not speak about Heathcliff to Hareton again. The friendship continues, and Hareton improves much because of it. One night Heathcliff comes home to find Catherine and Hareton happily together over a book and he does not say anything. He tells Ellen that he does not have the will for revenge anymore, and that he feels that a big change is coming. He tells her that he does not sense that death is coming, but that he cannot continue in this fashion |
What totally different feelings did Emma take back into the house from
what she had brought out!--she had then been only daring to hope for
a little respite of suffering;--she was now in an exquisite flutter of
happiness, and such happiness moreover as she believed must still be
greater when the flutter should have passed away.
They sat down to tea--the same party round the same table--how often
it had been collected!--and how often had her eyes fallen on the same
shrubs in the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of the
western sun!--But never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing
like it; and it was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her
usual self to be the attentive lady of the house, or even the attentive
daughter.
Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him in the
breast of that man whom he was so cordially welcoming, and so anxiously
hoping might not have taken cold from his ride.--Could he have seen the
heart, he would have cared very little for the lungs; but without the
most distant imagination of the impending evil, without the slightest
perception of any thing extraordinary in the looks or ways of either,
he repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of news he had
received from Mr. Perry, and talked on with much self-contentment,
totally unsuspicious of what they could have told him in return.
As long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma's fever continued;
but when he was gone, she began to be a little tranquillised and
subdued--and in the course of the sleepless night, which was the tax
for such an evening, she found one or two such very serious points
to consider, as made her feel, that even her happiness must have some
alloy. Her father--and Harriet. She could not be alone without feeling
the full weight of their separate claims; and how to guard the comfort
of both to the utmost, was the question. With respect to her father,
it was a question soon answered. She hardly knew yet what Mr. Knightley
would ask; but a very short parley with her own heart produced the most
solemn resolution of never quitting her father.--She even wept over
the idea of it, as a sin of thought. While he lived, it must be only an
engagement; but she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger of
drawing her away, it might become an increase of comfort to him.--How
to do her best by Harriet, was of more difficult decision;--how to spare
her from any unnecessary pain; how to make her any possible atonement;
how to appear least her enemy?--On these subjects, her perplexity
and distress were very great--and her mind had to pass again and
again through every bitter reproach and sorrowful regret that had ever
surrounded it.--She could only resolve at last, that she would still
avoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that need be told by
letter; that it would be inexpressibly desirable to have her removed
just now for a time from Highbury, and--indulging in one scheme
more--nearly resolve, that it might be practicable to get an invitation
for her to Brunswick Square.--Isabella had been pleased with Harriet;
and a few weeks spent in London must give her some amusement.--She did
not think it in Harriet's nature to escape being benefited by novelty
and variety, by the streets, the shops, and the children.--At any rate,
it would be a proof of attention and kindness in herself, from whom
every thing was due; a separation for the present; an averting of the
evil day, when they must all be together again.
She rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an employment which
left her so very serious, so nearly sad, that Mr. Knightley, in walking
up to Hartfield to breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half
an hour stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again with him,
literally and figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a
proper share of the happiness of the evening before.
He had not left her long, by no means long enough for her to have the
slightest inclination for thinking of any body else, when a letter was
brought her from Randalls--a very thick letter;--she guessed what it
must contain, and deprecated the necessity of reading it.--She was now
in perfect charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no explanations, she
wanted only to have her thoughts to herself--and as for understanding
any thing he wrote, she was sure she was incapable of it.--It must be
waded through, however. She opened the packet; it was too surely so;--a
note from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to
Mrs. Weston.
"I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in forwarding to you the
enclosed. I know what thorough justice you will do it, and have scarcely
a doubt of its happy effect.--I think we shall never materially disagree
about the writer again; but I will not delay you by a long preface.--We
are quite well.--This letter has been the cure of all the little
nervousness I have been feeling lately.--I did not quite like your looks
on Tuesday, but it was an ungenial morning; and though you will never
own being affected by weather, I think every body feels a north-east
wind.--I felt for your dear father very much in the storm of Tuesday
afternoon and yesterday morning, but had the comfort of hearing last
night, by Mr. Perry, that it had not made him ill.
"Yours ever,
"A. W."
[To Mrs. Weston.]
WINDSOR-JULY.
MY DEAR MADAM,
"If I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will be
expected; but expected or not, I know it will be read with candour and
indulgence.--You are all goodness, and I believe there will be need of
even all your goodness to allow for some parts of my past conduct.--But
I have been forgiven by one who had still more to resent. My courage
rises while I write. It is very difficult for the prosperous to be
humble. I have already met with such success in two applications for
pardon, that I may be in danger of thinking myself too sure of yours,
and of those among your friends who have had any ground of offence.--You
must all endeavour to comprehend the exact nature of my situation when I
first arrived at Randalls; you must consider me as having a secret which
was to be kept at all hazards. This was the fact. My right to place
myself in a situation requiring such concealment, is another question.
I shall not discuss it here. For my temptation to _think_ it a right,
I refer every caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below, and
casements above, in Highbury. I dared not address her openly; my
difficulties in the then state of Enscombe must be too well known to
require definition; and I was fortunate enough to prevail, before we
parted at Weymouth, and to induce the most upright female mind in the
creation to stoop in charity to a secret engagement.--Had she refused, I
should have gone mad.--But you will be ready to say, what was your
hope in doing this?--What did you look forward to?--To any thing, every
thing--to time, chance, circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts,
perseverance and weariness, health and sickness. Every possibility of
good was before me, and the first of blessings secured, in obtaining her
promises of faith and correspondence. If you need farther explanation,
I have the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband's son, and
the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for good, which no
inheritance of houses or lands can ever equal the value of.--See
me, then, under these circumstances, arriving on my first visit to
Randalls;--and here I am conscious of wrong, for that visit might have
been sooner paid. You will look back and see that I did not come till
Miss Fairfax was in Highbury; and as _you_ were the person slighted, you
will forgive me instantly; but I must work on my father's compassion, by
reminding him, that so long as I absented myself from his house, so long
I lost the blessing of knowing you. My behaviour, during the very
happy fortnight which I spent with you, did not, I hope, lay me open to
reprehension, excepting on one point. And now I come to the principal,
the only important part of my conduct while belonging to you, which
excites my own anxiety, or requires very solicitous explanation. With
the greatest respect, and the warmest friendship, do I mention Miss
Woodhouse; my father perhaps will think I ought to add, with the deepest
humiliation.--A few words which dropped from him yesterday spoke his
opinion, and some censure I acknowledge myself liable to.--My behaviour
to Miss Woodhouse indicated, I believe, more than it ought.--In order to
assist a concealment so essential to me, I was led on to make more than
an allowable use of the sort of intimacy into which we were immediately
thrown.--I cannot deny that Miss Woodhouse was my ostensible object--but
I am sure you will believe the declaration, that had I not been
convinced of her indifference, I would not have been induced by any
selfish views to go on.--Amiable and delightful as Miss Woodhouse is,
she never gave me the idea of a young woman likely to be attached; and
that she was perfectly free from any tendency to being attached to me,
was as much my conviction as my wish.--She received my attentions with
an easy, friendly, goodhumoured playfulness, which exactly suited me.
We seemed to understand each other. From our relative situation, those
attentions were her due, and were felt to be so.--Whether Miss Woodhouse
began really to understand me before the expiration of that fortnight,
I cannot say;--when I called to take leave of her, I remember that I was
within a moment of confessing the truth, and I then fancied she was not
without suspicion; but I have no doubt of her having since detected me,
at least in some degree.--She may not have surmised the whole, but her
quickness must have penetrated a part. I cannot doubt it. You will find,
whenever the subject becomes freed from its present restraints, that it
did not take her wholly by surprize. She frequently gave me hints of it.
I remember her telling me at the ball, that I owed Mrs. Elton gratitude
for her attentions to Miss Fairfax.--I hope this history of my conduct
towards her will be admitted by you and my father as great extenuation
of what you saw amiss. While you considered me as having sinned against
Emma Woodhouse, I could deserve nothing from either. Acquit me here, and
procure for me, when it is allowable, the acquittal and good wishes
of that said Emma Woodhouse, whom I regard with so much brotherly
affection, as to long to have her as deeply and as happily in love as
myself.--Whatever strange things I said or did during that fortnight,
you have now a key to. My heart was in Highbury, and my business was to
get my body thither as often as might be, and with the least suspicion.
If you remember any queernesses, set them all to the right account.--Of
the pianoforte so much talked of, I feel it only necessary to say, that
its being ordered was absolutely unknown to Miss F--, who would never
have allowed me to send it, had any choice been given her.--The
delicacy of her mind throughout the whole engagement, my dear madam,
is much beyond my power of doing justice to. You will soon, I earnestly
hope, know her thoroughly yourself.--No description can describe her.
She must tell you herself what she is--yet not by word, for never
was there a human creature who would so designedly suppress her own
merit.--Since I began this letter, which will be longer than I foresaw,
I have heard from her.--She gives a good account of her own health; but
as she never complains, I dare not depend. I want to have your opinion
of her looks. I know you will soon call on her; she is living in dread
of the visit. Perhaps it is paid already. Let me hear from you without
delay; I am impatient for a thousand particulars. Remember how few
minutes I was at Randalls, and in how bewildered, how mad a state: and
I am not much better yet; still insane either from happiness or
misery. When I think of the kindness and favour I have met with, of her
excellence and patience, and my uncle's generosity, I am mad with joy:
but when I recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned her, and how little
I deserve to be forgiven, I am mad with anger. If I could but see her
again!--But I must not propose it yet. My uncle has been too good for me
to encroach.--I must still add to this long letter. You have not heard
all that you ought to hear. I could not give any connected detail
yesterday; but the suddenness, and, in one light, the unseasonableness
with which the affair burst out, needs explanation; for though the event
of the 26th ult., as you will conclude, immediately opened to me the
happiest prospects, I should not have presumed on such early measures,
but from the very particular circumstances, which left me not an hour to
lose. I should myself have shrunk from any thing so hasty, and she
would have felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength and
refinement.--But I had no choice. The hasty engagement she had entered
into with that woman--Here, my dear madam, I was obliged to leave off
abruptly, to recollect and compose myself.--I have been walking over
the country, and am now, I hope, rational enough to make the rest of
my letter what it ought to be.--It is, in fact, a most mortifying
retrospect for me. I behaved shamefully. And here I can admit, that
my manners to Miss W., in being unpleasant to Miss F., were highly
blameable. _She_ disapproved them, which ought to have been enough.--My
plea of concealing the truth she did not think sufficient.--She was
displeased; I thought unreasonably so: I thought her, on a thousand
occasions, unnecessarily scrupulous and cautious: I thought her even
cold. But she was always right. If I had followed her judgment, and
subdued my spirits to the level of what she deemed proper, I should have
escaped the greatest unhappiness I have ever known.--We quarrelled.--
Do you remember the morning spent at Donwell?--_There_ every little
dissatisfaction that had occurred before came to a crisis. I was late;
I met her walking home by herself, and wanted to walk with her, but she
would not suffer it. She absolutely refused to allow me, which I then
thought most unreasonable. Now, however, I see nothing in it but a very
natural and consistent degree of discretion. While I, to blind the
world to our engagement, was behaving one hour with objectionable
particularity to another woman, was she to be consenting the next to a
proposal which might have made every previous caution useless?--Had we
been met walking together between Donwell and Highbury, the truth must
have been suspected.--I was mad enough, however, to resent.--I doubted
her affection. I doubted it more the next day on Box Hill; when,
provoked by such conduct on my side, such shameful, insolent neglect
of her, and such apparent devotion to Miss W., as it would have been
impossible for any woman of sense to endure, she spoke her resentment in
a form of words perfectly intelligible to me.--In short, my dear
madam, it was a quarrel blameless on her side, abominable on mine; and
I returned the same evening to Richmond, though I might have staid with
you till the next morning, merely because I would be as angry with
her as possible. Even then, I was not such a fool as not to mean to
be reconciled in time; but I was the injured person, injured by her
coldness, and I went away determined that she should make the first
advances.--I shall always congratulate myself that you were not of
the Box Hill party. Had you witnessed my behaviour there, I can hardly
suppose you would ever have thought well of me again. Its effect upon
her appears in the immediate resolution it produced: as soon as she
found I was really gone from Randalls, she closed with the offer of that
officious Mrs. Elton; the whole system of whose treatment of her, by the
bye, has ever filled me with indignation and hatred. I must not quarrel
with a spirit of forbearance which has been so richly extended towards
myself; but, otherwise, I should loudly protest against the share of it
which that woman has known.--'Jane,' indeed!--You will observe that I
have not yet indulged myself in calling her by that name, even to you.
Think, then, what I must have endured in hearing it bandied between
the Eltons with all the vulgarity of needless repetition, and all the
insolence of imaginary superiority. Have patience with me, I shall soon
have done.--She closed with this offer, resolving to break with me
entirely, and wrote the next day to tell me that we never were to meet
again.--_She_ _felt_ _the_ _engagement_ _to_ _be_ _a_ _source_ _of_
_repentance_ _and_ _misery_ _to_ _each_: _she_ _dissolved_ _it_.--This
letter reached me on the very morning of my poor aunt's death. I
answered it within an hour; but from the confusion of my mind, and the
multiplicity of business falling on me at once, my answer, instead of
being sent with all the many other letters of that day, was locked up in
my writing-desk; and I, trusting that I had written enough, though but
a few lines, to satisfy her, remained without any uneasiness.--I was
rather disappointed that I did not hear from her again speedily; but I
made excuses for her, and was too busy, and--may I add?--too cheerful
in my views to be captious.--We removed to Windsor; and two
days afterwards I received a parcel from her, my own letters all
returned!--and a few lines at the same time by the post, stating her
extreme surprize at not having had the smallest reply to her last; and
adding, that as silence on such a point could not be misconstrued,
and as it must be equally desirable to both to have every subordinate
arrangement concluded as soon as possible, she now sent me, by a safe
conveyance, all my letters, and requested, that if I could not directly
command hers, so as to send them to Highbury within a week, I would
forward them after that period to her at--: in short, the full direction
to Mr. Smallridge's, near Bristol, stared me in the face. I knew the
name, the place, I knew all about it, and instantly saw what she had
been doing. It was perfectly accordant with that resolution of character
which I knew her to possess; and the secrecy she had maintained, as to
any such design in her former letter, was equally descriptive of its
anxious delicacy. For the world would not she have seemed to threaten
me.--Imagine the shock; imagine how, till I had actually detected my
own blunder, I raved at the blunders of the post.--What was to be
done?--One thing only.--I must speak to my uncle. Without his sanction I
could not hope to be listened to again.--I spoke; circumstances were
in my favour; the late event had softened away his pride, and he was,
earlier than I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and complying;
and could say at last, poor man! with a deep sigh, that he wished I
might find as much happiness in the marriage state as he had done.--I
felt that it would be of a different sort.--Are you disposed to pity
me for what I must have suffered in opening the cause to him, for my
suspense while all was at stake?--No; do not pity me till I reached
Highbury, and saw how ill I had made her. Do not pity me till I saw her
wan, sick looks.--I reached Highbury at the time of day when, from my
knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was certain of a good chance
of finding her alone.--I was not disappointed; and at last I was not
disappointed either in the object of my journey. A great deal of very
reasonable, very just displeasure I had to persuade away. But it is
done; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than ever, and no moment's
uneasiness can ever occur between us again. Now, my dear madam, I will
release you; but I could not conclude before. A thousand and a thousand
thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand for
the attentions your heart will dictate towards her.--If you think me in
a way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.--Miss
W. calls me the child of good fortune. I hope she is right.--In one
respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe
myself,
Your obliged and affectionate Son,
F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL. | Emma can barely conceal her feelings as she and Mr. Knightley join her father for tea. That night, Emma lies awake worrying about Harriet and her father. She decides she will write a letter to Harriet explaining what has happened and arrange for Harriet to visit Isabella in London to give both of them some time to adjust to the new situation. She decides that she and Knightley must postpone their wedding until after her father dies. Mrs. Weston forwards Emma a letter from Frank in which he explains that all of his actions, including his attentions to Emma, were guided by a need to maintain the secrecy of his engagement to Jane. He apologizes for his behavior, but explains that he could tell Emma was not attached to him, and says that he was under the impression that Emma already knew about him and Jane. He adores Jane and is miserable that he has made her suffer. The couple quarreled the morning of the Donwell Abbey party because Jane was upset about his behavior toward Emma, thinking it an inappropriate way to maintain their secret. Frank was upset about Jane's caution, which he interpreted as coldness. Frank then left for Richmond, and Jane wrote to him to break off the engagement. He received the letter from Jane the morning his aunt died, and in the flurry of subsequent correspondence failed to send his conciliating response to her. She sent his letters back to him, indicating that he could return her letters at her governess post. This was the first news Frank had heard of her new position, and he threw himself at his uncle's mercy, receiving approval for the match. He then sped to Highbury to find Jane very ill. They reconciled, and Frank admits that he is happier than he deserves to be |
IN THE "COACH AND HORSES"
Now in order clearly to understand what had happened in the inn, it
is necessary to go back to the moment when Mr. Marvel first came
into view of Mr. Huxter's window.
At that precise moment Mr. Cuss and Mr. Bunting were in the parlour.
They were seriously investigating the strange occurrences of the
morning, and were, with Mr. Hall's permission, making a thorough
examination of the Invisible Man's belongings. Jaffers had partially
recovered from his fall and had gone home in the charge of his
sympathetic friends. The stranger's scattered garments had been
removed by Mrs. Hall and the room tidied up. And on the table under
the window where the stranger had been wont to work, Cuss had hit
almost at once on three big books in manuscript labelled "Diary."
"Diary!" said Cuss, putting the three books on the table. "Now, at
any rate, we shall learn something." The Vicar stood with his hands
on the table.
"Diary," repeated Cuss, sitting down, putting two volumes to
support the third, and opening it. "H'm--no name on the fly-leaf.
Bother!--cypher. And figures."
The vicar came round to look over his shoulder.
Cuss turned the pages over with a face suddenly disappointed.
"I'm--dear me! It's all cypher, Bunting."
"There are no diagrams?" asked Mr. Bunting. "No illustrations
throwing light--"
"See for yourself," said Mr. Cuss. "Some of it's mathematical and
some of it's Russian or some such language (to judge by the
letters), and some of it's Greek. Now the Greek I thought _you_--"
"Of course," said Mr. Bunting, taking out and wiping his spectacles
and feeling suddenly very uncomfortable--for he had no Greek
left in his mind worth talking about; "yes--the Greek, of course,
may furnish a clue."
"I'll find you a place."
"I'd rather glance through the volumes first," said Mr. Bunting,
still wiping. "A general impression first, Cuss, and _then_, you
know, we can go looking for clues."
He coughed, put on his glasses, arranged them fastidiously, coughed
again, and wished something would happen to avert the seemingly
inevitable exposure. Then he took the volume Cuss handed him in a
leisurely manner. And then something did happen.
The door opened suddenly.
Both gentlemen started violently, looked round, and were relieved
to see a sporadically rosy face beneath a furry silk hat. "Tap?"
asked the face, and stood staring.
"No," said both gentlemen at once.
"Over the other side, my man," said Mr. Bunting. And "Please shut
that door," said Mr. Cuss, irritably.
"All right," said the intruder, as it seemed in a low voice
curiously different from the huskiness of its first inquiry. "Right
you are," said the intruder in the former voice. "Stand clear!" and
he vanished and closed the door.
"A sailor, I should judge," said Mr. Bunting. "Amusing fellows, they
are. Stand clear! indeed. A nautical term, referring to his getting
back out of the room, I suppose."
"I daresay so," said Cuss. "My nerves are all loose to-day. It quite
made me jump--the door opening like that."
Mr. Bunting smiled as if he had not jumped. "And now," he said with
a sigh, "these books."
Someone sniffed as he did so.
"One thing is indisputable," said Bunting, drawing up a chair next
to that of Cuss. "There certainly have been very strange things
happen in Iping during the last few days--very strange. I cannot
of course believe in this absurd invisibility story--"
"It's incredible," said Cuss--"incredible. But the fact remains
that I saw--I certainly saw right down his sleeve--"
"But did you--are you sure? Suppose a mirror, for instance--
hallucinations are so easily produced. I don't know if you
have ever seen a really good conjuror--"
"I won't argue again," said Cuss. "We've thrashed that out,
Bunting. And just now there's these books--Ah! here's some of
what I take to be Greek! Greek letters certainly."
He pointed to the middle of the page. Mr. Bunting flushed slightly
and brought his face nearer, apparently finding some difficulty
with his glasses. Suddenly he became aware of a strange feeling at
the nape of his neck. He tried to raise his head, and encountered
an immovable resistance. The feeling was a curious pressure, the
grip of a heavy, firm hand, and it bore his chin irresistibly to
the table. "Don't move, little men," whispered a voice, "or I'll
brain you both!" He looked into the face of Cuss, close to his own,
and each saw a horrified reflection of his own sickly astonishment.
"I'm sorry to handle you so roughly," said the Voice, "but it's
unavoidable."
"Since when did you learn to pry into an investigator's private
memoranda," said the Voice; and two chins struck the table
simultaneously, and two sets of teeth rattled.
"Since when did you learn to invade the private rooms of a man in
misfortune?" and the concussion was repeated.
"Where have they put my clothes?"
"Listen," said the Voice. "The windows are fastened and I've taken
the key out of the door. I am a fairly strong man, and I have the
poker handy--besides being invisible. There's not the slightest
doubt that I could kill you both and get away quite easily if I
wanted to--do you understand? Very well. If I let you go will you
promise not to try any nonsense and do what I tell you?"
The vicar and the doctor looked at one another, and the doctor
pulled a face. "Yes," said Mr. Bunting, and the doctor repeated it.
Then the pressure on the necks relaxed, and the doctor and the
vicar sat up, both very red in the face and wriggling their heads.
"Please keep sitting where you are," said the Invisible Man.
"Here's the poker, you see."
"When I came into this room," continued the Invisible Man, after
presenting the poker to the tip of the nose of each of his visitors,
"I did not expect to find it occupied, and I expected to find, in
addition to my books of memoranda, an outfit of clothing. Where is
it? No--don't rise. I can see it's gone. Now, just at present,
though the days are quite warm enough for an invisible man to run
about stark, the evenings are quite chilly. I want clothing--and
other accommodation; and I must also have those three books." | The narrator returns to consciousness in the factory laboratory. Several physicians wander in and out, talking about him as if he is not there. He is strapped down inside a glass box. At one point, the talk of treating the narrator turns to lobotomies and experimental electric shock therapy. The procedure is painful, taking him in and out of consciousness. Eventually, the narrator has totally forgotten his own identity; he wonders if he will be set free once he remembers who he is. However, the doctors ask him his name, and when he doesnt know, they let him go. He leaves the hospital and wonders out into the Harlem streets. |
BOLDWOOD IN MEDITATION--REGRET
Boldwood was tenant of what was called Little Weatherbury Farm, and
his person was the nearest approach to aristocracy that this remoter
quarter of the parish could boast of. Genteel strangers, whose god
was their town, who might happen to be compelled to linger about this
nook for a day, heard the sound of light wheels, and prayed to see
good society, to the degree of a solitary lord, or squire at the very
least, but it was only Mr. Boldwood going out for the day. They
heard the sound of wheels yet once more, and were re-animated to
expectancy: it was only Mr. Boldwood coming home again.
His house stood recessed from the road, and the stables, which are
to a farm what a fireplace is to a room, were behind, their lower
portions being lost amid bushes of laurel. Inside the blue door,
open half-way down, were to be seen at this time the backs and tails
of half-a-dozen warm and contented horses standing in their stalls;
and as thus viewed, they presented alternations of roan and bay,
in shapes like a Moorish arch, the tail being a streak down the
midst of each. Over these, and lost to the eye gazing in from the
outer light, the mouths of the same animals could be heard busily
sustaining the above-named warmth and plumpness by quantities of oats
and hay. The restless and shadowy figure of a colt wandered about a
loose-box at the end, whilst the steady grind of all the eaters was
occasionally diversified by the rattle of a rope or the stamp of a
foot.
Pacing up and down at the heels of the animals was Farmer Boldwood
himself. This place was his almonry and cloister in one: here, after
looking to the feeding of his four-footed dependants, the celibate
would walk and meditate of an evening till the moon's rays streamed
in through the cobwebbed windows, or total darkness enveloped the
scene.
His square-framed perpendicularity showed more fully now than in the
crowd and bustle of the market-house. In this meditative walk his
foot met the floor with heel and toe simultaneously, and his fine
reddish-fleshed face was bent downwards just enough to render obscure
the still mouth and the well-rounded though rather prominent and
broad chin. A few clear and thread-like horizontal lines were the
only interruption to the otherwise smooth surface of his large
forehead.
The phases of Boldwood's life were ordinary enough, but his was not
an ordinary nature. That stillness, which struck casual observers
more than anything else in his character and habit, and seemed so
precisely like the rest of inanition, may have been the perfect
balance of enormous antagonistic forces--positives and negatives in
fine adjustment. His equilibrium disturbed, he was in extremity at
once. If an emotion possessed him at all, it ruled him; a feeling
not mastering him was entirely latent. Stagnant or rapid, it was
never slow. He was always hit mortally, or he was missed.
He had no light and careless touches in his constitution, either
for good or for evil. Stern in the outlines of action, mild in the
details, he was serious throughout all. He saw no absurd sides to
the follies of life, and thus, though not quite companionable in the
eyes of merry men and scoffers, and those to whom all things show
life as a jest, he was not intolerable to the earnest and those
acquainted with grief. Being a man who read all the dramas of life
seriously, if he failed to please when they were comedies, there was
no frivolous treatment to reproach him for when they chanced to end
tragically.
Bathsheba was far from dreaming that the dark and silent shape upon
which she had so carelessly thrown a seed was a hotbed of tropic
intensity. Had she known Boldwood's moods, her blame would have
been fearful, and the stain upon her heart ineradicable. Moreover,
had she known her present power for good or evil over this man, she
would have trembled at her responsibility. Luckily for her present,
unluckily for her future tranquillity, her understanding had not yet
told her what Boldwood was. Nobody knew entirely; for though it was
possible to form guesses concerning his wild capabilities from old
floodmarks faintly visible, he had never been seen at the high tides
which caused them.
Farmer Boldwood came to the stable-door and looked forth across the
level fields. Beyond the first enclosure was a hedge, and on the
other side of this a meadow belonging to Bathsheba's farm.
It was now early spring--the time of going to grass with the sheep,
when they have the first feed of the meadows, before these are laid
up for mowing. The wind, which had been blowing east for several
weeks, had veered to the southward, and the middle of spring had come
abruptly--almost without a beginning. It was that period in the
vernal quarter when we may suppose the Dryads to be waking for the
season. The vegetable world begins to move and swell and the saps to
rise, till in the completest silence of lone gardens and trackless
plantations, where everything seems helpless and still after the
bond and slavery of frost, there are bustlings, strainings, united
thrusts, and pulls-all-together, in comparison with which the
powerful tugs of cranes and pulleys in a noisy city are but pigmy
efforts.
Boldwood, looking into the distant meadows, saw there three figures.
They were those of Miss Everdene, Shepherd Oak, and Cainy Ball.
When Bathsheba's figure shone upon the farmer's eyes it lighted him
up as the moon lights up a great tower. A man's body is as the
shell, or the tablet, of his soul, as he is reserved or ingenuous,
overflowing or self-contained. There was a change in Boldwood's
exterior from its former impassibleness; and his face showed that he
was now living outside his defences for the first time, and with a
fearful sense of exposure. It is the usual experience of strong
natures when they love.
At last he arrived at a conclusion. It was to go across and inquire
boldly of her.
The insulation of his heart by reserve during these many years,
without a channel of any kind for disposable emotion, had worked its
effect. It has been observed more than once that the causes of love
are chiefly subjective, and Boldwood was a living testimony to the
truth of the proposition. No mother existed to absorb his devotion,
no sister for his tenderness, no idle ties for sense. He became
surcharged with the compound, which was genuine lover's love.
He approached the gate of the meadow. Beyond it the ground was
melodious with ripples, and the sky with larks; the low bleating of
the flock mingling with both. Mistress and man were engaged in the
operation of making a lamb "take," which is performed whenever an ewe
has lost her own offspring, one of the twins of another ewe being
given her as a substitute. Gabriel had skinned the dead lamb, and
was tying the skin over the body of the live lamb, in the customary
manner, whilst Bathsheba was holding open a little pen of four
hurdles, into which the Mother and foisted lamb were driven, where
they would remain till the old sheep conceived an affection for the
young one.
Bathsheba looked up at the completion of the manoeuvre and saw the
farmer by the gate, where he was overhung by a willow tree in full
bloom. Gabriel, to whom her face was as the uncertain glory of an
April day, was ever regardful of its faintest changes, and instantly
discerned thereon the mark of some influence from without, in the
form of a keenly self-conscious reddening. He also turned and beheld
Boldwood.
At once connecting these signs with the letter Boldwood had shown
him, Gabriel suspected her of some coquettish procedure begun by that
means, and carried on since, he knew not how.
Farmer Boldwood had read the pantomime denoting that they were aware
of his presence, and the perception was as too much light turned upon
his new sensibility. He was still in the road, and by moving on he
hoped that neither would recognize that he had originally intended
to enter the field. He passed by with an utter and overwhelming
sensation of ignorance, shyness, and doubt. Perhaps in her manner
there were signs that she wished to see him--perhaps not--he could
not read a woman. The cabala of this erotic philosophy seemed to
consist of the subtlest meanings expressed in misleading ways. Every
turn, look, word, and accent contained a mystery quite distinct from
its obvious import, and not one had ever been pondered by him until
now.
As for Bathsheba, she was not deceived into the belief that Farmer
Boldwood had walked by on business or in idleness. She collected
the probabilities of the case, and concluded that she was herself
responsible for Boldwood's appearance there. It troubled her much
to see what a great flame a little wildfire was likely to kindle.
Bathsheba was no schemer for marriage, nor was she deliberately a
trifler with the affections of men, and a censor's experience on
seeing an actual flirt after observing her would have been a feeling
of surprise that Bathsheba could be so different from such a one,
and yet so like what a flirt is supposed to be.
She resolved never again, by look or by sign, to interrupt the steady
flow of this man's life. But a resolution to avoid an evil is
seldom framed till the evil is so far advanced as to make avoidance
impossible. | Mr. Boldwood comes home to his farm, thinking of Bathsheba and pacing around. Like we said: he's crazy in love. The narrator informs us that this is the first time in his life that Boldwood has ever let his defenses down and allowed himself to love someone like this. Oh, jeepers. We feel bad for him now. Finally, he decides to march right across the fields to her door and declare his intention of courting her. He finds Bathsheba working in the field with Gabriel Oak, trying to get a sheep to adopt an orphaned lamb as her own. These lambs are just too cute. Oak notices Bathsheba blushing at the sight of Boldwood. This, combined with the letter Boldwood showed him, tells him that Bathsheba has been flirting and joking around with the farmer. Instead of walking up to Bathsheba, Boldwood tries to pretend that he was just passing by. As he walks away, Bathsheba decides that she probably shouldn't mess with him any more, and that she doesn't want him in her life. Unfortunately, it may no longer be up to her. |
He had only received the chemist's letter thirty-six hours after the
event; and, from consideration for his feelings, Homais had so worded it
that it was impossible to make out what it was all about.
First, the old fellow had fallen as if struck by apoplexy. Next, he
understood that she was not dead, but she might be. At last, he had put
on his blouse, taken his hat, fastened his spurs to his boots, and set
out at full speed; and the whole of the way old Rouault, panting, was
torn by anguish. Once even he was obliged to dismount. He was dizzy; he
heard voices round about him; he felt himself going mad.
Day broke. He saw three black hens asleep in a tree. He shuddered,
horrified at this omen. Then he promised the Holy Virgin three chasubles
for the church, and that he would go barefooted from the cemetery at
Bertaux to the chapel of Vassonville.
He entered Maromme shouting for the people of the inn, burst open the
door with a thrust of his shoulder, made for a sack of oats, emptied a
bottle of sweet cider into the manger, and again mounted his nag, whose
feet struck fire as it dashed along.
He said to himself that no doubt they would save her; the doctors would
discover some remedy surely. He remembered all the miraculous cures
he had been told about. Then she appeared to him dead. She was there;
before his eyes, lying on her back in the middle of the road. He reined
up, and the hallucination disappeared.
At Quincampoix, to give himself heart, he drank three cups of coffee
one after the other. He fancied they had made a mistake in the name in
writing. He looked for the letter in his pocket, felt it there, but did
not dare to open it.
At last he began to think it was all a joke; someone's spite, the jest
of some wag; and besides, if she were dead, one would have known it. But
no! There was nothing extraordinary about the country; the sky was blue,
the trees swayed; a flock of sheep passed. He saw the village; he was
seen coming bending forward upon his horse, belabouring it with great
blows, the girths dripping with blood.
When he had recovered consciousness, he fell, weeping, into Bovary's
arms: "My girl! Emma! my child! tell me--"
The other replied, sobbing, "I don't know! I don't know! It's a curse!"
The druggist separated them. "These horrible details are useless. I will
tell this gentleman all about it. Here are the people coming. Dignity!
Come now! Philosophy!"
The poor fellow tried to show himself brave, and repeated several times.
"Yes! courage!"
"Oh," cried the old man, "so I will have, by God! I'll go along o' her
to the end!"
The bell began tolling. All was ready; they had to start. And seated in
a stall of the choir, side by side, they saw pass and repass in front of
them continually the three chanting choristers.
The serpent-player was blowing with all his might. Monsieur Bournisien,
in full vestments, was singing in a shrill voice. He bowed before the
tabernacle, raising his hands, stretched out his arms. Lestiboudois
went about the church with his whalebone stick. The bier stood near the
lectern, between four rows of candles. Charles felt inclined to get up
and put them out.
Yet he tried to stir himself to a feeling of devotion, to throw himself
into the hope of a future life in which he should see her again. He
imagined to himself she had gone on a long journey, far away, for a long
time. But when he thought of her lying there, and that all was over,
that they would lay her in the earth, he was seized with a fierce,
gloomy, despairful rage. At times he thought he felt nothing more, and
he enjoyed this lull in his pain, whilst at the same time he reproached
himself for being a wretch.
The sharp noise of an iron-ferruled stick was heard on the stones,
striking them at irregular intervals. It came from the end of the
church, and stopped short at the lower aisles. A man in a coarse brown
jacket knelt down painfully. It was Hippolyte, the stable-boy at the
"Lion d'Or." He had put on his new leg.
One of the choristers went round the nave making a collection, and the
coppers chinked one after the other on the silver plate.
"Oh, make haste! I am in pain!" cried Bovary, angrily throwing him a
five-franc piece. The churchman thanked him with a deep bow.
They sang, they knelt, they stood up; it was endless! He remembered that
once, in the early times, they had been to mass together, and they had
sat down on the other side, on the right, by the wall. The bell began
again. There was a great moving of chairs; the bearers slipped their
three staves under the coffin, and everyone left the church.
Then Justin appeared at the door of the shop. He suddenly went in again,
pale, staggering.
People were at the windows to see the procession pass. Charles at the
head walked erect. He affected a brave air, and saluted with a nod those
who, coming out from the lanes or from their doors, stood amidst the
crowd.
The six men, three on either side, walked slowly, panting a little.
The priests, the choristers, and the two choirboys recited the De
profundis*, and their voices echoed over the fields, rising and falling
with their undulations. Sometimes they disappeared in the windings of
the path; but the great silver cross rose always before the trees.
*Psalm CXXX.
The women followed in black cloaks with turned-down hoods; each of them
carried in her hands a large lighted candle, and Charles felt himself
growing weaker at this continual repetition of prayers and torches,
beneath this oppressive odour of wax and of cassocks. A fresh breeze was
blowing; the rye and colza were sprouting, little dewdrops trembled at
the roadsides and on the hawthorn hedges. All sorts of joyous sounds
filled the air; the jolting of a cart rolling afar off in the ruts, the
crowing of a cock, repeated again and again, or the gambling of a foal
running away under the apple-trees: The pure sky was fretted with rosy
clouds; a bluish haze rested upon the cots covered with iris. Charles as
he passed recognised each courtyard. He remembered mornings like this,
when, after visiting some patient, he came out from one and returned to
her.
The black cloth bestrewn with white beads blew up from time to time,
laying bare the coffin. The tired bearers walked more slowly, and it
advanced with constant jerks, like a boat that pitches with every wave.
They reached the cemetery. The men went right down to a place in the
grass where a grave was dug. They ranged themselves all round; and while
the priest spoke, the red soil thrown up at the sides kept noiselessly
slipping down at the corners.
Then when the four ropes were arranged the coffin was placed upon them.
He watched it descend; it seemed descending for ever. At last a thud was
heard; the ropes creaked as they were drawn up. Then Bournisien took
the spade handed to him by Lestiboudois; with his left hand all the
time sprinkling water, with the right he vigorously threw in a large
spadeful; and the wood of the coffin, struck by the pebbles, gave forth
that dread sound that seems to us the reverberation of eternity.
The ecclesiastic passed the holy water sprinkler to his neighbour. This
was Homais. He swung it gravely, then handed it to Charles, who sank to
his knees in the earth and threw in handfuls of it, crying, "Adieu!" He
sent her kisses; he dragged himself towards the grave, to engulf himself
with her. They led him away, and he soon grew calmer, feeling perhaps,
like the others, a vague satisfaction that it was all over.
Old Rouault on his way back began quietly smoking a pipe, which Homais
in his innermost conscience thought not quite the thing. He also noticed
that Monsieur Binet had not been present, and that Tuvache had "made
off" after mass, and that Theodore, the notary's servant wore a blue
coat, "as if one could not have got a black coat, since that is the
custom, by Jove!" And to share his observations with others he went from
group to group. They were deploring Emma's death, especially Lheureux,
who had not failed to come to the funeral.
"Poor little woman! What a trouble for her husband!"
The druggist continued, "Do you know that but for me he would have
committed some fatal attempt upon himself?"
"Such a good woman! To think that I saw her only last Saturday in my
shop."
"I haven't had leisure," said Homais, "to prepare a few words that I
would have cast upon her tomb."
Charles on getting home undressed, and old Rouault put on his blue
blouse. It was a new one, and as he had often during the journey wiped
his eyes on the sleeves, the dye had stained his face, and the traces of
tears made lines in the layer of dust that covered it.
Madame Bovary senior was with them. All three were silent. At last the
old fellow sighed--
"Do you remember, my friend, that I went to Tostes once when you had
just lost your first deceased? I consoled you at that time. I thought of
something to say then, but now--" Then, with a loud groan that shook his
whole chest, "Ah! this is the end for me, do you see! I saw my wife go,
then my son, and now to-day it's my daughter."
He wanted to go back at once to Bertaux, saying that he could not sleep
in this house. He even refused to see his granddaughter.
"No, no! It would grieve me too much. Only you'll kiss her many times
for me. Good-bye! you're a good fellow! And then I shall never forget
that," he said, slapping his thigh. "Never fear, you shall always have
your turkey."
But when he reached the top of the hill he turned back, as he had turned
once before on the road of Saint-Victor when he had parted from her. The
windows of the village were all on fire beneath the slanting rays of the
sun sinking behind the field. He put his hand over his eyes, and saw
in the horizon an enclosure of walls, where trees here and there formed
black clusters between white stones; then he went on his way at a gentle
trot, for his nag had gone lame.
Despite their fatigue, Charles and his mother stayed very long that
evening talking together. They spoke of the days of the past and of the
future. She would come to live at Yonville; she would keep house for
him; they would never part again. She was ingenious and caressing,
rejoicing in her heart at gaining once more an affection that had
wandered from her for so many years. Midnight struck. The village as
usual was silent, and Charles, awake, thought always of her.
Rodolphe, who, to distract himself, had been rambling about the wood all
day, was sleeping quietly in his chateau, and Leon, down yonder, always
slept.
There was another who at that hour was not asleep.
On the grave between the pine-trees a child was on his knees weeping,
and his heart, rent by sobs, was beating in the shadow beneath the load
of an immense regret, sweeter than the moon and fathomless as the night.
The gate suddenly grated. It was Lestiboudois; he came to fetch his
spade, that he had forgotten. He recognised Justin climbing over the
wall, and at last knew who was the culprit who stole his potatoes. | Monsieur Rouault received a letter from the pharmacist after the fact - so Homais attempted to soften the blow by not exactly telling him that his daughter was dead. As a result, Rouault rode desperately to try and see Emma before she died - and arrived far too late. He and Charles cry together, and attempt to be strong for each other. The whole town turns out for the funeral, including Hippolyte and his fancy leg, as well as the dastardly Monsieur Lheureux. After an elaborate procession, Emma is buried by Lestiboudois. On the way back, Homais amuses himself by noting the improper behavior of his fellow townsfolk. After everything's over, Monsieur Rouault heavily says good bye to his son-in-law and the elder Madame Bovary. He immediately goes home to Les Bertaux, and even refuses to see Berthe, since she would make him even sadder. That night, Charles and his mother stay up talking. They make plans for her to move in, and she rejoices inwardly - she's finally defeated Emma. Rodolphe and Leon both sleep calmly in their respective homes, but those who loved Emma, Charles, her father, and Justin, stay awake, thinking of her. |
Dutiful Friendship
A great annual occasion has come round in the establishment of Mr.
Matthew Bagnet, otherwise Lignum Vitae, ex-artilleryman and present
bassoon-player. An occasion of feasting and festival. The celebration
of a birthday in the family.
It is not Mr. Bagnet's birthday. Mr. Bagnet merely distinguishes that
epoch in the musical instrument business by kissing the children with
an extra smack before breakfast, smoking an additional pipe after
dinner, and wondering towards evening what his poor old mother is
thinking about it--a subject of infinite speculation, and rendered so
by his mother having departed this life twenty years. Some men rarely
revert to their father, but seem, in the bank-books of their
remembrance, to have transferred all the stock of filial affection
into their mother's name. Mr. Bagnet is one of these. Perhaps his
exalted appreciation of the merits of the old girl causes him usually
to make the noun-substantive "goodness" of the feminine gender.
It is not the birthday of one of the three children. Those occasions
are kept with some marks of distinction, but they rarely overleap the
bounds of happy returns and a pudding. On young Woolwich's last
birthday, Mr. Bagnet certainly did, after observing on his growth and
general advancement, proceed, in a moment of profound reflection on
the changes wrought by time, to examine him in the catechism,
accomplishing with extreme accuracy the questions number one and two,
"What is your name?" and "Who gave you that name?" but there failing
in the exact precision of his memory and substituting for number
three the question "And how do you like that name?" which he
propounded with a sense of its importance, in itself so edifying and
improving as to give it quite an orthodox air. This, however, was a
speciality on that particular birthday, and not a general solemnity.
It is the old girl's birthday, and that is the greatest holiday and
reddest-letter day in Mr. Bagnet's calendar. The auspicious event is
always commemorated according to certain forms settled and prescribed
by Mr. Bagnet some years since. Mr. Bagnet, being deeply convinced
that to have a pair of fowls for dinner is to attain the highest
pitch of imperial luxury, invariably goes forth himself very early in
the morning of this day to buy a pair; he is, as invariably, taken in
by the vendor and installed in the possession of the oldest
inhabitants of any coop in Europe. Returning with these triumphs of
toughness tied up in a clean blue and white cotton handkerchief
(essential to the arrangements), he in a casual manner invites Mrs.
Bagnet to declare at breakfast what she would like for dinner. Mrs.
Bagnet, by a coincidence never known to fail, replying fowls, Mr.
Bagnet instantly produces his bundle from a place of concealment
amidst general amazement and rejoicing. He further requires that the
old girl shall do nothing all day long but sit in her very best gown
and be served by himself and the young people. As he is not
illustrious for his cookery, this may be supposed to be a matter of
state rather than enjoyment on the old girl's part, but she keeps her
state with all imaginable cheerfulness.
On this present birthday, Mr. Bagnet has accomplished the usual
preliminaries. He has bought two specimens of poultry, which, if
there be any truth in adages, were certainly not caught with chaff,
to be prepared for the spit; he has amazed and rejoiced the family by
their unlooked-for production; he is himself directing the roasting
of the poultry; and Mrs. Bagnet, with her wholesome brown fingers
itching to prevent what she sees going wrong, sits in her gown of
ceremony, an honoured guest.
Quebec and Malta lay the cloth for dinner, while Woolwich, serving,
as beseems him, under his father, keeps the fowls revolving. To these
young scullions Mrs. Bagnet occasionally imparts a wink, or a shake
of the head, or a crooked face, as they made mistakes.
"At half after one." Says Mr. Bagnet. "To the minute. They'll be
done."
Mrs. Bagnet, with anguish, beholds one of them at a standstill before
the fire and beginning to burn.
"You shall have a dinner, old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Fit for a
queen."
Mrs. Bagnet shows her white teeth cheerfully, but to the perception
of her son, betrays so much uneasiness of spirit that he is impelled
by the dictates of affection to ask her, with his eyes, what is the
matter, thus standing, with his eyes wide open, more oblivious of the
fowls than before, and not affording the least hope of a return to
consciousness. Fortunately his elder sister perceives the cause of
the agitation in Mrs. Bagnet's breast and with an admonitory poke
recalls him. The stopped fowls going round again, Mrs. Bagnet closes
her eyes in the intensity of her relief.
"George will look us up," says Mr. Bagnet. "At half after four. To
the moment. How many years, old girl. Has George looked us up. This
afternoon?"
"Ah, Lignum, Lignum, as many as make an old woman of a young one, I
begin to think. Just about that, and no less," returns Mrs. Bagnet,
laughing and shaking her head.
"Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "never mind. You'd be as young as ever
you was. If you wasn't younger. Which you are. As everybody knows."
Quebec and Malta here exclaim, with clapping of hands, that Bluffy is
sure to bring mother something, and begin to speculate on what it
will be.
"Do you know, Lignum," says Mrs. Bagnet, casting a glance on the
table-cloth, and winking "salt!" at Malta with her right eye, and
shaking the pepper away from Quebec with her head, "I begin to think
George is in the roving way again.
"George," returns Mr. Bagnet, "will never desert. And leave his old
comrade. In the lurch. Don't be afraid of it."
"No, Lignum. No. I don't say he will. I don't think he will. But if
he could get over this money trouble of his, I believe he would be
off."
Mr. Bagnet asks why.
"Well," returns his wife, considering, "George seems to me to be
getting not a little impatient and restless. I don't say but what
he's as free as ever. Of course he must be free or he wouldn't be
George, but he smarts and seems put out."
"He's extra-drilled," says Mr. Bagnet. "By a lawyer. Who would put
the devil out."
"There's something in that," his wife assents; "but so it is,
Lignum."
Further conversation is prevented, for the time, by the necessity
under which Mr. Bagnet finds himself of directing the whole force of
his mind to the dinner, which is a little endangered by the dry
humour of the fowls in not yielding any gravy, and also by the made
gravy acquiring no flavour and turning out of a flaxen complexion.
With a similar perverseness, the potatoes crumble off forks in the
process of peeling, upheaving from their centres in every direction,
as if they were subject to earthquakes. The legs of the fowls, too,
are longer than could be desired, and extremely scaly. Overcoming
these disadvantages to the best of his ability, Mr. Bagnet at last
dishes and they sit down at table, Mrs. Bagnet occupying the guest's
place at his right hand.
It is well for the old girl that she has but one birthday in a year,
for two such indulgences in poultry might be injurious. Every kind of
finer tendon and ligament that is in the nature of poultry to possess
is developed in these specimens in the singular form of
guitar-strings. Their limbs appear to have struck roots into their
breasts and bodies, as aged trees strike roots into the earth. Their
legs are so hard as to encourage the idea that they must have devoted
the greater part of their long and arduous lives to pedestrian
exercises and the walking of matches. But Mr. Bagnet, unconscious of
these little defects, sets his heart on Mrs. Bagnet eating a most
severe quantity of the delicacies before her; and as that good old
girl would not cause him a moment's disappointment on any day, least
of all on such a day, for any consideration, she imperils her
digestion fearfully. How young Woolwich cleans the drum-sticks
without being of ostrich descent, his anxious mother is at a loss to
understand.
The old girl has another trial to undergo after the conclusion of the
repast in sitting in state to see the room cleared, the hearth swept,
and the dinner-service washed up and polished in the backyard. The
great delight and energy with which the two young ladies apply
themselves to these duties, turning up their skirts in imitation of
their mother and skating in and out on little scaffolds of pattens,
inspire the highest hopes for the future, but some anxiety for the
present. The same causes lead to confusion of tongues, a clattering
of crockery, a rattling of tin mugs, a whisking of brooms, and an
expenditure of water, all in excess, while the saturation of the
young ladies themselves is almost too moving a spectacle for Mrs.
Bagnet to look upon with the calmness proper to her position. At last
the various cleansing processes are triumphantly completed; Quebec
and Malta appear in fresh attire, smiling and dry; pipes, tobacco,
and something to drink are placed upon the table; and the old girl
enjoys the first peace of mind she ever knows on the day of this
delightful entertainment.
When Mr. Bagnet takes his usual seat, the hands of the clock are very
near to half-past four; as they mark it accurately, Mr. Bagnet
announces, "George! Military time."
It is George, and he has hearty congratulations for the old girl
(whom he kisses on the great occasion), and for the children, and for
Mr. Bagnet. "Happy returns to all!" says Mr. George.
"But, George, old man!" cries Mrs. Bagnet, looking at him curiously.
"What's come to you?"
"Come to me?"
"Ah! You are so white, George--for you--and look so shocked. Now
don't he, Lignum?"
"George," says Mr. Bagnet, "tell the old girl. What's the matter."
"I didn't know I looked white," says the trooper, passing his hand
over his brow, "and I didn't know I looked shocked, and I'm sorry I
do. But the truth is, that boy who was taken in at my place died
yesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked me over."
"Poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet with a mother's pity. "Is he gone?
Dear, dear!"
"I didn't mean to say anything about it, for it's not birthday talk,
but you have got it out of me, you see, before I sit down. I should
have roused up in a minute," says the trooper, making himself speak
more gaily, "but you're so quick, Mrs. Bagnet."
"You're right. The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Is as quick. As
powder."
"And what's more, she's the subject of the day, and we'll stick to
her," cries Mr. George. "See here, I have brought a little brooch
along with me. It's a poor thing, you know, but it's a keepsake.
That's all the good it is, Mrs. Bagnet."
Mr. George produces his present, which is greeted with admiring
leapings and clappings by the young family, and with a species of
reverential admiration by Mr. Bagnet. "Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet.
"Tell him my opinion of it."
"Why, it's a wonder, George!" Mrs. Bagnet exclaims. "It's the
beautifullest thing that ever was seen!"
"Good!" says Mr. Bagnet. "My opinion."
"It's so pretty, George," cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning it on all sides
and holding it out at arm's length, "that it seems too choice for
me."
"Bad!" says Mr. Bagnet. "Not my opinion."
"But whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow," says
Mrs. Bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and her hand stretched
out to him; "and though I have been a crossgrained soldier's wife to
you sometimes, George, we are as strong friends, I am sure, in
reality, as ever can be. Now you shall fasten it on yourself, for
good luck, if you will, George."
The children close up to see it done, and Mr. Bagnet looks over young
Woolwich's head to see it done with an interest so maturely wooden,
yet pleasantly childish, that Mrs. Bagnet cannot help laughing in her
airy way and saying, "Oh, Lignum, Lignum, what a precious old chap
you are!" But the trooper fails to fasten the brooch. His hand
shakes, he is nervous, and it falls off. "Would any one believe
this?" says he, catching it as it drops and looking round. "I am so
out of sorts that I bungle at an easy job like this!"
Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy like a
pipe, and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes the
trooper to be inducted into his usual snug place and the pipes to be
got into action. "If that don't bring you round, George," says she,
"just throw your eye across here at your present now and then, and
the two together MUST do it."
"You ought to do it of yourself," George answers; "I know that very
well, Mrs. Bagnet. I'll tell you how, one way and another, the blues
have got to be too many for me. Here was this poor lad. 'Twas dull
work to see him dying as he did, and not be able to help him."
"What do you mean, George? You did help him. You took him under your
roof."
"I helped him so far, but that's little. I mean, Mrs. Bagnet, there
he was, dying without ever having been taught much more than to know
his right hand from his left. And he was too far gone to be helped
out of that."
"Ah, poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet.
"Then," says the trooper, not yet lighting his pipe, and passing his
heavy hand over his hair, "that brought up Gridley in a man's mind.
His was a bad case too, in a different way. Then the two got mixed up
in a man's mind with a flinty old rascal who had to do with both. And
to think of that rusty carbine, stock and barrel, standing up on end
in his corner, hard, indifferent, taking everything so evenly--it
made flesh and blood tingle, I do assure you."
"My advice to you," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "is to light your pipe and
tingle that way. It's wholesomer and comfortabler, and better for the
health altogether."
"You're right," says the trooper, "and I'll do it."
So he does it, though still with an indignant gravity that impresses
the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr. Bagnet to defer the ceremony
of drinking Mrs. Bagnet's health, always given by himself on these
occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness. But the young ladies
having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit of calling "the
mixtur," and George's pipe being now in a glow, Mr. Bagnet considers
it his duty to proceed to the toast of the evening. He addresses the
assembled company in the following terms.
"George. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birthday. Take a day's
march. And you won't find such another. Here's towards her!"
The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet returns
thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. This model
composition is limited to the three words "And wishing yours!" which
the old girl follows up with a nod at everybody in succession and a
well-regulated swig of the mixture. This she again follows up, on the
present occasion, by the wholly unexpected exclamation, "Here's a
man!"
Here IS a man, much to the astonishment of the little company,
looking in at the parlour-door. He is a sharp-eyed man--a quick keen
man--and he takes in everybody's look at him, all at once,
individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him a
remarkable man.
"George," says the man, nodding, "how do you find yourself?"
"Why, it's Bucket!" cries Mr. George.
"Yes," says the man, coming in and closing the door. "I was going
down the street here when I happened to stop and look in at the
musical instruments in the shop-window--a friend of mine is in want
of a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone--and I saw a party
enjoying themselves, and I thought it was you in the corner; I
thought I couldn't be mistaken. How goes the world with you, George,
at the present moment? Pretty smooth? And with you, ma'am? And with
you, governor? And Lord," says Mr. Bucket, opening his arms, "here's
children too! You may do anything with me if you only show me
children. Give us a kiss, my pets. No occasion to inquire who YOUR
father and mother is. Never saw such a likeness in my life!"
Mr. Bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to Mr. George
and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees. "You pretty dears," says Mr.
Bucket, "give us another kiss; it's the only thing I'm greedy in.
Lord bless you, how healthy you look! And what may be the ages of
these two, ma'am? I should put 'em down at the figures of about eight
and ten."
"You're very near, sir," says Mrs. Bagnet.
"I generally am near," returns Mr. Bucket, "being so fond of
children. A friend of mine has had nineteen of 'em, ma'am, all by one
mother, and she's still as fresh and rosy as the morning. Not so much
so as yourself, but, upon my soul, she comes near you! And what do
you call these, my darling?" pursues Mr. Bucket, pinching Malta's
cheeks. "These are peaches, these are. Bless your heart! And what do
you think about father? Do you think father could recommend a
second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone for Mr. Bucket's friend, my
dear? My name's Bucket. Ain't that a funny name?"
These blandishments have entirely won the family heart. Mrs. Bagnet
forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and a glass for Mr.
Bucket and waiting upon him hospitably. She would be glad to receive
so pleasant a character under any circumstances, but she tells him
that as a friend of George's she is particularly glad to see him this
evening, for George has not been in his usual spirits.
"Not in his usual spirits?" exclaims Mr. Bucket. "Why, I never heard
of such a thing! What's the matter, George? You don't intend to tell
me you've been out of spirits. What should you be out of spirits for?
You haven't got anything on your mind, you know."
"Nothing particular," returns the trooper.
"I should think not," rejoins Mr. Bucket. "What could you have on
your mind, you know! And have these pets got anything on THEIR minds,
eh? Not they, but they'll be upon the minds of some of the young
fellows, some of these days, and make 'em precious low-spirited. I
ain't much of a prophet, but I can tell you that, ma'am."
Mrs. Bagnet, quite charmed, hopes Mr. Bucket has a family of his own.
"There, ma'am!" says Mr. Bucket. "Would you believe it? No, I
haven't. My wife and a lodger constitute my family. Mrs. Bucket is as
fond of children as myself and as wishful to have 'em, but no. So it
is. Worldly goods are divided unequally, and man must not repine.
What a very nice backyard, ma'am! Any way out of that yard, now?"
There is no way out of that yard.
"Ain't there really?" says Mr. Bucket. "I should have thought there
might have been. Well, I don't know as I ever saw a backyard that
took my fancy more. Would you allow me to look at it? Thank you. No,
I see there's no way out. But what a very good-proportioned yard it
is!"
Having cast his sharp eye all about it, Mr. Bucket returns to his
chair next his friend Mr. George and pats Mr. George affectionately
on the shoulder.
"How are your spirits now, George?"
"All right now," returns the trooper.
"That's your sort!" says Mr. Bucket. "Why should you ever have been
otherwise? A man of your fine figure and constitution has no right to
be out of spirits. That ain't a chest to be out of spirits, is it,
ma'am? And you haven't got anything on your mind, you know, George;
what could you have on your mind!"
Somewhat harping on this phrase, considering the extent and variety
of his conversational powers, Mr. Bucket twice or thrice repeats it
to the pipe he lights, and with a listening face that is particularly
his own. But the sun of his sociality soon recovers from this brief
eclipse and shines again.
"And this is brother, is it, my dears?" says Mr. Bucket, referring to
Quebec and Malta for information on the subject of young Woolwich.
"And a nice brother he is--half-brother I mean to say. For he's too
old to be your boy, ma'am."
"I can certify at all events that he is not anybody else's," returns
Mrs. Bagnet, laughing.
"Well, you do surprise me! Yet he's like you, there's no denying.
Lord, he's wonderfully like you! But about what you may call the
brow, you know, THERE his father comes out!" Mr. Bucket compares the
faces with one eye shut up, while Mr. Bagnet smokes in stolid
satisfaction.
This is an opportunity for Mrs. Bagnet to inform him that the boy is
George's godson.
"George's godson, is he?" rejoins Mr. Bucket with extreme cordiality.
"I must shake hands over again with George's godson. Godfather and
godson do credit to one another. And what do you intend to make of
him, ma'am? Does he show any turn for any musical instrument?"
Mr. Bagnet suddenly interposes, "Plays the fife. Beautiful."
"Would you believe it, governor," says Mr. Bucket, struck by the
coincidence, "that when I was a boy I played the fife myself? Not in
a scientific way, as I expect he does, but by ear. Lord bless you!
'British Grenadiers'--there's a tune to warm an Englishman up! COULD
you give us 'British Grenadiers,' my fine fellow?"
Nothing could be more acceptable to the little circle than this call
upon young Woolwich, who immediately fetches his fife and performs
the stirring melody, during which performance Mr. Bucket, much
enlivened, beats time and never fails to come in sharp with the
burden, "British Gra-a-anadeers!" In short, he shows so much musical
taste that Mr. Bagnet actually takes his pipe from his lips to
express his conviction that he is a singer. Mr. Bucket receives the
harmonious impeachment so modestly, confessing how that he did once
chaunt a little, for the expression of the feelings of his own bosom,
and with no presumptuous idea of entertaining his friends, that he is
asked to sing. Not to be behindhand in the sociality of the evening,
he complies and gives them "Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young
Charms." This ballad, he informs Mrs. Bagnet, he considers to have
been his most powerful ally in moving the heart of Mrs. Bucket when a
maiden, and inducing her to approach the altar--Mr. Bucket's own
words are "to come up to the scratch."
This sparkling stranger is such a new and agreeable feature in the
evening that Mr. George, who testified no great emotions of pleasure
on his entrance, begins, in spite of himself, to be rather proud of
him. He is so friendly, is a man of so many resources, and so easy to
get on with, that it is something to have made him known there. Mr.
Bagnet becomes, after another pipe, so sensible of the value of his
acquaintance that he solicits the honour of his company on the old
girl's next birthday. If anything can more closely cement and
consolidate the esteem which Mr. Bucket has formed for the family, it
is the discovery of the nature of the occasion. He drinks to Mrs.
Bagnet with a warmth approaching to rapture, engages himself for that
day twelvemonth more than thankfully, makes a memorandum of the day
in a large black pocket-book with a girdle to it, and breathes a hope
that Mrs. Bucket and Mrs. Bagnet may before then become, in a manner,
sisters. As he says himself, what is public life without private
ties? He is in his humble way a public man, but it is not in that
sphere that he finds happiness. No, it must be sought within the
confines of domestic bliss.
It is natural, under these circumstances, that he, in his turn,
should remember the friend to whom he is indebted for so promising an
acquaintance. And he does. He keeps very close to him. Whatever the
subject of the conversation, he keeps a tender eye upon him. He waits
to walk home with him. He is interested in his very boots and
observes even them attentively as Mr. George sits smoking
cross-legged in the chimney-corner.
At length Mr. George rises to depart. At the same moment Mr. Bucket,
with the secret sympathy of friendship, also rises. He dotes upon the
children to the last and remembers the commission he has undertaken
for an absent friend.
"Respecting that second-hand wiolinceller, governor--could you
recommend me such a thing?"
"Scores," says Mr. Bagnet.
"I am obliged to you," returns Mr. Bucket, squeezing his hand.
"You're a friend in need. A good tone, mind you! My friend is a
regular dab at it. Ecod, he saws away at Mozart and Handel and the
rest of the big-wigs like a thorough workman. And you needn't," says
Mr. Bucket in a considerate and private voice, "you needn't commit
yourself to too low a figure, governor. I don't want to pay too large
a price for my friend, but I want you to have your proper percentage
and be remunerated for your loss of time. That is but fair. Every man
must live, and ought to it."
Mr. Bagnet shakes his head at the old girl to the effect that they
have found a jewel of price.
"Suppose I was to give you a look in, say, at half arter ten
to-morrow morning. Perhaps you could name the figures of a few
wiolincellers of a good tone?" says Mr. Bucket.
Nothing easier. Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet both engage to have the requisite
information ready and even hint to each other at the practicability
of having a small stock collected there for approval.
"Thank you," says Mr. Bucket, "thank you. Good night, ma'am. Good
night, governor. Good night, darlings. I am much obliged to you for
one of the pleasantest evenings I ever spent in my life."
They, on the contrary, are much obliged to him for the pleasure he
has given them in his company; and so they part with many expressions
of goodwill on both sides. "Now George, old boy," says Mr. Bucket,
taking his arm at the shop-door, "come along!" As they go down the
little street and the Bagnets pause for a minute looking after them,
Mrs. Bagnet remarks to the worthy Lignum that Mr. Bucket "almost
clings to George like, and seems to be really fond of him."
The neighbouring streets being narrow and ill-paved, it is a little
inconvenient to walk there two abreast and arm in arm. Mr. George
therefore soon proposes to walk singly. But Mr. Bucket, who cannot
make up his mind to relinquish his friendly hold, replies, "Wait half
a minute, George. I should wish to speak to you first." Immediately
afterwards, he twists him into a public-house and into a parlour,
where he confronts him and claps his own back against the door.
"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "duty is duty, and friendship is
friendship. I never want the two to clash if I can help it. I have
endeavoured to make things pleasant to-night, and I put it to you
whether I have done it or not. You must consider yourself in custody,
George."
"Custody? What for?" returns the trooper, thunderstruck.
"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, urging a sensible view of the case
upon him with his fat forefinger, "duty, as you know very well, is
one thing, and conversation is another. It's my duty to inform you
that any observations you may make will be liable to be used against
you. Therefore, George, be careful what you say. You don't happen to
have heard of a murder?"
"Murder!"
"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger in an
impressive state of action, "bear in mind what I've said to you. I
ask you nothing. You've been in low spirits this afternoon. I say,
you don't happen to have heard of a murder?"
"No. Where has there been a murder?"
"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "don't you go and commit yourself.
I'm a-going to tell you what I want you for. There has been a murder
in Lincoln's Inn Fields--gentleman of the name of Tulkinghorn. He was
shot last night. I want you for that."
The trooper sinks upon a seat behind him, and great drops start out
upon his forehead, and a deadly pallor overspreads his face.
"Bucket! It's not possible that Mr. Tulkinghorn has been killed and
that you suspect ME?"
"George," returns Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger going, "it is
certainly possible, because it's the case. This deed was done last
night at ten o'clock. Now, you know where you were last night at ten
o'clock, and you'll be able to prove it, no doubt."
"Last night! Last night?" repeats the trooper thoughtfully. Then it
flashes upon him. "Why, great heaven, I was there last night!"
"So I have understood, George," returns Mr. Bucket with great
deliberation. "So I have understood. Likewise you've been very often
there. You've been seen hanging about the place, and you've been
heard more than once in a wrangle with him, and it's possible--I
don't say it's certainly so, mind you, but it's possible--that he may
have been heard to call you a threatening, murdering, dangerous
fellow."
The trooper gasps as if he would admit it all if he could speak.
"Now, George," continues Mr. Bucket, putting his hat upon the table
with an air of business rather in the upholstery way than otherwise,
"my wish is, as it has been all the evening, to make things pleasant.
I tell you plainly there's a reward out, of a hundred guineas,
offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. You and me have always
been pleasant together; but I have got a duty to discharge; and if
that hundred guineas is to be made, it may as well be made by me as
any other man. On all of which accounts, I should hope it was clear
to you that I must have you, and that I'm damned if I don't have you.
Am I to call in any assistance, or is the trick done?"
Mr. George has recovered himself and stands up like a soldier.
"Come," he says; "I am ready."
"George," continues Mr. Bucket, "wait a bit!" With his upholsterer
manner, as if the trooper were a window to be fitted up, he takes
from his pocket a pair of handcuffs. "This is a serious charge,
George, and such is my duty."
The trooper flushes angrily and hesitates a moment, but holds out his
two hands, clasped together, and says, "There! Put them on!"
Mr. Bucket adjusts them in a moment. "How do you find them? Are they
comfortable? If not, say so, for I wish to make things as pleasant as
is consistent with my duty, and I've got another pair in my pocket."
This remark he offers like a most respectable tradesman anxious to
execute an order neatly and to the perfect satisfaction of his
customer. "They'll do as they are? Very well! Now, you see,
George"--he takes a cloak from a corner and begins adjusting it about
the trooper's neck--"I was mindful of your feelings when I come out,
and brought this on purpose. There! Who's the wiser?"
"Only I," returns the trooper, "but as I know it, do me one more good
turn and pull my hat over my eyes."
"Really, though! Do you mean it? Ain't it a pity? It looks so."
"I can't look chance men in the face with these things on," Mr.
George hurriedly replies. "Do, for God's sake, pull my hat forward."
So strongly entreated, Mr. Bucket complies, puts his own hat on, and
conducts his prize into the streets, the trooper marching on as
steadily as usual, though with his head less erect, and Mr. Bucket
steering him with his elbow over the crossings and up the turnings. | Dutiful Friendship It is Mrs. Bagnet's birthday party, and her family cook dinner for her. Mr. George shows up to drink a birthday toast as he always does, but Mrs. Bagnet sees there is something wrong. George admits he is sad because Jo had just died the day before. It reminds him of Gridley's death, and of Tulkinghorn who was responsible, "a flinty old rascal" . Just then Inspector Bucket shows up at the party, saying he is interested in buying a musical instrument. He charms the Bagnets, plays with the children, drinks a toast, but George remains sour. Bucket asks if there is any way out of the yard. Mrs. Bagnet says no. After an evening of fun, in which the Bagnets invite the Inspector for next year's party, Bucket walks out with Mr. George and away from the Bagnets, he arrests George for murdering Tulkinghorn. George is surprised but goes quietly and peacefully. |
ACT II. SCENE 1.
Before PAGE'S house
[Enter MISTRESS PAGE, with a letter.]
MRS. PAGE.
What! have I scaped love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty,
and am I now a subject for them? Let me see.
'Ask me no reason why I love you; for though Love use Reason
for his precisian, he admits him not for his counsellor. You
are not young, no more am I; go to, then, there's sympathy:
you are merry, so am I; ha! ha! then there's more sympathy;
you love sack, and so do I; would you desire better sympathy?
Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page, at the least, if the love
of soldier can suffice, that I love thee. I will not say,
pity me: 'tis not a soldier-like phrase; but I say, Love me.
By me,
Thine own true knight,
By day or night,
Or any kind of light,
With all his might,
For thee to fight,
JOHN FALSTAFF.'
What a Herod of Jewry is this! O wicked, wicked world! One that is
well-nigh worn to pieces with age to show himself a young gallant.
What an unweighed behaviour hath this Flemish drunkard picked, with
the devil's name! out of my conversation, that he dares in this manner
assay me? Why, he hath not been thrice in my company! What should I
say to him? I was then frugal of my mirth:--Heaven forgive me! Why,
I'll exhibit a bill in the parliament for the putting down of men.
How shall I be revenged on him? for revenged I will be, as sure as
his guts are made of puddings.
[Enter MISTRESS FORD.]
MRS. FORD.
Mistress Page! trust me, I was going to your house.
MRS. PAGE.
And, trust me, I was coming to you. You look very ill.
MRS. FORD.
Nay, I'll ne'er believe that; I have to show to the contrary.
MRS. PAGE.
Faith, but you do, in my mind.
MRS. FORD.
Well, I do, then; yet, I say, I could show you to the contrary.
O, Mistress Page! give me some counsel.
MRS. PAGE.
What's the matter, woman?
MRS. FORD.
O woman, if it were not for one trifling respect, I could come to
such honour!
MRS. PAGE.
Hang the trifle, woman; take the honour. What is it?--Dispense with
trifles;--what is it?
MRS. FORD.
If I would but go to hell for an eternal moment or so, I could be
knighted.
MRS. PAGE.
What? thou liest. Sir Alice Ford! These knights will hack; and so
thou shouldst not alter the article of thy gentry.
MRS. FORD.
We burn daylight: here, read, read; perceive how I might be knighted.
I shall think the worse of fat men as long as I have an eye to make
difference of men's liking: and yet he would not swear; praised
women's modesty; and gave such orderly and well-behaved reproof to
all uncomeliness that I would have sworn his disposition would have
gone to the truth of his words; but they do no more adhere and keep
place together than the Hundredth Psalm to the tune of 'Greensleeves.'
What tempest, I trow, threw this whale, with so many tuns of oil in
his belly, ashore at Windsor? How shall I be revenged on him? I think
the best way were to entertain him with hope, till the wicked fire of
lust have melted him in his own grease. Did you ever hear the like?
MRS. PAGE.
Letter for letter, but that the name of Page and Ford differs. To thy
great comfort in this mystery of ill opinions, here's the twin-brother
of thy letter; but let thine inherit first, for, I protest, mine never
shall. I warrant he hath a thousand of these letters, writ with blank
space for different names, sure, more, and these are of the second
edition. He will print them, out of doubt; for he cares not what he
puts into the press, when he would put us two: I had rather be a
giantess and lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I will find you twenty
lascivious turtles ere one chaste man.
MRS. FORD.
Why, this is the very same; the very hand, the very words. What doth
he think of us?
MRS. PAGE.
Nay, I know not; it makes me almost ready to wrangle with mine own
honesty. I'll entertain myself like one that I am not acquainted
withal; for, sure, unless he know some strain in me that I know not
myself, he would never have boarded me in this fury.
MRS. FORD.
'Boarding' call you it? I'll be sure to keep him above deck.
MRS. PAGE.
So will I; if he come under my hatches, I'll never to sea again.
Let's be revenged on him; let's appoint him a meeting, give him a
show of comfort in his suit, and lead him on with a fine-baited
delay, till he hath pawned his horses to mine host of the Garter.
MRS. FORD.
Nay, I will consent to act any villainy against him that may not
sully the chariness of our honesty. O, that my husband saw this
letter! It would give eternal food to his jealousy.
MRS. PAGE.
Why, look where he comes; and my good man too: he's as far from
jealousy as I am from giving him cause; and that, I hope, is an
unmeasurable distance.
MRS. FORD.
You are the happier woman.
MRS. PAGE.
Let's consult together against this greasy knight. Come hither.
[They retire.]
[Enter FORD, PISTOL, and PAGE and NYM.]
FORD.
Well, I hope it be not so.
PISTOL.
Hope is a curtal dog in some affairs:
Sir John affects thy wife.
FORD.
Why, sir, my wife is not young.
PISTOL.
He woos both high and low, both rich and poor,
Both young and old, one with another, Ford;
He loves the gallimaufry. Ford, perpend.
FORD.
Love my wife!
PISTOL.
With liver burning hot: prevent, or go thou,
Like Sir Actaeon he, with Ringwood at thy heels.--
O! odious is the name!
FORD.
What name, sir?
PISTOL.
The horn, I say. Farewell:
Take heed; have open eye, for thieves do foot by night;
Take heed, ere summer comes, or cuckoo birds do sing.
Away, Sir Corporal Nym.
Believe it, Page; he speaks sense.
[Exit PISTOL.]
FORD.
[Aside] I will be patient: I will find out this.
NYM.
[To PAGE] And this is true; I like not the humour of lying. He hath
wronged me in some humours: I should have borne the humoured letter
to her; but I have a sword, and it shall bite upon my necessity. He
loves your wife; there's the short and the long. My name is Corporal
Nym; I speak, and I avouch 'tis true. My name is Nym, and Falstaff
loves your wife. Adieu. I love not the humour of bread and cheese;
and there's the humour of it. Adieu.
[Exit NYM.]
PAGE.
[Aside.] 'The humour of it,' quoth 'a! Here's a fellow frights
English out of his wits.
FORD.
I will seek out Falstaff.
PAGE.
I never heard such a drawling, affecting rogue.
FORD.
If I do find it: well.
PAGE.
I will not believe such a Cataian, though the priest o' the town
commended him for a true man.
FORD.
'Twas a good sensible fellow: well.
PAGE.
How now, Meg!
MRS. PAGE.
Whither go you, George?--Hark you.
MRS. FORD.
How now, sweet Frank! why art thou melancholy?
FORD.
I melancholy! I am not melancholy. Get you home, go.
MRS. FORD.
Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head now. Will you go,
Mistress Page?
MRS. PAGE.
Have with you. You'll come to dinner, George?
[Aside to MRS. FORD] Look who comes yonder: she shall be our
messenger to this paltry knight.
MRS. FORD.
[Aside to MRS. PAGE] Trust me, I thought on her: she'll fit it.
[Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY.]
MRS. PAGE.
You are come to see my daughter Anne?
QUICKLY.
Ay, forsooth; and, I pray, how does good Mistress Anne?
MRS. PAGE.
Go in with us and see; we'd have an hour's talk with you.
[Exeunt MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and MISTRESS QUICKLY.]
PAGE.
How now, Master Ford!
FORD.
You heard what this knave told me, did you not?
PAGE.
Yes; and you heard what the other told me?
FORD.
Do you think there is truth in them?
PAGE.
Hang 'em, slaves! I do not think the knight would offer it; but these
that accuse him in his intent towards our wives are a yoke of his
discarded men; very rogues, now they be out of service.
FORD.
Were they his men?
PAGE.
Marry, were they.
FORD.
I like it never the better for that. Does he lie at the Garter?
PAGE.
Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend this voyage toward my wife,
I would turn her loose to him; and what he gets more of her than
sharp words, let it lie on my head.
FORD.
I do not misdoubt my wife; but I would be loath to turn them together.
A man may be too confident. I would have nothing 'lie on my head': I
cannot be thus satisfied.
PAGE.
Look where my ranting host of the Garter comes. There is either
liquor in his pate or money in his purse when he looks so merrily.
[Enter HOST and SHALLOW.]
How now, mine host!
HOST.
How now, bully-rook! Thou'rt a gentleman. Cavaliero-justice, I say!
SHALLOW.
I follow, mine host, I follow. Good even and twenty, good Master
Page! Master Page, will you go with us? We have sport in hand.
HOST.
Tell him, cavaliero-justice; tell him, bully-rook.
SHALLOW.
Sir, there is a fray to be fought between Sir Hugh the Welsh priest
and Caius the French doctor.
FORD.
Good mine host o' the Garter, a word with you.
HOST.
What say'st thou, my bully-rook?
[They go aside.]
SHALLOW.
[To PAGE.] Will you go with us to behold it? My merry host hath had
the measuring of their weapons; and, I think, hath appointed them
contrary places; for, believe me, I hear the parson is no jester.
Hark, I will tell you what our sport shall be. [They converse apart.]
HOST.
Hast thou no suit against my knight, my guest-cavaliero?
FORD.
None, I protest: but I'll give you a pottle of burnt sack to give me
recourse to him, and tell him my name is Brook, only for a jest.
HOST.
My hand, bully; thou shalt have egress and regress; said I well? and
thy name shall be Brook. It is a merry knight. Will you go, mynheers?
SHALLOW.
Have with you, mine host.
PAGE.
I have heard the Frenchman hath good skill in his rapier.
SHALLOW.
Tut, sir! I could have told you more. In these times you stand on
distance, your passes, stoccadoes, and I know not what: 'tis the
heart, Master Page; 'tis here, 'tis here. I have seen the time with
my long sword I would have made you four tall fellows skip like rats.
HOST.
Here, boys, here, here! Shall we wag?
PAGE.
Have with you. I had rather hear them scold than fight.
[Exeunt HOST, SHALLOW, and PAGE.]
FORD.
Though Page be a secure fool, and stands so firmly on his wife's
frailty, yet I cannot put off my opinion so easily. She was in his
company at Page's house, and what they made there I know not. Well,
I will look further into 't; and I have a disguise to sound Falstaff.
If I find her honest, I lose not my labour; if she be otherwise,
'tis labour well bestowed.
[Exit.] | Mrs. Page reads the love letter from Falstaff. She is outraged, especially on account of the fact that she has only met Falstaff a couple of times. She wants revenge on him for writing such a letter. . Mrs. Ford then enters. She is agitated and asks for Mrs. Page's advice. She has, of course, just read the letter that Falstaff wrote to her. She is just as indignant as Mrs. Page is, and also wants revenge. Her plan is to lead Falstaff on by giving him some false hope. . Mrs. Page examines the two letters and finds they are identical, except for the person to whom they are addressed. She is indignant, and thinks that Falstaff probably has a thousand such letters prepared, with a blank space where he inserts a different name each time. . The two women resolve to trick Falstaff by arranging a meeting with him and leading him on him on until he has pawned all his horses to the Host of the Garter Inn. They think that pawning his horses is the only way Falstaff will be able to raise enough money to pursue his courtship of them. . Mrs. Ford lets on that her husband is a jealous man, while Mrs. Page confesses that her husband is not. The two men then enter, with Pistol and Nym. Pistol is explaining to Ford that Falstaff is after his wife. Ford at first has a hard time believing this, since his wife is not young. But Pistol insists that what he says is true, and he also tells Page to believe what Nym is about to tell him. . After Pistol exits, Ford says he intends to get to the bottom of the matter. Nym then tells Page that Falstaff loves Page's wife. After Nym exits, Page says he does not believe what he has been told, calling Nym a rogue. . Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page see Quickly coming, and they resolve to use her to convey their message to Falstaff. . After the women exit, Ford and Page discuss the allegations against Falstaff. Page dismisses them, saying that Falstaff would not do such a thing, and that those who informed on him are former men of his, so probably-he implies-have a grudge against him. He also says that even if Falstaff did have designs on his wife, he is confident that nothing would come of it. Ford is not so sure, however, and says that he would not trust his wife with Falstaff. . The Host and then Shallow enter. They invite Page to come and watch a duel to be fought between Evans and Caius. Shallow takes Page aside and tells him that the Host has in fact told the duelers to go to different locations. Host speaks privately to Ford, and says he will introduce Ford, under the name of Brook, to Falstaff. After the Host, Shallow and Page exit, Ford speaks of his suspicions of his wife. She and Falstaff were together at Page's house, and he does not know what might have happened there. He resolves to pursue the matter by sounding out Falstaff. . |
CANTO THE EIGHTH.
O blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds!
These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem,
Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds:
And so they are; yet thus is Glory's dream
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds
At present such things, since they are her theme,
So be they her inspirers! Call them Mars,
Bellona, what you will--they mean but wars.
All was prepared--the fire, the sword, the men
To wield them in their terrible array.
The army, like a lion from his den,
March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay,--
A human Hydra, issuing from its fen
To breathe destruction on its winding way,
Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain
Immediately in others grew again.
History can only take things in the gross;
But could we know them in detail, perchance
In balancing the profit and the loss,
War's merit it by no means might enhance,
To waste so much gold for a little dross,
As hath been done, mere conquest to advance.
The drying up a single tear has more
Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.
And why?--because it brings self-approbation;
Whereas the other, after all its glare,
Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation,
Which (it may be) has not much left to spare,
A higher title, or a loftier station,
Though they may make Corruption gape or stare,
Yet, in the end, except in Freedom's battles,
Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles.
And such they are--and such they will be found:
Not so Leonidas and Washington,
Whose every battle-field is holy ground,
Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone.
How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound!
While the mere victor's may appal or stun
The servile and the vain, such names will be
A watchword till the future shall be free.
The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd
Nought to be seen save the artillery's flame,
Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud,
And in the Danube's waters shone the same--
A mirror'd hell! the volleying roar, and loud
Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame
The ear far more than thunder; for Heaven's flashes
Spare, or smite rarely--man's make millions ashes!
The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd
Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises,
When up the bristling Moslem rose at last,
Answering the Christian thunders with like voices:
Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced,
Which rock'd as 't were beneath the mighty noises;
While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when
The restless Titan hiccups in his den.
And one enormous shout of 'Allah!' rose
In the same moment, loud as even the roar
Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes
Hurling defiance: city, stream, and shore
Resounded 'Allah!' and the clouds which close
With thick'ning canopy the conflict o'er,
Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark! through
All sounds it pierceth 'Allah! Allah! Hu!'
The columns were in movement one and all,
But of the portion which attack'd by water,
Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall,
Though led by Arseniew, that great son of slaughter,
As brave as ever faced both bomb and ball.
'Carnage' (so Wordsworth tells you) 'is God's daughter:'
If he speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and
Just now behaved as in the Holy Land.
The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee;
Count Chapeau-Bras, too, had a ball between
His cap and head, which proves the head to be
Aristocratic as was ever seen,
Because it then received no injury
More than the cap; in fact, the ball could mean
No harm unto a right legitimate head:
'Ashes to ashes'--why not lead to lead?
Also the General Markow, Brigadier,
Insisting on removal of the prince
Amidst some groaning thousands dying near,--
All common fellows, who might writhe and wince,
And shriek for water into a deaf ear,--
The General Markow, who could thus evince
His sympathy for rank, by the same token,
To teach him greater, had his own leg broken.
Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic,
And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills
Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic.
Mortality! thou hast thy monthly bills;
Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick,
Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills
Past, present, and to come;--but all may yield
To the true portrait of one battle-field.
There the still varying pangs, which multiply
Until their very number makes men hard
By the infinities of agony,
Which meet the gaze whate'er it may regard--
The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye
Turn'd back within its socket,--these reward
Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest
May win perhaps a riband at the breast!
Yet I love glory;--glory 's a great thing:--
Think what it is to be in your old age
Maintain'd at the expense of your good king:
A moderate pension shakes full many a sage,
And heroes are but made for bards to sing,
Which is still better; thus in verse to wage
Your wars eternally, besides enjoying
Half-pay for life, make mankind worth destroying.
The troops, already disembark'd, push'd on
To take a battery on the right; the others,
Who landed lower down, their landing done,
Had set to work as briskly as their brothers:
Being grenadiers, they mounted one by one,
Cheerful as children climb the breasts of mothers,
O'er the entrenchment and the palisade,
Quite orderly, as if upon parade.
And this was admirable; for so hot
The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded,
Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot
And shells or hells, it could not more have goaded.
Of officers a third fell on the spot,
A thing which victory by no means boded
To gentlemen engaged in the assault:
Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault.
But here I leave the general concern,
To track our hero on his path of fame:
He must his laurels separately earn;
For fifty thousand heroes, name by name,
Though all deserving equally to turn
A couplet, or an elegy to claim,
Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory,
And what is worse still, a much longer story:
And therefore we must give the greater number
To the Gazette--which doubtless fairly dealt
By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber
In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt
Their clay for the last time their souls encumber;--
Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt
In the despatch: I knew a man whose loss
Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose.
Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps,
And fought away with might and main, not knowing
The way which they had never trod before,
And still less guessing where they might be going;
But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er,
Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing,
But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win,
To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin.
Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire
Of dead and dying thousands,--sometimes gaining
A yard or two of ground, which brought them nigher
To some odd angle for which all were straining;
At other times, repulsed by the close fire,
Which really pour'd as if all hell were raining
Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er
A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore.
Though 't was Don Juan's first of fields, and though
The nightly muster and the silent march
In the chill dark, when courage does not glow
So much as under a triumphal arch,
Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw
A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch,
Which stiffen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day;--
Yet for all this he did not run away.
Indeed he could not. But what if he had?
There have been and are heroes who begun
With something not much better, or as bad:
Frederic the Great from Molwitz deign'd to run,
For the first and last time; for, like a pad,
Or hawk, or bride, most mortals after one
Warm bout are broken into their new tricks,
And fight like fiends for pay or politics.
He was what Erin calls, in her sublime
Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic
(The antiquarians who can settle time,
Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, or Runic,
Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same clime
With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic
Of Dido's alphabet; and this is rational
As any other notion, and not national);--
But Juan was quite 'a broth of a boy,'
A thing of impulse and a child of song;
Now swimming in the sentiment of joy,
Or the sensation (if that phrase seem wrong),
And afterward, if he must needs destroy,
In such good company as always throng
To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure,
No less delighted to employ his leisure;
But always without malice: if he warr'd
Or loved, it was with what we call 'the best
Intentions,' which form all mankind's trump card,
To be produced when brought up to the test.
The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer--ward
Off each attack, when people are in quest
Of their designs, by saying they meant well;
'T is pity 'that such meaning should pave hell.'
I almost lately have begun to doubt
Whether hell's pavement--if it be so paved--
Must not have latterly been quite worn out,
Not by the numbers good intent hath saved,
But by the mass who go below without
Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved
And smooth'd the brimstone of that street of hell
Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall.
Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides
Warrior from warrior in their grim career,
Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides
Just at the close of the first bridal year,
By one of those odd turns of Fortune's tides,
Was on a sudden rather puzzled here,
When, after a good deal of heavy firing,
He found himself alone, and friends retiring.
I don't know how the thing occurr'd--it might
Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded,
And that the rest had faced unto the right
About; a circumstance which has confounded
Caesar himself, who, in the very sight
Of his whole army, which so much abounded
In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield,
And rally back his Romans to the field.
Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was
No Caesar, but a fine young lad, who fought
He knew not why, arriving at this pass,
Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought
For a much longer time; then, like an as
(Start not, kind reader; since great Homer thought
This simile enough for Ajax, Juan
Perhaps may find it better than a new one)--
Then, like an ass, he went upon his way,
And, what was stranger, never look'd behind;
But seeing, flashing forward, like the day
Over the hills, a fire enough to blind
Those who dislike to look upon a fray,
He stumbled on, to try if he could find
A path, to add his own slight arm and forces
To corps, the greater part of which were corses.
Perceiving then no more the commandant
Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had
Quite disappear'd--the gods know howl (I can't
Account for every thing which may look bad
In history; but we at least may grant
It was not marvellous that a mere lad,
In search of glory, should look on before,
Nor care a pinch of snuff about his corps):--
Perceiving nor commander nor commanded,
And left at large, like a young heir, to make
His way to--where he knew not--single handed;
As travellers follow over bog and brake
An 'ignis fatuus;' or as sailors stranded
Unto the nearest hut themselves betake;
So Juan, following honour and his nose,
Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes.
He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared,
For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins
Fill'd as with lightning--for his spirit shared
The hour, as is the case with lively brains;
And where the hottest fire was seen and heard,
And the loud cannon peal'd his hoarsest strains,
He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken
By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon!
And as he rush'd along, it came to pass he
Fell in with what was late the second column,
Under the orders of the General Lascy,
But now reduced, as is a bulky volume
Into an elegant extract (much less massy)
Of heroism, and took his place with solemn
Air 'midst the rest, who kept their valiant faces
And levell'd weapons still against the glacis.
Just at this crisis up came Johnson too,
Who had 'retreated,' as the phrase is when
Men run away much rather than go through
Destruction's jaws into the devil's den;
But Johnson was a clever fellow, who
Knew when and how 'to cut and come again,'
And never ran away, except when running
Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning.
And so, when all his corps were dead or dying,
Except Don Juan, a mere novice, whose
More virgin valour never dreamt of flying
From ignorance of danger, which indues
Its votaries, like innocence relying
On its own strength, with careless nerves and thews,--
Johnson retired a little, just to rally
Those who catch cold in 'shadows of Death's valley.'
And there, a little shelter'd from the shot,
Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet,
Rampart, wall, casement, house,--for there was not
In this extensive city, sore beset
By Christian soldiery, a single spot
Which did not combat like the devil, as yet,
He found a number of Chasseurs, all scatter'd
By the resistance of the chase they batter'd.
And these he call'd on; and, what 's strange, they came
Unto his call, unlike 'the spirits from
The vasty deep,' to whom you may exclaim,
Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home.
Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame
At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb,
And that odd impulse, which in wars or creeds
Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads.
By Jove! he was a noble fellow, Johnson,
And though his name, than Ajax or Achilles,
Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon
We shall not see his likeness: he could kill his
Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon
Her steady breath (which some months the same still is):
Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle,
And could be very busy without bustle;
And therefore, when he ran away, he did so
Upon reflection, knowing that behind
He would find others who would fain be rid so
Of idle apprehensions, which like wind
Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so
Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind,
But when they light upon immediate death,
Retire a little, merely to take breath.
But Johnson only ran off, to return
With many other warriors, as we said,
Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn,
Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread.
To Jack howe'er this gave but slight concern:
His soul (like galvanism upon the dead)
Acted upon the living as on wire,
And led them back into the heaviest fire.
Egad! they found the second time what they
The first time thought quite terrible enough
To fly from, malgre all which people say
Of glory, and all that immortal stuff
Which fills a regiment (besides their pay,
That daily shilling which makes warriors tough)--
They found on their return the self-same welcome,
Which made some think, and others know, a hell come.
They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail,
Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle,
Proving that trite old truth, that life 's as frail
As any other boon for which men stickle.
The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a flail,
Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle
Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd
Upon the head, before their guns were cock'd.
The Turks, behind the traverses and flanks
Of the next bastion, fired away like devils,
And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks:
However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels
Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks,
So order'd it, amidst these sulphury revels,
That Johnson and some few who had not scamper'd,
Reach'd the interior talus of the rampart.
First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen,
Came mounting quickly up, for it was now
All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin,
Flame was shower'd forth above, as well 's below,
So that you scarce could say who best had chosen,
The gentlemen that were the first to show
Their martial faces on the parapet,
Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet.
But those who scaled, found out that their advance
Was favour'd by an accident or blunder:
The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance
Had palisado'd in a way you 'd wonder
To see in forts of Netherlands or France
(Though these to our Gibraltar must knock under)--
Right in the middle of the parapet
Just named, these palisades were primly set:
So that on either side some nine or ten
Paces were left, whereon you could contrive
To march; a great convenience to our men,
At least to all those who were left alive,
Who thus could form a line and fight again;
And that which farther aided them to strive
Was, that they could kick down the palisades,
Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades.
Among the first,--I will not say the first,
For such precedence upon such occasions
Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst
Out between friends as well as allied nations:
The Briton must be bold who really durst
Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience,
As say that Wellington at Waterloo
Was beaten--though the Prussians say so too;--
And that if Blucher, Bulow, Gneisenau,
And God knows who besides in 'au' and 'ow,'
Had not come up in time to cast an awe
Into the hearts of those who fought till now
As tigers combat with an empty craw,
The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show
His orders, also to receive his pensions,
Which are the heaviest that our history mentions.
But never mind;--'God save the king!' and kings!
For if he don't, I doubt if men will longer--
I think I hear a little bird, who sings
The people by and by will be the stronger:
The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings
So much into the raw as quite to wrong her
Beyond the rules of posting,--and the mob
At last fall sick of imitating Job.
At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then,
Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant;
At last it takes to weapons such as men
Snatch when despair makes human hearts less pliant.
Then comes 'the tug of war;'--'t will come again,
I rather doubt; and I would fain say 'fie on 't,'
If I had not perceived that revolution
Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution.
But to continue:--I say not the first,
But of the first, our little friend Don Juan
Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed
Amidst such scenes--though this was quite a new one
To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst
Of glory, which so pierces through and through one,
Pervaded him--although a generous creature,
As warm in heart as feminine in feature.
And here he was--who upon woman's breast,
Even from a child, felt like a child; howe'er
The man in all the rest might be confest,
To him it was Elysium to be there;
And he could even withstand that awkward test
Which Rousseau points out to the dubious fair,
'Observe your lover when he leaves your arms;'
But Juan never left them, while they had charms,
Unless compell'd by fate, or wave, or wind,
Or near relations, who are much the same.
But here he was!--where each tie that can bind
Humanity must yield to steel and flame:
And he whose very body was all mind,
Flung here by fate or circumstance, which tame
The loftiest, hurried by the time and place,
Dash'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race.
So was his blood stirr'd while he found resistance,
As is the hunter's at the five-bar gate,
Or double post and rail, where the existence
Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight,
The lightest being the safest: at a distance
He hated cruelty, as all men hate
Blood, until heated--and even then his own
At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan.
The General Lascy, who had been hard press'd,
Seeing arrive an aid so opportune
As were some hundred youngsters all abreast,
Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon,
To Juan, who was nearest him, address'd
His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon,
Not reckoning him to be a 'base Bezonian'
(As Pistol calls it), but a young Livonian.
Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew
As much of German as of Sanscrit, and
In answer made an inclination to
The general who held him in command;
For seeing one with ribands, black and blue,
Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand,
Addressing him in tones which seem'd to thank,
He recognised an officer of rank.
Short speeches pass between two men who speak
No common language; and besides, in time
Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek
Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime
Is perpetrated ere a word can break
Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime
In like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, prayer,
There cannot be much conversation there.
And therefore all we have related in
Two long octaves, pass'd in a little minute;
But in the same small minute, every sin
Contrived to get itself comprised within it.
The very cannon, deafen'd by the din,
Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet,
As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise
Of human nature's agonising voice!
The town was enter'd. Oh eternity!-
'God made the country and man made the town,'
So Cowper says--and I begin to be
Of his opinion, when I see cast down
Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh,
All walls men know, and many never known;
And pondering on the present and the past,
To deem the woods shall be our home at last
Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer,
Who passes for in life and death most lucky,
Of the great names which in our faces stare,
The General Boon, back-woodsman of Kentucky,
Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere;
For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he
Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days
Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze.
Crime came not near him--she is not the child
Of solitude; Health shrank not from him--for
Her home is in the rarely trodden wild,
Where if men seek her not, and death be more
Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled
By habit to what their own hearts abhor--
In cities caged. The present case in point I
Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety;
And what 's still stranger, left behind a name
For which men vainly decimate the throng,
Not only famous, but of that good fame,
Without which glory 's but a tavern song--
Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame,
Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong;
An active hermit, even in age the child
Of Nature, or the man of Ross run wild.
'T is true he shrank from men even of his nation,
When they built up unto his darling trees,--
He moved some hundred miles off, for a station
Where there were fewer houses and more ease;
The inconvenience of civilisation
Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please;
But where he met the individual man,
He show'd himself as kind as mortal can.
He was not all alone: around him grew
A sylvan tribe of children of the chase,
Whose young, unwaken'd world was ever new,
Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace
On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view
A frown on Nature's or on human face;
The free-born forest found and kept them free,
And fresh as is a torrent or a tree.
And tall, and strong, and swift of foot were they,
Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions,
Because their thoughts had never been the prey
Of care or gain: the green woods were their portions;
No sinking spirits told them they grew grey,
No fashion made them apes of her distortions;
Simple they were, not savage; and their rifles,
Though very true, were not yet used for trifles.
Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers,
And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil;
Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers;
Corruption could not make their hearts her soil;
The lust which stings, the splendour which encumbers,
With the free foresters divide no spoil;
Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes
Of this unsighing people of the woods.
So much for Nature:--by way of variety,
Now back to thy great joys, Civilisation!
And the sweet consequence of large society,
War, pestilence, the despot's desolation,
The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety,
The millions slain by soldiers for their ration,
The scenes like Catherine's boudoir at threescore,
With Ismail's storm to soften it the more.
The town was enter'd: first one column made
Its sanguinary way good--then another;
The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade
Clash'd 'gainst the scimitar, and babe and mother
With distant shrieks were heard Heaven to upbraid:
Still closer sulphury clouds began to smother
The breath of morn and man, where foot by foot
The madden'd Turks their city still dispute.
Koutousow, he who afterward beat back
(With some assistance from the frost and snow)
Napoleon on his bold and bloody track,
It happen'd was himself beat back just now;
He was a jolly fellow, and could crack
His jest alike in face of friend or foe,
Though life, and death, and victory were at stake;
But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take:
For having thrown himself into a ditch,
Follow'd in haste by various grenadiers,
Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich,
He climb'd to where the parapet appears;
But there his project reach'd its utmost pitch
('Mongst other deaths the General Ribaupierre's
Was much regretted), for the Moslem men
Threw them all down into the ditch again.
And had it not been for some stray troops landing
They knew not where, being carried by the stream
To some spot, where they lost their understanding,
And wander'd up and down as in a dream,
Until they reach'd, as daybreak was expanding,
That which a portal to their eyes did seem,--
The great and gay Koutousow might have lain
Where three parts of his column yet remain.
And scrambling round the rampart, these same troops,
After the taking of the 'Cavalier,'
Just as Koutousow's most 'forlorn' of 'hopes'
Took like chameleons some slight tinge of fear,
Open'd the gate call'd 'Kilia,' to the groups
Of baffled heroes, who stood shyly near,
Sliding knee-deep in lately frozen mud,
Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood.
The Kozacks, or, if so you please, Cossacques
(I don't much pique myself upon orthography,
So that I do not grossly err in facts,
Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography)--
Having been used to serve on horses' backs,
And no great dilettanti in topography
Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases
Their chiefs to order,--were all cut to pieces.
Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd
Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the rampart,
And naturally thought they could have plunder'd
The city, without being farther hamper'd;
But as it happens to brave men, they blunder'd--
The Turks at first pretended to have scamper'd,
Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners,
From whence they sallied on those Christian scorners.
Then being taken by the tail--a taking
Fatal to bishops as to soldiers--these
Cossacques were all cut off as day was breaking,
And found their lives were let at a short lease--
But perish'd without shivering or shaking,
Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses,
O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi
March'd with the brave battalion of Polouzki:--
This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met,
But could not eat them, being in his turn
Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet,
Without resistance, see their city burn.
The walls were won, but 't was an even bet
Which of the armies would have cause to mourn:
'T was blow for blow, disputing inch by inch,
For one would not retreat, nor t' other flinch.
Another column also suffer'd much:--
And here we may remark with the historian,
You should but give few cartridges to such
Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory on:
When matters must be carried by the touch
Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on,
They sometimes, with a hankering for existence,
Keep merely firing at a foolish distance.
A junction of the General Meknop's men
(Without the General, who had fallen some time
Before, being badly seconded just then)
Was made at length with those who dared to climb
The death-disgorging rampart once again;
And though the Turk's resistance was sublime,
They took the bastion, which the Seraskier
Defended at a price extremely dear.
Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers,
Among the foremost, offer'd him good quarter,
A word which little suits with Seraskiers,
Or at least suited not this valiant Tartar.
He died, deserving well his country's tears,
A savage sort of military martyr.
An English naval officer, who wish'd
To make him prisoner, was also dish'd:
For all the answer to his proposition
Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead;
On which the rest, without more intermission,
Began to lay about with steel and lead--
The pious metals most in requisition
On such occasions: not a single head
Was spared;--three thousand Moslems perish'd here,
And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier.
The city 's taken--only part by part--
And death is drunk with gore: there 's not a street
Where fights not to the last some desperate heart
For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat.
Here War forgot his own destructive art
In more destroying Nature; and the heat
Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime,
Engender'd monstrous shapes of every crime.
A Russian officer, in martial tread
Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel
Seized fast, as if 't were by the serpent's head
Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel:
In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and bled,
And howl'd for help as wolves do for a meal--
The teeth still kept their gratifying hold,
As do the subtle snakes described of old.
A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot
Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit
The very tendon which is most acute
(That which some ancient Muse or modern wit
Named after thee, Achilles), and quite through 't
He made the teeth meet, nor relinquish'd it
Even with his life--for (but they lie) 't is said
To the live leg still clung the sever'd head.
However this may be, 't is pretty sure
The Russian officer for life was lamed,
For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer,
And left him 'midst the invalid and maim'd:
The regimental surgeon could not cure
His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed
More than the head of the inveterate foe,
Which was cut off, and scarce even then let go.
But then the fact 's a fact--and 't is the part
Of a true poet to escape from fiction
Whene'er he can; for there is little art
In leaving verse more free from the restriction
Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart
For what is sometimes called poetic diction,
And that outrageous appetite for lies
Which Satan angles with for souls, like flies.
The city 's taken, but not render'd!--No!
There 's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword:
The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow
Rolls by the city wall; but deed nor word
Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe:
In vain the yell of victory is roar'd
By the advancing Muscovite--the groan
Of the last foe is echoed by his own.
The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves,
And human lives are lavish'd everywhere,
As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves
When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air,
And groans; and thus the peopled city grieves,
Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare;
But still it falls in vast and awful splinters,
As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters.
It is an awful topic--but 't is not
My cue for any time to be terrific:
For checker'd as is seen our human lot
With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific
Of melancholy merriment, to quote
Too much of one sort would be soporific;--
Without, or with, offence to friends or foes,
I sketch your world exactly as it goes.
And one good action in the midst of crimes
Is 'quite refreshing,' in the affected phrase
Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times,
With all their pretty milk-and-water ways,
And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes,
A little scorch'd at present with the blaze
Of conquest and its consequences, which
Make epic poesy so rare and rich.
Upon a taken bastion, where there lay
Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm group
Of murder'd women, who had found their way
To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop
And shudder;--while, as beautiful as May,
A female child of ten years tried to stoop
And hide her little palpitating breast
Amidst the bodies lull'd in bloody rest.
Two villainous Cossacques pursued the child
With flashing eyes and weapons: match'd with them,
The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild
Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem,--
The bear is civilised, the wolf is mild;
And whom for this at last must we condemn?
Their natures? or their sovereigns, who employ
All arts to teach their subjects to destroy?
Their sabres glitter'd o'er her little head,
Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright,
Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead:
When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight,
I shall not say exactly what he said,
Because it might not solace 'ears polite;'
But what he did, was to lay on their backs,
The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques.
One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder,
And drove them with their brutal yells to seek
If there might be chirurgeons who could solder
The wounds they richly merited, and shriek
Their baffled rage and pain; while waxing colder
As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek,
Don Juan raised his little captive from
The heap a moment more had made her tomb.
And she was chill as they, and on her face
A slender streak of blood announced how near
Her fate had been to that of all her race;
For the same blow which laid her mother here
Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace,
As the last link with all she had held dear;
But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes,
And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise.
Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd
Upon each other, with dilated glance,
In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd
With joy to save, and dread of some mischance
Unto his protege; while hers, transfix'd
With infant terrors, glared as from a trance,
A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face,
Like to a lighted alabaster vase;--
Up came John Johnson (I will not say 'Jack,'
For that were vulgar, cold, and commonplace
On great occasions, such as an attack
On cities, as hath been the present case):
Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back,
Exclaiming;--'Juan! Juan! On, boy! brace
Your arm, and I 'll bet Moscow to a dollar
That you and I will win St. George's collar.
'The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head,
But the stone bastion still remains, wherein
The old Pacha sits among some hundreds dead,
Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the din
Of our artillery and his own: 't is said
Our kill'd, already piled up to the chin,
Lie round the battery; but still it batters,
And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters.
'Then up with me!'--But Juan answer'd, 'Look
Upon this child--I saved her--must not leave
Her life to chance; but point me out some nook
Of safety, where she less may shrink and grieve,
And I am with you.'--Whereon Johnson took
A glance around--and shrugg'd--and twitch'd his sleeve
And black silk neckcloth--and replied, 'You 're right;
Poor thing! what 's to be done? I 'm puzzled quite.'
Said Juan: 'Whatsoever is to be
Done, I 'll not quit her till she seems secure
Of present life a good deal more than we.'
Quoth Johnson: 'Neither will I quite ensure;
But at the least you may die gloriously.'
Juan replied: 'At least I will endure
Whate'er is to be borne--but not resign
This child, who is parentless, and therefore mine.'
Johnson said: 'Juan, we 've no time to lose;
The child 's a pretty child--a very pretty--
I never saw such eyes--but hark! now choose
Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity;--
Hark! how the roar increases!--no excuse
Will serve when there is plunder in a city;--
I should be loth to march without you, but,
By God! we 'll be too late for the first cut.'
But Juan was immovable; until
Johnson, who really loved him in his way,
Pick'd out amongst his followers with some skill
Such as he thought the least given up to prey;
And swearing if the infant came to ill
That they should all be shot on the next day;
But if she were deliver'd safe and sound,
They should at least have fifty rubles round,
And all allowances besides of plunder
In fair proportion with their comrades;--then
Juan consented to march on through thunder,
Which thinn'd at every step their ranks of men:
And yet the rest rush'd eagerly--no wonder,
For they were heated by the hope of gain,
A thing which happens everywhere each day--
No hero trusteth wholly to half pay.
And such is victory, and such is man!
At least nine tenths of what we call so;--God
May have another name for half we scan
As human beings, or his ways are odd.
But to our subject: a brave Tartar khan--
Or 'sultan,' as the author (to whose nod
In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call
This chieftain--somehow would not yield at all:
But flank'd by five brave sons (such is polygamy,
That she spawns warriors by the score, where none
Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy),
He never would believe the city won
While courage clung but to a single twig.--Am I
Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son?
Neither--but a good, plain, old, temperate man,
Who fought with his five children in the van.
To take him was the point. The truly brave,
When they behold the brave oppress'd with odds,
Are touch'd with a desire to shield and save;--
A mixture of wild beasts and demigods
Are they--now furious as the sweeping wave,
Now moved with pity: even as sometimes nods
The rugged tree unto the summer wind,
Compassion breathes along the savage mind.
But he would not be taken, and replied
To all the propositions of surrender
By mowing Christians down on every side,
As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender.
His five brave boys no less the foe defied;
Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender,
As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience,
Apt to wear out on trifling provocations.
And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who
Expended all their Eastern phraseology
In begging him, for God's sake, just to show
So much less fight as might form an apology
For them in saving such a desperate foe--
He hew'd away, like doctors of theology
When they dispute with sceptics; and with curses
Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses.
Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both
Juan and Johnson; whereupon they fell,
The first with sighs, the second with an oath,
Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell,
And all around were grown exceeding wroth
At such a pertinacious infidel,
And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain,
Which they resisted like a sandy plain
That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish'd--
His second son was levell'd by a shot;
His third was sabred; and the fourth, most cherish'd
Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot;
The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourish'd,
Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not,
Because deform'd, yet died all game and bottom,
To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him.
The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar,
As great a scorner of the Nazarene
As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr,
Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green,
Who make the beds of those who won't take quarter
On earth, in Paradise; and when once seen,
Those houris, like all other pretty creatures,
Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features.
And what they pleased to do with the young khan
In heaven I know not, nor pretend to guess;
But doubtless they prefer a fine young man
To tough old heroes, and can do no less;
And that 's the cause no doubt why, if we scan
A field of battle's ghastly wilderness,
For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body,
You 'll find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody.
Your houris also have a natural pleasure
In lopping off your lately married men,
Before the bridal hours have danced their measure
And the sad, second moon grows dim again,
Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure
To wish him back a bachelor now and then.
And thus your houri (it may be) disputes
Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits.
Thus the young khan, with houris in his sight,
Thought not upon the charms of four young brides,
But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night.
In short, howe'er our better faith derides,
These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fight,
As though there were one heaven and none besides,--
Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven
And hell, there must at least be six or seven.
So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes,
That when the very lance was in his heart,
He shouted 'Allah!' and saw Paradise
With all its veil of mystery drawn apart,
And bright eternity without disguise
On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart:--
With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried
In one voluptuous blaze,--and then he died,
But with a heavenly rapture on his face.
The good old khan, who long had ceased to see
Houris, or aught except his florid race
Who grew like cedars round him gloriously--
When he beheld his latest hero grace
The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree,
Paused for a moment, from the fight, and cast
A glance on that slain son, his first and last.
The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point,
Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede
Quarter, in case he bade them not 'aroynt!'
As he before had done. He did not heed
Their pause nor signs: his heart was out of joint,
And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed,
As he look'd down upon his children gone,
And felt--though done with life--he was alone
But 't was a transient tremor;--with a spring
Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung,
As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing
Against the light wherein she dies: he clung
Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring,
Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young;
And throwing back a dim look on his sons,
In one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at once.
'T is strange enough--the rough, tough soldiers, who
Spared neither sex nor age in their career
Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through,
And lay before them with his children near,
Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew,
Were melted for a moment: though no tear
Flow'd from their bloodshot eyes, all red with strife,
They honour'd such determined scorn of life.
But the stone bastion still kept up its fire,
Where the chief pacha calmly held his post:
Some twenty times he made the Russ retire,
And baffled the assaults of all their host;
At length he condescended to inquire
If yet the city's rest were won or lost;
And being told the latter, sent a bey
To answer Ribas' summons to give way.
In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great sang-froid,
Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking
Tobacco on a little carpet;--Troy
Saw nothing like the scene around:--yet looking
With martial stoicism, nought seem'd to annoy
His stern philosophy; but gently stroking
His beard, he puff'd his pipe's ambrosial gales,
As if he had three lives, as well as tails.
The town was taken--whether he might yield
Himself or bastion, little matter'd now:
His stubborn valour was no future shield.
Ismail 's no more! The crescent's silver bow
Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field,
But red with no redeeming gore: the glow
Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water,
Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter.
All that the mind would shrink from of excesses;
All that the body perpetrates of bad;
All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses;
All that the devil would do if run stark mad;
All that defies the worst which pen expresses;
All by which hell is peopled, or as sad
As hell--mere mortals who their power abuse--
Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose.
If here and there some transient trait of pity
Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through
Its bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty
Child, or an aged, helpless man or two--
What 's this in one annihilated city,
Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grew?
Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris!
Just ponder what a pious pastime war is.
Think how the joys of reading a Gazette
Are purchased by all agonies and crimes:
Or if these do not move you, don't forget
Such doom may be your own in aftertimes.
Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt,
Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes.
Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story,
Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory.
But still there is unto a patriot nation,
Which loves so well its country and its king,
A subject of sublimest exultation--
Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing!
Howe'er the mighty locust, Desolation,
Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling,
Gaunt famine never shall approach the throne--
Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone.
But let me put an end unto my theme:
There was an end of Ismail--hapless town!
Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream,
And redly ran his blushing waters down.
The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream
Rose still; but fainter were the thunders grown:
Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall,
Some hundreds breathed--the rest were silent all!
In one thing ne'ertheless 't is fit to praise
The Russian army upon this occasion,
A virtue much in fashion now-a-days,
And therefore worthy of commemoration:
The topic 's tender, so shall be my phrase--
Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station
In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual,
Had made them chaste;--they ravish'd very little.
Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less
Might here and there occur some violation
In the other line;--but not to such excess
As when the French, that dissipated nation,
Take towns by storm: no causes can I guess,
Except cold weather and commiseration;
But all the ladies, save some twenty score,
Were almost as much virgins as before.
Some odd mistakes, too, happen'd in the dark,
Which show'd a want of lanterns, or of taste--
Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark
Their friends from foes,--besides such things from haste
Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark
Of light to save the venerably chaste:
But six old damsels, each of seventy years,
Were all deflower'd by different grenadiers.
But on the whole their continence was great;
So that some disappointment there ensued
To those who had felt the inconvenient state
Of 'single blessedness,' and thought it good
(Since it was not their fault, but only fate,
To bear these crosses) for each waning prude
To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding,
Without the expense and the suspense of bedding.
Some voices of the buxom middle-aged
Were also heard to wonder in the din
(Widows of forty were these birds long caged)
'Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!'
But while the thirst for gore and plunder raged,
There was small leisure for superfluous sin;
But whether they escaped or no, lies hid
In darkness--I can only hope they did.
Suwarrow now was conqueror--a match
For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade.
While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatch
Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay'd,
With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch;
And here exactly follows what he said:--
'Glory to God and to the Empress!' (Powers
Eternal! such names mingled!) 'Ismail 's ours.'
Methinks these are the most tremendous words,
Since 'Mene, Mene, Tekel,' and 'Upharsin,'
Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords.
Heaven help me! I 'm but little of a parson:
What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's,
Severe, sublime; the prophet wrote no farce on
The fate of nations;--but this Russ so witty
Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city.
He wrote this Polar melody, and set it,
Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans,
Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it--
For I will teach, if possible, the stones
To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it
Be said that we still truckle unto thrones;--
But ye--our children's children! think how we
Show'd what things were before the world was free!
That hour is not for us, but 't is for you:
And as, in the great joy of your millennium,
You hardly will believe such things were true
As now occur, I thought that I would pen you 'em;
But may their very memory perish too!-
Yet if perchance remember'd, still disdain you 'em
More than you scorn the savages of yore,
Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore.
And when you hear historians talk of thrones,
And those that sate upon them, let it be
As we now gaze upon the mammoth's bones,
'And wonder what old world such things could see,
Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones,
The pleasant riddles of futurity--
Guessing at what shall happily be hid,
As the real purpose of a pyramid.
Reader! I have kept my word,--at least so far
As the first Canto promised. You have now
Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war--
All very accurate, you must allow,
And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar;
For I have drawn much less with a long bow
Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing,
But Phoebus lends me now and then a string,
With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle.
What farther hath befallen or may befall
The hero of this grand poetic riddle,
I by and by may tell you, if at all:
But now I choose to break off in the middle,
Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall,
While Juan is sent off with the despatch,
For which all Petersburgh is on the watch.
This special honour was conferr'd, because
He had behaved with courage and humanity--
Which last men like, when they have time to pause
From their ferocities produced by vanity.
His little captive gain'd him some applause
For saving her amidst the wild insanity
Of carnage,--and I think he was more glad in her
Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir.
The Moslem orphan went with her protector,
For she was homeless, houseless, helpless; all
Her friends, like the sad family of Hector,
Had perish'd in the field or by the wall:
Her very place of birth was but a spectre
Of what it had been; there the Muezzin's cal
To prayer was heard no more!--and Juan wept,
And made a vow to shield her, which he kept.
[Illustration: Canto 9] | The storming of Ismail begins with a Russian artillery barrage, which is soon answered from within the fortress. The Russian columns are ordered to attack and the slaughter commences. Instead of attempting to describe the battle in detail, Byron concentrates on the fortunes of Juan and Johnson, who are fighting in the same unit. They begin their march forward "dead bodies trampling o'erl Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing," wallowing "in the bloody mire / Of dead and dying thousands" , sometimes gaining ground, sometimes being forced to yield ground. Byron's excuse for Juan's part in the attack is that he is a creature of impulse and is fascinated by the honor to be gained in battle. By chance Juan becomes separated from his unit As he rushes along he finds himself in General Lascy's second column. Johnson, who had "retreated," makes a reappearance. Favored by accident and blunder they and their companions find themselves inside the walls of Ismail and Juan is commended by General Lascy himself. In spite of fierce resistance from the Turks, the Russian forces advance and succeed in closing in on the Turkish commander-in-chief, to whom they offer quarter. He refuses and is killed. The whole city is then captured but only part by part, for the Turks refuse to surrender: The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves,And human lives are lavished everywhere,As the year closing whirls the scarlet leavesWhen the stripped forest bows to the bleak air,And groans, and thus the peopled city grieves,Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare;But still it falls in vast and awful splinters,As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters. Juan shows his humanity by saving the life of a Turkish girl of ten trying to hide in a pile of slaughtered women. Two Cossacks are about to put her to the sword when Juan arrives and by slashing the hip of one and the shoulder of the other saves the wounded little girl. When Juan insists that he will advance no farther until he has put the girl in a place of safety, Johnson commands a number of his followers to guard the girl. Among the last of the Turks to yield are a Tartar Khan and his five sons. He rejects an opportunity to surrender and sees his sons killed one by one before his eyes. Even then he will not yield and joins his sons in death. When the whole of the city is under the control of the Russians, crimes of every description are committed: All that the mind would shrink from of excesses -- All that the body perpetrates of bad;All that we read-hear-dream, of man's distresses -- All that the Devil would do if run stark mad;All that defies the worst which pen expresses, -- All by which Hell is peopled, or as sadAs Hell -- mere mortals, who their power abuse -- Was here let loose. After the battle Suwarrow pens a message for Queen Catherine: "Glory to God and to the Empress! . . . Ismail's ours" . |
Mr. and Mrs. Morland's surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for
their consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes,
considerable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an
attachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more
natural than Catherine's being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it
with only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they
alone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing
manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having
never heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could
be told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character
needed no attestation. "Catherine would make a sad, heedless young
housekeeper to be sure," was her mother's foreboding remark; but quick
was the consolation of there being nothing like practice.
There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that one
was removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the engagement.
Their tempers were mild, but their principles were steady, and while
his parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could not allow
themselves to encourage it. That the general should come forward to
solicit the alliance, or that he should even very heartily approve it,
they were not refined enough to make any parading stipulation; but
the decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and that once
obtained--and their own hearts made them trust that it could not be
very long denied--their willing approbation was instantly to follow. His
consent was all that they wished for. They were no more inclined than
entitled to demand his money. Of a very considerable fortune, his son
was, by marriage settlements, eventually secure; his present income was
an income of independence and comfort, and under every pecuniary view,
it was a match beyond the claims of their daughter.
The young people could not be surprised at a decision like this. They
felt and they deplored--but they could not resent it; and they parted,
endeavouring to hope that such a change in the general, as each believed
almost impossible, might speedily take place, to unite them again in
the fullness of privileged affection. Henry returned to what was now
his only home, to watch over his young plantations, and extend his
improvements for her sake, to whose share in them he looked anxiously
forward; and Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry. Whether the
torments of absence were softened by a clandestine correspondence, let
us not inquire. Mr. and Mrs. Morland never did--they had been too kind
to exact any promise; and whenever Catherine received a letter, as, at
that time, happened pretty often, they always looked another way.
The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the portion
of Henry and Catherine, and of all who loved either, as to its final
event, can hardly extend, I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who will
see in the tell-tale compression of the pages before them, that we are
all hastening together to perfect felicity. The means by which their
early marriage was effected can be the only doubt: what probable
circumstance could work upon a temper like the general's? The
circumstance which chiefly availed was the marriage of his daughter with
a man of fortune and consequence, which took place in the course of
the summer--an accession of dignity that threw him into a fit of good
humour, from which he did not recover till after Eleanor had obtained
his forgiveness of Henry, and his permission for him "to be a fool if he
liked it!"
The marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from all the evils of such
a home as Northanger had been made by Henry's banishment, to the home of
her choice and the man of her choice, is an event which I expect to
give general satisfaction among all her acquaintance. My own joy on the
occasion is very sincere. I know no one more entitled, by unpretending
merit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to receive and enjoy
felicity. Her partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin;
and he had been long withheld only by inferiority of situation from
addressing her. His unexpected accession to title and fortune had
removed all his difficulties; and never had the general loved his
daughter so well in all her hours of companionship, utility, and patient
endurance as when he first hailed her "Your Ladyship!" Her husband was
really deserving of her; independent of his peerage, his wealth, and
his attachment, being to a precision the most charming young man in the
world. Any further definition of his merits must be unnecessary; the
most charming young man in the world is instantly before the imagination
of us all. Concerning the one in question, therefore, I have only to
add--aware that the rules of composition forbid the introduction of a
character not connected with my fable--that this was the very
gentleman whose negligent servant left behind him that collection of
washing-bills, resulting from a long visit at Northanger, by which my
heroine was involved in one of her most alarming adventures.
The influence of the viscount and viscountess in their brother's behalf
was assisted by that right understanding of Mr. Morland's circumstances
which, as soon as the general would allow himself to be informed, they
were qualified to give. It taught him that he had been scarcely
more misled by Thorpe's first boast of the family wealth than by his
subsequent malicious overthrow of it; that in no sense of the word were
they necessitous or poor, and that Catherine would have three thousand
pounds. This was so material an amendment of his late expectations that
it greatly contributed to smooth the descent of his pride; and by no
means without its effect was the private intelligence, which he was at
some pains to procure, that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at
the disposal of its present proprietor, was consequently open to every
greedy speculation.
On the strength of this, the general, soon after Eleanor's marriage,
permitted his son to return to Northanger, and thence made him the
bearer of his consent, very courteously worded in a page full of empty
professions to Mr. Morland. The event which it authorized soon followed:
Henry and Catherine were married, the bells rang, and everybody smiled;
and, as this took place within a twelvemonth from the first day of their
meeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful delays occasioned by
the general's cruelty, that they were essentially hurt by it. To begin
perfect happiness at the respective ages of twenty-six and eighteen is
to do pretty well; and professing myself moreover convinced that the
general's unjust interference, so far from being really injurious to
their felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by improving their
knowledge of each other, and adding strength to their attachment,
I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether the
tendency of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or
reward filial disobedience. | The Morlands are surprised but excited that Henry wants to marry Catherine and they consent. Mrs. Morland warns Henry that Catherine will make a lousy housekeeper though. Mama Morland is so supportive. The only problem is that the General won't give his consent. Henry and Catherine don't want any money from him, but they do want his permission so they won't have to elope. Henry and Catherine part and hope that the General will change his mind soon. Luckily, Eleanor Tilney gets married that summer to a random and wealthy guy we have never heard of before. The narrator admits this and the whole thing is ludicrous and funny. It turns out the long-suffering Eleanor was prevented from marrying the man she loved because he had no money. But, fortunately for her, this man suddenly comes into a fortune and becomes a Viscount. So he and Eleanor marry quickly. The General is beyond thrilled by this and Eleanor, now a Viscountess, convinces him to give his consent to Henry and Catherine and assures him that Catherine isn't dirt poor, just not as rich as the Tilneys. So the General says OK. Henry and Catherine finally get married and have a happy life, according to the narrator. |
CHAPTER XVI
KENNICOTT was heavily pleased by her Christmas presents, and he gave her
a diamond bar-pin. But she could not persuade herself that he was much
interested in the rites of the morning, in the tree she had decorated,
the three stockings she had hung, the ribbons and gilt seals and hidden
messages. He said only:
"Nice way to fix things, all right. What do you say we go down to Jack
Elder's and have a game of five hundred this afternoon?"
She remembered her father's Christmas fantasies: the sacred old rag
doll at the top of the tree, the score of cheap presents, the punch and
carols, the roast chestnuts by the fire, and the gravity with which the
judge opened the children's scrawly notes and took cognizance of demands
for sled-rides, for opinions upon the existence of Santa Claus. She
remembered him reading out a long indictment of himself for being a
sentimentalist, against the peace and dignity of the State of Minnesota.
She remembered his thin legs twinkling before their sled----
She muttered unsteadily, "Must run up and put on my shoes--slippers so
cold." In the not very romantic solitude of the locked bathroom she sat
on the slippery edge of the tub and wept.
II
Kennicott had five hobbies: medicine, land-investment, Carol, motoring,
and hunting. It is not certain in what order he preferred them. Solid
though his enthusiasms were in the matter of medicine--his admiration
of this city surgeon, his condemnation of that for tricky ways of
persuading country practitioners to bring in surgical patients,
his indignation about fee-splitting, his pride in a new X-ray
apparatus--none of these beatified him as did motoring.
He nursed his two-year-old Buick even in winter, when it was stored in
the stable-garage behind the house. He filled the grease-cups, varnished
a fender, removed from beneath the back seat the debris of gloves,
copper washers, crumpled maps, dust, and greasy rags. Winter noons he
wandered out and stared owlishly at the car. He became excited over a
fabulous "trip we might take next summer." He galloped to the station,
brought home railway maps, and traced motor-routes from Gopher Prairie
to Winnipeg or Des Moines or Grand Marais, thinking aloud and expecting
her to be effusive about such academic questions as "Now I wonder if we
could stop at Baraboo and break the jump from La Crosse to Chicago?"
To him motoring was a faith not to be questioned, a high-church cult,
with electric sparks for candles, and piston-rings possessing the
sanctity of altar-vessels. His liturgy was composed of intoned and
metrical road-comments: "They say there's a pretty good hike from Duluth
to International Falls."
Hunting was equally a devotion, full of metaphysical concepts veiled
from Carol. All winter he read sporting-catalogues, and thought about
remarkable past shots: "'Member that time when I got two ducks on a
long chance, just at sunset?" At least once a month he drew his favorite
repeating shotgun, his "pump gun," from its wrapper of greased canton
flannel; he oiled the trigger, and spent silent ecstatic moments aiming
at the ceiling. Sunday mornings Carol heard him trudging up to the
attic and there, an hour later, she found him turning over boots, wooden
duck-decoys, lunch-boxes, or reflectively squinting at old shells,
rubbing their brass caps with his sleeve and shaking his head as he
thought about their uselessness.
He kept the loading-tools he had used as a boy: a capper for shot-gun
shells, a mold for lead bullets. When once, in a housewifely frenzy for
getting rid of things, she raged, "Why don't you give these away?" he
solemnly defended them, "Well, you can't tell; they might come in handy
some day."
She flushed. She wondered if he was thinking of the child they would
have when, as he put it, they were "sure they could afford one."
Mysteriously aching, nebulously sad, she slipped away, half-convinced
but only half-convinced that it was horrible and unnatural, this
postponement of release of mother-affection, this sacrifice to her
opinionation and to his cautious desire for prosperity.
"But it would be worse if he were like Sam Clark--insisted on having
children," she considered; then, "If Will were the Prince, wouldn't I
DEMAND his child?"
Kennicott's land-deals were both financial advancement and favorite
game. Driving through the country, he noticed which farms had good
crops; he heard the news about the restless farmer who was "thinking
about selling out here and pulling his freight for Alberta." He asked
the veterinarian about the value of different breeds of stock; he
inquired of Lyman Cass whether or not Einar Gyseldson really had had a
yield of forty bushels of wheat to the acre. He was always consulting
Julius Flickerbaugh, who handled more real estate than law, and more law
than justice. He studied township maps, and read notices of auctions.
Thus he was able to buy a quarter-section of land for one hundred and
fifty dollars an acre, and to sell it in a year or two, after installing
a cement floor in the barn and running water in the house, for one
hundred and eighty or even two hundred.
He spoke of these details to Sam Clark . . . rather often.
In all his games, cars and guns and land, he expected Carol to take an
interest. But he did not give her the facts which might have created
interest. He talked only of the obvious and tedious aspects; never of
his aspirations in finance, nor of the mechanical principles of motors.
This month of romance she was eager to understand his hobbies. She
shivered in the garage while he spent half an hour in deciding whether
to put alcohol or patent non-freezing liquid into the radiator, or to
drain out the water entirely. "Or no, then I wouldn't want to take
her out if it turned warm--still, of course, I could fill the
radiator again--wouldn't take so awful long--just take a few pails
of water--still, if it turned cold on me again before I drained
it----Course there's some people that put in kerosene, but they say it
rots the hose-connections and----Where did I put that lug-wrench?"
It was at this point that she gave up being a motorist and retired to
the house.
In their new intimacy he was more communicative about his practise;
he informed her, with the invariable warning not to tell, that Mrs.
Sunderquist had another baby coming, that the "hired girl at Howland's
was in trouble." But when she asked technical questions he did not know
how to answer; when she inquired, "Exactly what is the method of taking
out the tonsils?" he yawned, "Tonsilectomy? Why you just----If there's
pus, you operate. Just take 'em out. Seen the newspaper? What the devil
did Bea do with it?"
She did not try again.
III
They had gone to the "movies." The movies were almost as vital
to Kennicott and the other solid citizens of Gopher Prairie as
land-speculation and guns and automobiles.
The feature film portrayed a brave young Yankee who conquered a South
American republic. He turned the natives from their barbarous habits of
singing and laughing to the vigorous sanity, the Pep and Punch and
Go, of the North; he taught them to work in factories, to wear Klassy
Kollege Klothes, and to shout, "Oh, you baby doll, watch me gather
in the mazuma." He changed nature itself. A mountain which had borne
nothing but lilies and cedars and loafing clouds was by his Hustle so
inspirited that it broke out in long wooden sheds, and piles of iron
ore to be converted into steamers to carry iron ore to be converted into
steamers to carry iron ore.
The intellectual tension induced by the master film was relieved by a
livelier, more lyric and less philosophical drama: Mack Schnarken and
the Bathing Suit Babes in a comedy of manners entitled "Right on the
Coco." Mr. Schnarken was at various high moments a cook, a life-guard,
a burlesque actor, and a sculptor. There was a hotel hallway up which
policemen charged, only to be stunned by plaster busts hurled upon them
from the innumerous doors. If the plot lacked lucidity, the dual motif
of legs and pie was clear and sure. Bathing and modeling were equally
sound occasions for legs; the wedding-scene was but an approach to the
thunderous climax when Mr. Schnarken slipped a piece of custard pie into
the clergyman's rear pocket.
The audience in the Rosebud Movie Palace squealed and wiped their eyes;
they scrambled under the seats for overshoes, mittens, and mufflers,
while the screen announced that next week Mr. Schnarken might be seen
in a new, riproaring, extra-special superfeature of the Clean Comedy
Corporation entitled, "Under Mollie's Bed."
"I'm glad," said Carol to Kennicott as they stooped before the northwest
gale which was torturing the barren street, "that this is a moral
country. We don't allow any of these beastly frank novels."
"Yump. Vice Society and Postal Department won't stand for them. The
American people don't like filth."
"Yes. It's fine. I'm glad we have such dainty romances as 'Right on the
Coco' instead."
"Say what in heck do you think you're trying to do? Kid me?"
He was silent. She awaited his anger. She meditated upon his gutter
patois, the Boeotian dialect characteristic of Gopher Prairie. He
laughed puzzlingly. When they came into the glow of the house he laughed
again. He condescended:
"I've got to hand it to you. You're consistent, all right. I'd of
thought that after getting this look-in at a lot of good decent farmers,
you'd get over this high-art stuff, but you hang right on."
"Well----" To herself: "He takes advantage of my trying to be good."
"Tell you, Carrie: There's just three classes of people: folks that
haven't got any ideas at all; and cranks that kick about everything; and
Regular Guys, the fellows with sticktuitiveness, that boost and get the
world's work done."
"Then I'm probably a crank." She smiled negligently.
"No. I won't admit it. You do like to talk, but at a show-down you'd
prefer Sam Clark to any damn long-haired artist."
"Oh--well----"
"Oh well!" mockingly. "My, we're just going to change everything, aren't
we! Going to tell fellows that have been making movies for ten years
how to direct 'em; and tell architects how to build towns; and make the
magazines publish nothing but a lot of highbrow stories about old maids,
and about wives that don't know what they want. Oh, we're a terror! . . .
Come on now, Carrie; come out of it; wake up! You've got a fine nerve,
kicking about a movie because it shows a few legs! Why, you're always
touting these Greek dancers, or whatever they are, that don't even wear
a shimmy!"
"But, dear, the trouble with that film--it wasn't that it got in so many
legs, but that it giggled coyly and promised to show more of them, and
then didn't keep the promise. It was Peeping Tom's idea of humor."
"I don't get you. Look here now----"
She lay awake, while he rumbled with sleep
"I must go on. My 'crank ideas;' he calls them. I thought that adoring
him, watching him operate, would be enough. It isn't. Not after the
first thrill.
"I don't want to hurt him. But I must go on.
"It isn't enough, to stand by while he fills an automobile radiator and
chucks me bits of information.
"If I stood by and admired him long enough, I would be content. I would
become a 'nice little woman.' The Village Virus. Already----I'm not
reading anything. I haven't touched the piano for a week. I'm letting
the days drown in worship of 'a good deal, ten plunks more per acre.' I
won't! I won't succumb!
"How? I've failed at everything: the Thanatopsis, parties, pioneers,
city hall, Guy and Vida. But----It doesn't MATTER! I'm not trying to
'reform the town' now. I'm not trying to organize Browning Clubs,
and sit in clean white kids yearning up at lecturers with ribbony
eyeglasses. I am trying to save my soul.
"Will Kennicott, asleep there, trusting me, thinking he holds me. And
I'm leaving him. All of me left him when he laughed at me. It wasn't
enough for him that I admired him; I must change myself and grow like
him. He takes advantage. No more. It's finished. I will go on."
IV
Her violin lay on top of the upright piano. She picked it up. Since she
had last touched it the dried strings had snapped, and upon it lay a
gold and crimson cigar-band.
V
She longed to see Guy Pollock, for the confirming of the brethren in
the faith. But Kennicott's dominance was heavy upon her. She could not
determine whether she was checked by fear or him, or by inertia--by
dislike of the emotional labor of the "scenes" which would be involved
in asserting independence. She was like the revolutionist at fifty:
not afraid of death, but bored by the probability of bad steaks and bad
breaths and sitting up all night on windy barricades.
The second evening after the movies she impulsively summoned Vida
Sherwin and Guy to the house for pop-corn and cider. In the living-room
Vida and Kennicott debated "the value of manual training in grades below
the eighth," while Carol sat beside Guy at the dining table, buttering
pop-corn. She was quickened by the speculation in his eyes. She
murmured:
"Guy, do you want to help me?"
"My dear! How?"
"I don't know!"
He waited.
"I think I want you to help me find out what has made the darkness of
the women. Gray darkness and shadowy trees. We're all in it, ten million
women, young married women with good prosperous husbands, and business
women in linen collars, and grandmothers that gad out to teas, and wives
of under-paid miners, and farmwives who really like to make butter and
go to church. What is it we want--and need? Will Kennicott there would
say that we need lots of children and hard work. But it isn't that.
There's the same discontent in women with eight children and one more
coming--always one more coming! And you find it in stenographers and
wives who scrub, just as much as in girl college-graduates who wonder
how they can escape their kind parents. What do we want?"
"Essentially, I think, you are like myself, Carol; you want to go back
to an age of tranquillity and charming manners. You want to enthrone
good taste again."
"Just good taste? Fastidious people? Oh--no! I believe all of us want
the same things--we're all together, the industrial workers and the
women and the farmers and the negro race and the Asiatic colonies, and
even a few of the Respectables. It's all the same revolt, in all the
classes that have waited and taken advice. I think perhaps we want a
more conscious life. We're tired of drudging and sleeping and dying.
We're tired of seeing just a few people able to be individualists. We're
tired of always deferring hope till the next generation. We're tired
of hearing the politicians and priests and cautious reformers (and the
husbands!) coax us, 'Be calm! Be patient! Wait! We have the plans for a
Utopia already made; just give us a bit more time and we'll produce it;
trust us; we're wiser than you.' For ten thousand years they've said
that. We want our Utopia NOW--and we're going to try our hands at it.
All we want is--everything for all of us! For every housewife and every
longshoreman and every Hindu nationalist and every teacher. We want
everything. We shatn't get it. So we shatn't ever be content----"
She wondered why he was wincing. He broke in:
"See here, my dear, I certainly hope you don't class yourself with a lot
of trouble-making labor-leaders! Democracy is all right theoretically,
and I'll admit there are industrial injustices, but I'd rather have them
than see the world reduced to a dead level of mediocrity. I refuse to
believe that you have anything in common with a lot of laboring men
rowing for bigger wages so that they can buy wretched flivvers and
hideous player-pianos and----"
At this second, in Buenos Ayres, a newspaper editor broke his routine of
being bored by exchanges to assert, "Any injustice is better than seeing
the world reduced to a gray level of scientific dullness." At this
second a clerk standing at the bar of a New York saloon stopped milling
his secret fear of his nagging office-manager long enough to growl
at the chauffeur beside him, "Aw, you socialists make me sick! I'm an
individualist. I ain't going to be nagged by no bureaus and take orders
off labor-leaders. And mean to say a hobo's as good as you and me?"
At this second Carol realized that for all Guy's love of dead elegances
his timidity was as depressing to her as the bulkiness of Sam Clark. She
realized that he was not a mystery, as she had excitedly believed; not
a romantic messenger from the World Outside on whom she could count for
escape. He belonged to Gopher Prairie, absolutely. She was snatched back
from a dream of far countries, and found herself on Main Street.
He was completing his protest, "You don't want to be mixed up in all
this orgy of meaningless discontent?"
She soothed him. "No, I don't. I'm not heroic. I'm scared by all the
fighting that's going on in the world. I want nobility and adventure,
but perhaps I want still more to curl on the hearth with some one I
love."
"Would you----"
He did not finish it. He picked up a handful of pop-corn, let it run
through his fingers, looked at her wistfully.
With the loneliness of one who has put away a possible love Carol saw
that he was a stranger. She saw that he had never been anything but
a frame on which she had hung shining garments. If she had let him
diffidently make love to her, it was not because she cared, but because
she did not care, because it did not matter.
She smiled at him with the exasperating tactfulness of a woman checking
a flirtation; a smile like an airy pat on the arm. She sighed, "You're
a dear to let me tell you my imaginary troubles." She bounced up, and
trilled, "Shall we take the pop-corn in to them now?"
Guy looked after her desolately.
While she teased Vida and Kennicott she was repeating, "I must go on."
VI
Miles Bjornstam, the pariah "Red Swede," had brought his circular saw
and portable gasoline engine to the house, to cut the cords of poplar
for the kitchen range. Kennicott had given the order; Carol knew nothing
of it till she heard the ringing of the saw, and glanced out to see
Bjornstam, in black leather jacket and enormous ragged purple
mittens, pressing sticks against the whirling blade, and flinging
the stove-lengths to one side. The red irritable motor kept up a red
irritable "tip-tip-tip-tip-tip-tip." The whine of the saw rose till it
simulated the shriek of a fire-alarm whistle at night, but always at the
end it gave a lively metallic clang, and in the stillness she heard the
flump of the cut stick falling on the pile.
She threw a motor robe over her, ran out. Bjornstam welcomed her, "Well,
well, well! Here's old Miles, fresh as ever. Well say, that's all right;
he ain't even begun to be cheeky yet; next summer he's going to take you
out on his horse-trading trip, clear into Idaho."
"Yes, and I may go!"
"How's tricks? Crazy about the town yet?"
"No, but I probably shall be, some day."
"Don't let 'em get you. Kick 'em in the face!"
He shouted at her while he worked. The pile of stove-wood grew
astonishingly. The pale bark of the poplar sticks was mottled with
lichens of sage-green and dusty gray; the newly sawed ends were
fresh-colored, with the agreeable roughness of a woolen muffler. To the
sterile winter air the wood gave a scent of March sap.
Kennicott telephoned that he was going into the country. Bjornstam had
not finished his work at noon, and she invited him to have dinner with
Bea in the kitchen. She wished that she were independent enough to dine
with these her guests. She considered their friendliness, she sneered at
"social distinctions," she raged at her own taboos--and she continued
to regard them as retainers and herself as a lady. She sat in the
dining-room and listened through the door to Bjornstam's booming and
Bea's giggles. She was the more absurd to herself in that, after the
rite of dining alone, she could go out to the kitchen, lean against the
sink, and talk to them.
They were attracted to each other; a Swedish Othello and Desdemona, more
useful and amiable than their prototypes. Bjornstam told his scapes:
selling horses in a Montana mining-camp, breaking a log-jam, being
impertinent to a "two-fisted" millionaire lumberman. Bea gurgled "Oh
my!" and kept his coffee cup filled.
He took a long time to finish the wood. He had frequently to go into the
kitchen to get warm. Carol heard him confiding to Bea, "You're a darn
nice Swede girl. I guess if I had a woman like you I wouldn't be such
a sorehead. Gosh, your kitchen is clean; makes an old bach feel sloppy.
Say, that's nice hair you got. Huh? Me fresh? Saaaay, girl, if I ever do
get fresh, you'll know it. Why, I could pick you up with one finger,
and hold you in the air long enough to read Robert J. Ingersoll clean
through. Ingersoll? Oh, he's a religious writer. Sure. You'd like him
fine."
When he drove off he waved to Bea; and Carol, lonely at the window
above, was envious of their pastoral.
"And I----But I will go on." | When Christmas comes, Carol finds herself crying and missing her father, even though he's been dead for more than a decade. She realizes that her Christmases with Will will never be like the ones she grew up with. Carol makes a new effort to appreciate the things Will loves in life, including his motorcar and his land speculation. But Will isn't very good at giving Carol the facts she'd need to appreciate them. Carol eventually gives up and retreats into her boring, lonely life. She keeps arguing with Will about making Gopher Prairie a more fulfilling place to live in. He argues that everyone likes it except her. Carol approaches Guy Pollock again for help living in Gopher Prairie. It turns out that there's not much he can do for her, since he has learned to accept the way things are. One day, while Will is out, Carol invites Miles Bjornstam to have dinner in her kitchen with her maid Bea. Carol eats in a different room because that's what's considered proper. Miles and Bea really hit it off, and Carol is envious of their connection. |
CHAPTER II
IT was a frail and blue and lonely Carol who trotted to the flat of the
Johnson Marburys for Sunday evening supper. Mrs. Marbury was a neighbor
and friend of Carol's sister; Mr. Marbury a traveling representative of
an insurance company. They made a specialty of sandwich-salad-coffee
lap suppers, and they regarded Carol as their literary and artistic
representative. She was the one who could be depended upon to appreciate
the Caruso phonograph record, and the Chinese lantern which Mr. Marbury
had brought back as his present from San Francisco. Carol found the
Marburys admiring and therefore admirable.
This September Sunday evening she wore a net frock with a pale pink
lining. A nap had soothed away the faint lines of tiredness beside her
eyes. She was young, naive, stimulated by the coolness. She flung
her coat at the chair in the hall of the flat, and exploded into
the green-plush living-room. The familiar group were trying to be
conversational. She saw Mr. Marbury, a woman teacher of gymnastics in
a high school, a chief clerk from the Great Northern Railway offices,
a young lawyer. But there was also a stranger, a thick tall man of
thirty-six or -seven, with stolid brown hair, lips used to giving
orders, eyes which followed everything good-naturedly, and clothes which
you could never quite remember.
Mr. Marbury boomed, "Carol, come over here and meet Doc Kennicott--Dr.
Will Kennicott of Gopher Prairie. He does all our insurance-examining up
in that neck of the woods, and they do say he's some doctor!"
As she edged toward the stranger and murmured nothing in particular,
Carol remembered that Gopher Prairie was a Minnesota wheat-prairie town
of something over three thousand people.
"Pleased to meet you," stated Dr. Kennicott. His hand was strong; the
palm soft, but the back weathered, showing golden hairs against firm red
skin.
He looked at her as though she was an agreeable discovery. She tugged
her hand free and fluttered, "I must go out to the kitchen and help Mrs.
Marbury." She did not speak to him again till, after she had heated
the rolls and passed the paper napkins, Mr. Marbury captured her with
a loud, "Oh, quit fussing now. Come over here and sit down and tell
us how's tricks." He herded her to a sofa with Dr. Kennicott, who was
rather vague about the eyes, rather drooping of bulky shoulder, as
though he was wondering what he was expected to do next. As their host
left them, Kennicott awoke:
"Marbury tells me you're a high mogul in the public library. I was
surprised. Didn't hardly think you were old enough. I thought you were a
girl, still in college maybe."
"Oh, I'm dreadfully old. I expect to take to a lip-stick, and to find a
gray hair any morning now."
"Huh! You must be frightfully old--prob'ly too old to be my
granddaughter, I guess!"
Thus in the Vale of Arcady nymph and satyr beguiled the hours; precisely
thus, and not in honeyed pentameters, discoursed Elaine and the worn Sir
Launcelot in the pleached alley.
"How do you like your work?" asked the doctor.
"It's pleasant, but sometimes I feel shut off from things--the steel
stacks, and the everlasting cards smeared all over with red rubber
stamps."
"Don't you get sick of the city?"
"St. Paul? Why, don't you like it? I don't know of any lovelier view
than when you stand on Summit Avenue and look across Lower Town to the
Mississippi cliffs and the upland farms beyond."
"I know but----Of course I've spent nine years around the Twin
Cities--took my B.A. and M.D. over at the U., and had my internship in a
hospital in Minneapolis, but still, oh well, you don't get to know folks
here, way you do up home. I feel I've got something to say about running
Gopher Prairie, but you take it in a big city of two-three hundred
thousand, and I'm just one flea on the dog's back. And then I like
country driving, and the hunting in the fall. Do you know Gopher Prairie
at all?"
"No, but I hear it's a very nice town."
"Nice? Say honestly----Of course I may be prejudiced, but I've seen an
awful lot of towns--one time I went to Atlantic City for the American
Medical Association meeting, and I spent practically a week in New York!
But I never saw a town that had such up-and-coming people as Gopher
Prairie. Bresnahan--you know--the famous auto manufacturer--he comes
from Gopher Prairie. Born and brought up there! And it's a darn pretty
town. Lots of fine maples and box-elders, and there's two of the
dandiest lakes you ever saw, right near town! And we've got seven miles
of cement walks already, and building more every day! Course a lot of
these towns still put up with plank walks, but not for us, you bet!"
"Really?"
(Why was she thinking of Stewart Snyder?)
"Gopher Prairie is going to have a great future. Some of the best dairy
and wheat land in the state right near there--some of it selling right
now at one-fifty an acre, and I bet it will go up to two and a quarter
in ten years!"
"Is----Do you like your profession?"
"Nothing like it. Keeps you out, and yet you have a chance to loaf in
the office for a change."
"I don't mean that way. I mean--it's such an opportunity for sympathy."
Dr. Kennicott launched into a heavy, "Oh, these Dutch farmers don't want
sympathy. All they need is a bath and a good dose of salts."
Carol must have flinched, for instantly he was urging, "What I mean
is--I don't want you to think I'm one of these old salts-and-quinine
peddlers, but I mean: so many of my patients are husky farmers that I
suppose I get kind of case-hardened."
"It seems to me that a doctor could transform a whole community, if he
wanted to--if he saw it. He's usually the only man in the neighborhood
who has any scientific training, isn't he?"
"Yes, that's so, but I guess most of us get rusty. We land in a rut of
obstetrics and typhoid and busted legs. What we need is women like you
to jump on us. It'd be you that would transform the town."
"No, I couldn't. Too flighty. I did used to think about doing just that,
curiously enough, but I seem to have drifted away from the idea. Oh, I'm
a fine one to be lecturing you!"
"No! You're just the one. You have ideas without having lost feminine
charm. Say! Don't you think there's a lot of these women that go out for
all these movements and so on that sacrifice----"
After his remarks upon suffrage he abruptly questioned her about
herself. His kindliness and the firmness of his personality enveloped
her and she accepted him as one who had a right to know what she
thought and wore and ate and read. He was positive. He had grown from a
sketched-in stranger to a friend, whose gossip was important news. She
noticed the healthy solidity of his chest. His nose, which had seemed
irregular and large, was suddenly virile.
She was jarred out of this serious sweetness when Marbury bounced over
to them and with horrible publicity yammered, "Say, what do you two
think you're doing? Telling fortunes or making love? Let me warn you
that the doc is a frisky bacheldore, Carol. Come on now, folks, shake a
leg. Let's have some stunts or a dance or something."
She did not have another word with Dr. Kennicott until their parting:
"Been a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Milford. May I see you some
time when I come down again? I'm here quite often--taking patients to
hospitals for majors, and so on."
"Why----"
"What's your address?"
"You can ask Mr. Marbury next time you come down--if you really want to
know!"
"Want to know? Say, you wait!"
II
Of the love-making of Carol and Will Kennicott there is nothing to be
told which may not be heard on every summer evening, on every shadowy
block.
They were biology and mystery; their speech was slang phrases and flares
of poetry; their silences were contentment, or shaky crises when his arm
took her shoulder. All the beauty of youth, first discovered when it
is passing--and all the commonplaceness of a well-to-do unmarried man
encountering a pretty girl at the time when she is slightly weary of her
employment and sees no glory ahead nor any man she is glad to serve.
They liked each other honestly--they were both honest. She was
disappointed by his devotion to making money, but she was sure that
he did not lie to patients, and that he did keep up with the medical
magazines. What aroused her to something more than liking was his
boyishness when they went tramping.
They walked from St. Paul down the river to Mendota, Kennicott more
elastic-seeming in a cap and a soft crepe shirt, Carol youthful in a
tam-o'-shanter of mole velvet, a blue serge suit with an absurdly and
agreeably broad turn-down linen collar, and frivolous ankles above
athletic shoes. The High Bridge crosses the Mississippi, mounting from
low banks to a palisade of cliffs. Far down beneath it on the St. Paul
side, upon mud flats, is a wild settlement of chicken-infested gardens
and shanties patched together from discarded sign-boards, sheets of
corrugated iron, and planks fished out of the river. Carol leaned
over the rail of the bridge to look down at this Yang-tse village;
in delicious imaginary fear she shrieked that she was dizzy with the
height; and it was an extremely human satisfaction to have a strong male
snatch her back to safety, instead of having a logical woman teacher or
librarian sniff, "Well, if you're scared, why don't you get away from
the rail, then?"
From the cliffs across the river Carol and Kennicott looked back at St.
Paul on its hills; an imperial sweep from the dome of the cathedral to
the dome of the state capitol.
The river road led past rocky field slopes, deep glens, woods flamboyant
now with September, to Mendota, white walls and a spire among trees
beneath a hill, old-world in its placid ease. And for this fresh land,
the place is ancient. Here is the bold stone house which General Sibley,
the king of fur-traders, built in 1835, with plaster of river mud, and
ropes of twisted grass for laths. It has an air of centuries. In its
solid rooms Carol and Kennicott found prints from other days which the
house had seen--tail-coats of robin's-egg blue, clumsy Red River carts
laden with luxurious furs, whiskered Union soldiers in slant forage caps
and rattling sabers.
It suggested to them a common American past, and it was memorable
because they had discovered it together. They talked more trustingly,
more personally, as they trudged on. They crossed the Minnesota River in
a rowboat ferry. They climbed the hill to the round stone tower of Fort
Snelling. They saw the junction of the Mississippi and the Minnesota,
and recalled the men who had come here eighty years ago--Maine
lumbermen, York traders, soldiers from the Maryland hills.
"It's a good country, and I'm proud of it. Let's make it all that those
old boys dreamed about," the unsentimental Kennicott was moved to vow.
"Let's!"
"Come on. Come to Gopher Prairie. Show us. Make the town--well--make
it artistic. It's mighty pretty, but I'll admit we aren't any too darn
artistic. Probably the lumber-yard isn't as scrumptious as all these
Greek temples. But go to it! Make us change!"
"I would like to. Some day!"
"Now! You'd love Gopher Prairie. We've been doing a lot with lawns
and gardening the past few years, and it's so homey--the big trees
and----And the best people on earth. And keen. I bet Luke Dawson----"
Carol but half listened to the names. She could not fancy their ever
becoming important to her.
"I bet Luke Dawson has got more money than most of the swells on Summit
Avenue; and Miss Sherwin in the high school is a regular wonder--reads
Latin like I do English; and Sam Clark, the hardware man, he's a
corker--not a better man in the state to go hunting with; and if
you want culture, besides Vida Sherwin there's Reverend Warren, the
Congregational preacher, and Professor Mott, the superintendent of
schools, and Guy Pollock, the lawyer--they say he writes regular poetry
and--and Raymie Wutherspoon, he's not such an awful boob when you get to
KNOW him, and he sings swell. And----And there's plenty of others. Lym
Cass. Only of course none of them have your finesse, you might call it.
But they don't make 'em any more appreciative and so on. Come on! We're
ready for you to boss us!"
They sat on the bank below the parapet of the old fort, hidden from
observation. He circled her shoulder with his arm. Relaxed after the
walk, a chill nipping her throat, conscious of his warmth and power, she
leaned gratefully against him.
"You know I'm in love with you, Carol!"
She did not answer, but she touched the back of his hand with an
exploring finger.
"You say I'm so darn materialistic. How can I help it, unless I have you
to stir me up?"
She did not answer. She could not think.
"You say a doctor could cure a town the way he does a person. Well, you
cure the town of whatever ails it, if anything does, and I'll be your
surgical kit."
She did not follow his words, only the burring resoluteness of them.
She was shocked, thrilled, as he kissed her cheek and cried, "There's
no use saying things and saying things and saying things. Don't my arms
talk to you--now?"
"Oh, please, please!" She wondered if she ought to be angry, but it was
a drifting thought, and she discovered that she was crying.
Then they were sitting six inches apart, pretending that they had never
been nearer, while she tried to be impersonal:
"I would like to--would like to see Gopher Prairie."
"Trust me! Here she is! Brought some snapshots down to show you."
Her cheek near his sleeve, she studied a dozen village pictures. They
were streaky; she saw only trees, shrubbery, a porch indistinct in leafy
shadows. But she exclaimed over the lakes: dark water reflecting wooded
bluffs, a flight of ducks, a fisherman in shirt sleeves and a wide straw
hat, holding up a string of croppies. One winter picture of the edge of
Plover Lake had the air of an etching: lustrous slide of ice, snow in
the crevices of a boggy bank, the mound of a muskrat house, reeds in
thin black lines, arches of frosty grasses. It was an impression of cool
clear vigor.
"How'd it be to skate there for a couple of hours, or go zinging along
on a fast ice-boat, and skip back home for coffee and some hot wienies?"
he demanded.
"It might be--fun."
"But here's the picture. Here's where you come in."
A photograph of a forest clearing: pathetic new furrows straggling among
stumps, a clumsy log cabin chinked with mud and roofed with hay.
In front of it a sagging woman with tight-drawn hair, and a baby
bedraggled, smeary, glorious-eyed.
"Those are the kind of folks I practise among, good share of the time.
Nels Erdstrom, fine clean young Svenska. He'll have a corking farm in
ten years, but now----I operated his wife on a kitchen table, with my
driver giving the anesthetic. Look at that scared baby! Needs some woman
with hands like yours. Waiting for you! Just look at that baby's eyes,
look how he's begging----"
"Don't! They hurt me. Oh, it would be sweet to help him--so sweet."
As his arms moved toward her she answered all her doubts with "Sweet, so
sweet." | Carol meets Dr. Will Kennicott of Gopher Prairie, a solid man in his mid-thirties, at an informal dinner party given by a friend of her sister's. He admits that though he studied in the Twin Cities and has visited New York he prefers life in a small town where he can hold some sway and know the people. He encourages her to express herself and asks about her life. Before they part he asks permission to see her again and she assents. During their courtship, Carol finds his boyishness attractive. On a trip to Mendota, the old mansion of General Sibley, they discover their common American past and vow to make the country everything past generations had dreamed. He extols the values of Gopher Prairie and its residents and beseeches her to come to the town and give it some culture. We're ready for you to boss us," he states. He pulls her close and proclaims his love for her. He shows her some photographs of Gopher Prairie - a lucid lake that impresses her and another of a poor farmer's wife holding a baby. He embraces her |
Mrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but only
Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit. THEY only knew how
little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the
consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain
to him in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor gloried in his
integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his
punishment. But though confidence between them was, by this public
discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which
either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor avoided it
upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the
too warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief of Edward's
continued affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and
Marianne's courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic
which always left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the
comparison it necessarily produced between Elinor's conduct and her own.
She felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had
hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of
continual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never
exerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence,
without the hope of amendment. Her mind was so much weakened that she
still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only
dispirited her more.
Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs
in Harley Street, or Bartlett's Buildings. But though so much of the
matter was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had
enough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after
more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and
inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the
hindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them
within that time.
The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so
fine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens,
though it was only the second week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor
were of the number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were
again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather
to stay at home, than venture into so public a place.
An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they
entered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing
with them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings's conversation, she was
herself left to quiet reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys,
nothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by
any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her. But at last
she found herself with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who,
though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting
them, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of
Mrs. Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their's.
Mrs. Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor,
"Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any thing if you
ask. You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke."
It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings's curiosity and Elinor's too,
that she would tell any thing WITHOUT being asked; for nothing would
otherwise have been learnt.
"I am so glad to meet you;" said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly by
the arm--"for I wanted to see you of all things in the world." And
then lowering her voice, "I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about
it. Is she angry?"
"Not at all, I believe, with you."
"That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is SHE angry?"
"I cannot suppose it possible that she should be."
"I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time of
it! I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first
she would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me
again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are
as good friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put
in the feather last night. There now, YOU are going to laugh at me
too. But why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do not care if it IS
the Doctor's favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I should never
have known he DID like it better than any other colour, if he had not
happened to say so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare
sometimes I do not know which way to look before them."
She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say,
and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to
the first.
"Well, but Miss Dashwood," speaking triumphantly, "people may say what
they chuse about Mr. Ferrars's declaring he would not have Lucy, for it
is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such
ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think
about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set
it down for certain."
"I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you,"
said Elinor.
"Oh, did not you? But it WAS said, I know, very well, and by more than
one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses could
expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with thirty
thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing at
all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my cousin
Richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was afraid Mr.
Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come near us for three
days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in my heart
Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your brother's
Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, and
Saturday, and did not know what was become of him. Once Lucy thought
to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that. However this
morning he came just as we came home from church; and then it all came
out, how he had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been
talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had declared before
them all that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he
have. And how he had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as
he had went away from his mother's house, he had got upon his horse,
and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he had stayed
about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better
of it. And after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it
seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it
would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must
be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no
hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some
thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live
upon that?--He could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so
he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the
matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say all
this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for HER sake,
and upon HER account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon
his own. I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired
of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But,
to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she
told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know,
and all that--Oh, la! one can't repeat such kind of things you
know)--she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world
to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so
ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know,
or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked
on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take
orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living.
And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from
below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take
one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room
and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did
not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of
silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons."
"I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor;
"you were all in the same room together, were not you?"
"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love
when any body else is by? Oh, for shame!--To be sure you must know
better than that. (Laughing affectedly.)--No, no; they were shut up in
the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the
door."
"How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only
learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it
before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me
particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known
yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?"
"Oh, la! there is nothing in THAT. I only stood at the door, and heard
what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me;
for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets
together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a
chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said."
Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be
kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.
"Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is
lodging at No. --, Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is,
an't she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I
shan't say anything against them to YOU; and to be sure they did send
us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And
for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us
for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however,
nothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight.
Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there
for a time; and after THAT, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he
will be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get!--Good gracious!
(giggling as she spoke) I'd lay my life I know what my cousins will
say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I should write to the
Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living. I know they will;
but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the world.-- 'La!' I
shall say directly, 'I wonder how you could think of such a thing? I
write to the Doctor, indeed!'"
"Well," said Elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst.
You have got your answer ready."
Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of
her own party made another more necessary.
"Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to
you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you
they are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and
they keep their own coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings
about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not
in anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything
should happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings
should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay
with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton
won't ask us any more this bout. Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was
not here. Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your
spotted muslin on!--I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn."
Such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay
her farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was
claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of
knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though
she had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and
foreplanned in her own mind. Edward's marriage with Lucy was as firmly
determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely
uncertain, as she had concluded it would be;--every thing depended,
exactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of
which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance.
As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for
information; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible
intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she
confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as
she felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would
choose to have known. The continuance of their engagement, and the
means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her
communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following
natural remark.
"Wait for his having a living!--ay, we all know how THAT will
end:--they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it,
will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest
of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr.
Pratt can give her.--Then they will have a child every year! and Lord
help 'em! how poor they will be!--I must see what I can give them
towards furnishing their house. Two maids and two men, indeed!--as I
talked of t'other day.--No, no, they must get a stout girl of all
works.-- Betty's sister would never do for them NOW."
The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from
Lucy herself. It was as follows:
"Bartlett's Building, March.
"I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the
liberty I take of writing to her; but I know your
friendship for me will make you pleased to hear such
a good account of myself and my dear Edward, after
all the troubles we have went through lately,
therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed
to say that, thank God! though we have suffered
dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy
as we must always be in one another's love. We have
had great trials, and great persecutions, but
however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge
many friends, yourself not the least among them,
whose great kindness I shall always thankfully
remember, as will Edward too, who I have told of
it. I am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise
dear Mrs. Jennings, I spent two happy hours with
him yesterday afternoon, he would not hear of our
parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my
duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake,
and would have parted for ever on the spot, would
he consent to it; but he said it should never be,
he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could
have my affections; our prospects are not very
bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for
the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should
it ever be in your power to recommend him to any
body that has a living to bestow, am very sure you
will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings too,
trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir John,
or Mr. Palmer, or any friend that may be able to
assist us.--Poor Anne was much to blame for what
she did, but she did it for the best, so I say
nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won't think it too much
trouble to give us a call, should she come this way
any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my
cousins would be proud to know her.--My paper reminds
me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully
and respectfully remembered to her, and to Sir John,
and Lady Middleton, and the dear children, when you
chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne,
"I am, &c."
As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to
be its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs.
Jennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and
praise.
"Very well indeed!--how prettily she writes!--aye, that was quite
proper to let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy.--Poor
soul! I wish I COULD get him a living, with all my heart.--She calls me
dear Mrs. Jennings, you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever
lived.--Very well upon my word. That sentence is very prettily turned.
Yes, yes, I will go and see her, sure enough. How attentive she is, to
think of every body!--Thank you, my dear, for shewing it me. It is as
pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart great
credit." | Elinor and Marianne think that Edward's resolve to marry Lucy is honorable, all the more since he probably knows he will not be happy marrying her. Elinor has the bad luck of meeting Miss Steele on a walk in Kensington Gardens, and she offers up all the latest news of her sister and Edward that Elinor so desperately wishes to avoid. Elinor does gain the information that the date of Edward and Lucy's marriage is altogether uncertain, since he must find a position within the church and save a good deal of money, which could take a good deal of time; this could be seen as a hopeful thing, as much could happen in that indefinitely long stretch of time. Lucy writes Elinor a letter, saying that she and Edward are happy, but need assistance so that they can marry. Elinor hands the information over to Mrs. Jennings, who thinks the letter does Lucy "great credit," and makes Mrs. Jennings more resolved to help her. |
The opinion of the community outside the prison gates bore hard on
Clennam as time went on, and he made no friends among the community
within. Too depressed to associate with the herd in the yard, who got
together to forget their cares; too retiring and too unhappy to join in
the poor socialities of the tavern; he kept his own room, and was held
in distrust. Some said he was proud; some objected that he was
sullen and reserved; some were contemptuous of him, for that he was a
poor-spirited dog who pined under his debts. The whole population were
shy of him on these various counts of indictment, but especially the
last, which involved a species of domestic treason; and he soon became
so confirmed in his seclusion, that his only time for walking up and
down was when the evening Club were assembled at their songs and toasts
and sentiments, and when the yard was nearly left to the women and
children.
Imprisonment began to tell upon him. He knew that he idled and moped.
After what he had known of the influences of imprisonment within the
four small walls of the very room he occupied, this consciousness made
him afraid of himself. Shrinking from the observation of other men, and
shrinking from his own, he began to change very sensibly. Anybody might
see that the shadow of the wall was dark upon him.
One day when he might have been some ten or twelve weeks in jail, and
when he had been trying to read and had not been able to release even
the imaginary people of the book from the Marshalsea, a footstep stopped
at his door, and a hand tapped at it. He arose and opened it, and an
agreeable voice accosted him with 'How do you do, Mr Clennam? I hope I
am not unwelcome in calling to see you.'
It was the sprightly young Barnacle, Ferdinand. He looked very
good-natured and prepossessing, though overpoweringly gay and free, in
contrast with the squalid prison.
'You are surprised to see me, Mr Clennam,' he said, taking the seat
which Clennam offered him.
'I must confess to being much surprised.'
'Not disagreeably, I hope?'
'By no means.'
'Thank you. Frankly,' said the engaging young Barnacle, 'I have been
excessively sorry to hear that you were under the necessity of a
temporary retirement here, and I hope (of course as between two private
gentlemen) that our place has had nothing to do with it?'
'Your office?'
'Our Circumlocution place.'
'I cannot charge any part of my reverses upon that remarkable
establishment.'
'Upon my life,' said the vivacious young Barnacle, 'I am heartily glad to
know it. It is quite a relief to me to hear you say it. I should have
so exceedingly regretted our place having had anything to do with your
difficulties.'
Clennam again assured him that he absolved it of the responsibility.
'That's right,' said Ferdinand. 'I am very happy to hear it. I was
rather afraid in my own mind that we might have helped to floor you,
because there is no doubt that it is our misfortune to do that kind
of thing now and then. We don't want to do it; but if men will be
gravelled, why--we can't help it.'
'Without giving an unqualified assent to what you say,' returned Arthur,
gloomily, 'I am much obliged to you for your interest in me.'
'No, but really! Our place is,' said the easy young Barnacle, 'the most
inoffensive place possible. You'll say we are a humbug. I won't say
we are not; but all that sort of thing is intended to be, and must be.
Don't you see?'
'I do not,' said Clennam.
'You don't regard it from the right point of view. It is the point of
view that is the essential thing. Regard our place from the point of
view that we only ask you to leave us alone, and we are as capital a
Department as you'll find anywhere.'
'Is your place there to be left alone?' asked Clennam.
'You exactly hit it,' returned Ferdinand. 'It is there with the express
intention that everything shall be left alone. That is what it means.
That is what it's for. No doubt there's a certain form to be kept up
that it's for something else, but it's only a form. Why, good Heaven,
we are nothing but forms! Think what a lot of our forms you have gone
through. And you have never got any nearer to an end?'
'Never,' said Clennam.
'Look at it from the right point of view, and there you have
us--official and effectual. It's like a limited game of cricket. A field
of outsiders are always going in to bowl at the Public Service, and we
block the balls.'
Clennam asked what became of the bowlers? The airy young Barnacle
replied that they grew tired, got dead beat, got lamed, got their backs
broken, died off, gave it up, went in for other games.
'And this occasions me to congratulate myself again,' he pursued,
'on the circumstance that our place has had nothing to do with your
temporary retirement. It very easily might have had a hand in it;
because it is undeniable that we are sometimes a most unlucky place, in
our effects upon people who will not leave us alone. Mr Clennam, I am
quite unreserved with you. As between yourself and myself, I know I may
be. I was so, when I first saw you making the mistake of not leaving us
alone; because I perceived that you were inexperienced and sanguine, and
had--I hope you'll not object to my saying--some simplicity?'
'Not at all.'
'Some simplicity. Therefore I felt what a pity it was, and I went out
of my way to hint to you (which really was not official, but I never am
official when I can help it) something to the effect that if I were you,
I wouldn't bother myself. However, you did bother yourself, and you have
since bothered yourself. Now, don't do it any more.'
'I am not likely to have the opportunity,' said Clennam.
'Oh yes, you are! You'll leave here. Everybody leaves here. There are no
ends of ways of leaving here. Now, don't come back to us. That entreaty
is the second object of my call. Pray, don't come back to us. Upon my
honour,' said Ferdinand in a very friendly and confiding way, 'I shall
be greatly vexed if you don't take warning by the past and keep away
from us.'
'And the invention?' said Clennam.
'My good fellow,' returned Ferdinand, 'if you'll excuse the freedom of
that form of address, nobody wants to know of the invention, and nobody
cares twopence-halfpenny about it.'
'Nobody in the Office, that is to say?'
'Nor out of it. Everybody is ready to dislike and ridicule any
invention. You have no idea how many people want to be left alone.
You have no idea how the Genius of the country (overlook the
Parliamentary nature of the phrase, and don't be bored by it) tends
to being left alone. Believe me, Mr Clennam,' said the sprightly young
Barnacle in his pleasantest manner, 'our place is not a wicked Giant to
be charged at full tilt; but only a windmill showing you, as it grinds
immense quantities of chaff, which way the country wind blows.'
'If I could believe that,' said Clennam, 'it would be a dismal prospect
for all of us.'
'Oh! Don't say so!' returned Ferdinand. 'It's all right. We must have
humbug, we all like humbug, we couldn't get on without humbug. A little
humbug, and a groove, and everything goes on admirably, if you leave it
alone.'
With this hopeful confession of his faith as the head of the rising
Barnacles who were born of woman, to be followed under a variety of
watchwords which they utterly repudiated and disbelieved, Ferdinand
rose. Nothing could be more agreeable than his frank and courteous
bearing, or adapted with a more gentlemanly instinct to the
circumstances of his visit.
'Is it fair to ask,' he said, as Clennam gave him his hand with a real
feeling of thankfulness for his candour and good-humour, 'whether it
is true that our late lamented Merdle is the cause of this passing
inconvenience?'
'I am one of the many he has ruined. Yes.'
'He must have been an exceedingly clever fellow,' said Ferdinand
Barnacle.
Arthur, not being in the mood to extol the memory of the deceased, was
silent.
'A consummate rascal, of course,' said Ferdinand, 'but remarkably
clever! One cannot help admiring the fellow. Must have been such a
master of humbug. Knew people so well--got over them so completely--did
so much with them!'
In his easy way, he was really moved to genuine admiration.
'I hope,' said Arthur, 'that he and his dupes may be a warning to people
not to have so much done with them again.'
'My dear Mr Clennam,' returned Ferdinand, laughing, 'have you really
such a verdant hope? The next man who has as large a capacity and as
genuine a taste for swindling, will succeed as well. Pardon me, but
I think you really have no idea how the human bees will swarm to the
beating of any old tin kettle; in that fact lies the complete manual of
governing them. When they can be got to believe that the kettle is made
of the precious metals, in that fact lies the whole power of men like
our late lamented. No doubt there are here and there,' said Ferdinand
politely, 'exceptional cases, where people have been taken in for what
appeared to them to be much better reasons; and I need not go far to
find such a case; but they don't invalidate the rule. Good day! I hope
that when I have the pleasure of seeing you, next, this passing cloud
will have given place to sunshine. Don't come a step beyond the door. I
know the way out perfectly. Good day!'
With those words, the best and brightest of the Barnacles went
down-stairs, hummed his way through the Lodge, mounted his horse in the
front court-yard, and rode off to keep an appointment with his noble
kinsman, who wanted a little coaching before he could triumphantly
answer certain infidel Snobs who were going to question the Nobs about
their statesmanship.
He must have passed Mr Rugg on his way out, for, a minute or two
afterwards, that ruddy-headed gentleman shone in at the door, like an
elderly Phoebus.
'How do you do to-day, sir?' said Mr Rugg. 'Is there any little thing I
can do for you to-day, sir?'
'No, I thank you.'
Mr Rugg's enjoyment of embarrassed affairs was like a housekeeper's
enjoyment in pickling and preserving, or a washerwoman's enjoyment of a
heavy wash, or a dustman's enjoyment of an overflowing dust-bin, or any
other professional enjoyment of a mess in the way of business.
'I still look round, from time to time, sir,' said Mr Rugg, cheerfully,
'to see whether any lingering Detainers are accumulating at the gate.
They have fallen in pretty thick, sir; as thick as we could have
expected.'
He remarked upon the circumstance as if it were matter of
congratulation: rubbing his hands briskly, and rolling his head a
little.
'As thick,' repeated Mr Rugg, 'as we could reasonably have expected.
Quite a shower-bath of 'em. I don't often intrude upon you now, when I
look round, because I know you are not inclined for company, and that if
you wished to see me, you would leave word in the Lodge. But I am here
pretty well every day, sir. Would this be an unseasonable time, sir,'
asked Mr Rugg, coaxingly, 'for me to offer an observation?'
'As seasonable a time as any other.'
'Hum! Public opinion, sir,' said Mr Rugg, 'has been busy with you.'
'I don't doubt it.'
'Might it not be advisable, sir,' said Mr Rugg, more coaxingly yet, 'now
to make, at last and after all, a trifling concession to public opinion?
We all do it in one way or another. The fact is, we must do it.'
'I cannot set myself right with it, Mr Rugg, and have no business to
expect that I ever shall.'
'Don't say that, sir, don't say that. The cost of being moved to the
Bench is almost insignificant, and if the general feeling is strong that
you ought to be there, why--really--'
'I thought you had settled, Mr Rugg,' said Arthur, 'that my
determination to remain here was a matter of taste.'
'Well, sir, well! But is it good taste, is it good taste? That's the
Question.' Mr Rugg was so soothingly persuasive as to be quite pathetic.
'I was almost going to say, is it good feeling? This is an extensive
affair of yours; and your remaining here where a man can come for a
pound or two, is remarked upon as not in keeping. It is not in keeping.
I can't tell you, sir, in how many quarters I heard it mentioned. I
heard comments made upon it last night in a Parlour frequented by what
I should call, if I did not look in there now and then myself, the best
legal company--I heard, there, comments on it that I was sorry to hear.
They hurt me on your account. Again, only this morning at breakfast. My
daughter (but a woman, you'll say: yet still with a feeling for these
things, and even with some little personal experience, as the plaintiff
in Rugg and Bawkins) was expressing her great surprise; her great
surprise. Now under these circumstances, and considering that none of
us can quite set ourselves above public opinion, wouldn't a trifling
concession to that opinion be--Come, sir,' said Rugg, 'I will put it on
the lowest ground of argument, and say, Amiable?'
Arthur's thoughts had once more wandered away to Little Dorrit, and the
question remained unanswered.
'As to myself, sir,' said Mr Rugg, hoping that his eloquence had reduced
him to a state of indecision, 'it is a principle of mine not to consider
myself when a client's inclinations are in the scale. But, knowing your
considerate character and general wish to oblige, I will repeat that I
should prefer your being in the Bench. Your case has made a noise; it
is a creditable case to be professionally concerned in; I should feel on
a better standing with my connection, if you went to the Bench. Don't
let that influence you, sir. I merely state the fact.'
So errant had the prisoner's attention already grown in solitude and
dejection, and so accustomed had it become to commune with only one
silent figure within the ever-frowning walls, that Clennam had to shake
off a kind of stupor before he could look at Mr Rugg, recall the thread
of his talk, and hurriedly say, 'I am unchanged, and unchangeable, in my
decision. Pray, let it be; let it be!' Mr Rugg, without concealing that
he was nettled and mortified, replied:
'Oh! Beyond a doubt, sir. I have travelled out of the record, sir, I am
aware, in putting the point to you. But really, when I hear it remarked
in several companies, and in very good company, that however worthy of a
foreigner, it is not worthy of the spirit of an Englishman to remain in
the Marshalsea when the glorious liberties of his island home admit
of his removal to the Bench, I thought I would depart from the narrow
professional line marked out to me, and mention it. Personally,' said Mr
Rugg, 'I have no opinion on the topic.'
'That's well,' returned Arthur.
'Oh! None at all, sir!' said Mr Rugg. 'If I had, I should have been
unwilling, some minutes ago, to see a client of mine visited in this
place by a gentleman of a high family riding a saddle-horse. But it was
not my business. If I had, I might have wished to be now empowered to
mention to another gentleman, a gentleman of military exterior at
present waiting in the Lodge, that my client had never intended to
remain here, and was on the eve of removal to a superior abode. But my
course as a professional machine is clear; I have nothing to do with it.
Is it your good pleasure to see the gentleman, sir?'
'Who is waiting to see me, did you say?'
'I did take that unprofessional liberty, sir. Hearing that I was your
professional adviser, he declined to interpose before my very limited
function was performed. Happily,' said Mr Rugg, with sarcasm, 'I did not
so far travel out of the record as to ask the gentleman for his name.'
'I suppose I have no resource but to see him,' sighed Clennam, wearily.
'Then it _is_ your good pleasure, sir?' retorted Rugg. 'Am I honoured by
your instructions to mention as much to the gentleman, as I pass out? I
am? Thank you, sir. I take my leave.' His leave he took accordingly, in
dudgeon.
The gentleman of military exterior had so imperfectly awakened Clennam's
curiosity, in the existing state of his mind, that a half-forgetfulness
of such a visitor's having been referred to, was already creeping over
it as a part of the sombre veil which almost always dimmed it now, when
a heavy footstep on the stairs aroused him. It appeared to ascend them,
not very promptly or spontaneously, yet with a display of stride and
clatter meant to be insulting. As it paused for a moment on the
landing outside his door, he could not recall his association with the
peculiarity of its sound, though he thought he had one. Only a moment
was given him for consideration. His door was immediately swung open
by a thump, and in the doorway stood the missing Blandois, the cause of
many anxieties.
'Salve, fellow jail-bird!' said he. 'You want me, it seems. Here I am!'
Before Arthur could speak to him in his indignant wonder, Cavalletto
followed him into the room. Mr Pancks followed Cavalletto. Neither of
the two had been there since its present occupant had had possession of
it. Mr Pancks, breathing hard, sidled near the window, put his hat on
the ground, stirred his hair up with both hands, and folded his arms,
like a man who had come to a pause in a hard day's work. Mr Baptist,
never taking his eyes from his dreaded chum of old, softly sat down on
the floor with his back against the door and one of his ankles in
each hand: resuming the attitude (except that it was now expressive of
unwinking watchfulness) in which he had sat before the same man in the
deeper shade of another prison, one hot morning at Marseilles.
'I have it on the witnessing of these two madmen,' said Monsieur
Blandois, otherwise Lagnier, otherwise Rigaud, 'that you want me,
brother-bird. Here I am!'
Glancing round contemptuously at the bedstead, which was
turned up by day, he leaned his back against it as a resting-place,
without removing his hat from his head, and stood defiantly lounging
with his hands in his pockets.
'You villain of ill-omen!' said Arthur. 'You have purposely cast a
dreadful suspicion upon my mother's house. Why have you done it?
What prompted you to the devilish invention?'
Monsieur Rigaud, after frowning at him for a moment, laughed. 'Hear this
noble gentleman! Listen, all the world, to this creature of Virtue! But
take care, take care. It is possible, my friend, that your ardour is a
little compromising. Holy Blue! It is possible.'
'Signore!' interposed Cavalletto, also addressing Arthur: 'for to
commence, hear me! I received your instructions to find him, Rigaud; is
it not?'
'It is the truth.'
'I go, consequentementally,'--it would have given Mrs Plornish great
concern if she could have been persuaded that his occasional lengthening
of an adverb in this way, was the chief fault of his English,--'first
among my countrymen. I ask them what news in Londra, of foreigners
arrived. Then I go among the French. Then I go among the Germans. They
all tell me. The great part of us know well the other, and they all tell
me. But!--no person can tell me nothing of him, Rigaud. Fifteen times,'
said Cavalletto, thrice throwing out his left hand with all its fingers
spread, and doing it so rapidly that the sense of sight could hardly
follow the action, 'I ask of him in every place where go the foreigners;
and fifteen times,' repeating the same swift performance, 'they know
nothing. But!--'
At this significant Italian rest on the word 'But,' his backhanded shake
of his right forefinger came into play; a very little, and very
cautiously.
'But!--After a long time when I have not been able to find that he
is here in Londra, some one tells me of a soldier with white
hair--hey?--not hair like this that he carries--white--who lives retired
secrettementally, in a certain place. But!--' with another rest upon
the word, 'who sometimes in the after-dinner, walks, and smokes. It is
necessary, as they say in Italy (and as they know, poor people), to
have patience. I have patience. I ask where is this certain place. One.
believes it is here, one believes it is there. Eh well! It is not here,
it is not there. I wait patientissamentally. At last I find it. Then I
watch; then I hide, until he walks and smokes. He is a soldier with grey
hair--But!--' a very decided rest indeed, and a very vigorous play from
side to side of the back-handed forefinger--'he is also this man that
you see.'
It was noticeable, that, in his old habit of submission to one who had
been at the trouble of asserting superiority over him, he even then
bestowed upon Rigaud a confused bend of his head, after thus pointing
him out.
'Eh well, Signore!' he cried in conclusion, addressing Arthur again. 'I
waited for a good opportunity. I writed some words to Signor Panco,' an
air of novelty came over Mr Pancks with this designation, 'to come and
help. I showed him, Rigaud, at his window, to Signor Panco, who was
often the spy in the day. I slept at night near the door of the house.
At last we entered, only this to-day, and now you see him! As he would
not come up in presence of the illustrious Advocate,' such was Mr
Baptist's honourable mention of Mr Rugg, 'we waited down below there,
together, and Signor Panco guarded the street.'
At the close of this recital, Arthur turned his eyes upon the impudent
and wicked face. As it met his, the nose came down over the moustache
and the moustache went up under the nose. When nose and moustache had
settled into their places again, Monsieur Rigaud loudly snapped his
fingers half-a-dozen times; bending forward to jerk the snaps at Arthur,
as if they were palpable missiles which he jerked into his face.
'Now, Philosopher!' said Rigaud. 'What do you want with me?'
'I want to know,' returned Arthur, without disguising his abhorrence,
'how you dare direct a suspicion of murder against my mother's house?'
'Dare!' cried Rigaud. 'Ho, ho! Hear him! Dare? Is it dare? By Heaven, my
small boy, but you are a little imprudent!'
'I want that suspicion to be cleared away,' said Arthur. 'You shall
be taken there, and be publicly seen. I want to know, moreover,
what business you had there when I had a burning desire to fling you
down-stairs. Don't frown at me, man! I have seen enough of you to know
that you are a bully and coward. I need no revival of my spirits from
the effects of this wretched place to tell you so plain a fact, and one
that you know so well.'
White to the lips, Rigaud stroked his moustache, muttering, 'By Heaven,
my small boy, but you are a little compromising of my lady, your
respectable mother'--and seemed for a minute undecided how to act.
His indecision was soon gone. He sat himself down with a threatening
swagger, and said:
'Give me a bottle of wine. You can buy wine here. Send one of your
madmen to get me a bottle of wine. I won't talk to you without wine.
Come! Yes or no?'
'Fetch him what he wants, Cavalletto,' said Arthur, scornfully,
producing the money.
'Contraband beast,' added Rigaud, 'bring Port wine! I'll drink nothing
but Porto-Porto.'
The contraband beast, however, assuring all present, with his
significant finger, that he peremptorily declined to leave his post at
the door, Signor Panco offered his services. He soon returned with the
bottle of wine: which, according to the custom of the place, originating
in a scarcity of corkscrews among the Collegians (in common with a
scarcity of much else), was already opened for use.
'Madman! A large glass,' said Rigaud.
Signor Panco put a tumbler before him; not without a visible conflict of
feeling on the question of throwing it at his head.
'Haha!' boasted Rigaud. 'Once a gentleman, and always a gentleman.
A gentleman from the beginning, and a gentleman to the end. What
the Devil! A gentleman must be waited on, I hope? It's a part of my
character to be waited on!'
He half filled the tumbler as he said it, and drank off the contents
when he had done saying it.
'Hah!' smacking his lips. 'Not a very old prisoner _that_! I judge by
your looks, brave sir, that imprisonment will subdue your blood much
sooner than it softens this hot wine. You are mellowing--losing body
and colour already. I salute you!'
He tossed off another half glass: holding it up both before and
afterwards, so as to display his small, white hand.
'To business,' he then continued. 'To conversation. You have shown
yourself more free of speech than body, sir.'
'I have used the freedom of telling you what you know yourself to be.
You know yourself, as we all know you, to be far worse than that.'
'Add, always a gentleman, and it's no matter. Except in that regard, we
are all alike. For example: you couldn't for your life be a gentleman;
I couldn't for my life be otherwise. How great the difference! Let us go
on. Words, sir, never influence the course of the cards, or the course
of the dice. Do you know that? You do? I also play a game, and words are
without power over it.'
Now that he was confronted with Cavalletto, and knew that his story was
known--whatever thin disguise he had worn, he dropped; and faced it out,
with a bare face, as the infamous wretch he was.
'No, my son,' he resumed, with a snap of his fingers. 'I play my game
to the end in spite of words; and Death of my Body and Death of my Soul!
I'll win it. You want to know why I played this little trick that
you have interrupted? Know then that I had, and that I have--do you
understand me? have--a commodity to sell to my lady your respectable
mother. I described my precious commodity, and fixed my price. Touching
the bargain, your admirable mother was a little too calm, too stolid,
too immovable and statue-like. In fine, your admirable mother vexed me.
To make variety in my position, and to amuse myself--what! a gentleman
must be amused at somebody's expense!--I conceived the happy idea of
disappearing. An idea, see you, that your characteristic mother and my
Flintwinch would have been well enough pleased to execute. Ah! Bah,
bah, bah, don't look as from high to low at me! I repeat it. Well enough
pleased, excessively enchanted, and with all their hearts ravished. How
strongly will you have it?'
He threw out the lees of his glass on the ground, so that they nearly
spattered Cavalletto. This seemed to draw his attention to him anew. He
set down his glass and said:
'I'll not fill it. What! I am born to be served. Come then, you
Cavalletto, and fill!'
The little man looked at Clennam, whose eyes were occupied with Rigaud,
and, seeing no prohibition, got up from the ground, and poured out
from the bottle into the glass. The blending, as he did so, of his old
submission with a sense of something humorous; the striving of that
with a certain smouldering ferocity, which might have flashed fire in
an instant (as the born gentleman seemed to think, for he had a wary
eye upon him); and the easy yielding of all to a good-natured, careless,
predominant propensity to sit down on the ground again: formed a very
remarkable combination of character.
'This happy idea, brave sir,' Rigaud resumed after drinking, 'was a
happy idea for several reasons. It amused me, it worried your dear
mama and my Flintwinch, it caused you agonies (my terms for a lesson
in politeness towards a gentleman), and it suggested to all the amiable
persons interested that your entirely devoted is a man to fear. By
Heaven, he is a man to fear! Beyond this; it might have restored her wit
to my lady your mother--might, under the pressing little suspicion your
wisdom has recognised, have persuaded her at last to announce, covertly,
in the journals, that the difficulties of a certain contract would be
removed by the appearance of a certain important party to it. Perhaps
yes, perhaps no. But that, you have interrupted. Now, what is it you
say? What is it you want?'
Never had Clennam felt more acutely that he was a prisoner in bonds,
than when he saw this man before him, and could not accompany him to his
mother's house. All the undiscernible difficulties and dangers he had
ever feared were closing in, when he could not stir hand or foot.
'Perhaps, my friend, philosopher, man of virtue, Imbecile, what you
will; perhaps,' said Rigaud, pausing in his drink to look out of his
glass with his horrible smile, 'you would have done better to leave me
alone?'
'No! At least,' said Clennam, 'you are known to be alive and unharmed.
At least you cannot escape from these two witnesses; and they can
produce you before any public authorities, or before hundreds of
people!'
'But will not produce me before one,' said Rigaud, snapping his
fingers again with an air of triumphant menace. 'To the Devil with your
witnesses! To the Devil with your produced! To the Devil with yourself!
What! Do I know what I know, for that? Have I my commodity on sale, for
that? Bah, poor debtor! You have interrupted my little project. Let it
pass. How then? What remains? To you, nothing; to me, all. Produce
_me_! Is that what you want? I will produce myself, only too quickly.
Contrabandist! Give me pen, ink, and paper.'
Cavalletto got up again as before, and laid them before him in his
former manner. Rigaud, after some villainous thinking and smiling,
wrote, and read aloud, as follows:
'To MRS CLENNAM.
'Wait answer.
'Prison of the Marshalsea.
'At the apartment of your son.
'Dear Madam,
'I am in despair to be informed to-day by our prisoner here
(who has had the goodness to employ spies to seek me, living for politic
reasons in retirement), that you have had fears for my safety.
'Reassure yourself, dear madam. I am well, I am strong and constant.
'With the greatest impatience I should fly to your house, but that I
foresee it to be possible, under the circumstances, that you will not
yet have quite definitively arranged the little proposition I have had
the honour to submit to you. I name one week from this day, for a last
final visit on my part; when you will unconditionally accept it or
reject it, with its train of consequences.
'I suppress my ardour to embrace you and achieve this interesting
business, in order that you may have leisure to adjust its details to
our perfect mutual satisfaction.
'In the meanwhile, it is not too much to propose (our prisoner having
deranged my housekeeping), that my expenses of lodging and nourishment
at an hotel shall be paid by you.
'Receive, dear madam, the assurance of my highest and most distinguished
consideration,
'RIGAUD BLANDOIS.
'A thousand friendships to that dear Flintwinch.
'I kiss the hands of Madame F.'
When he had finished this epistle, Rigaud folded it and tossed it with
a flourish at Clennam's feet. 'Hola you! Apropos of producing, let
somebody produce that at its address, and produce the answer here.'
'Cavalletto,' said Arthur. 'Will you take this fellow's letter?'
But, Cavalletto's significant finger again expressing that his post was
at the door to keep watch over Rigaud, now he had found him with so much
trouble, and that the duty of his post was to sit on the floor backed up
by the door, looking at Rigaud and holding his own ankles,--Signor Panco
once more volunteered. His services being accepted, Cavalletto suffered
the door to open barely wide enough to admit of his squeezing himself
out, and immediately shut it on him.
'Touch me with a finger, touch me with an epithet, question my
superiority as I sit here drinking my wine at my pleasure,' said Rigaud,
'and I follow the letter and cancel my week's grace. _You_ wanted me? You
have got me! How do you like me?'
'You know,' returned Clennam, with a bitter sense of his helplessness,
'that when I sought you, I was not a prisoner.'
'To the Devil with you and your prison,' retorted Rigaud, leisurely,
as he took from his pocket a case containing the materials for making
cigarettes, and employed his facile hands in folding a few for present
use; 'I care for neither of you. Contrabandist! A light.'
Again Cavalletto got up, and gave him what he wanted. There had been
something dreadful in the noiseless skill of his cold, white hands, with
the fingers lithely twisting about and twining one over another like
serpents. Clennam could not prevent himself from shuddering inwardly, as
if he had been looking on at a nest of those creatures.
'Hola, Pig!' cried Rigaud, with a noisy stimulating cry, as if
Cavalletto were an Italian horse or mule. 'What! The infernal old jail
was a respectable one to this. There was dignity in the bars and stones
of that place. It was a prison for men. But this? Bah! A hospital for
imbeciles!'
He smoked his cigarette out, with his ugly smile so fixed upon his face
that he looked as though he were smoking with his drooping beak of a
nose, rather than with his mouth; like a fancy in a weird picture. When
he had lighted a second cigarette at the still burning end of the first,
he said to Clennam:
'One must pass the time in the madman's absence. One must talk. One
can't drink strong wine all day long, or I would have another bottle.
She's handsome, sir. Though not exactly to my taste, still, by
the Thunder and the Lightning! handsome. I felicitate you on your
admiration.'
'I neither know nor ask,' said Clennam, 'of whom you speak.'
'Della bella Gowana, sir, as they say in Italy. Of the Gowan, the fair
Gowan.'
'Of whose husband you were the--follower, I think?'
'Sir? Follower? You are insolent. The friend.'
'Do you sell all your friends?'
Rigaud took his cigarette from his mouth, and eyed him with a momentary
revelation of surprise. But he put it between his lips again, as he
answered with coolness:
'I sell anything that commands a price. How do your lawyers live, your
politicians, your intriguers, your men of the Exchange? How do you live?
How do you come here? Have you sold no friend? Lady of mine! I rather
think, yes!'
Clennam turned away from him towards the window, and sat looking out at
the wall.
'Effectively, sir,' said Rigaud, 'Society sells itself and sells me: and
I sell Society. I perceive you have acquaintance with another lady. Also
handsome. A strong spirit. Let us see. How do they call her? Wade.'
He received no answer, but could easily discern that he had hit the
mark.
'Yes,' he went on, 'that handsome lady and strong spirit addresses me in
the street, and I am not insensible. I respond. That handsome lady and
strong spirit does me the favour to remark, in full confidence, "I have
my curiosity, and I have my chagrins. You are not more than ordinarily
honourable, perhaps?" I announce myself, "Madame, a gentleman from
the birth, and a gentleman to the death; but _not_ more than ordinarily
honourable. I despise such a weak fantasy." Thereupon she is pleased to
compliment. "The difference between you and the rest is," she answers,
"that you say so." For she knows Society. I accept her congratulations
with gallantry and politeness. Politeness and little gallantries are
inseparable from my character. She then makes a proposition, which is,
in effect, that she has seen us much together; that it appears to her
that I am for the passing time the cat of the house, the friend of
the family; that her curiosity and her chagrins awaken the fancy to be
acquainted with their movements, to know the manner of their life, how
the fair Gowana is beloved, how the fair Gowana is cherished, and so
on. She is not rich, but offers such and such little recompenses for the
little cares and derangements of such services; and I graciously--to do
everything graciously is a part of my character--consent to accept them.
O yes! So goes the world. It is the mode.'
Though Clennam's back was turned while he spoke, and thenceforth to the
end of the interview, he kept those glittering eyes of his that were too
near together, upon him, and evidently saw in the very carriage of the
head, as he passed with his braggart recklessness from clause to clause
of what he said, that he was saying nothing which Clennam did not
already know.
'Whoof! The fair Gowana!' he said, lighting a third cigarette with a
sound as if his lightest breath could blow her away. 'Charming, but
imprudent! For it was not well of the fair Gowana to make mysteries of
letters from old lovers, in her bedchamber on the mountain, that her
husband might not see them. No, no. That was not well. Whoof! The Gowana
was mistaken there.'
'I earnestly hope,' cried Arthur aloud, 'that Pancks may not be long
gone, for this man's presence pollutes the room.'
'Ah! But he'll flourish here, and everywhere,' said Rigaud, with an
exulting look and snap of his fingers. 'He always has; he always will!'
Stretching his body out on the only three chairs in the room besides
that on which Clennam sat, he sang, smiting himself on the breast as the
gallant personage of the song.
'Who passes by this road so late?
Compagnon de la Majolaine!
Who passes by this road so late?
Always gay!
'Sing the Refrain, pig! You could sing it once, in another jail. Sing
it! Or, by every Saint who was stoned to death, I'll be affronted and
compromising; and then some people who are not dead yet, had better have
been stoned along with them!'
'Of all the king's knights 'tis the flower,
Compagnon de la Majolaine!
Of all the king's knights 'tis the flower,
Always gay!'
Partly in his old habit of submission, partly because his not doing it
might injure his benefactor, and partly because he would as soon do
it as anything else, Cavalletto took up the Refrain this time. Rigaud
laughed, and fell to smoking with his eyes shut.
Possibly another quarter of an hour elapsed before Mr Pancks's step was
heard upon the stairs, but the interval seemed to Clennam insupportably
long. His step was attended by another step; and when Cavalletto opened
the door, he admitted Mr Pancks and Mr Flintwinch. The latter was no
sooner visible, than Rigaud rushed at him and embraced him boisterously.
'How do you find yourself, sir?' said Mr Flintwinch, as soon as he could
disengage himself, which he struggled to do with very little ceremony.
'Thank you, no; I don't want any more.' This was in reference to another
menace of attention from his recovered friend. 'Well, Arthur. You
remember what I said to you about sleeping dogs and missing ones. It's
come true, you see.'
He was as imperturbable as ever, to all appearance, and nodded his head
in a moralising way as he looked round the room.
'And this is the Marshalsea prison for debt!' said Mr Flintwinch. 'Hah!
you have brought your pigs to a very indifferent market, Arthur.'
If Arthur had patience, Rigaud had not. He took his little Flintwinch,
with fierce playfulness, by the two lapels of his coat, and cried:
'To the Devil with the Market, to the Devil with the Pigs, and to the
Devil with the Pig-Driver! Now! Give me the answer to my letter.'
'If you can make it convenient to let go a moment, sir,' returned Mr
Flintwinch, 'I'll first hand Mr Arthur a little note that I have for
him.'
He did so. It was in his mother's maimed writing, on a slip of paper,
and contained only these words:
'I hope it is enough that you have ruined yourself. Rest contented
without more ruin. Jeremiah Flintwinch is my messenger and
representative. Your affectionate M. C.'
Clennam read this twice, in silence, and then tore it to pieces. Rigaud
in the meanwhile stepped into a chair, and sat himself on the back with
his feet upon the seat.
'Now, Beau Flintwinch,' he said, when he had closely watched the note to
its destruction, 'the answer to my letter?'
'Mrs Clennam did not write, Mr Blandois, her hands being cramped,
and she thinking it as well to send it verbally by me.' Mr Flintwinch
screwed this out of himself, unwillingly and rustily. 'She sends
her compliments, and says she doesn't on the whole wish to term
you unreasonable, and that she agrees. But without prejudicing the
appointment that stands for this day week.'
Monsieur Rigaud, after indulging in a fit of laughter, descended from
his throne, saying, 'Good! I go to seek an hotel!' But, there his eyes
encountered Cavalletto, who was still at his post.
'Come, Pig,' he added, 'I have had you for a follower against my will;
now, I'll have you against yours. I tell you, my little reptiles, I
am born to be served. I demand the service of this contrabandist as my
domestic until this day week.'
In answer to Cavalletto's look of inquiry, Clennam made him a sign
to go; but he added aloud, 'unless you are afraid of him.' Cavalletto
replied with a very emphatic finger-negative.'No, master, I am not
afraid of him, when I no more keep it secrettementally that he was once
my comrade.' Rigaud took no notice of either remark until he had lighted
his last cigarette and was quite ready for walking.
'Afraid of him,' he said then, looking round upon them all. 'Whoof! My
children, my babies, my little dolls, you are all afraid of him. You
give him his bottle of wine here; you give him meat, drink, and lodging
there; you dare not touch him with a finger or an epithet. No. It is his
character to triumph! Whoof!
'Of all the king's knights he's the flower,
And he's always gay!'
With this adaptation of the Refrain to himself, he stalked out of the
room closely followed by Cavalletto, whom perhaps he had pressed into
his service because he tolerably well knew it would not be easy to get
rid of him. Mr Flintwinch, after scraping his chin, and looking about
with caustic disparagement of the Pig-Market, nodded to Arthur, and
followed. Mr Pancks, still penitent and depressed, followed too; after
receiving with great attention a secret word or two of instructions from
Arthur, and whispering back that he would see this affair out, and stand
by it to the end. The prisoner, with the feeling that he was more
despised, more scorned and repudiated, more helpless, altogether more
miserable and fallen than before, was left alone again. | Arthur is still way depressed and behind bars. He is totally antisocial and mostly just mopes around, miserable. One day, Ferdinand Barnacle, the one not-so-dumb Circumlocution Office employee, comes to visit him. We have to admit, this visit is sort of confusing. Why on earth would this guy come see Arthur in jail? But whatevs. Ferdinand basically comes to tell Arthur to lay off the Doyce invention business once and for all. Arthur is sort of confused, and Ferdinand tells him this basic truth about people: "nobody wants to know of the invention, and nobody cares twopence-halfpenny about it Everybody is ready to dislike and ridicule any invention. You have no idea how many people want to be left alone" . They then talk a little bit about Merdle and the crash. Next Arthur has a visit from Mr. Rugg. Mr. Rugg is there to tell him that it looks bad that he's in the Marshalsea - where the most low-class debtors also put - instead of the fancy new jail, which is just for the super-broke. Arthur says no, and Rugg tells him that there's a soldier waiting to see him. A soldier? What the what? Into the room come Pancks, Cavalletto, and... Blandois! Shocker! Cavalletto tells Arthur how by asking around all the immigrant communities of London, he finally managed to locate Blandois, who had been living in disguise as a retired soldier. Arthur demands why Blandois disappeared and created suspicion around Mrs. Clennam. Blandois tells him that he had a certain thing to sell to Mrs. Clennam, and when she wouldn't meet his price, he decided to make himself scarce for a while. Arthur is furious and frustrated that, because he is in jail, he can't take Blandois to Mrs. Clennam's house and clear her name. Instead, he gets him a pen and paper and makes him write a letter to his mother explaining where he's been. The letter also says that she better come up with the money in a week. Pancks goes out with the letter. Blandois starts talking about Pet, and how good-looking she is. Arthur kind of mocks him for being Gowan's servant - and when Blandois answers that he isn't a servant but rather a friend, Arthur is all, oh, a friend who sells out his friends? Thus, Blandois knows that Arthur knows all about the spying he was doing on the Gowans for Miss Wade. Eventually, Flintwinch shows up with an answer to the letter. But first - a letter for Arthur from his mother that basically says she's totally writing him off, since he's landed in debtor's jail. Thanks, mom. The answer to Blandois is - sounds good . Everyone leaves the room, and Cavalletto follows Blandois out. |
ACT II. SCENE I.
A wood near Athens
Enter a FAIRY at One door, and PUCK at another
PUCK. How now, spirit! whither wander you?
FAIRY. Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, through brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, through fire,
I do wander every where,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And I serve the Fairy Queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours.
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone.
Our Queen and all her elves come here anon.
PUCK. The King doth keep his revels here to-night;
Take heed the Queen come not within his sight;
For Oberon is passing fell and wrath,
Because that she as her attendant hath
A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king.
She never had so sweet a changeling;
And jealous Oberon would have the child
Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild;
But she perforce withholds the loved boy,
Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy.
And now they never meet in grove or green,
By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen,
But they do square, that all their elves for fear
Creep into acorn cups and hide them there.
FAIRY. Either I mistake your shape and making quite,
Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite
Call'd Robin Goodfellow. Are not you he
That frights the maidens of the villagery,
Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern,
And bootless make the breathless housewife churn,
And sometime make the drink to bear no barm,
Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?
Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck,
You do their work, and they shall have good luck.
Are not you he?
PUCK. Thou speakest aright:
I am that merry wanderer of the night.
I jest to Oberon, and make him smile
When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,
Neighing in likeness of a filly foal;
And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl
In very likeness of a roasted crab,
And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob,
And on her withered dewlap pour the ale.
The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,
Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me;
Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,
And 'tailor' cries, and falls into a cough;
And then the whole quire hold their hips and laugh,
And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear
A merrier hour was never wasted there.
But room, fairy, here comes Oberon.
FAIRY. And here my mistress. Would that he were gone!
Enter OBERON at one door, with his TRAIN, and TITANIA,
at another, with hers
OBERON. Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.
TITANIA. What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence;
I have forsworn his bed and company.
OBERON. Tarry, rash wanton; am not I thy lord?
TITANIA. Then I must be thy lady; but I know
When thou hast stolen away from fairy land,
And in the shape of Corin sat all day,
Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love
To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here,
Come from the farthest steep of India,
But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon,
Your buskin'd mistress and your warrior love,
To Theseus must be wedded, and you come
To give their bed joy and prosperity?
OBERON. How canst thou thus, for shame, Titania,
Glance at my credit with Hippolyta,
Knowing I know thy love to Theseus?
Didst not thou lead him through the glimmering night
From Perigouna, whom he ravished?
And make him with fair Aegles break his faith,
With Ariadne and Antiopa?
TITANIA. These are the forgeries of jealousy;
And never, since the middle summer's spring,
Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead,
By paved fountain, or by rushy brook,
Or in the beached margent of the sea,
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,
But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport.
Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,
As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea
Contagious fogs; which, falling in the land,
Hath every pelting river made so proud
That they have overborne their continents.
The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain,
The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn
Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard;
The fold stands empty in the drowned field,
And crows are fatted with the murrion flock;
The nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud,
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green,
For lack of tread, are undistinguishable.
The human mortals want their winter here;
No night is now with hymn or carol blest;
Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,
Pale in her anger, washes all the air,
That rheumatic diseases do abound.
And through this distemperature we see
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose;
And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer,
The childing autumn, angry winter, change
Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which.
And this same progeny of evils comes
From our debate, from our dissension;
We are their parents and original.
OBERON. Do you amend it, then; it lies in you.
Why should Titania cross her Oberon?
I do but beg a little changeling boy
To be my henchman.
TITANIA. Set your heart at rest;
The fairy land buys not the child of me.
His mother was a vot'ress of my order;
And, in the spiced Indian air, by night,
Full often hath she gossip'd by my side;
And sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands,
Marking th' embarked traders on the flood;
When we have laugh'd to see the sails conceive,
And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind;
Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait
Following- her womb then rich with my young squire-
Would imitate, and sail upon the land,
To fetch me trifles, and return again,
As from a voyage, rich with merchandise.
But she, being mortal, of that boy did die;
And for her sake do I rear up her boy;
And for her sake I will not part with him.
OBERON. How long within this wood intend you stay?
TITANIA. Perchance till after Theseus' wedding-day.
If you will patiently dance in our round,
And see our moonlight revels, go with us;
If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts.
OBERON. Give me that boy and I will go with thee.
TITANIA. Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away.
We shall chide downright if I longer stay.
Exit TITANIA with her train
OBERON. Well, go thy way; thou shalt not from this grove
Till I torment thee for this injury.
My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememb'rest
Since once I sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath
That the rude sea grew civil at her song,
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres
To hear the sea-maid's music.
PUCK. I remember.
OBERON. That very time I saw, but thou couldst not,
Flying between the cold moon and the earth
Cupid, all arm'd; a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal, throned by the west,
And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts;
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quench'd in the chaste beams of the wat'ry moon;
And the imperial vot'ress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell.
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,
And maidens call it Love-in-idleness.
Fetch me that flow'r, the herb I showed thee once.
The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Fetch me this herb, and be thou here again
Ere the leviathan can swim a league.
PUCK. I'll put a girdle round about the earth
In forty minutes. Exit PUCK
OBERON. Having once this juice,
I'll watch Titania when she is asleep,
And drop the liquor of it in her eyes;
The next thing then she waking looks upon,
Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull,
On meddling monkey, or on busy ape,
She shall pursue it with the soul of love.
And ere I take this charm from off her sight,
As I can take it with another herb,
I'll make her render up her page to me.
But who comes here? I am invisible;
And I will overhear their conference.
Enter DEMETRIUS, HELENA following him
DEMETRIUS. I love thee not, therefore pursue me not.
Where is Lysander and fair Hermia?
The one I'll slay, the other slayeth me.
Thou told'st me they were stol'n unto this wood,
And here am I, and wood within this wood,
Because I cannot meet my Hermia.
Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more.
HELENA. You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant;
But yet you draw not iron, for my heart
Is true as steel. Leave you your power to draw,
And I shall have no power to follow you.
DEMETRIUS. Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair?
Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth
Tell you I do not nor I cannot love you?
HELENA. And even for that do I love you the more.
I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius,
The more you beat me, I will fawn on you.
Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me,
Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave,
Unworthy as I am, to follow you.
What worser place can I beg in your love,
And yet a place of high respect with me,
Than to be used as you use your dog?
DEMETRIUS. Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit;
For I am sick when I do look on thee.
HELENA. And I am sick when I look not on you.
DEMETRIUS. You do impeach your modesty too much
To leave the city and commit yourself
Into the hands of one that loves you not;
To trust the opportunity of night,
And the ill counsel of a desert place,
With the rich worth of your virginity.
HELENA. Your virtue is my privilege for that:
It is not night when I do see your face,
Therefore I think I am not in the night;
Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company,
For you, in my respect, are all the world.
Then how can it be said I am alone
When all the world is here to look on me?
DEMETRIUS. I'll run from thee and hide me in the brakes,
And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts.
HELENA. The wildest hath not such a heart as you.
Run when you will; the story shall be chang'd:
Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase;
The dove pursues the griffin; the mild hind
Makes speed to catch the tiger- bootless speed,
When cowardice pursues and valour flies.
DEMETRIUS. I will not stay thy questions; let me go;
Or, if thou follow me, do not believe
But I shall do thee mischief in the wood.
HELENA. Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field,
You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius!
Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex.
We cannot fight for love as men may do;
We should be woo'd, and were not made to woo.
Exit DEMETRIUS
I'll follow thee, and make a heaven of hell,
To die upon the hand I love so well. Exit HELENA
OBERON. Fare thee well, nymph; ere he do leave this grove,
Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love.
Re-enter PUCK
Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer.
PUCK. Ay, there it is.
OBERON. I pray thee give it me.
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine;
There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,
Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight;
And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in;
And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes,
And make her full of hateful fantasies.
Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove:
A sweet Athenian lady is in love
With a disdainful youth; anoint his eyes;
But do it when the next thing he espies
May be the lady. Thou shalt know the man
By the Athenian garments he hath on.
Effect it with some care, that he may prove
More fond on her than she upon her love.
And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow.
PUCK. Fear not, my lord; your servant shall do so. Exeunt
SCENE II.
Another part of the wood
Enter TITANIA, with her train
TITANIA. Come now, a roundel and a fairy song;
Then, for the third part of a minute, hence:
Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds;
Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings,
To make my small elves coats; and some keep back
The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders
At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep;
Then to your offices, and let me rest.
The FAIRIES Sing
FIRST FAIRY. You spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong,
Come not near our fairy Queen.
CHORUS. Philomel with melody
Sing in our sweet lullaby.
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby.
Never harm
Nor spell nor charm
Come our lovely lady nigh.
So good night, with lullaby.
SECOND FAIRY. Weaving spiders, come not here;
Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence.
Beetles black, approach not near;
Worm nor snail do no offence.
CHORUS. Philomel with melody, etc. [TITANIA sleeps]
FIRST FAIRY. Hence away; now all is well.
One aloof stand sentinel. Exeunt FAIRIES
Enter OBERON and squeezes the flower on TITANIA'S eyelids
OBERON. What thou seest when thou dost wake,
Do it for thy true-love take;
Love and languish for his sake.
Be it ounce, or cat, or bear,
Pard, or boar with bristled hair,
In thy eye that shall appear
When thou wak'st, it is thy dear.
Wake when some vile thing is near. Exit
Enter LYSANDER and HERMIA
LYSANDER. Fair love, you faint with wand'ring in the wood;
And, to speak troth, I have forgot our way;
We'll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good,
And tarry for the comfort of the day.
HERMIA. Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed,
For I upon this bank will rest my head.
LYSANDER. One turf shall serve as pillow for us both;
One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth.
HERMIA. Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear,
Lie further off yet; do not lie so near.
LYSANDER. O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence!
Love takes the meaning in love's conference.
I mean that my heart unto yours is knit,
So that but one heart we can make of it;
Two bosoms interchained with an oath,
So then two bosoms and a single troth.
Then by your side no bed-room me deny,
For lying so, Hermia, I do not lie.
HERMIA. Lysander riddles very prettily.
Now much beshrew my manners and my pride,
If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied!
But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy
Lie further off, in human modesty;
Such separation as may well be said
Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid,
So far be distant; and good night, sweet friend.
Thy love ne'er alter till thy sweet life end!
LYSANDER. Amen, amen, to that fair prayer say I;
And then end life when I end loyalty!
Here is my bed; sleep give thee all his rest!
HERMIA. With half that wish the wisher's eyes be press'd!
[They sleep]
Enter PUCK
PUCK. Through the forest have I gone,
But Athenian found I none
On whose eyes I might approve
This flower's force in stirring love.
Night and silence- Who is here?
Weeds of Athens he doth wear:
This is he, my master said,
Despised the Athenian maid;
And here the maiden, sleeping sound,
On the dank and dirty ground.
Pretty soul! she durst not lie
Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy.
Churl, upon thy eyes I throw
All the power this charm doth owe:
When thou wak'st let love forbid
Sleep his seat on thy eyelid.
So awake when I am gone;
For I must now to Oberon. Exit
Enter DEMETRIUS and HELENA, running
HELENA. Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius.
DEMETRIUS. I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.
HELENA. O, wilt thou darkling leave me? Do not so.
DEMETRIUS. Stay on thy peril; I alone will go. Exit
HELENA. O, I am out of breath in this fond chase!
The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.
Happy is Hermia, wheresoe'er she lies,
For she hath blessed and attractive eyes.
How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears;
If so, my eyes are oft'ner wash'd than hers.
No, no, I am as ugly as a bear,
For beasts that meet me run away for fear;
Therefore no marvel though Demetrius
Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus.
What wicked and dissembling glass of mine
Made me compare with Hermia's sphery eyne?
But who is here? Lysander! on the ground!
Dead, or asleep? I see no blood, no wound.
Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake.
LYSANDER. [Waking] And run through fire I will for thy sweet
sake.
Transparent Helena! Nature shows art,
That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart.
Where is Demetrius? O, how fit a word
Is that vile name to perish on my sword!
HELENA. Do not say so, Lysander; say not so.
What though he love your Hermia? Lord, what though?
Yet Hermia still loves you; then be content.
LYSANDER. Content with Hermia! No: I do repent
The tedious minutes I with her have spent.
Not Hermia but Helena I love:
Who will not change a raven for a dove?
The will of man is by his reason sway'd,
And reason says you are the worthier maid.
Things growing are not ripe until their season;
So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason;
And touching now the point of human skill,
Reason becomes the marshal to my will,
And leads me to your eyes, where I o'erlook
Love's stories, written in Love's richest book.
HELENA. Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born?
When at your hands did I deserve this scorn?
Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man,
That I did never, no, nor never can,
Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye,
But you must flout my insufficiency?
Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do,
In such disdainful manner me to woo.
But fare you well; perforce I must confess
I thought you lord of more true gentleness.
O, that a lady of one man refus'd
Should of another therefore be abus'd! Exit
LYSANDER. She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there;
And never mayst thou come Lysander near!
For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things
The deepest loathing to the stomach brings,
Or as the heresies that men do leave
Are hated most of those they did deceive,
So thou, my surfeit and my heresy,
Of all be hated, but the most of me!
And, all my powers, address your love and might
To honour Helen, and to be her knight! Exit
HERMIA. [Starting] Help me, Lysander, help me; do thy best
To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast.
Ay me, for pity! What a dream was here!
Lysander, look how I do quake with fear.
Methought a serpent eat my heart away,
And you sat smiling at his cruel prey.
Lysander! What, remov'd? Lysander! lord!
What, out of hearing gone? No sound, no word?
Alack, where are you? Speak, an if you hear;
Speak, of all loves! I swoon almost with fear.
No? Then I well perceive you are not nigh.
Either death or you I'll find immediately. Exit | Scene One Robin Goodfellow, also called Puck, meets with a fairy who serves Queen Titania. She tells him that Titania is coming to the woods outside of Athens that night. Puck informs the fairy that it would be better if Titania and his master, Oberon, did not meet since they only quarrel when they do so. Seconds later both Oberon and Titania arrive onstage, both accompanied by their respective fairy followers. Immediately they begin an argument, with both of them accusing each other of infidelity and jealousy. Titania has stolen a young boy whom she keeps with her and spends her time caring for. Oberon, jealous of the attention the boy is receiving, demands that Titania give the boy to him, a request she refuses. After Titania departs, Oberon vows to get revenge on her for causing him embarrassment. He sends his puck to fetch some pansies, the juice of which is supposed to make a person love the first thing he or she sees upon waking up. Oberon's plan is to put the juice onto Titania's eyes while she sleeps, so that she will fall in love with the first animal she sees after waking up. Puck leaves him and Oberon hides himself. Demetrius and Helena arrive in the woods right next to where Oberon is hidden. Demetrius tells Helena to go away, and that he does not love her even though she has told him about Hermia and Lysander trying to run away. She threatens to chase him down if he should try to leave her in the woods. Oberon, having overheard the entire conversation, decides to make Demetrius fall in love with Helena. He tells Robin Goodfellow to take some of the juice and go anoint the eyes of the Athenian man in the woods, but doing so only when it is certain that the woman by his side will be the first person he sees. The puck agrees, and goes off to carry out his errand. Act Two, Scene Two Titania calls for a quick dance in the woods with her fairies, after which they sing her to sleep. Oberon takes the opportunity to sneak up and drop the pansy juice onto her closed eyelids. Soon thereafter Lysander and Hermia, tired of walking and having lost their way, decide to go to sleep as well. They lie down, but Hermia demands that Lysander sleep a short distance away in order to keep up her sense of modesty since she is not married to him yet. The puck enters, having vainly searched the woods for an Athenian. He spies Lysander lying apart from Hermia and deduces that this must be the hard-hearted Athenian which Oberon spoke about. Robin Goodfellow quickly drops some of the juice onto Lysander's eyes. Demetrius, followed closely by Helena, runs into the clearing where Lysander is lying asleep. She begs him to stop running away from her, but he refuses and leaves her there alone. Helena finally sees Lysander on the ground and shakes him awake, unwittingly becoming the first woman he sees when he opens his eyes. Lysander immediately falls in love with Helena, and tells her that he deeply loves her. She thinks it is a cruel joke and tells him to stop abusing her. Helena leaver, and Lysander decides to forget about Hermia and follow Helena instead. Hermia wakes up because she is scared about a dream she has had in which a serpent eats her heart. She calls for Lysander, but he is no longer near her. She then leaves her bed to go search for him. |
"Inconsistencies," answered Imlac, "cannot both be right,
but imputed to man they may both be true."--Rasselas.
The same night, when Mr. Bulstrode returned from a journey to Brassing
on business, his good wife met him in the entrance-hall and drew him
into his private sitting-room.
"Nicholas," she said, fixing her honest eyes upon him anxiously, "there
has been such a disagreeable man here asking for you--it has made me
quite uncomfortable."
"What kind of man, my dear," said Mr. Bulstrode, dreadfully certain of
the answer.
"A red-faced man with large whiskers, and most impudent in his manner.
He declared he was an old friend of yours, and said you would be sorry
not to see him. He wanted to wait for you here, but I told him he
could see you at the Bank to-morrow morning. Most impudent he
was!--stared at me, and said his friend Nick had luck in wives. I
don't believe he would have gone away, if Blucher had not happened to
break his chain and come running round on the gravel--for I was in the
garden; so I said, 'You'd better go away--the dog is very fierce, and I
can't hold him.' Do you really know anything of such a man?"
"I believe I know who he is, my dear," said Mr. Bulstrode, in his usual
subdued voice, "an unfortunate dissolute wretch, whom I helped too much
in days gone by. However, I presume you will not be troubled by him
again. He will probably come to the Bank--to beg, doubtless."
No more was said on the subject until the next day, when Mr. Bulstrode
had returned from the town and was dressing for dinner. His wife, not
sure that he was come home, looked into his dressing-room and saw him
with his coat and cravat off, leaning one arm on a chest of drawers and
staring absently at the ground. He started nervously and looked up as
she entered.
"You look very ill, Nicholas. Is there anything the matter?"
"I have a good deal of pain in my head," said Mr. Bulstrode, who was so
frequently ailing that his wife was always ready to believe in this
cause of depression.
"Sit down and let me sponge it with vinegar."
Physically Mr. Bulstrode did not want the vinegar, but morally the
affectionate attention soothed him. Though always polite, it was his
habit to receive such services with marital coolness, as his wife's
duty. But to-day, while she was bending over him, he said, "You are
very good, Harriet," in a tone which had something new in it to her
ear; she did not know exactly what the novelty was, but her woman's
solicitude shaped itself into a darting thought that he might be going
to have an illness.
"Has anything worried you?" she said. "Did that man come to you at the
Bank?"
"Yes; it was as I had supposed. He is a man who at one time might have
done better. But he has sunk into a drunken debauched creature."
"Is he quite gone away?" said Mrs. Bulstrode, anxiously but for certain
reasons she refrained from adding, "It was very disagreeable to hear
him calling himself a friend of yours." At that moment she would not
have liked to say anything which implied her habitual consciousness
that her husband's earlier connections were not quite on a level with
her own. Not that she knew much about them. That her husband had at
first been employed in a bank, that he had afterwards entered into what
he called city business and gained a fortune before he was
three-and-thirty, that he had married a widow who was much older than
himself--a Dissenter, and in other ways probably of that
disadvantageous quality usually perceptible in a first wife if inquired
into with the dispassionate judgment of a second--was almost as much as
she had cared to learn beyond the glimpses which Mr. Bulstrode's
narrative occasionally gave of his early bent towards religion, his
inclination to be a preacher, and his association with missionary and
philanthropic efforts. She believed in him as an excellent man whose
piety carried a peculiar eminence in belonging to a layman, whose
influence had turned her own mind toward seriousness, and whose share
of perishable good had been the means of raising her own position. But
she also liked to think that it was well in every sense for Mr.
Bulstrode to have won the hand of Harriet Vincy; whose family was
undeniable in a Middlemarch light--a better light surely than any
thrown in London thoroughfares or dissenting chapel-yards. The
unreformed provincial mind distrusted London; and while true religion
was everywhere saving, honest Mrs. Bulstrode was convinced that to be
saved in the Church was more respectable. She so much wished to ignore
towards others that her husband had ever been a London Dissenter, that
she liked to keep it out of sight even in talking to him. He was quite
aware of this; indeed in some respects he was rather afraid of this
ingenuous wife, whose imitative piety and native worldliness were
equally sincere, who had nothing to be ashamed of, and whom he had
married out of a thorough inclination still subsisting. But his fears
were such as belong to a man who cares to maintain his recognized
supremacy: the loss of high consideration from his wife, as from every
one else who did not clearly hate him out of enmity to the truth, would
be as the beginning of death to him. When she said--
"Is he quite gone away?"
"Oh, I trust so," he answered, with an effort to throw as much sober
unconcern into his tone as possible!
But in truth Mr. Bulstrode was very far from a state of quiet trust.
In the interview at the Bank, Raffles had made it evident that his
eagerness to torment was almost as strong in him as any other greed.
He had frankly said that he had turned out of the way to come to
Middlemarch, just to look about him and see whether the neighborhood
would suit him to live in. He had certainly had a few debts to pay
more than he expected, but the two hundred pounds were not gone yet: a
cool five-and-twenty would suffice him to go away with for the present.
What he had wanted chiefly was to see his friend Nick and family, and
know all about the prosperity of a man to whom he was so much attached.
By-and-by he might come back for a longer stay. This time Raffles
declined to be "seen off the premises," as he expressed it--declined to
quit Middlemarch under Bulstrode's eyes. He meant to go by coach the
next day--if he chose.
Bulstrode felt himself helpless. Neither threats nor coaxing could
avail: he could not count on any persistent fear nor on any promise.
On the contrary, he felt a cold certainty at his heart that
Raffles--unless providence sent death to hinder him--would come back
to Middlemarch before long. And that certainty was a terror.
It was not that he was in danger of legal punishment or of beggary: he
was in danger only of seeing disclosed to the judgment of his neighbors
and the mournful perception of his wife certain facts of his past life
which would render him an object of scorn and an opprobrium of the
religion with which he had diligently associated himself. The terror
of being judged sharpens the memory: it sends an inevitable glare over
that long-unvisited past which has been habitually recalled only in
general phrases. Even without memory, the life is bound into one by a
zone of dependence in growth and decay; but intense memory forces a man
to own his blameworthy past. With memory set smarting like a reopened
wound, a man's past is not simply a dead history, an outworn
preparation of the present: it is not a repented error shaken loose
from the life: it is a still quivering part of himself, bringing
shudders and bitter flavors and the tinglings of a merited shame.
Into this second life Bulstrode's past had now risen, only the
pleasures of it seeming to have lost their quality. Night and day,
without interruption save of brief sleep which only wove retrospect and
fear into a fantastic present, he felt the scenes of his earlier life
coming between him and everything else, as obstinately as when we look
through the window from a lighted room, the objects we turn our backs
on are still before us, instead of the grass and the trees. The
successive events inward and outward were there in one view: though
each might be dwelt on in turn, the rest still kept their hold in the
consciousness.
Once more he saw himself the young banker's clerk, with an agreeable
person, as clever in figures as he was fluent in speech and fond of
theological definition: an eminent though young member of a Calvinistic
dissenting church at Highbury, having had striking experience in
conviction of sin and sense of pardon. Again he heard himself called
for as Brother Bulstrode in prayer meetings, speaking on religious
platforms, preaching in private houses. Again he felt himself thinking
of the ministry as possibly his vocation, and inclined towards
missionary labor. That was the happiest time of his life: that was the
spot he would have chosen now to awake in and find the rest a dream.
The people among whom Brother Bulstrode was distinguished were very
few, but they were very near to him, and stirred his satisfaction the
more; his power stretched through a narrow space, but he felt its
effect the more intensely. He believed without effort in the peculiar
work of grace within him, and in the signs that God intended him for
special instrumentality.
Then came the moment of transition; it was with the sense of promotion
he had when he, an orphan educated at a commercial charity-school, was
invited to a fine villa belonging to Mr. Dunkirk, the richest man in
the congregation. Soon he became an intimate there, honored for his
piety by the wife, marked out for his ability by the husband, whose
wealth was due to a flourishing city and west-end trade. That was the
setting-in of a new current for his ambition, directing his prospects
of "instrumentality" towards the uniting of distinguished religious
gifts with successful business.
By-and-by came a decided external leading: a confidential subordinate
partner died, and nobody seemed to the principal so well fitted to fill
the severely felt vacancy as his young friend Bulstrode, if he would
become confidential accountant. The offer was accepted. The business
was a pawnbroker's, of the most magnificent sort both in extent and
profits; and on a short acquaintance with it Bulstrode became aware
that one source of magnificent profit was the easy reception of any
goods offered, without strict inquiry as to where they came from. But
there was a branch house at the west end, and no pettiness or dinginess
to give suggestions of shame.
He remembered his first moments of shrinking. They were private, and
were filled with arguments; some of these taking the form of prayer.
The business was established and had old roots; is it not one thing to
set up a new gin-palace and another to accept an investment in an old
one? The profits made out of lost souls--where can the line be drawn
at which they begin in human transactions? Was it not even God's way
of saving His chosen? "Thou knowest,"--the young Bulstrode had said
then, as the older Bulstrode was saying now--"Thou knowest how loose
my soul sits from these things--how I view them all as implements for
tilling Thy garden rescued here and there from the wilderness."
Metaphors and precedents were not wanting; peculiar spiritual
experiences were not wanting which at last made the retention of his
position seem a service demanded of him: the vista of a fortune had
already opened itself, and Bulstrode's shrinking remained private. Mr.
Dunkirk had never expected that there would be any shrinking at all: he
had never conceived that trade had anything to do with the scheme of
salvation. And it was true that Bulstrode found himself carrying on
two distinct lives; his religious activity could not be incompatible
with his business as soon as he had argued himself into not feeling it
incompatible.
Mentally surrounded with that past again, Bulstrode had the same
pleas--indeed, the years had been perpetually spinning them into
intricate thickness, like masses of spider-web, padding the moral
sensibility; nay, as age made egoism more eager but less enjoying, his
soul had become more saturated with the belief that he did everything
for God's sake, being indifferent to it for his own. And yet--if he
could be back in that far-off spot with his youthful poverty--why, then
he would choose to be a missionary.
But the train of causes in which he had locked himself went on. There
was trouble in the fine villa at Highbury. Years before, the only
daughter had run away, defied her parents, and gone on the stage; and
now the only boy died, and after a short time Mr. Dunkirk died also.
The wife, a simple pious woman, left with all the wealth in and out of
the magnificent trade, of which she never knew the precise nature, had
come to believe in Bulstrode, and innocently adore him as women often
adore their priest or "man-made" minister. It was natural that after a
time marriage should have been thought of between them. But Mrs.
Dunkirk had qualms and yearnings about her daughter, who had long been
regarded as lost both to God and her parents. It was known that the
daughter had married, but she was utterly gone out of sight. The
mother, having lost her boy, imagined a grandson, and wished in a
double sense to reclaim her daughter. If she were found, there would
be a channel for property--perhaps a wide one--in the provision for
several grandchildren. Efforts to find her must be made before Mrs.
Dunkirk would marry again. Bulstrode concurred; but after
advertisement as well as other modes of inquiry had been tried, the
mother believed that her daughter was not to be found, and consented to
marry without reservation of property.
The daughter had been found; but only one man besides Bulstrode knew
it, and he was paid for keeping silence and carrying himself away.
That was the bare fact which Bulstrode was now forced to see in the
rigid outline with which acts present themselves onlookers. But for
himself at that distant time, and even now in burning memory, the fact
was broken into little sequences, each justified as it came by
reasonings which seemed to prove it righteous. Bulstrode's course up
to that time had, he thought, been sanctioned by remarkable
providences, appearing to point the way for him to be the agent in
making the best use of a large property and withdrawing it from
perversion. Death and other striking dispositions, such as feminine
trustfulness, had come; and Bulstrode would have adopted Cromwell's
words--"Do you call these bare events? The Lord pity you!" The
events were comparatively small, but the essential condition was
there--namely, that they were in favor of his own ends. It was easy
for him to settle what was due from him to others by inquiring what
were God's intentions with regard to himself. Could it be for God's
service that this fortune should in any considerable proportion go to a
young woman and her husband who were given up to the lightest pursuits,
and might scatter it abroad in triviality--people who seemed to lie
outside the path of remarkable providences? Bulstrode had never said
to himself beforehand, "The daughter shall not be found"--nevertheless
when the moment came he kept her existence hidden; and when other
moments followed, he soothed the mother with consolation in the
probability that the unhappy young woman might be no more.
There were hours in which Bulstrode felt that his action was
unrighteous; but how could he go back? He had mental exercises, called
himself nought, laid hold on redemption, and went on in his course of
instrumentality. And after five years Death again came to widen his
path, by taking away his wife. He did gradually withdraw his capital,
but he did not make the sacrifices requisite to put an end to the
business, which was carried on for thirteen years afterwards before it
finally collapsed. Meanwhile Nicholas Bulstrode had used his hundred
thousand discreetly, and was become provincially, solidly important--a
banker, a Churchman, a public benefactor; also a sleeping partner in
trading concerns, in which his ability was directed to economy in the
raw material, as in the case of the dyes which rotted Mr. Vincy's silk.
And now, when this respectability had lasted undisturbed for nearly
thirty years--when all that preceded it had long lain benumbed in the
consciousness--that past had risen and immersed his thought as if with
the terrible irruption of a new sense overburthening the feeble being.
Meanwhile, in his conversation with Raffles, he had learned something
momentous, something which entered actively into the struggle of his
longings and terrors. There, he thought, lay an opening towards
spiritual, perhaps towards material rescue.
The spiritual kind of rescue was a genuine need with him. There may be
coarse hypocrites, who consciously affect beliefs and emotions for the
sake of gulling the world, but Bulstrode was not one of them. He was
simply a man whose desires had been stronger than his theoretic
beliefs, and who had gradually explained the gratification of his
desires into satisfactory agreement with those beliefs. If this be
hypocrisy, it is a process which shows itself occasionally in us all,
to whatever confession we belong, and whether we believe in the future
perfection of our race or in the nearest date fixed for the end of the
world; whether we regard the earth as a putrefying nidus for a saved
remnant, including ourselves, or have a passionate belief in the
solidarity of mankind.
The service he could do to the cause of religion had been through life
the ground he alleged to himself for his choice of action: it had been
the motive which he had poured out in his prayers. Who would use money
and position better than he meant to use them? Who could surpass him
in self-abhorrence and exaltation of God's cause? And to Mr. Bulstrode
God's cause was something distinct from his own rectitude of conduct:
it enforced a discrimination of God's enemies, who were to be used
merely as instruments, and whom it would be as well if possible to keep
out of money and consequent influence. Also, profitable investments in
trades where the power of the prince of this world showed its most
active devices, became sanctified by a right application of the profits
in the hands of God's servant.
This implicit reasoning is essentially no more peculiar to evangelical
belief than the use of wide phrases for narrow motives is peculiar to
Englishmen. There is no general doctrine which is not capable of
eating out our morality if unchecked by the deep-seated habit of direct
fellow-feeling with individual fellow-men.
But a man who believes in something else than his own greed, has
necessarily a conscience or standard to which he more or less adapts
himself. Bulstrode's standard had been his serviceableness to God's
cause: "I am sinful and nought--a vessel to be consecrated by use--but
use me!"--had been the mould into which he had constrained his immense
need of being something important and predominating. And now had come
a moment in which that mould seemed in danger of being broken and
utterly cast away.
What if the acts he had reconciled himself to because they made him a
stronger instrument of the divine glory, were to become the pretext of
the scoffer, and a darkening of that glory? If this were to be the
ruling of Providence, he was cast out from the temple as one who had
brought unclean offerings.
He had long poured out utterances of repentance. But today a
repentance had come which was of a bitterer flavor, and a threatening
Providence urged him to a kind of propitiation which was not simply a
doctrinal transaction. The divine tribunal had changed its aspect for
him; self-prostration was no longer enough, and he must bring
restitution in his hand. It was really before his God that Bulstrode
was about to attempt such restitution as seemed possible: a great dread
had seized his susceptible frame, and the scorching approach of shame
wrought in him a new spiritual need. Night and day, while the
resurgent threatening past was making a conscience within him, he was
thinking by what means he could recover peace and trust--by what
sacrifice he could stay the rod. His belief in these moments of dread
was, that if he spontaneously did something right, God would save him
from the consequences of wrong-doing. For religion can only change when
the emotions which fill it are changed; and the religion of personal
fear remains nearly at the level of the savage.
He had seen Raffles actually going away on the Brassing coach, and this
was a temporary relief; it removed the pressure of an immediate dread,
but did not put an end to the spiritual conflict and the need to win
protection. At last he came to a difficult resolve, and wrote a letter
to Will Ladislaw, begging him to be at the Shrubs that evening for a
private interview at nine o'clock. Will had felt no particular surprise
at the request, and connected it with some new notions about the
"Pioneer;" but when he was shown into Mr. Bulstrode's private room, he
was struck with the painfully worn look on the banker's face, and was
going to say, "Are you ill?" when, checking himself in that abruptness,
he only inquired after Mrs. Bulstrode, and her satisfaction with the
picture bought for her.
"Thank you, she is quite satisfied; she has gone out with her daughters
this evening. I begged you to come, Mr. Ladislaw, because I have a
communication of a very private--indeed, I will say, of a sacredly
confidential nature, which I desire to make to you. Nothing, I dare
say, has been farther from your thoughts than that there had been
important ties in the past which could connect your history with mine."
Will felt something like an electric shock. He was already in a state
of keen sensitiveness and hardly allayed agitation on the subject of
ties in the past, and his presentiments were not agreeable. It seemed
like the fluctuations of a dream--as if the action begun by that loud
bloated stranger were being carried on by this pale-eyed sickly looking
piece of respectability, whose subdued tone and glib formality of
speech were at this moment almost as repulsive to him as their
remembered contrast. He answered, with a marked change of color--
"No, indeed, nothing."
"You see before you, Mr. Ladislaw, a man who is deeply stricken. But
for the urgency of conscience and the knowledge that I am before the
bar of One who seeth not as man seeth, I should be under no compulsion
to make the disclosure which has been my object in asking you to come
here to-night. So far as human laws go, you have no claim on me
whatever."
Will was even more uncomfortable than wondering. Mr. Bulstrode had
paused, leaning his head on his hand, and looking at the floor. But he
now fixed his examining glance on Will and said--
"I am told that your mother's name was Sarah Dunkirk, and that she ran
away from her friends to go on the stage. Also, that your father was
at one time much emaciated by illness. May I ask if you can confirm
these statements?"
"Yes, they are all true," said Will, struck with the order in which an
inquiry had come, that might have been expected to be preliminary to
the banker's previous hints. But Mr. Bulstrode had to-night followed
the order of his emotions; he entertained no doubt that the opportunity
for restitution had come, and he had an overpowering impulse towards
the penitential expression by which he was deprecating chastisement.
"Do you know any particulars of your mother's family?" he continued.
"No; she never liked to speak of them. She was a very generous,
honorable woman," said Will, almost angrily.
"I do not wish to allege anything against her. Did she never mention
her mother to you at all?"
"I have heard her say that she thought her mother did not know the
reason of her running away. She said 'poor mother' in a pitying tone."
"That mother became my wife," said Bulstrode, and then paused a moment
before he added, "you have a claim on me, Mr. Ladislaw: as I said
before, not a legal claim, but one which my conscience recognizes. I
was enriched by that marriage--a result which would probably not have
taken place--certainly not to the same extent--if your grandmother
could have discovered her daughter. That daughter, I gather, is no
longer living!"
"No," said Will, feeling suspicion and repugnance rising so strongly
within him, that without quite knowing what he did, he took his hat
from the floor and stood up. The impulse within him was to reject the
disclosed connection.
"Pray be seated, Mr. Ladislaw," said Bulstrode, anxiously. "Doubtless
you are startled by the suddenness of this discovery. But I entreat
your patience with one who is already bowed down by inward trial."
Will reseated himself, feeling some pity which was half contempt for
this voluntary self-abasement of an elderly man.
"It is my wish, Mr. Ladislaw, to make amends for the deprivation which
befell your mother. I know that you are without fortune, and I wish to
supply you adequately from a store which would have probably already
been yours had your grandmother been certain of your mother's existence
and been able to find her."
Mr. Bulstrode paused. He felt that he was performing a striking piece
of scrupulosity in the judgment of his auditor, and a penitential act
in the eyes of God. He had no clew to the state of Will Ladislaw's
mind, smarting as it was from the clear hints of Raffles, and with its
natural quickness in construction stimulated by the expectation of
discoveries which he would have been glad to conjure back into
darkness. Will made no answer for several moments, till Mr. Bulstrode,
who at the end of his speech had cast his eyes on the floor, now raised
them with an examining glance, which Will met fully, saying--
"I suppose you did know of my mother's existence, and knew where she
might have been found."
Bulstrode shrank--there was a visible quivering in his face and hands.
He was totally unprepared to have his advances met in this way, or to
find himself urged into more revelation than he had beforehand set down
as needful. But at that moment he dared not tell a lie, and he felt
suddenly uncertain of his ground which he had trodden with some
confidence before.
"I will not deny that you conjecture rightly," he answered, with a
faltering in his tone. "And I wish to make atonement to you as the one
still remaining who has suffered a loss through me. You enter, I
trust, into my purpose, Mr. Ladislaw, which has a reference to higher
than merely human claims, and as I have already said, is entirely
independent of any legal compulsion. I am ready to narrow my own
resources and the prospects of my family by binding myself to allow you
five hundred pounds yearly during my life, and to leave you a
proportional capital at my death--nay, to do still more, if more should
be definitely necessary to any laudable project on your part." Mr.
Bulstrode had gone on to particulars in the expectation that these
would work strongly on Ladislaw, and merge other feelings in grateful
acceptance.
But Will was looking as stubborn as possible, with his lip pouting and
his fingers in his side-pockets. He was not in the least touched, and
said firmly,--
"Before I make any reply to your proposition, Mr. Bulstrode, I must beg
you to answer a question or two. Were you connected with the business
by which that fortune you speak of was originally made?"
Mr. Bulstrode's thought was, "Raffles has told him." How could he
refuse to answer when he had volunteered what drew forth the question?
He answered, "Yes."
"And was that business--or was it not--a thoroughly dishonorable
one--nay, one that, if its nature had been made public, might have
ranked those concerned in it with thieves and convicts?"
Will's tone had a cutting bitterness: he was moved to put his question
as nakedly as he could.
Bulstrode reddened with irrepressible anger. He had been prepared for
a scene of self-abasement, but his intense pride and his habit of
supremacy overpowered penitence, and even dread, when this young man,
whom he had meant to benefit, turned on him with the air of a judge.
"The business was established before I became connected with it, sir;
nor is it for you to institute an inquiry of that kind," he answered,
not raising his voice, but speaking with quick defiantness.
"Yes, it is," said Will, starting up again with his hat in his hand.
"It is eminently mine to ask such questions, when I have to decide
whether I will have transactions with you and accept your money. My
unblemished honor is important to me. It is important to me to have no
stain on my birth and connections. And now I find there is a stain
which I can't help. My mother felt it, and tried to keep as clear of
it as she could, and so will I. You shall keep your ill-gotten money.
If I had any fortune of my own, I would willingly pay it to any one who
could disprove what you have told me. What I have to thank you for is
that you kept the money till now, when I can refuse it. It ought to
lie with a man's self that he is a gentleman. Good-night, sir."
Bulstrode was going to speak, but Will, with determined quickness, was
out of the room in an instant, and in another the hall-door had closed
behind him. He was too strongly possessed with passionate rebellion
against this inherited blot which had been thrust on his knowledge to
reflect at present whether he had not been too hard on Bulstrode--too
arrogantly merciless towards a man of sixty, who was making efforts at
retrieval when time had rendered them vain.
No third person listening could have thoroughly understood the
impetuosity of Will's repulse or the bitterness of his words. No one
but himself then knew how everything connected with the sentiment of
his own dignity had an immediate bearing for him on his relation to
Dorothea and to Mr. Casaubon's treatment of him. And in the rush of
impulses by which he flung back that offer of Bulstrode's there was
mingled the sense that it would have been impossible for him ever to
tell Dorothea that he had accepted it.
As for Bulstrode--when Will was gone he suffered a violent reaction,
and wept like a woman. It was the first time he had encountered an
open expression of scorn from any man higher than Raffles; and with
that scorn hurrying like venom through his system, there was no
sensibility left to consolations. But the relief of weeping had to be
checked. His wife and daughters soon came home from hearing the
address of an Oriental missionary, and were full of regret that papa
had not heard, in the first instance, the interesting things which they
tried to repeat to him.
Perhaps, through all other hidden thoughts, the one that breathed most
comfort was, that Will Ladislaw at least was not likely to publish what
had taken place that evening. | When Mr. Bulstrode gets home after the day of the auction, his wife tells him that someone had come to see him. It was Raffles. Raffles goes to see him the next day at the bank, and he comes home looking anxious. His wife thinks he has a headache, but he's really just thinking about his past, and wondering what to do about Raffles, who keeps haunting him. We finally learn more about Bulstrode's past as he goes into lengthy reflection about it: he was a young banking clerk in London, and caught the attention of the owner of a trading house who went to the same church he did. He eventually became a partner at the trading house, which was really more like a high-end pawnshop that didn't ask where the goods they sold came from. Bulstrode had some prickings of conscience, but learned to ignore them. He learns more about the Dunkirk family: they had a daughter who ran away from home some years before, and a son who died. After a while, the senior partner, Mr. Dunkirk, died, leaving Bulstrode as the sole owner of the business. The wife, Mrs. Dunkirk, didn't know anything about her husband's shady business. She fell in love with the younger Bulstrode, but before she would agree to marry him, she wanted to search for her daughter. After all, if the daughter were alive, some share of the family fortune should go to her. Bulstrode agreed to this, and did find Sarah Dunkirk , but concealed it from Mrs. Dunkirk. Mrs. Dunkirk believed her daughter to be dead, and agreed to marry Bulstrode. Bulstrode's conscience, in present-day Middlemarch, is starting to prick him again , but how can undo what he did then? Raffles is the only other person who knows that Bulstrode basically swooped in and took the family fortune away from Sarah Dunkirk , and that the family fortune was made in shady ways. Bulstrode is having a harder time justifying his past actions to himself . So he decides to do right by Will Ladislaw. He asks Will to meet him in a private room at a pub. Will assumes that it has something to do with the Pioneer newspaper. Bulstrode asks if it's true that Will's mother's name was Sarah Dunkirk. Yes, Will says. Bulstrode says what Will already knows - that Sarah Dunkirk had run away from her family, but that her mother had never known the reason why. Bulstrode then tells Will that he had married Sarah's mother, and was enriched by the marriage, but that he couldn't have gotten the money had Sarah not run away. Will is put off by the information, although he doesn't know why. Bulstrode adds that Will has no legal claim on him . Will asks if Bulstrode had known where Sarah was, but concealed it from her mother. Bulstrode can't bring himself to lie. He hadn't expected Will to ask that. He admits that he did know that Sarah was alive. Bulstrode then offers to pay Will five hundred pounds a year, and to leave him something when he dies, as a way to atone for what he did to Sarah. Will then asks whether Bulstrode was involved in the family business. Bulstrode realizes that Raffles must have told him. But again, he can't deny it. Will then refuses any and all money from Bulstrode - he calls it "ill-gotten" money - and says that his mother had tried to stay clear of that whole business, and he means to, as well. The bitterness and scorn in Will's voice makes Bulstrode break down and cry after Will leaves. But at least, he figures, Will is unlikely to tell anyone about it. |
One evening when the window was open, and she, sitting by it, had been
watching Lestiboudois, the beadle, trimming the box, she suddenly heard
the Angelus ringing.
It was the beginning of April, when the primroses are in bloom, and a
warm wind blows over the flower-beds newly turned, and the gardens, like
women, seem to be getting ready for the summer fetes. Through the bars
of the arbour and away beyond the river seen in the fields, meandering
through the grass in wandering curves. The evening vapours rose between
the leafless poplars, touching their outlines with a violet tint, paler
and more transparent than a subtle gauze caught athwart their branches.
In the distance cattle moved about; neither their steps nor their lowing
could be heard; and the bell, still ringing through the air, kept up its
peaceful lamentation.
With this repeated tinkling the thoughts of the young woman lost
themselves in old memories of her youth and school-days. She remembered
the great candlesticks that rose above the vases full of flowers on the
altar, and the tabernacle with its small columns. She would have liked
to be once more lost in the long line of white veils, marked off here
and there by the stuff black hoods of the good sisters bending over
their prie-Dieu. At mass on Sundays, when she looked up, she saw the
gentle face of the Virgin amid the blue smoke of the rising incense.
Then she was moved; she felt herself weak and quite deserted, like the
down of a bird whirled by the tempest, and it was unconsciously that she
went towards the church, included to no matter what devotions, so that
her soul was absorbed and all existence lost in it.
On the Place she met Lestivoudois on his way back, for, in order not
to shorten his day's labour, he preferred interrupting his work,
then beginning it again, so that he rang the Angelus to suit his own
convenience. Besides, the ringing over a little earlier warned the lads
of catechism hour.
Already a few who had arrived were playing marbles on the stones of the
cemetery. Others, astride the wall, swung their legs, kicking with their
clogs the large nettles growing between the little enclosure and the
newest graves. This was the only green spot. All the rest was but
stones, always covered with a fine powder, despite the vestry-broom.
The children in list shoes ran about there as if it were an enclosure
made for them. The shouts of their voices could be heard through the
humming of the bell. This grew less and less with the swinging of the
great rope that, hanging from the top of the belfry, dragged its end on
the ground. Swallows flitted to and fro uttering little cries, cut the
air with the edge of their wings, and swiftly returned to their yellow
nests under the tiles of the coping. At the end of the church a lamp was
burning, the wick of a night-light in a glass hung up. Its light from a
distance looked like a white stain trembling in the oil. A long ray of
the sun fell across the nave and seemed to darken the lower sides and
the corners.
"Where is the cure?" asked Madame Bovary of one of the lads, who was
amusing himself by shaking a swivel in a hole too large for it.
"He is just coming," he answered.
And in fact the door of the presbytery grated; Abbe Bournisien appeared;
the children, pell-mell, fled into the church.
"These young scamps!" murmured the priest, "always the same!"
Then, picking up a catechism all in rags that he had struck with is
foot, "They respect nothing!" But as soon as he caught sight of Madame
Bovary, "Excuse me," he said; "I did not recognise you."
He thrust the catechism into his pocket, and stopped short, balancing
the heavy vestry key between his two fingers.
The light of the setting sun that fell full upon his face paled the
lasting of his cassock, shiny at the elbows, unravelled at the hem.
Grease and tobacco stains followed along his broad chest the lines
of the buttons, and grew more numerous the farther they were from his
neckcloth, in which the massive folds of his red chin rested; this was
dotted with yellow spots, that disappeared beneath the coarse hair of
his greyish beard. He had just dined and was breathing noisily.
"How are you?" he added.
"Not well," replied Emma; "I am ill."
"Well, and so am I," answered the priest. "These first warm days weaken
one most remarkably, don't they? But, after all, we are born to suffer,
as St. Paul says. But what does Monsieur Bovary think of it?"
"He!" she said with a gesture of contempt.
"What!" replied the good fellow, quite astonished, "doesn't he prescribe
something for you?"
"Ah!" said Emma, "it is no earthly remedy I need."
But the cure from time to time looked into the church, where the
kneeling boys were shouldering one another, and tumbling over like packs
of cards.
"I should like to know--" she went on.
"You look out, Riboudet," cried the priest in an angry voice; "I'll warm
your ears, you imp!" Then turning to Emma, "He's Boudet the carpenter's
son; his parents are well off, and let him do just as he pleases. Yet he
could learn quickly if he would, for he is very sharp. And so sometimes
for a joke I call him Riboudet (like the road one takes to go to
Maromme) and I even say 'Mon Riboudet.' Ha! Ha! 'Mont Riboudet.' The
other day I repeated that just to Monsignor, and he laughed at it; he
condescended to laugh at it. And how is Monsieur Bovary?"
She seemed not to hear him. And he went on--
"Always very busy, no doubt; for he and I are certainly the busiest
people in the parish. But he is doctor of the body," he added with a
thick laugh, "and I of the soul."
She fixed her pleading eyes upon the priest. "Yes," she said, "you
solace all sorrows."
"Ah! don't talk to me of it, Madame Bovary. This morning I had to go to
Bas-Diauville for a cow that was ill; they thought it was under a spell.
All their cows, I don't know how it is--But pardon me! Longuemarre and
Boudet! Bless me! Will you leave off?"
And with a bound he ran into the church.
The boys were just then clustering round the large desk, climbing over
the precentor's footstool, opening the missal; and others on tiptoe were
just about to venture into the confessional. But the priest suddenly
distributed a shower of cuffs among them. Seizing them by the collars of
their coats, he lifted them from the ground, and deposited them on their
knees on the stones of the choir, firmly, as if he meant planting them
there.
"Yes," said he, when he returned to Emma, unfolding his large cotton
handkerchief, one corner of which he put between his teeth, "farmers are
much to be pitied."
"Others, too," she replied.
"Assuredly. Town-labourers, for example."
"It is not they--"
"Pardon! I've there known poor mothers of families, virtuous women, I
assure you, real saints, who wanted even bread."
"But those," replied Emma, and the corners of her mouth twitched as she
spoke, "those, Monsieur le Cure, who have bread and have no--"
"Fire in the winter," said the priest.
"Oh, what does that matter?"
"What! What does it matter? It seems to me that when one has firing and
food--for, after all--"
"My God! my God!" she sighed.
"It is indigestion, no doubt? You must get home, Madame Bovary; drink
a little tea, that will strengthen you, or else a glass of fresh water
with a little moist sugar."
"Why?" And she looked like one awaking from a dream.
"Well, you see, you were putting your hand to your forehead. I thought
you felt faint." Then, bethinking himself, "But you were asking me
something? What was it? I really don't remember."
"I? Nothing! nothing!" repeated Emma.
And the glance she cast round her slowly fell upon the old man in the
cassock. They looked at one another face to face without speaking.
"Then, Madame Bovary," he said at last, "excuse me, but duty first, you
know; I must look after my good-for-nothings. The first communion will
soon be upon us, and I fear we shall be behind after all. So after
Ascension Day I keep them recta* an extra hour every Wednesday. Poor
children! One cannot lead them too soon into the path of the Lord, as,
moreover, he has himself recommended us to do by the mouth of his Divine
Son. Good health to you, madame; my respects to your husband."
*On the straight and narrow path.
And he went into the church making a genuflexion as soon as he reached
the door.
Emma saw him disappear between the double row of forms, walking with a
heavy tread, his head a little bent over his shoulder, and with his two
hands half-open behind him.
Then she turned on her heel all of one piece, like a statue on a pivot,
and went homewards. But the loud voice of the priest, the clear voices
of the boys still reached her ears, and went on behind her.
"Are you a Christian?"
"Yes, I am a Christian."
"What is a Christian?"
"He who, being baptized-baptized-baptized--"
She went up the steps of the staircase holding on to the banisters, and
when she was in her room threw herself into an arm-chair.
The whitish light of the window-panes fell with soft undulations.
The furniture in its place seemed to have become more immobile, and to
lose itself in the shadow as in an ocean of darkness. The fire was out,
the clock went on ticking, and Emma vaguely marvelled at this calm of
all things while within herself was such tumult. But little Berthe was
there, between the window and the work-table, tottering on her knitted
shoes, and trying to come to her mother to catch hold of the ends of her
apron-strings.
"Leave me alone," said the latter, putting her from her with her hand.
The little girl soon came up closer against her knees, and leaning on
them with her arms, she looked up with her large blue eyes, while a
small thread of pure saliva dribbled from her lips on to the silk apron.
"Leave me alone," repeated the young woman quite irritably.
Her face frightened the child, who began to scream.
"Will you leave me alone?" she said, pushing her with her elbow.
Berthe fell at the foot of the drawers against the brass handle, cutting
her cheek, which began to bleed, against it. Madame Bovary sprang to
lift her up, broke the bell-rope, called for the servant with all her
might, and she was just going to curse herself when Charles appeared. It
was the dinner-hour; he had come home.
"Look, dear!" said Emma, in a calm voice, "the little one fell down
while she was playing, and has hurt herself."
Charles reassured her; the case was not a serious one, and he went for
some sticking plaster.
Madame Bovary did not go downstairs to the dining-room; she wished
to remain alone to look after the child. Then watching her sleep, the
little anxiety she felt gradually wore off, and she seemed very stupid
to herself, and very good to have been so worried just now at so little.
Berthe, in fact, no longer sobbed.
Her breathing now imperceptibly raised the cotton covering. Big tears
lay in the corner of the half-closed eyelids, through whose lashes one
could see two pale sunken pupils; the plaster stuck on her cheek drew
the skin obliquely.
"It is very strange," thought Emma, "how ugly this child is!"
When at eleven o'clock Charles came back from the chemist's shop,
whither he had gone after dinner to return the remainder of the
sticking-plaster, he found his wife standing by the cradle.
"I assure you it's nothing." he said, kissing her on the forehead.
"Don't worry, my poor darling; you will make yourself ill."
He had stayed a long time at the chemist's. Although he had not seemed
much moved, Homais, nevertheless, had exerted himself to buoy him up, to
"keep up his spirits." Then they had talked of the various dangers that
threaten childhood, of the carelessness of servants. Madame Homais knew
something of it, having still upon her chest the marks left by a basin
full of soup that a cook had formerly dropped on her pinafore, and
her good parents took no end of trouble for her. The knives were not
sharpened, nor the floors waxed; there were iron gratings to the windows
and strong bars across the fireplace; the little Homais, in spite of
their spirit, could not stir without someone watching them; at the
slightest cold their father stuffed them with pectorals; and until
they were turned four they all, without pity, had to wear wadded
head-protectors. This, it is true, was a fancy of Madame Homais'; her
husband was inwardly afflicted at it. Fearing the possible consequences
of such compression to the intellectual organs. He even went so far as
to say to her, "Do you want to make Caribs or Botocudos of them?"
Charles, however, had several times tried to interrupt the conversation.
"I should like to speak to you," he had whispered in the clerk's ear,
who went upstairs in front of him.
"Can he suspect anything?" Leon asked himself. His heart beat, and he
racked his brain with surmises.
At last, Charles, having shut the door, asked him to see himself
what would be the price at Rouen of a fine daguerreotypes. It was a
sentimental surprise he intended for his wife, a delicate attention--his
portrait in a frock-coat. But he wanted first to know "how much it would
be." The inquiries would not put Monsieur Leon out, since he went to
town almost every week.
Why? Monsieur Homais suspected some "young man's affair" at the bottom
of it, an intrigue. But he was mistaken. Leon was after no love-making.
He was sadder than ever, as Madame Lefrancois saw from the amount of
food he left on his plate. To find out more about it she questioned
the tax-collector. Binet answered roughly that he "wasn't paid by the
police."
All the same, his companion seemed very strange to him, for Leon often
threw himself back in his chair, and stretching out his arms, complained vaguely of life.
"It's because you don't take enough recreation," said the collector.
"What recreation?"
"If I were you I'd have a lathe."
"But I don't know how to turn," answered the clerk.
"Ah! that's true," said the other, rubbing his chin with an air of
mingled contempt and satisfaction.
Leon was weary of loving without any result; moreover he was beginning
to feel that depression caused by the repetition of the same kind of
life, when no interest inspires and no hope sustains it. He was so bored
with Yonville and its inhabitants, that the sight of certain persons,
of certain houses, irritated him beyond endurance; and the chemist, good
fellow though he was, was becoming absolutely unbearable to him. Yet
the prospect of a new condition of life frightened as much as it seduced
him.
This apprehension soon changed into impatience, and then Paris from afar
sounded its fanfare of masked balls with the laugh of grisettes. As he
was to finish reading there, why not set out at once? What prevented
him? And he began making home-preparations; he arranged his occupations
beforehand. He furnished in his head an apartment. He would lead an
artist's life there! He would take lessons on the guitar! He would have
a dressing-gown, a Basque cap, blue velvet slippers! He even already was
admiring two crossed foils over his chimney-piece, with a death's head
on the guitar above them.
The difficulty was the consent of his mother; nothing, however, seemed
more reasonable. Even his employer advised him to go to some other
chambers where he could advance more rapidly. Taking a middle course,
then, Leon looked for some place as second clerk at Rouen; found none,
and at last wrote his mother a long letter full of details, in which
he set forth the reasons for going to live at Paris immediately. She
consented.
He did not hurry. Every day for a month Hivert carried boxes, valises,
parcels for him from Yonville to Rouen and from Rouen to Yonville;
and when Leon had packed up his wardrobe, had his three arm-chairs
restuffed, bought a stock of neckties, in a word, had made more
preparations than for a voyage around the world, he put it off from week
to week, until he received a second letter from his mother urging him to
leave, since he wanted to pass his examination before the vacation.
When the moment for the farewells had come, Madame Homais wept, Justin
sobbed; Homais, as a man of nerve, concealed his emotion; he wished to
carry his friend's overcoat himself as far as the gate of the notary,
who was taking Leon to Rouen in his carriage.
The latter had just time to bid farewell to Monsieur Bovary.
When he reached the head of the stairs, he stopped, he was so out of
breath. As he came in, Madame Bovary arose hurriedly.
"It is I again!" said Leon.
"I was sure of it!"
She bit her lips, and a rush of blood flowing under her skin made her
red from the roots of her hair to the top of her collar. She remained
standing, leaning with her shoulder against the wainscot.
"The doctor is not here?" he went on.
"He is out." She repeated, "He is out."
Then there was silence. They looked at one another and their thoughts,
confounded in the same agony, clung close together like two throbbing
breasts.
"I should like to kiss Berthe," said Leon.
Emma went down a few steps and called Felicite.
He threw one long look around him that took in the walls, the
decorations, the fireplace, as if to penetrate everything, carry away
everything. But she returned, and the servant brought Berthe, who was
swinging a windmill roof downwards at the end of a string. Leon kissed
her several times on the neck.
"Good-bye, poor child! good-bye, dear little one! good-bye!" And he gave
her back to her mother.
"Take her away," she said.
They remained alone--Madame Bovary, her back turned, her face pressed
against a window-pane; Leon held his cap in his hand, knocking it softly
against his thigh.
"It is going to rain," said Emma.
"I have a cloak," he answered.
"Ah!"
She turned around, her chin lowered, her forehead bent forward.
The light fell on it as on a piece of marble, to the curve of the
eyebrows, without one's being able to guess what Emma was seeing on the
horizon or what she was thinking within herself.
"Well, good-bye," he sighed.
She raised her head with a quick movement.
"Yes, good-bye--go!"
They advanced towards each other; he held out his hand; she hesitated.
"In the English fashion, then," she said, giving her own hand wholly to
him, and forcing a laugh.
Leon felt it between his fingers, and the very essence of all his being
seemed to pass down into that moist palm. Then he opened his hand; their
eyes met again, and he disappeared.
When he reached the market-place, he stopped and hid behind a pillar to
look for the last time at this white house with the four green blinds.
He thought he saw a shadow behind the window in the room; but the
curtain, sliding along the pole as though no one were touching it,
slowly opened its long oblique folds that spread out with a single
movement, and thus hung straight and motionless as a plaster wall. Leon
set off running.
From afar he saw his employer's gig in the road, and by it a man in
a coarse apron holding the horse. Homais and Monsieur Guillaumin were
talking. They were waiting for him.
"Embrace me," said the druggist with tears in his eyes. "Here is your
coat, my good friend. Mind the cold; take care of yourself; look after
yourself."
"Come, Leon, jump in," said the notary.
Homais bent over the splash-board, and in a voice broken by sobs uttered
these three sad words--
"A pleasant journey!"
"Good-night," said Monsieur Guillaumin. "Give him his head." They set
out, and Homais went back.
Madame Bovary had opened her window overlooking the garden and watched
the clouds. They gathered around the sunset on the side of Rouen and
then swiftly rolled back their black columns, behind which the great
rays of the sun looked out like the golden arrows of a suspended trophy,
while the rest of the empty heavens was white as porcelain. But a gust
of wind bowed the poplars, and suddenly the rain fell; it pattered
against the green leaves.
Then the sun reappeared, the hens clucked, sparrows shook their wings in
the damp thickets, and the pools of water on the gravel as they flowed
away carried off the pink flowers of an acacia.
"Ah! how far off he must be already!" she thought.
Monsieur Homais, as usual, came at half-past six during dinner.
"Well," said he, "so we've sent off our young friend!"
"So it seems," replied the doctor. Then turning on his chair; "Any news
at home?"
"Nothing much. Only my wife was a little moved this afternoon. You know
women--a nothing upsets them, especially my wife. And we should be
wrong to object to that, since their nervous organization is much more
malleable than ours."
"Poor Leon!" said Charles. "How will he live at Paris? Will he get used
to it?"
Madame Bovary sighed.
"Get along!" said the chemist, smacking his lips. "The outings at
restaurants, the masked balls, the champagne--all that'll be jolly
enough, I assure you."
"I don't think he'll go wrong," objected Bovary.
"Nor do I," said Monsieur Homais quickly; "although he'll have to do
like the rest for fear of passing for a Jesuit. And you don't know what
a life those dogs lead in the Latin quarter with actresses. Besides,
students are thought a great deal of in Paris. Provided they have a few
accomplishments, they are received in the best society; there are even
ladies of the Faubourg Saint-Germain who fall in love with them, which
subsequently furnishes them opportunities for making very good matches."
"But," said the doctor, "I fear for him that down there--"
"You are right," interrupted the chemist; "that is the reverse of the
medal. And one is constantly obliged to keep one's hand in one's pocket
there. Thus, we will suppose you are in a public garden. An individual
presents himself, well dressed, even wearing an order, and whom one
would take for a diplomatist. He approaches you, he insinuates himself;
offers you a pinch of snuff, or picks up your hat. Then you become more
intimate; he takes you to a cafe, invites you to his country-house,
introduces you, between two drinks, to all sorts of people; and
three-fourths of the time it's only to plunder your watch or lead you
into some pernicious step.
"That is true," said Charles; "but I was thinking especially of
illnesses--of typhoid fever, for example, that attacks students from the
provinces."
Emma shuddered.
"Because of the change of regimen," continued the chemist, "and of the
perturbation that results therefrom in the whole system. And then the
water at Paris, don't you know! The dishes at restaurants, all the
spiced food, end by heating the blood, and are not worth, whatever
people may say of them, a good soup. For my own part, I have always
preferred plain living; it is more healthy. So when I was studying
pharmacy at Rouen, I boarded in a boarding house; I dined with the
professors."
And thus he went on, expounding his opinions generally and his personal
likings, until Justin came to fetch him for a mulled egg that was
wanted.
"Not a moment's peace!" he cried; "always at it! I can't go out for a
minute! Like a plough-horse, I have always to be moiling and toiling.
What drudgery!" Then, when he was at the door, "By the way, do you know
the news?"
"What news?"
"That it is very likely," Homais went on, raising his eyebrows and
assuming one of his most serious expression, "that the agricultural
meeting of the Seine-Inferieure will be held this year at
Yonville-l'Abbaye. The rumour, at all events, is going the round. This
morning the paper alluded to it. It would be of the utmost importance
for our district. But we'll talk it over later on. I can see, thank you;
Justin has the lantern." | One evening the tolling of church bells made Emma recall her childhood and school days. She mused about the solace she had often found then through religious devotions and set out for the church, hoping that there she might resolve her present problems and gain some inner peace. She met the cure, Abbe Bournisien, near the entrance, where he was attempting to control the mischievous children of his catechism class. Emma attempted to explain to the priest her need for spiritual help, but the priest's attention focused more on the young boys who were misbehaving. He was also more interested in telling Emma about his problems within the parish than he was in listening to her. After several attempts on Emma's part to explain her dilemma, she finally sighed in despair: "O God, O God!" The Abbe immediately thinks she has some physical ailment and advises her to go home immediately and have a cup of tea. Then "it suddenly struck him: 'there was something you were asking me. What was it, now? I can't recall.'" Emma responds that it was nothing and then leaves as the Abbe goes in to teach catechism to the group of boys. She continued to be very jumpy and tense. That same evening, in a fit of nervous annoyance, she pushed the baby away from her. Berthe fell and cut herself. Emma screamed for help and claimed that the child had been hurt accidentally while playing. After some confused excitement, Bovary and Homais managed to calm her and take care of Berthe. Leon found that his position in Yonville remained perplexing and intolerable. He adored Emma, but saw no future in his love for a married woman. He decided to go to Paris to study law, something he had long spoken of doing. The idea of being alone in the capital frightened him, but he saw no other alternative. After a while, though, he began to imagine with great joy the Bohemian adventures he would have there. Leon made his arrangements and the day finally came for his departure. When he bid farewell to Emma, they were both restrained and shy, although their eyes and gestures communicated a wealth of emotional meanings. After he had gone, Homais and Bovary discussed the dangers and temptations of life in the city. Emma listened silently. |
But coming to the other point--where a leading citizen becomes the
prince of his country, not by wickedness or any intolerable violence,
but by the favour of his fellow citizens--this may be called a civil
principality: nor is genius or fortune altogether necessary to attain to
it, but rather a happy shrewdness. I say then that such a principality
is obtained either by the favour of the people or by the favour of the
nobles. Because in all cities these two distinct parties are found,
and from this it arises that the people do not wish to be ruled nor
oppressed by the nobles, and the nobles wish to rule and oppress the
people; and from these two opposite desires there arises in cities one
of three results, either a principality, self-government, or anarchy.
A principality is created either by the people or by the nobles,
accordingly as one or other of them has the opportunity; for the nobles,
seeing they cannot withstand the people, begin to cry up the reputation
of one of themselves, and they make him a prince, so that under his
shadow they can give vent to their ambitions. The people, finding
they cannot resist the nobles, also cry up the reputation of one of
themselves, and make him a prince so as to be defended by his authority.
He who obtains sovereignty by the assistance of the nobles maintains
himself with more difficulty than he who comes to it by the aid of
the people, because the former finds himself with many around him who
consider themselves his equals, and because of this he can neither rule
nor manage them to his liking. But he who reaches sovereignty by popular
favour finds himself alone, and has none around him, or few, who are not
prepared to obey him.
Besides this, one cannot by fair dealing, and without injury to others,
satisfy the nobles, but you can satisfy the people, for their object is
more righteous than that of the nobles, the latter wishing to oppress,
while the former only desire not to be oppressed. It is to be added also
that a prince can never secure himself against a hostile people, because
of there being too many, whilst from the nobles he can secure himself,
as they are few in number. The worst that a prince may expect from a
hostile people is to be abandoned by them; but from hostile nobles he
has not only to fear abandonment, but also that they will rise against
him; for they, being in these affairs more far-seeing and astute, always
come forward in time to save themselves, and to obtain favours from him
whom they expect to prevail. Further, the prince is compelled to live
always with the same people, but he can do well without the same nobles,
being able to make and unmake them daily, and to give or take away
authority when it pleases him.
Therefore, to make this point clearer, I say that the nobles ought to
be looked at mainly in two ways: that is to say, they either shape their
course in such a way as binds them entirely to your fortune, or they do
not. Those who so bind themselves, and are not rapacious, ought to be
honoured and loved; those who do not bind themselves may be dealt
with in two ways; they may fail to do this through pusillanimity and a
natural want of courage, in which case you ought to make use of them,
especially of those who are of good counsel; and thus, whilst in
prosperity you honour them, in adversity you do not have to fear them.
But when for their own ambitious ends they shun binding themselves, it
is a token that they are giving more thought to themselves than to you,
and a prince ought to guard against such, and to fear them as if they
were open enemies, because in adversity they always help to ruin him.
Therefore, one who becomes a prince through the favour of the people
ought to keep them friendly, and this he can easily do seeing they
only ask not to be oppressed by him. But one who, in opposition to
the people, becomes a prince by the favour of the nobles, ought, above
everything, to seek to win the people over to himself, and this he may
easily do if he takes them under his protection. Because men, when they
receive good from him of whom they were expecting evil, are bound more
closely to their benefactor; thus the people quickly become more devoted
to him than if he had been raised to the principality by their favours;
and the prince can win their affections in many ways, but as these vary
according to the circumstances one cannot give fixed rules, so I omit
them; but, I repeat, it is necessary for a prince to have the people
friendly, otherwise he has no security in adversity.
Nabis,(*) Prince of the Spartans, sustained the attack of all Greece,
and of a victorious Roman army, and against them he defended his country
and his government; and for the overcoming of this peril it was only
necessary for him to make himself secure against a few, but this would
not have been sufficient had the people been hostile. And do not let any
one impugn this statement with the trite proverb that "He who builds on
the people, builds on the mud," for this is true when a private citizen
makes a foundation there, and persuades himself that the people will
free him when he is oppressed by his enemies or by the magistrates;
wherein he would find himself very often deceived, as happened to the
Gracchi in Rome and to Messer Giorgio Scali(+) in Florence. But granted
a prince who has established himself as above, who can command, and is
a man of courage, undismayed in adversity, who does not fail in other
qualifications, and who, by his resolution and energy, keeps the whole
people encouraged--such a one will never find himself deceived in them,
and it will be shown that he has laid his foundations well.
(*) Nabis, tyrant of Sparta, conquered by the Romans under
Flamininus in 195 B.C.; killed 192 B.C.
(+) Messer Giorgio Scali. This event is to be found in
Machiavelli's "Florentine History," Book III.
These principalities are liable to danger when they are passing from the
civil to the absolute order of government, for such princes either rule
personally or through magistrates. In the latter case their government
is weaker and more insecure, because it rests entirely on the goodwill
of those citizens who are raised to the magistracy, and who, especially
in troubled times, can destroy the government with great ease, either
by intrigue or open defiance; and the prince has not the chance amid
tumults to exercise absolute authority, because the citizens and
subjects, accustomed to receive orders from magistrates, are not of
a mind to obey him amid these confusions, and there will always be in
doubtful times a scarcity of men whom he can trust. For such a prince
cannot rely upon what he observes in quiet times, when citizens have
need of the state, because then every one agrees with him; they all
promise, and when death is far distant they all wish to die for him;
but in troubled times, when the state has need of its citizens, then
he finds but few. And so much the more is this experiment dangerous,
inasmuch as it can only be tried once. Therefore a wise prince ought to
adopt such a course that his citizens will always in every sort and
kind of circumstance have need of the state and of him, and then he will
always find them faithful. | Rulers that come to power because of the support of the people are the total opposite of bloody conquers. Everyone loves 'em. They're not too smart, or even extra lucky, but just enough to get by. Our new ruler has three options for his new place: a monarchy where power goes to the nobles, a republic where power goes to the people, and anarchy. In monarchies, either the nobles or the people decide to concentrate all the power in one person, the king. Seems simple enough, but a king who comes to power because of the nobles will have a hard time. After all, the nobles have lots of power to throw around, too. Remember, you don't want anyone who can compete with you around, and these are the people with the weapons. What are the regular people going to do to you? Poke you with their potatoes? Bottom line: be friends with the people, because the nobles have too many tricks up their sleeves. More on nobles. There are two kinds, those who are totally 100% loyally part of your fan club and those who aren't. Out of those who aren't, there are two kinds. Those who are just scaredy-cats , and those who are planning something. The latter are the ones to watch out for because they will turn on you at the drop of a hat. Okay, back to the people. You need to be on their side. It's pretty easy, actually, because they basically just don't want to be oppressed and tortured. Also, if they thought you were going to be super mean, and you turn out to be okay, they will love you even more than if they loved you from the start. They're easy to please. Some people say that it's a bad idea to depend on the support of the people. Machiavelli just doesn't agree--he says that's only the case if you're stupid and think they'll fight for you or rescue you. That's not going to happen. But they can support you and not turn against you. Problems for the ruler supported by the people? When they want to become an absolute ruler, they need either give direct command or rule though other people who they give power to. The problem is, these people aren't always the most trustworthy--before you know it, everything is up in flames. So, make sure your people always need not only your government , but you specifically, and everything will be okay. |
The Same Subject Continued (Concerning Dangers From Foreign Force and
Influence)
For the Independent Journal. Wednesday, November 7, 1787
JAY
To the People of the State of New York:
MY LAST paper assigned several reasons why the safety of the people
would be best secured by union against the danger it may be exposed to
by JUST causes of war given to other nations; and those reasons show
that such causes would not only be more rarely given, but would also be
more easily accommodated, by a national government than either by the
State governments or the proposed little confederacies.
But the safety of the people of America against dangers from FOREIGN
force depends not only on their forbearing to give JUST causes of war
to other nations, but also on their placing and continuing themselves in
such a situation as not to INVITE hostility or insult; for it need not
be observed that there are PRETENDED as well as just causes of war.
It is too true, however disgraceful it may be to human nature, that
nations in general will make war whenever they have a prospect of
getting anything by it; nay, absolute monarchs will often make war when
their nations are to get nothing by it, but for the purposes and objects
merely personal, such as thirst for military glory, revenge for personal
affronts, ambition, or private compacts to aggrandize or support their
particular families or partisans. These and a variety of other motives,
which affect only the mind of the sovereign, often lead him to engage in
wars not sanctified by justice or the voice and interests of his people.
But, independent of these inducements to war, which are more prevalent
in absolute monarchies, but which well deserve our attention, there are
others which affect nations as often as kings; and some of them will
on examination be found to grow out of our relative situation and
circumstances.
With France and with Britain we are rivals in the fisheries, and can
supply their markets cheaper than they can themselves, notwithstanding
any efforts to prevent it by bounties on their own or duties on foreign
fish.
With them and with most other European nations we are rivals in
navigation and the carrying trade; and we shall deceive ourselves if we
suppose that any of them will rejoice to see it flourish; for, as
our carrying trade cannot increase without in some degree diminishing
theirs, it is more their interest, and will be more their policy, to
restrain than to promote it.
In the trade to China and India, we interfere with more than one nation,
inasmuch as it enables us to partake in advantages which they had in a
manner monopolized, and as we thereby supply ourselves with commodities
which we used to purchase from them.
The extension of our own commerce in our own vessels cannot give
pleasure to any nations who possess territories on or near this
continent, because the cheapness and excellence of our productions,
added to the circumstance of vicinity, and the enterprise and address
of our merchants and navigators, will give us a greater share in the
advantages which those territories afford, than consists with the wishes
or policy of their respective sovereigns.
Spain thinks it convenient to shut the Mississippi against us on the one
side, and Britain excludes us from the Saint Lawrence on the other; nor
will either of them permit the other waters which are between them and
us to become the means of mutual intercourse and traffic.
From these and such like considerations, which might, if consistent
with prudence, be more amplified and detailed, it is easy to see that
jealousies and uneasinesses may gradually slide into the minds and
cabinets of other nations, and that we are not to expect that they
should regard our advancement in union, in power and consequence by land
and by sea, with an eye of indifference and composure.
The people of America are aware that inducements to war may arise out of
these circumstances, as well as from others not so obvious at present,
and that whenever such inducements may find fit time and opportunity
for operation, pretenses to color and justify them will not be wanting.
Wisely, therefore, do they consider union and a good national government
as necessary to put and keep them in SUCH A SITUATION as, instead of
INVITING war, will tend to repress and discourage it. That situation
consists in the best possible state of defense, and necessarily depends
on the government, the arms, and the resources of the country.
As the safety of the whole is the interest of the whole, and cannot
be provided for without government, either one or more or many, let us
inquire whether one good government is not, relative to the object in
question, more competent than any other given number whatever.
One government can collect and avail itself of the talents and
experience of the ablest men, in whatever part of the Union they may be
found. It can move on uniform principles of policy. It can harmonize,
assimilate, and protect the several parts and members, and extend the
benefit of its foresight and precautions to each. In the formation of
treaties, it will regard the interest of the whole, and the particular
interests of the parts as connected with that of the whole. It can apply
the resources and power of the whole to the defense of any particular
part, and that more easily and expeditiously than State governments or
separate confederacies can possibly do, for want of concert and unity of
system. It can place the militia under one plan of discipline, and, by
putting their officers in a proper line of subordination to the Chief
Magistrate, will, as it were, consolidate them into one corps, and
thereby render them more efficient than if divided into thirteen or into
three or four distinct independent companies.
What would the militia of Britain be if the English militia obeyed the
government of England, if the Scotch militia obeyed the government
of Scotland, and if the Welsh militia obeyed the government of Wales?
Suppose an invasion; would those three governments (if they agreed at
all) be able, with all their respective forces, to operate against the
enemy so effectually as the single government of Great Britain would?
We have heard much of the fleets of Britain, and the time may come, if
we are wise, when the fleets of America may engage attention. But if one
national government, had not so regulated the navigation of Britain
as to make it a nursery for seamen--if one national government had not
called forth all the national means and materials for forming fleets,
their prowess and their thunder would never have been celebrated. Let
England have its navigation and fleet--let Scotland have its navigation
and fleet--let Wales have its navigation and fleet--let Ireland have
its navigation and fleet--let those four of the constituent parts of the
British empire be be under four independent governments, and it is
easy to perceive how soon they would each dwindle into comparative
insignificance.
Apply these facts to our own case. Leave America divided into thirteen
or, if you please, into three or four independent governments--what
armies could they raise and pay--what fleets could they ever hope to
have? If one was attacked, would the others fly to its succor, and spend
their blood and money in its defense? Would there be no danger of their
being flattered into neutrality by its specious promises, or seduced by
a too great fondness for peace to decline hazarding their tranquillity
and present safety for the sake of neighbors, of whom perhaps they have
been jealous, and whose importance they are content to see diminished?
Although such conduct would not be wise, it would, nevertheless, be
natural. The history of the states of Greece, and of other countries,
abounds with such instances, and it is not improbable that what has so
often happened would, under similar circumstances, happen again.
But admit that they might be willing to help the invaded State or
confederacy. How, and when, and in what proportion shall aids of men and
money be afforded? Who shall command the allied armies, and from which
of them shall he receive his orders? Who shall settle the terms of
peace, and in case of disputes what umpire shall decide between them and
compel acquiescence? Various difficulties and inconveniences would be
inseparable from such a situation; whereas one government, watching over
the general and common interests, and combining and directing the powers
and resources of the whole, would be free from all these embarrassments,
and conduce far more to the safety of the people.
But whatever may be our situation, whether firmly united under one
national government, or split into a number of confederacies, certain
it is, that foreign nations will know and view it exactly as it is;
and they will act toward us accordingly. If they see that our national
government is efficient and well administered, our trade prudently
regulated, our militia properly organized and disciplined, our resources
and finances discreetly managed, our credit re-established, our
people free, contented, and united, they will be much more disposed to
cultivate our friendship than provoke our resentment. If, on the other
hand, they find us either destitute of an effectual government (each
State doing right or wrong, as to its rulers may seem convenient), or
split into three or four independent and probably discordant republics
or confederacies, one inclining to Britain, another to France, and a
third to Spain, and perhaps played off against each other by the three,
what a poor, pitiful figure will America make in their eyes! How liable
would she become not only to their contempt but to their outrage, and
how soon would dear-bought experience proclaim that when a people or
family so divide, it never fails to be against themselves.
PUBLIUS | In this paper, John Jay continues his argument in favor of a strong union under a single national government. He contends that such a united government will be better able to deter foreign aggression, particularly from Great Britain, France and Spain. Jay argues that America's growing economic influence as a trading nation creates tension between American and foreign commercial interests. This tension may lead to foreign powers going to war with the United States, even if the United States gave no just cause for war. Jay argues that a single government can better organize a strong and coordinated defense against foreign aggression than an America divided into multiple independent bodies. |
"_6 September._
"My dear Art,--
"My news to-day is not so good. Lucy this morning had gone back a bit.
There is, however, one good thing which has arisen from it; Mrs.
Westenra was naturally anxious concerning Lucy, and has consulted me
professionally about her. I took advantage of the opportunity, and told
her that my old master, Van Helsing, the great specialist, was coming to
stay with me, and that I would put her in his charge conjointly with
myself; so now we can come and go without alarming her unduly, for a
shock to her would mean sudden death, and this, in Lucy's weak
condition, might be disastrous to her. We are hedged in with
difficulties, all of us, my poor old fellow; but, please God, we shall
come through them all right. If any need I shall write, so that, if you
do not hear from me, take it for granted that I am simply waiting for
news. In haste
Yours ever,
"JOHN SEWARD."
_Dr. Seward's Diary._
_7 September._--The first thing Van Helsing said to me when we met at
Liverpool Street was:--
"Have you said anything to our young friend the lover of her?"
"No," I said. "I waited till I had seen you, as I said in my telegram. I
wrote him a letter simply telling him that you were coming, as Miss
Westenra was not so well, and that I should let him know if need be."
"Right, my friend," he said, "quite right! Better he not know as yet;
perhaps he shall never know. I pray so; but if it be needed, then he
shall know all. And, my good friend John, let me caution you. You deal
with the madmen. All men are mad in some way or the other; and inasmuch
as you deal discreetly with your madmen, so deal with God's madmen,
too--the rest of the world. You tell not your madmen what you do nor why
you do it; you tell them not what you think. So you shall keep knowledge
in its place, where it may rest--where it may gather its kind around it
and breed. You and I shall keep as yet what we know here, and here." He
touched me on the heart and on the forehead, and then touched himself
the same way. "I have for myself thoughts at the present. Later I shall
unfold to you."
"Why not now?" I asked. "It may do some good; we may arrive at some
decision." He stopped and looked at me, and said:--
"My friend John, when the corn is grown, even before it has
ripened--while the milk of its mother-earth is in him, and the sunshine
has not yet begun to paint him with his gold, the husbandman he pull the
ear and rub him between his rough hands, and blow away the green chaff,
and say to you: 'Look! he's good corn; he will make good crop when the
time comes.'" I did not see the application, and told him so. For reply
he reached over and took my ear in his hand and pulled it playfully, as
he used long ago to do at lectures, and said: "The good husbandman tell
you so then because he knows, but not till then. But you do not find the
good husbandman dig up his planted corn to see if he grow; that is for
the children who play at husbandry, and not for those who take it as of
the work of their life. See you now, friend John? I have sown my corn,
and Nature has her work to do in making it sprout; if he sprout at all,
there's some promise; and I wait till the ear begins to swell." He broke
off, for he evidently saw that I understood. Then he went on, and very
gravely:--
"You were always a careful student, and your case-book was ever more
full than the rest. You were only student then; now you are master, and
I trust that good habit have not fail. Remember, my friend, that
knowledge is stronger than memory, and we should not trust the weaker.
Even if you have not kept the good practise, let me tell you that this
case of our dear miss is one that may be--mind, I say _may be_--of such
interest to us and others that all the rest may not make him kick the
beam, as your peoples say. Take then good note of it. Nothing is too
small. I counsel you, put down in record even your doubts and surmises.
Hereafter it may be of interest to you to see how true you guess. We
learn from failure, not from success!"
When I described Lucy's symptoms--the same as before, but infinitely
more marked--he looked very grave, but said nothing. He took with him a
bag in which were many instruments and drugs, "the ghastly paraphernalia
of our beneficial trade," as he once called, in one of his lectures, the
equipment of a professor of the healing craft. When we were shown in,
Mrs. Westenra met us. She was alarmed, but not nearly so much as I
expected to find her. Nature in one of her beneficent moods has ordained
that even death has some antidote to its own terrors. Here, in a case
where any shock may prove fatal, matters are so ordered that, from some
cause or other, the things not personal--even the terrible change in her
daughter to whom she is so attached--do not seem to reach her. It is
something like the way Dame Nature gathers round a foreign body an
envelope of some insensitive tissue which can protect from evil that
which it would otherwise harm by contact. If this be an ordered
selfishness, then we should pause before we condemn any one for the vice
of egoism, for there may be deeper root for its causes than we have
knowledge of.
I used my knowledge of this phase of spiritual pathology, and laid down
a rule that she should not be present with Lucy or think of her illness
more than was absolutely required. She assented readily, so readily that
I saw again the hand of Nature fighting for life. Van Helsing and I were
shown up to Lucy's room. If I was shocked when I saw her yesterday, I
was horrified when I saw her to-day. She was ghastly, chalkily pale; the
red seemed to have gone even from her lips and gums, and the bones of
her face stood out prominently; her breathing was painful to see or
hear. Van Helsing's face grew set as marble, and his eyebrows converged
till they almost touched over his nose. Lucy lay motionless, and did not
seem to have strength to speak, so for a while we were all silent. Then
Van Helsing beckoned to me, and we went gently out of the room. The
instant we had closed the door he stepped quickly along the passage to
the next door, which was open. Then he pulled me quickly in with him and
closed the door. "My God!" he said; "this is dreadful. There is no time
to be lost. She will die for sheer want of blood to keep the heart's
action as it should be. There must be transfusion of blood at once. Is
it you or me?"
"I am younger and stronger, Professor. It must be me."
"Then get ready at once. I will bring up my bag. I am prepared."
I went downstairs with him, and as we were going there was a knock at
the hall-door. When we reached the hall the maid had just opened the
door, and Arthur was stepping quickly in. He rushed up to me, saying in
an eager whisper:--
"Jack, I was so anxious. I read between the lines of your letter, and
have been in an agony. The dad was better, so I ran down here to see for
myself. Is not that gentleman Dr. Van Helsing? I am so thankful to you,
sir, for coming." When first the Professor's eye had lit upon him he had
been angry at his interruption at such a time; but now, as he took in
his stalwart proportions and recognised the strong young manhood which
seemed to emanate from him, his eyes gleamed. Without a pause he said to
him gravely as he held out his hand:--
"Sir, you have come in time. You are the lover of our dear miss. She is
bad, very, very bad. Nay, my child, do not go like that." For he
suddenly grew pale and sat down in a chair almost fainting. "You are to
help her. You can do more than any that live, and your courage is your
best help."
"What can I do?" asked Arthur hoarsely. "Tell me, and I shall do it. My
life is hers, and I would give the last drop of blood in my body for
her." The Professor has a strongly humorous side, and I could from old
knowledge detect a trace of its origin in his answer:--
"My young sir, I do not ask so much as that--not the last!"
"What shall I do?" There was fire in his eyes, and his open nostril
quivered with intent. Van Helsing slapped him on the shoulder. "Come!"
he said. "You are a man, and it is a man we want. You are better than
me, better than my friend John." Arthur looked bewildered, and the
Professor went on by explaining in a kindly way:--
"Young miss is bad, very bad. She wants blood, and blood she must have
or die. My friend John and I have consulted; and we are about to perform
what we call transfusion of blood--to transfer from full veins of one to
the empty veins which pine for him. John was to give his blood, as he is
the more young and strong than me"--here Arthur took my hand and wrung
it hard in silence--"but, now you are here, you are more good than us,
old or young, who toil much in the world of thought. Our nerves are not
so calm and our blood not so bright than yours!" Arthur turned to him
and said:--
"If you only knew how gladly I would die for her you would
understand----"
He stopped, with a sort of choke in his voice.
"Good boy!" said Van Helsing. "In the not-so-far-off you will be happy
that you have done all for her you love. Come now and be silent. You
shall kiss her once before it is done, but then you must go; and you
must leave at my sign. Say no word to Madame; you know how it is with
her! There must be no shock; any knowledge of this would be one. Come!"
We all went up to Lucy's room. Arthur by direction remained outside.
Lucy turned her head and looked at us, but said nothing. She was not
asleep, but she was simply too weak to make the effort. Her eyes spoke
to us; that was all. Van Helsing took some things from his bag and laid
them on a little table out of sight. Then he mixed a narcotic, and
coming over to the bed, said cheerily:--
"Now, little miss, here is your medicine. Drink it off, like a good
child. See, I lift you so that to swallow is easy. Yes." She had made
the effort with success.
It astonished me how long the drug took to act. This, in fact, marked
the extent of her weakness. The time seemed endless until sleep began to
flicker in her eyelids. At last, however, the narcotic began to manifest
its potency; and she fell into a deep sleep. When the Professor was
satisfied he called Arthur into the room, and bade him strip off his
coat. Then he added: "You may take that one little kiss whiles I bring
over the table. Friend John, help to me!" So neither of us looked whilst
he bent over her.
Van Helsing turning to me, said:
"He is so young and strong and of blood so pure that we need not
defibrinate it."
Then with swiftness, but with absolute method, Van Helsing performed the
operation. As the transfusion went on something like life seemed to come
back to poor Lucy's cheeks, and through Arthur's growing pallor the joy
of his face seemed absolutely to shine. After a bit I began to grow
anxious, for the loss of blood was telling on Arthur, strong man as he
was. It gave me an idea of what a terrible strain Lucy's system must
have undergone that what weakened Arthur only partially restored her.
But the Professor's face was set, and he stood watch in hand and with
his eyes fixed now on the patient and now on Arthur. I could hear my own
heart beat. Presently he said in a soft voice: "Do not stir an instant.
It is enough. You attend him; I will look to her." When all was over I
could see how much Arthur was weakened. I dressed the wound and took his
arm to bring him away, when Van Helsing spoke without turning round--the
man seems to have eyes in the back of his head:--
"The brave lover, I think, deserve another kiss, which he shall have
presently." And as he had now finished his operation, he adjusted the
pillow to the patient's head. As he did so the narrow black velvet band
which she seems always to wear round her throat, buckled with an old
diamond buckle which her lover had given her, was dragged a little up,
and showed a red mark on her throat. Arthur did not notice it, but I
could hear the deep hiss of indrawn breath which is one of Van Helsing's
ways of betraying emotion. He said nothing at the moment, but turned to
me, saying: "Now take down our brave young lover, give him of the port
wine, and let him lie down a while. He must then go home and rest, sleep
much and eat much, that he may be recruited of what he has so given to
his love. He must not stay here. Hold! a moment. I may take it, sir,
that you are anxious of result. Then bring it with you that in all ways
the operation is successful. You have saved her life this time, and you
can go home and rest easy in mind that all that can be is. I shall tell
her all when she is well; she shall love you none the less for what you
have done. Good-bye."
When Arthur had gone I went back to the room. Lucy was sleeping gently,
but her breathing was stronger; I could see the counterpane move as her
breast heaved. By the bedside sat Van Helsing, looking at her intently.
The velvet band again covered the red mark. I asked the Professor in a
whisper:--
"What do you make of that mark on her throat?"
"What do you make of it?"
"I have not examined it yet," I answered, and then and there proceeded
to loose the band. Just over the external jugular vein there were two
punctures, not large, but not wholesome-looking. There was no sign of
disease, but the edges were white and worn-looking, as if by some
trituration. It at once occurred to me that this wound, or whatever it
was, might be the means of that manifest loss of blood; but I abandoned
the idea as soon as formed, for such a thing could not be. The whole bed
would have been drenched to a scarlet with the blood which the girl must
have lost to leave such a pallor as she had before the transfusion.
"Well?" said Van Helsing.
"Well," said I, "I can make nothing of it." The Professor stood up. "I
must go back to Amsterdam to-night," he said. "There are books and
things there which I want. You must remain here all the night, and you
must not let your sight pass from her."
"Shall I have a nurse?" I asked.
"We are the best nurses, you and I. You keep watch all night; see that
she is well fed, and that nothing disturbs her. You must not sleep all
the night. Later on we can sleep, you and I. I shall be back as soon as
possible. And then we may begin."
"May begin?" I said. "What on earth do you mean?"
"We shall see!" he answered, as he hurried out. He came back a moment
later and put his head inside the door and said with warning finger held
up:--
"Remember, she is your charge. If you leave her, and harm befall, you
shall not sleep easy hereafter!"
_Dr. Seward's Diary--continued._
_8 September._--I sat up all night with Lucy. The opiate worked itself
off towards dusk, and she waked naturally; she looked a different being
from what she had been before the operation. Her spirits even were good,
and she was full of a happy vivacity, but I could see evidences of the
absolute prostration which she had undergone. When I told Mrs. Westenra
that Dr. Van Helsing had directed that I should sit up with her she
almost pooh-poohed the idea, pointing out her daughter's renewed
strength and excellent spirits. I was firm, however, and made
preparations for my long vigil. When her maid had prepared her for the
night I came in, having in the meantime had supper, and took a seat by
the bedside. She did not in any way make objection, but looked at me
gratefully whenever I caught her eye. After a long spell she seemed
sinking off to sleep, but with an effort seemed to pull herself together
and shook it off. This was repeated several times, with greater effort
and with shorter pauses as the time moved on. It was apparent that she
did not want to sleep, so I tackled the subject at once:--
"You do not want to go to sleep?"
"No; I am afraid."
"Afraid to go to sleep! Why so? It is the boon we all crave for."
"Ah, not if you were like me--if sleep was to you a presage of horror!"
"A presage of horror! What on earth do you mean?"
"I don't know; oh, I don't know. And that is what is so terrible. All
this weakness comes to me in sleep; until I dread the very thought."
"But, my dear girl, you may sleep to-night. I am here watching you, and
I can promise that nothing will happen."
"Ah, I can trust you!" I seized the opportunity, and said: "I promise
you that if I see any evidence of bad dreams I will wake you at once."
"You will? Oh, will you really? How good you are to me. Then I will
sleep!" And almost at the word she gave a deep sigh of relief, and sank
back, asleep.
All night long I watched by her. She never stirred, but slept on and on
in a deep, tranquil, life-giving, health-giving sleep. Her lips were
slightly parted, and her breast rose and fell with the regularity of a
pendulum. There was a smile on her face, and it was evident that no bad
dreams had come to disturb her peace of mind.
In the early morning her maid came, and I left her in her care and took
myself back home, for I was anxious about many things. I sent a short
wire to Van Helsing and to Arthur, telling them of the excellent result
of the operation. My own work, with its manifold arrears, took me all
day to clear off; it was dark when I was able to inquire about my
zooephagous patient. The report was good; he had been quite quiet for the
past day and night. A telegram came from Van Helsing at Amsterdam whilst
I was at dinner, suggesting that I should be at Hillingham to-night, as
it might be well to be at hand, and stating that he was leaving by the
night mail and would join me early in the morning.
* * * * *
_9 September_.--I was pretty tired and worn out when I got to
Hillingham. For two nights I had hardly had a wink of sleep, and my
brain was beginning to feel that numbness which marks cerebral
exhaustion. Lucy was up and in cheerful spirits. When she shook hands
with me she looked sharply in my face and said:--
"No sitting up to-night for you. You are worn out. I am quite well
again; indeed, I am; and if there is to be any sitting up, it is I who
will sit up with you." I would not argue the point, but went and had my
supper. Lucy came with me, and, enlivened by her charming presence, I
made an excellent meal, and had a couple of glasses of the more than
excellent port. Then Lucy took me upstairs, and showed me a room next
her own, where a cozy fire was burning. "Now," she said, "you must stay
here. I shall leave this door open and my door too. You can lie on the
sofa for I know that nothing would induce any of you doctors to go to
bed whilst there is a patient above the horizon. If I want anything I
shall call out, and you can come to me at once." I could not but
acquiesce, for I was "dog-tired," and could not have sat up had I tried.
So, on her renewing her promise to call me if she should want anything,
I lay on the sofa, and forgot all about everything.
_Lucy Westenra's Diary._
_9 September._--I feel so happy to-night. I have been so miserably weak,
that to be able to think and move about is like feeling sunshine after
a long spell of east wind out of a steel sky. Somehow Arthur feels very,
very close to me. I seem to feel his presence warm about me. I suppose
it is that sickness and weakness are selfish things and turn our inner
eyes and sympathy on ourselves, whilst health and strength give Love
rein, and in thought and feeling he can wander where he wills. I know
where my thoughts are. If Arthur only knew! My dear, my dear, your ears
must tingle as you sleep, as mine do waking. Oh, the blissful rest of
last night! How I slept, with that dear, good Dr. Seward watching me.
And to-night I shall not fear to sleep, since he is close at hand and
within call. Thank everybody for being so good to me! Thank God!
Good-night, Arthur.
_Dr. Seward's Diary._
_10 September._--I was conscious of the Professor's hand on my head, and
started awake all in a second. That is one of the things that we learn
in an asylum, at any rate.
"And how is our patient?"
"Well, when I left her, or rather when she left me," I answered.
"Come, let us see," he said. And together we went into the room.
The blind was down, and I went over to raise it gently, whilst Van
Helsing stepped, with his soft, cat-like tread, over to the bed.
As I raised the blind, and the morning sunlight flooded the room, I
heard the Professor's low hiss of inspiration, and knowing its rarity, a
deadly fear shot through my heart. As I passed over he moved back, and
his exclamation of horror, "Gott in Himmel!" needed no enforcement from
his agonised face. He raised his hand and pointed to the bed, and his
iron face was drawn and ashen white. I felt my knees begin to tremble.
There on the bed, seemingly in a swoon, lay poor Lucy, more horribly
white and wan-looking than ever. Even the lips were white, and the gums
seemed to have shrunken back from the teeth, as we sometimes see in a
corpse after a prolonged illness. Van Helsing raised his foot to stamp
in anger, but the instinct of his life and all the long years of habit
stood to him, and he put it down again softly. "Quick!" he said. "Bring
the brandy." I flew to the dining-room, and returned with the decanter.
He wetted the poor white lips with it, and together we rubbed palm and
wrist and heart. He felt her heart, and after a few moments of agonising
suspense said:--
"It is not too late. It beats, though but feebly. All our work is
undone; we must begin again. There is no young Arthur here now; I have
to call on you yourself this time, friend John." As he spoke, he was
dipping into his bag and producing the instruments for transfusion; I
had taken off my coat and rolled up my shirt-sleeve. There was no
possibility of an opiate just at present, and no need of one; and so,
without a moment's delay, we began the operation. After a time--it did
not seem a short time either, for the draining away of one's blood, no
matter how willingly it be given, is a terrible feeling--Van Helsing
held up a warning finger. "Do not stir," he said, "but I fear that with
growing strength she may wake; and that would make danger, oh, so much
danger. But I shall precaution take. I shall give hypodermic injection
of morphia." He proceeded then, swiftly and deftly, to carry out his
intent. The effect on Lucy was not bad, for the faint seemed to merge
subtly into the narcotic sleep. It was with a feeling of personal pride
that I could see a faint tinge of colour steal back into the pallid
cheeks and lips. No man knows, till he experiences it, what it is to
feel his own life-blood drawn away into the veins of the woman he loves.
The Professor watched me critically. "That will do," he said. "Already?"
I remonstrated. "You took a great deal more from Art." To which he
smiled a sad sort of smile as he replied:--
"He is her lover, her _fiance_. You have work, much work, to do for her
and for others; and the present will suffice."
When we stopped the operation, he attended to Lucy, whilst I applied
digital pressure to my own incision. I laid down, whilst I waited his
leisure to attend to me, for I felt faint and a little sick. By-and-by
he bound up my wound, and sent me downstairs to get a glass of wine for
myself. As I was leaving the room, he came after me, and half
whispered:--
"Mind, nothing must be said of this. If our young lover should turn up
unexpected, as before, no word to him. It would at once frighten him and
enjealous him, too. There must be none. So!"
When I came back he looked at me carefully, and then said:--
"You are not much the worse. Go into the room, and lie on your sofa, and
rest awhile; then have much breakfast, and come here to me."
I followed out his orders, for I knew how right and wise they were. I
had done my part, and now my next duty was to keep up my strength. I
felt very weak, and in the weakness lost something of the amazement at
what had occurred. I fell asleep on the sofa, however, wondering over
and over again how Lucy had made such a retrograde movement, and how
she could have been drained of so much blood with no sign anywhere to
show for it. I think I must have continued my wonder in my dreams, for,
sleeping and waking, my thoughts always came back to the little
punctures in her throat and the ragged, exhausted appearance of their
edges--tiny though they were.
Lucy slept well into the day, and when she woke she was fairly well and
strong, though not nearly so much so as the day before. When Van Helsing
had seen her, he went out for a walk, leaving me in charge, with strict
injunctions that I was not to leave her for a moment. I could hear his
voice in the hall, asking the way to the nearest telegraph office.
Lucy chatted with me freely, and seemed quite unconscious that anything
had happened. I tried to keep her amused and interested. When her mother
came up to see her, she did not seem to notice any change whatever, but
said to me gratefully:--
"We owe you so much, Dr. Seward, for all you have done, but you really
must now take care not to overwork yourself. You are looking pale
yourself. You want a wife to nurse and look after you a bit; that you
do!" As she spoke, Lucy turned crimson, though it was only momentarily,
for her poor wasted veins could not stand for long such an unwonted
drain to the head. The reaction came in excessive pallor as she turned
imploring eyes on me. I smiled and nodded, and laid my finger on my
lips; with a sigh, she sank back amid her pillows.
Van Helsing returned in a couple of hours, and presently said to me:
"Now you go home, and eat much and drink enough. Make yourself strong. I
stay here to-night, and I shall sit up with little miss myself. You and
I must watch the case, and we must have none other to know. I have grave
reasons. No, do not ask them; think what you will. Do not fear to think
even the most not-probable. Good-night."
In the hall two of the maids came to me, and asked if they or either of
them might not sit up with Miss Lucy. They implored me to let them; and
when I said it was Dr. Van Helsing's wish that either he or I should sit
up, they asked me quite piteously to intercede with the "foreign
gentleman." I was much touched by their kindness. Perhaps it is because
I am weak at present, and perhaps because it was on Lucy's account, that
their devotion was manifested; for over and over again have I seen
similar instances of woman's kindness. I got back here in time for a
late dinner; went my rounds--all well; and set this down whilst waiting
for sleep. It is coming.
* * * * *
_11 September._--This afternoon I went over to Hillingham. Found Van
Helsing in excellent spirits, and Lucy much better. Shortly after I had
arrived, a big parcel from abroad came for the Professor. He opened it
with much impressment--assumed, of course--and showed a great bundle of
white flowers.
"These are for you, Miss Lucy," he said.
"For me? Oh, Dr. Van Helsing!"
"Yes, my dear, but not for you to play with. These are medicines." Here
Lucy made a wry face. "Nay, but they are not to take in a decoction or
in nauseous form, so you need not snub that so charming nose, or I shall
point out to my friend Arthur what woes he may have to endure in seeing
so much beauty that he so loves so much distort. Aha, my pretty miss,
that bring the so nice nose all straight again. This is medicinal, but
you do not know how. I put him in your window, I make pretty wreath, and
hang him round your neck, so that you sleep well. Oh yes! they, like the
lotus flower, make your trouble forgotten. It smell so like the waters
of Lethe, and of that fountain of youth that the Conquistadores sought
for in the Floridas, and find him all too late."
Whilst he was speaking, Lucy had been examining the flowers and smelling
them. Now she threw them down, saying, with half-laughter, and
half-disgust:--
"Oh, Professor, I believe you are only putting up a joke on me. Why,
these flowers are only common garlic."
To my surprise, Van Helsing rose up and said with all his sternness, his
iron jaw set and his bushy eyebrows meeting:--
"No trifling with me! I never jest! There is grim purpose in all I do;
and I warn you that you do not thwart me. Take care, for the sake of
others if not for your own." Then seeing poor Lucy scared, as she might
well be, he went on more gently: "Oh, little miss, my dear, do not fear
me. I only do for your good; but there is much virtue to you in those so
common flowers. See, I place them myself in your room. I make myself the
wreath that you are to wear. But hush! no telling to others that make so
inquisitive questions. We must obey, and silence is a part of obedience;
and obedience is to bring you strong and well into loving arms that wait
for you. Now sit still awhile. Come with me, friend John, and you shall
help me deck the room with my garlic, which is all the way from Haarlem,
where my friend Vanderpool raise herb in his glass-houses all the year.
I had to telegraph yesterday, or they would not have been here."
We went into the room, taking the flowers with us. The Professor's
actions were certainly odd and not to be found in any pharmacopoeia
that I ever heard of. First he fastened up the windows and latched them
securely; next, taking a handful of the flowers, he rubbed them all over
the sashes, as though to ensure that every whiff of air that might get
in would be laden with the garlic smell. Then with the wisp he rubbed
all over the jamb of the door, above, below, and at each side, and round
the fireplace in the same way. It all seemed grotesque to me, and
presently I said:--
"Well, Professor, I know you always have a reason for what you do, but
this certainly puzzles me. It is well we have no sceptic here, or he
would say that you were working some spell to keep out an evil spirit."
"Perhaps I am!" he answered quietly as he began to make the wreath which
Lucy was to wear round her neck.
We then waited whilst Lucy made her toilet for the night, and when she
was in bed he came and himself fixed the wreath of garlic round her
neck. The last words he said to her were:--
"Take care you do not disturb it; and even if the room feel close, do
not to-night open the window or the door."
"I promise," said Lucy, "and thank you both a thousand times for all
your kindness to me! Oh, what have I done to be blessed with such
friends?"
As we left the house in my fly, which was waiting, Van Helsing said:--
"To-night I can sleep in peace, and sleep I want--two nights of travel,
much reading in the day between, and much anxiety on the day to follow,
and a night to sit up, without to wink. To-morrow in the morning early
you call for me, and we come together to see our pretty miss, so much
more strong for my 'spell' which I have work. Ho! ho!"
He seemed so confident that I, remembering my own confidence two nights
before and with the baneful result, felt awe and vague terror. It must
have been my weakness that made me hesitate to tell it to my friend, but
I felt it all the more, like unshed tears. | This chapter starts with a letter, dated September 6, to Arthur Holmwood from Dr. Seward. It tells about Lucys downward slide in health. Abraham Van Helsing has returned to see her. Dr. Seward records in his diary that how he recounts Lucys symptoms to the Professor. The Professor looks grave. He sees her and is appalled to see Lucy almost bloodless. Arthur rushes in, worried after receiving the telegram. Van Helsing takes blood for him and transfuses it to Lucy. He allows Arthur to kiss her and then let her rest. Lucy is much better. The Professor sees the pinpoint marks on Lucys throat and asks about them. He then abruptly says he has to leave for Amsterdam. He tells Dr. Seward to keep watch on her himself. On September 8, Lucy seems much better. The Professor sends Dr. Seward a telegram to be at Hellingham. Lucy Westenra records in her diary about the feeling of being looked after and secured. Dr. Sewards continues to write his diary. He is dosing off when Van Helsing enters and demands to see Lucy. They rush up and see her almost bloodless again. Van Helsing rushes to transfuse blood from Dr. Seward to Lucy. Lucy gets better. On September 11, Van Helsing makes Lucy wear a garland of garlic. He fastens her windows and rubs garlic on her sashes. They all retire for bed. |
The event of Tess Durbeyfield's return from the manor of her bogus
kinsfolk was rumoured abroad, if rumour be not too large a word for
a space of a square mile. In the afternoon several young girls of
Marlott, former schoolfellows and acquaintances of Tess, called to
see her, arriving dressed in their best starched and ironed, as
became visitors to a person who had made a transcendent conquest (as
they supposed), and sat round the room looking at her with great
curiosity. For the fact that it was this said thirty-first cousin,
Mr d'Urberville, who had fallen in love with her, a gentleman
not altogether local, whose reputation as a reckless gallant and
heartbreaker was beginning to spread beyond the immediate boundaries
of Trantridge, lent Tess's supposed position, by its fearsomeness, a
far higher fascination that it would have exercised if unhazardous.
Their interest was so deep that the younger ones whispered when her
back was turned--
"How pretty she is; and how that best frock do set her off! I
believe it cost an immense deal, and that it was a gift from him."
Tess, who was reaching up to get the tea-things from the
corner-cupboard, did not hear these commentaries. If she had heard
them, she might soon have set her friends right on the matter. But
her mother heard, and Joan's simple vanity, having been denied the
hope of a dashing marriage, fed itself as well as it could upon
the sensation of a dashing flirtation. Upon the whole she felt
gratified, even though such a limited and evanescent triumph should
involve her daughter's reputation; it might end in marriage yet, and
in the warmth of her responsiveness to their admiration she invited
her visitors to stay to tea.
Their chatter, their laughter, their good-humoured innuendoes, above
all, their flashes and flickerings of envy, revived Tess's spirits
also; and, as the evening wore on, she caught the infection of their
excitement, and grew almost gay. The marble hardness left her face,
she moved with something of her old bounding step, and flushed in all
her young beauty.
At moments, in spite of thought, she would reply to their inquiries
with a manner of superiority, as if recognizing that her experiences
in the field of courtship had, indeed, been slightly enviable. But
so far was she from being, in the words of Robert South, "in love
with her own ruin," that the illusion was transient as lightning;
cold reason came back to mock her spasmodic weakness; the ghastliness
of her momentary pride would convict her, and recall her to reserved
listlessness again.
And the despondency of the next morning's dawn, when it was no longer
Sunday, but Monday; and no best clothes; and the laughing visitors
were gone, and she awoke alone in her old bed, the innocent younger
children breathing softly around her. In place of the excitement of
her return, and the interest it had inspired, she saw before her a
long and stony highway which she had to tread, without aid, and with
little sympathy. Her depression was then terrible, and she could
have hidden herself in a tomb.
In the course of a few weeks Tess revived sufficiently to show
herself so far as was necessary to get to church one Sunday morning.
She liked to hear the chanting--such as it was--and the old Psalms,
and to join in the Morning Hymn. That innate love of melody, which
she had inherited from her ballad-singing mother, gave the simplest
music a power over her which could well-nigh drag her heart out of
her bosom at times.
To be as much out of observation as possible for reasons of her own,
and to escape the gallantries of the young men, she set out before
the chiming began, and took a back seat under the gallery, close to
the lumber, where only old men and women came, and where the bier
stood on end among the churchyard tools.
Parishioners dropped in by twos and threes, deposited themselves
in rows before her, rested three-quarters of a minute on their
foreheads as if they were praying, though they were not; then sat up,
and looked around. When the chants came on, one of her favourites
happened to be chosen among the rest--the old double chant
"Langdon"--but she did not know what it was called, though she would
much have liked to know. She thought, without exactly wording the
thought, how strange and god-like was a composer's power, who from
the grave could lead through sequences of emotion, which he alone had
felt at first, a girl like her who had never heard of his name, and
never would have a clue to his personality.
The people who had turned their heads turned them again as the
service proceeded; and at last observing her, they whispered to each
other. She knew what their whispers were about, grew sick at heart,
and felt that she could come to church no more.
The bedroom which she shared with some of the children formed her
retreat more continually than ever. Here, under her few square yards
of thatch, she watched winds, and snows, and rains, gorgeous sunsets,
and successive moons at their full. So close kept she that at length
almost everybody thought she had gone away.
The only exercise that Tess took at this time was after dark; and it
was then, when out in the woods, that she seemed least solitary. She
knew how to hit to a hair's-breadth that moment of evening when the
light and the darkness are so evenly balanced that the constraint of
day and the suspense of night neutralize each other, leaving absolute
mental liberty. It is then that the plight of being alive becomes
attenuated to its least possible dimensions. She had no fear of the
shadows; her sole idea seemed to be to shun mankind--or rather that
cold accretion called the world, which, so terrible in the mass, is
so unformidable, even pitiable, in its units.
On these lonely hills and dales her quiescent glide was of a piece
with the element she moved in. Her flexuous and stealthy figure
became an integral part of the scene. At times her whimsical fancy
would intensify natural processes around her till they seemed a part
of her own story. Rather they became a part of it; for the world is
only a psychological phenomenon, and what they seemed they were. The
midnight airs and gusts, moaning amongst the tightly-wrapped buds and
bark of the winter twigs, were formulae of bitter reproach. A wet
day was the expression of irremediable grief at her weakness in the
mind of some vague ethical being whom she could not class definitely
as the God of her childhood, and could not comprehend as any other.
But this encompassment of her own characterization, based on shreds
of convention, peopled by phantoms and voices antipathetic to her,
was a sorry and mistaken creation of Tess's fancy--a cloud of moral
hobgoblins by which she was terrified without reason. It was they
that were out of harmony with the actual world, not she. Walking
among the sleeping birds in the hedges, watching the skipping rabbits
on a moonlit warren, or standing under a pheasant-laden bough, she
looked upon herself as a figure of Guilt intruding into the haunts
of Innocence. But all the while she was making a distinction where
there was no difference. Feeling herself in antagonism, she was
quite in accord. She had been made to break an accepted social law,
but no law known to the environment in which she fancied herself such
an anomaly. | At first, when friends call on her in Marlott, Tess feels more cheerful; but before long she is the talk of the village. They whisper behind her back and cause her to think about her future, which seems like "a long and stony highway which she must tread, without aid, and with little sympathy. To avoid their words and stares, she only goes out at night, hoping not to be seen and discussed. Her only relief is her work in the fields; but even as she works, Tess is full of remorse and considers herself a "Figure of Guilt". |
"How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armor is his honest thought,
And simple truth his only skill!
. . . . . . .
This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall;
Lord of himself though not of lands;
And having nothing yet hath all."
--SIR HENRY WOTTON.
Dorothea's confidence in Caleb Garth's knowledge, which had begun on
her hearing that he approved of her cottages, had grown fast during her
stay at Freshitt, Sir James having induced her to take rides over the
two estates in company with himself and Caleb, who quite returned her
admiration, and told his wife that Mrs. Casaubon had a head for
business most uncommon in a woman. It must be remembered that by
"business" Caleb never meant money transactions, but the skilful
application of labor.
"Most uncommon!" repeated Caleb. "She said a thing I often used to
think myself when I was a lad:--'Mr. Garth, I should like to feel, if I
lived to be old, that I had improved a great piece of land and built a
great many good cottages, because the work is of a healthy kind while
it is being done, and after it is done, men are the better for it.'
Those were the very words: she sees into things in that way."
"But womanly, I hope," said Mrs. Garth, half suspecting that Mrs.
Casaubon might not hold the true principle of subordination.
"Oh, you can't think!" said Caleb, shaking his head. "You would like
to hear her speak, Susan. She speaks in such plain words, and a voice
like music. Bless me! it reminds me of bits in the 'Messiah'--'and
straightway there appeared a multitude of the heavenly host, praising
God and saying;' it has a tone with it that satisfies your ear."
Caleb was very fond of music, and when he could afford it went to hear
an oratorio that came within his reach, returning from it with a
profound reverence for this mighty structure of tones, which made him
sit meditatively, looking on the floor and throwing much unutterable
language into his outstretched hands.
With this good understanding between them, it was natural that Dorothea
asked Mr. Garth to undertake any business connected with the three
farms and the numerous tenements attached to Lowick Manor; indeed, his
expectation of getting work for two was being fast fulfilled. As he
said, "Business breeds." And one form of business which was beginning
to breed just then was the construction of railways. A projected line
was to run through Lowick parish where the cattle had hitherto grazed
in a peace unbroken by astonishment; and thus it happened that the
infant struggles of the railway system entered into the affairs of
Caleb Garth, and determined the course of this history with regard to
two persons who were dear to him. The submarine railway may have its
difficulties; but the bed of the sea is not divided among various
landed proprietors with claims for damages not only measurable but
sentimental. In the hundred to which Middlemarch belonged railways
were as exciting a topic as the Reform Bill or the imminent horrors of
Cholera, and those who held the most decided views on the subject were
women and landholders. Women both old and young regarded travelling by
steam as presumptuous and dangerous, and argued against it by saying
that nothing should induce them to get into a railway carriage; while
proprietors, differing from each other in their arguments as much as
Mr. Solomon Featherstone differed from Lord Medlicote, were yet
unanimous in the opinion that in selling land, whether to the Enemy of
mankind or to a company obliged to purchase, these pernicious agencies
must be made to pay a very high price to landowners for permission to
injure mankind.
But the slower wits, such as Mr. Solomon and Mrs. Waule, who both
occupied land of their own, took a long time to arrive at this
conclusion, their minds halting at the vivid conception of what it
would be to cut the Big Pasture in two, and turn it into three-cornered
bits, which would be "nohow;" while accommodation-bridges and high
payments were remote and incredible.
"The cows will all cast their calves, brother," said Mrs. Waule, in a
tone of deep melancholy, "if the railway comes across the Near Close;
and I shouldn't wonder at the mare too, if she was in foal. It's a
poor tale if a widow's property is to be spaded away, and the law say
nothing to it. What's to hinder 'em from cutting right and left if
they begin? It's well known, _I_ can't fight."
"The best way would be to say nothing, and set somebody on to send 'em
away with a flea in their ear, when they came spying and measuring,"
said Solomon. "Folks did that about Brassing, by what I can
understand. It's all a pretence, if the truth was known, about their
being forced to take one way. Let 'em go cutting in another parish.
And I don't believe in any pay to make amends for bringing a lot of
ruffians to trample your crops. Where's a company's pocket?"
"Brother Peter, God forgive him, got money out of a company," said Mrs.
Waule. "But that was for the manganese. That wasn't for railways to
blow you to pieces right and left."
"Well, there's this to be said, Jane," Mr. Solomon concluded, lowering
his voice in a cautious manner--"the more spokes we put in their wheel,
the more they'll pay us to let 'em go on, if they must come whether or
not."
This reasoning of Mr. Solomon's was perhaps less thorough than he
imagined, his cunning bearing about the same relation to the course of
railways as the cunning of a diplomatist bears to the general chill or
catarrh of the solar system. But he set about acting on his views in a
thoroughly diplomatic manner, by stimulating suspicion. His side of
Lowick was the most remote from the village, and the houses of the
laboring people were either lone cottages or were collected in a hamlet
called Frick, where a water-mill and some stone-pits made a little
centre of slow, heavy-shouldered industry.
In the absence of any precise idea as to what railways were, public
opinion in Frick was against them; for the human mind in that grassy
corner had not the proverbial tendency to admire the unknown, holding
rather that it was likely to be against the poor man, and that
suspicion was the only wise attitude with regard to it. Even the rumor
of Reform had not yet excited any millennial expectations in Frick,
there being no definite promise in it, as of gratuitous grains to
fatten Hiram Ford's pig, or of a publican at the "Weights and Scales"
who would brew beer for nothing, or of an offer on the part of the
three neighboring farmers to raise wages during winter. And without
distinct good of this kind in its promises, Reform seemed on a footing
with the bragging of pedlers, which was a hint for distrust to every
knowing person. The men of Frick were not ill-fed, and were less given
to fanaticism than to a strong muscular suspicion; less inclined to
believe that they were peculiarly cared for by heaven, than to regard
heaven itself as rather disposed to take them in--a disposition
observable in the weather.
Thus the mind of Frick was exactly of the sort for Mr. Solomon
Featherstone to work upon, he having more plenteous ideas of the same
order, with a suspicion of heaven and earth which was better fed and
more entirely at leisure. Solomon was overseer of the roads at that
time, and on his slow-paced cob often took his rounds by Frick to look
at the workmen getting the stones there, pausing with a mysterious
deliberation, which might have misled you into supposing that he had
some other reason for staying than the mere want of impulse to move.
After looking for a long while at any work that was going on, he would
raise his eyes a little and look at the horizon; finally he would shake
his bridle, touch his horse with the whip, and get it to move slowly
onward. The hour-hand of a clock was quick by comparison with Mr.
Solomon, who had an agreeable sense that he could afford to be slow.
He was in the habit of pausing for a cautious, vaguely designing chat
with every hedger or ditcher on his way, and was especially willing to
listen even to news which he had heard before, feeling himself at an
advantage over all narrators in partially disbelieving them. One day,
however, he got into a dialogue with Hiram Ford, a wagoner, in which he
himself contributed information. He wished to know whether Hiram had
seen fellows with staves and instruments spying about: they called
themselves railroad people, but there was no telling what they were or
what they meant to do. The least they pretended was that they were
going to cut Lowick Parish into sixes and sevens.
"Why, there'll be no stirrin' from one pla-ace to another," said Hiram,
thinking of his wagon and horses.
"Not a bit," said Mr. Solomon. "And cutting up fine land such as this
parish! Let 'em go into Tipton, say I. But there's no knowing what
there is at the bottom of it. Traffic is what they put for'ard; but
it's to do harm to the land and the poor man in the long-run."
"Why, they're Lunnon chaps, I reckon," said Hiram, who had a dim notion
of London as a centre of hostility to the country.
"Ay, to be sure. And in some parts against Brassing, by what I've
heard say, the folks fell on 'em when they were spying, and broke their
peep-holes as they carry, and drove 'em away, so as they knew better
than come again."
"It war good foon, I'd be bound," said Hiram, whose fun was much
restricted by circumstances.
"Well, I wouldn't meddle with 'em myself," said Solomon. "But some say
this country's seen its best days, and the sign is, as it's being
overrun with these fellows trampling right and left, and wanting to cut
it up into railways; and all for the big traffic to swallow up the
little, so as there shan't be a team left on the land, nor a whip to
crack."
"I'll crack _my_ whip about their ear'n, afore they bring it to that,
though," said Hiram, while Mr. Solomon, shaking his bridle, moved
onward.
Nettle-seed needs no digging. The ruin of this countryside by
railroads was discussed, not only at the "Weights and Scales," but in
the hay-field, where the muster of working hands gave opportunities for
talk such as were rarely had through the rural year.
One morning, not long after that interview between Mr. Farebrother and
Mary Garth, in which she confessed to him her feeling for Fred Vincy,
it happened that her father had some business which took him to
Yoddrell's farm in the direction of Frick: it was to measure and value
an outlying piece of land belonging to Lowick Manor, which Caleb
expected to dispose of advantageously for Dorothea (it must be
confessed that his bias was towards getting the best possible terms
from railroad companies). He put up his gig at Yoddrell's, and in
walking with his assistant and measuring-chain to the scene of his
work, he encountered the party of the company's agents, who were
adjusting their spirit-level. After a little chat he left them,
observing that by-and-by they would reach him again where he was going
to measure. It was one of those gray mornings after light rains, which
become delicious about twelve o'clock, when the clouds part a little,
and the scent of the earth is sweet along the lanes and by the
hedgerows.
The scent would have been sweeter to Fred Vincy, who was coming along
the lanes on horseback, if his mind had not been worried by
unsuccessful efforts to imagine what he was to do, with his father on
one side expecting him straightway to enter the Church, with Mary on
the other threatening to forsake him if he did enter it, and with the
working-day world showing no eager need whatever of a young gentleman
without capital and generally unskilled. It was the harder to Fred's
disposition because his father, satisfied that he was no longer
rebellious, was in good humor with him, and had sent him on this
pleasant ride to see after some greyhounds. Even when he had fixed on
what he should do, there would be the task of telling his father. But
it must be admitted that the fixing, which had to come first, was the
more difficult task:--what secular avocation on earth was there for a
young man (whose friends could not get him an "appointment") which was
at once gentlemanly, lucrative, and to be followed without special
knowledge? Riding along the lanes by Frick in this mood, and
slackening his pace while he reflected whether he should venture to go
round by Lowick Parsonage to call on Mary, he could see over the hedges
from one field to another. Suddenly a noise roused his attention, and
on the far side of a field on his left hand he could see six or seven
men in smock-frocks with hay-forks in their hands making an offensive
approach towards the four railway agents who were facing them, while
Caleb Garth and his assistant were hastening across the field to join
the threatened group. Fred, delayed a few moments by having to find
the gate, could not gallop up to the spot before the party in
smock-frocks, whose work of turning the hay had not been too pressing
after swallowing their mid-day beer, were driving the men in coats
before them with their hay-forks; while Caleb Garth's assistant, a lad
of seventeen, who had snatched up the spirit-level at Caleb's order,
had been knocked down and seemed to be lying helpless. The coated men
had the advantage as runners, and Fred covered their retreat by getting
in front of the smock-frocks and charging them suddenly enough to throw
their chase into confusion. "What do you confounded fools mean?"
shouted Fred, pursuing the divided group in a zigzag, and cutting right
and left with his whip. "I'll swear to every one of you before the
magistrate. You've knocked the lad down and killed him, for what I
know. You'll every one of you be hanged at the next assizes, if you
don't mind," said Fred, who afterwards laughed heartily as he
remembered his own phrases.
The laborers had been driven through the gate-way into their hay-field,
and Fred had checked his horse, when Hiram Ford, observing himself at a
safe challenging distance, turned back and shouted a defiance which he
did not know to be Homeric.
"Yo're a coward, yo are. Yo git off your horse, young measter, and
I'll have a round wi' ye, I wull. Yo daredn't come on wi'out your hoss
an' whip. I'd soon knock the breath out on ye, I would."
"Wait a minute, and I'll come back presently, and have a round with you
all in turn, if you like," said Fred, who felt confidence in his power
of boxing with his dearly beloved brethren. But just now he wanted to
hasten back to Caleb and the prostrate youth.
The lad's ankle was strained, and he was in much pain from it, but he
was no further hurt, and Fred placed him on the horse that he might
ride to Yoddrell's and be taken care of there.
"Let them put the horse in the stable, and tell the surveyors they can
come back for their traps," said Fred. "The ground is clear now."
"No, no," said Caleb, "here's a breakage. They'll have to give up for
to-day, and it will be as well. Here, take the things before you on
the horse, Tom. They'll see you coming, and they'll turn back."
"I'm glad I happened to be here at the right moment, Mr. Garth," said
Fred, as Tom rode away. "No knowing what might have happened if the
cavalry had not come up in time."
"Ay, ay, it was lucky," said Caleb, speaking rather absently, and
looking towards the spot where he had been at work at the moment of
interruption. "But--deuce take it--this is what comes of men being
fools--I'm hindered of my day's work. I can't get along without
somebody to help me with the measuring-chain. However!" He was
beginning to move towards the spot with a look of vexation, as if he
had forgotten Fred's presence, but suddenly he turned round and said
quickly, "What have you got to do to-day, young fellow?"
"Nothing, Mr. Garth. I'll help you with pleasure--can I?" said Fred,
with a sense that he should be courting Mary when he was helping her
father.
"Well, you mustn't mind stooping and getting hot."
"I don't mind anything. Only I want to go first and have a round with
that hulky fellow who turned to challenge me. It would be a good
lesson for him. I shall not be five minutes."
"Nonsense!" said Caleb, with his most peremptory intonation. "I shall
go and speak to the men myself. It's all ignorance. Somebody has been
telling them lies. The poor fools don't know any better."
"I shall go with you, then," said Fred.
"No, no; stay where you are. I don't want your young blood. I can
take care of myself."
Caleb was a powerful man and knew little of any fear except the fear of
hurting others and the fear of having to speechify. But he felt it his
duty at this moment to try and give a little harangue. There was a
striking mixture in him--which came from his having always been a
hard-working man himself--of rigorous notions about workmen and
practical indulgence towards them. To do a good day's work and to do
it well, he held to be part of their welfare, as it was the chief part
of his own happiness; but he had a strong sense of fellowship with
them. When he advanced towards the laborers they had not gone to work
again, but were standing in that form of rural grouping which consists
in each turning a shoulder towards the other, at a distance of two or
three yards. They looked rather sulkily at Caleb, who walked quickly
with one hand in his pocket and the other thrust between the buttons of
his waistcoat, and had his every-day mild air when he paused among them.
"Why, my lads, how's this?" he began, taking as usual to brief phrases,
which seemed pregnant to himself, because he had many thoughts lying
under them, like the abundant roots of a plant that just manages to
peep above the water. "How came you to make such a mistake as this?
Somebody has been telling you lies. You thought those men up there
wanted to do mischief."
"Aw!" was the answer, dropped at intervals by each according to his
degree of unreadiness.
"Nonsense! No such thing! They're looking out to see which way the
railroad is to take. Now, my lads, you can't hinder the railroad: it
will be made whether you like it or not. And if you go fighting
against it, you'll get yourselves into trouble. The law gives those
men leave to come here on the land. The owner has nothing to say
against it, and if you meddle with them you'll have to do with the
constable and Justice Blakesley, and with the handcuffs and Middlemarch
jail. And you might be in for it now, if anybody informed against you."
Caleb paused here, and perhaps the greatest orator could not have
chosen either his pause or his images better for the occasion.
"But come, you didn't mean any harm. Somebody told you the railroad
was a bad thing. That was a lie. It may do a bit of harm here and
there, to this and to that; and so does the sun in heaven. But the
railway's a good thing."
"Aw! good for the big folks to make money out on," said old Timothy
Cooper, who had stayed behind turning his hay while the others had been
gone on their spree;--"I'n seen lots o' things turn up sin' I war a
young un--the war an' the peace, and the canells, an' the oald King
George, an' the Regen', an' the new King George, an' the new un as has
got a new ne-ame--an' it's been all aloike to the poor mon. What's the
canells been t' him? They'n brought him neyther me-at nor be-acon, nor
wage to lay by, if he didn't save it wi' clemmin' his own inside.
Times ha' got wusser for him sin' I war a young un. An' so it'll be
wi' the railroads. They'll on'y leave the poor mon furder behind. But
them are fools as meddle, and so I told the chaps here. This is the
big folks's world, this is. But yo're for the big folks, Muster Garth,
yo are."
Timothy was a wiry old laborer, of a type lingering in those times--who
had his savings in a stocking-foot, lived in a lone cottage, and was
not to be wrought on by any oratory, having as little of the feudal
spirit, and believing as little, as if he had not been totally
unacquainted with the Age of Reason and the Rights of Man. Caleb was
in a difficulty known to any person attempting in dark times and
unassisted by miracle to reason with rustics who are in possession of
an undeniable truth which they know through a hard process of feeling,
and can let it fall like a giant's club on your neatly carved argument
for a social benefit which they do not feel. Caleb had no cant at
command, even if he could have chosen to use it; and he had been
accustomed to meet all such difficulties in no other way than by doing
his "business" faithfully. He answered--
"If you don't think well of me, Tim, never mind; that's neither here
nor there now. Things may be bad for the poor man--bad they are; but I
want the lads here not to do what will make things worse for
themselves. The cattle may have a heavy load, but it won't help 'em to
throw it over into the roadside pit, when it's partly their own fodder."
"We war on'y for a bit o' foon," said Hiram, who was beginning to see
consequences. "That war all we war arter."
"Well, promise me not to meddle again, and I'll see that nobody informs
against you."
"I'n ne'er meddled, an' I'n no call to promise," said Timothy.
"No, but the rest. Come, I'm as hard at work as any of you to-day, and
I can't spare much time. Say you'll be quiet without the constable."
"Aw, we wooant meddle--they may do as they loike for oos"--were the
forms in which Caleb got his pledges; and then he hastened back to
Fred, who had followed him, and watched him in the gateway.
They went to work, and Fred helped vigorously. His spirits had risen,
and he heartily enjoyed a good slip in the moist earth under the
hedgerow, which soiled his perfect summer trousers. Was it his
successful onset which had elated him, or the satisfaction of helping
Mary's father? Something more. The accidents of the morning had
helped his frustrated imagination to shape an employment for himself
which had several attractions. I am not sure that certain fibres in
Mr. Garth's mind had not resumed their old vibration towards the very
end which now revealed itself to Fred. For the effective accident is
but the touch of fire where there is oil and tow; and it always
appeared to Fred that the railway brought the needed touch. But they
went on in silence except when their business demanded speech. At
last, when they had finished and were walking away, Mr. Garth said--
"A young fellow needn't be a B. A. to do this sort of work, eh, Fred?"
"I wish I had taken to it before I had thought of being a B. A.," said
Fred. He paused a moment, and then added, more hesitatingly, "Do you
think I am too old to learn your business, Mr. Garth?"
"My business is of many sorts, my boy," said Mr. Garth, smiling. "A
good deal of what I know can only come from experience: you can't learn
it off as you learn things out of a book. But you are young enough to
lay a foundation yet." Caleb pronounced the last sentence
emphatically, but paused in some uncertainty. He had been under the
impression lately that Fred had made up his mind to enter the Church.
"You do think I could do some good at it, if I were to try?" said Fred,
more eagerly.
"That depends," said Caleb, turning his head on one side and lowering
his voice, with the air of a man who felt himself to be saying
something deeply religious. "You must be sure of two things: you must
love your work, and not be always looking over the edge of it, wanting
your play to begin. And the other is, you must not be ashamed of your
work, and think it would be more honorable to you to be doing something
else. You must have a pride in your own work and in learning to do it
well, and not be always saying, There's this and there's that--if I had
this or that to do, I might make something of it. No matter what a man
is--I wouldn't give twopence for him"--here Caleb's mouth looked
bitter, and he snapped his fingers--"whether he was the prime minister
or the rick-thatcher, if he didn't do well what he undertook to do."
"I can never feel that I should do that in being a clergyman," said
Fred, meaning to take a step in argument.
"Then let it alone, my boy," said Caleb, abruptly, "else you'll never
be easy. Or, if you _are_ easy, you'll be a poor stick."
"That is very nearly what Mary thinks about it," said Fred, coloring.
"I think you must know what I feel for Mary, Mr. Garth: I hope it does
not displease you that I have always loved her better than any one
else, and that I shall never love any one as I love her."
The expression of Caleb's face was visibly softening while Fred spoke.
But he swung his head with a solemn slowness, and said--
"That makes things more serious, Fred, if you want to take Mary's
happiness into your keeping."
"I know that, Mr. Garth," said Fred, eagerly, "and I would do anything
for _her_. She says she will never have me if I go into the Church;
and I shall be the most miserable devil in the world if I lose all hope
of Mary. Really, if I could get some other profession,
business--anything that I am at all fit for, I would work hard, I would
deserve your good opinion. I should like to have to do with outdoor
things. I know a good deal about land and cattle already. I used to
believe, you know--though you will think me rather foolish for it--that
I should have land of my own. I am sure knowledge of that sort would
come easily to me, especially if I could be under you in any way."
"Softly, my boy," said Caleb, having the image of "Susan" before his
eyes. "What have you said to your father about all this?"
"Nothing, yet; but I must tell him. I am only waiting to know what I
can do instead of entering the Church. I am very sorry to disappoint
him, but a man ought to be allowed to judge for himself when he is
four-and-twenty. How could I know when I was fifteen, what it would be
right for me to do now? My education was a mistake."
"But hearken to this, Fred," said Caleb. "Are you sure Mary is fond of
you, or would ever have you?"
"I asked Mr. Farebrother to talk to her, because she had forbidden
me--I didn't know what else to do," said Fred, apologetically. "And he
says that I have every reason to hope, if I can put myself in an
honorable position--I mean, out of the Church. I dare say you think it
unwarrantable in me, Mr. Garth, to be troubling you and obtruding my
own wishes about Mary, before I have done anything at all for myself.
Of course I have not the least claim--indeed, I have already a debt to
you which will never be discharged, even when I have been, able to pay
it in the shape of money."
"Yes, my boy, you have a claim," said Caleb, with much feeling in his
voice. "The young ones have always a claim on the old to help them
forward. I was young myself once and had to do without much help; but
help would have been welcome to me, if it had been only for the
fellow-feeling's sake. But I must consider. Come to me to-morrow at
the office, at nine o'clock. At the office, mind."
Mr. Garth would take no important step without consulting Susan, but it
must be confessed that before he reached home he had taken his
resolution. With regard to a large number of matters about which other
men are decided or obstinate, he was the most easily manageable man in
the world. He never knew what meat he would choose, and if Susan had
said that they ought to live in a four-roomed cottage, in order to
save, he would have said, "Let us go," without inquiring into details.
But where Caleb's feeling and judgment strongly pronounced, he was a
ruler; and in spite of his mildness and timidity in reproving, every
one about him knew that on the exceptional occasions when he chose, he
was absolute. He never, indeed, chose to be absolute except on some
one else's behalf. On ninety-nine points Mrs. Garth decided, but on
the hundredth she was often aware that she would have to perform the
singularly difficult task of carrying out her own principle, and to
make herself subordinate.
"It is come round as I thought, Susan," said Caleb, when they were
seated alone in the evening. He had already narrated the adventure
which had brought about Fred's sharing in his work, but had kept back
the further result. "The children _are_ fond of each other--I mean,
Fred and Mary."
Mrs. Garth laid her work on her knee, and fixed her penetrating eyes
anxiously on her husband.
"After we'd done our work, Fred poured it all out to me. He can't bear
to be a clergyman, and Mary says she won't have him if he is one; and
the lad would like to be under me and give his mind to business. And
I've determined to take him and make a man of him."
"Caleb!" said Mrs. Garth, in a deep contralto, expressive of resigned
astonishment.
"It's a fine thing to do," said Mr. Garth, settling himself firmly
against the back of his chair, and grasping the elbows. "I shall have
trouble with him, but I think I shall carry it through. The lad loves
Mary, and a true love for a good woman is a great thing, Susan. It
shapes many a rough fellow."
"Has Mary spoken to you on the subject?" said Mrs Garth, secretly a
little hurt that she had to be informed on it herself.
"Not a word. I asked her about Fred once; I gave her a bit of a
warning. But she assured me she would never marry an idle
self-indulgent man--nothing since. But it seems Fred set on Mr.
Farebrother to talk to her, because she had forbidden him to speak
himself, and Mr. Farebrother has found out that she is fond of Fred,
but says he must not be a clergyman. Fred's heart is fixed on Mary,
that I can see: it gives me a good opinion of the lad--and we always
liked him, Susan."
"It is a pity for Mary, I think," said Mrs. Garth.
"Why--a pity?"
"Because, Caleb, she might have had a man who is worth twenty Fred
Vincy's."
"Ah?" said Caleb, with surprise.
"I firmly believe that Mr. Farebrother is attached to her, and meant to
make her an offer; but of course, now that Fred has used him as an
envoy, there is an end to that better prospect." There was a severe
precision in Mrs. Garth's utterance. She was vexed and disappointed,
but she was bent on abstaining from useless words.
Caleb was silent a few moments under a conflict of feelings. He looked
at the floor and moved his head and hands in accompaniment to some
inward argumentation. At last he said--
"That would have made me very proud and happy, Susan, and I should have
been glad for your sake. I've always felt that your belongings have
never been on a level with you. But you took me, though I was a plain
man."
"I took the best and cleverest man I had ever known," said Mrs. Garth,
convinced that _she_ would never have loved any one who came short of
that mark.
"Well, perhaps others thought you might have done better. But it would
have been worse for me. And that is what touches me close about Fred.
The lad is good at bottom, and clever enough to do, if he's put in the
right way; and he loves and honors my daughter beyond anything, and she
has given him a sort of promise according to what he turns out. I say,
that young man's soul is in my hand; and I'll do the best I can for
him, so help me God! It's my duty, Susan."
Mrs. Garth was not given to tears, but there was a large one rolling
down her face before her husband had finished. It came from the
pressure of various feelings, in which there was much affection and
some vexation. She wiped it away quickly, saying--
"Few men besides you would think it a duty to add to their anxieties in
that way, Caleb."
"That signifies nothing--what other men would think. I've got a clear
feeling inside me, and that I shall follow; and I hope your heart will
go with me, Susan, in making everything as light as can be to Mary,
poor child."
Caleb, leaning back in his chair, looked with anxious appeal towards
his wife. She rose and kissed him, saying, "God bless you, Caleb! Our
children have a good father."
But she went out and had a hearty cry to make up for the suppression of
her words. She felt sure that her husband's conduct would be
misunderstood, and about Fred she was rational and unhopeful. Which
would turn out to have the more foresight in it--her rationality or
Caleb's ardent generosity?
When Fred went to the office the next morning, there was a test to be
gone through which he was not prepared for.
"Now Fred," said Caleb, "you will have some desk-work. I have always
done a good deal of writing myself, but I can't do without help, and as
I want you to understand the accounts and get the values into your
head, I mean to do without another clerk. So you must buckle to. How
are you at writing and arithmetic?"
Fred felt an awkward movement of the heart; he had not thought of
desk-work; but he was in a resolute mood, and not going to shrink.
"I'm not afraid of arithmetic, Mr. Garth: it always came easily to me.
I think you know my writing."
"Let us see," said Caleb, taking up a pen, examining it carefully and
handing it, well dipped, to Fred with a sheet of ruled paper. "Copy me
a line or two of that valuation, with the figures at the end."
At that time the opinion existed that it was beneath a gentleman to
write legibly, or with a hand in the least suitable to a clerk. Fred
wrote the lines demanded in a hand as gentlemanly as that of any
viscount or bishop of the day: the vowels were all alike and the
consonants only distinguishable as turning up or down, the strokes had
a blotted solidity and the letters disdained to keep the line--in
short, it was a manuscript of that venerable kind easy to interpret
when you know beforehand what the writer means.
As Caleb looked on, his visage showed a growing depression, but when
Fred handed him the paper he gave something like a snarl, and rapped
the paper passionately with the back of his hand. Bad work like this
dispelled all Caleb's mildness.
"The deuce!" he exclaimed, snarlingly. "To think that this is a
country where a man's education may cost hundreds and hundreds, and it
turns you out this!" Then in a more pathetic tone, pushing up his
spectacles and looking at the unfortunate scribe, "The Lord have mercy
on us, Fred, I can't put up with this!"
"What can I do, Mr. Garth?" said Fred, whose spirits had sunk very low,
not only at the estimate of his handwriting, but at the vision of
himself as liable to be ranked with office clerks.
"Do? Why, you must learn to form your letters and keep the line.
What's the use of writing at all if nobody can understand it?" asked
Caleb, energetically, quite preoccupied with the bad quality of the
work. "Is there so little business in the world that you must be
sending puzzles over the country? But that's the way people are
brought up. I should lose no end of time with the letters some people
send me, if Susan did not make them out for me. It's disgusting." Here
Caleb tossed the paper from him.
Any stranger peeping into the office at that moment might have wondered
what was the drama between the indignant man of business, and the
fine-looking young fellow whose blond complexion was getting rather
patchy as he bit his lip with mortification. Fred was struggling with
many thoughts. Mr. Garth had been so kind and encouraging at the
beginning of their interview, that gratitude and hopefulness had been
at a high pitch, and the downfall was proportionate. He had not
thought of desk-work--in fact, like the majority of young gentlemen, he
wanted an occupation which should be free from disagreeables. I cannot
tell what might have been the consequences if he had not distinctly
promised himself that he would go to Lowick to see Mary and tell her
that he was engaged to work under her father. He did not like to
disappoint himself there.
"I am very sorry," were all the words that he could muster. But Mr.
Garth was already relenting.
"We must make the best of it, Fred," he began, with a return to his
usual quiet tone. "Every man can learn to write. I taught myself. Go
at it with a will, and sit up at night if the day-time isn't enough.
We'll be patient, my boy. Callum shall go on with the books for a bit,
while you are learning. But now I must be off," said Caleb, rising.
"You must let your father know our agreement. You'll save me Callum's
salary, you know, when you can write; and I can afford to give you
eighty pounds for the first year, and more after."
When Fred made the necessary disclosure to his parents, the relative
effect on the two was a surprise which entered very deeply into his
memory. He went straight from Mr. Garth's office to the warehouse,
rightly feeling that the most respectful way in which he could behave
to his father was to make the painful communication as gravely and
formally as possible. Moreover, the decision would be more certainly
understood to be final, if the interview took place in his father's
gravest hours, which were always those spent in his private room at the
warehouse.
Fred entered on the subject directly, and declared briefly what he had
done and was resolved to do, expressing at the end his regret that he
should be the cause of disappointment to his father, and taking the
blame on his own deficiencies. The regret was genuine, and inspired
Fred with strong, simple words.
Mr. Vincy listened in profound surprise without uttering even an
exclamation, a silence which in his impatient temperament was a sign of
unusual emotion. He had not been in good spirits about trade that
morning, and the slight bitterness in his lips grew intense as he
listened. When Fred had ended, there was a pause of nearly a minute,
during which Mr. Vincy replaced a book in his desk and turned the key
emphatically. Then he looked at his son steadily, and said--
"So you've made up your mind at last, sir?"
"Yes, father."
"Very well; stick to it. I've no more to say. You've thrown away your
education, and gone down a step in life, when I had given you the means
of rising, that's all."
"I am very sorry that we differ, father. I think I can be quite as
much of a gentleman at the work I have undertaken, as if I had been a
curate. But I am grateful to you for wishing to do the best for me."
"Very well; I have no more to say. I wash my hands of you. I only
hope, when you have a son of your own he will make a better return for
the pains you spend on him."
This was very cutting to Fred. His father was using that unfair
advantage possessed by us all when we are in a pathetic situation and
see our own past as if it were simply part of the pathos. In reality,
Mr. Vincy's wishes about his son had had a great deal of pride,
inconsiderateness, and egoistic folly in them. But still the
disappointed father held a strong lever; and Fred felt as if he were
being banished with a malediction.
"I hope you will not object to my remaining at home, sir?" he said,
after rising to go; "I shall have a sufficient salary to pay for my
board, as of course I should wish to do."
"Board be hanged!" said Mr. Vincy, recovering himself in his disgust at
the notion that Fred's keep would be missed at his table. "Of course
your mother will want you to stay. But I shall keep no horse for you,
you understand; and you will pay your own tailor. You will do with a
suit or two less, I fancy, when you have to pay for 'em."
Fred lingered; there was still something to be said. At last it came.
"I hope you will shake hands with me, father, and forgive me the
vexation I have caused you."
Mr. Vincy from his chair threw a quick glance upward at his son, who
had advanced near to him, and then gave his hand, saying hurriedly,
"Yes, yes, let us say no more."
Fred went through much more narrative and explanation with his mother,
but she was inconsolable, having before her eyes what perhaps her
husband had never thought of, the certainty that Fred would marry Mary
Garth, that her life would henceforth be spoiled by a perpetual
infusion of Garths and their ways, and that her darling boy, with his
beautiful face and stylish air "beyond anybody else's son in
Middlemarch," would be sure to get like that family in plainness of
appearance and carelessness about his clothes. To her it seemed that
there was a Garth conspiracy to get possession of the desirable Fred,
but she dared not enlarge on this opinion, because a slight hint of it
had made him "fly out" at her as he had never done before. Her temper
was too sweet for her to show any anger, but she felt that her
happiness had received a bruise, and for several days merely to look at
Fred made her cry a little as if he were the subject of some baleful
prophecy. Perhaps she was the slower to recover her usual cheerfulness
because Fred had warned her that she must not reopen the sore question
with his father, who had accepted his decision and forgiven him. If
her husband had been vehement against Fred, she would have been urged
into defence of her darling. It was the end of the fourth day when Mr.
Vincy said to her--
"Come, Lucy, my dear, don't be so down-hearted. You always have spoiled
the boy, and you must go on spoiling him."
"Nothing ever did cut me so before, Vincy," said the wife, her fair
throat and chin beginning to tremble again, "only his illness."
"Pooh, pooh, never mind! We must expect to have trouble with our
children. Don't make it worse by letting me see you out of spirits."
"Well, I won't," said Mrs. Vincy, roused by this appeal and adjusting
herself with a little shake as of a bird which lays down its ruffled
plumage.
"It won't do to begin making a fuss about one," said Mr. Vincy, wishing
to combine a little grumbling with domestic cheerfulness. "There's
Rosamond as well as Fred."
"Yes, poor thing. I'm sure I felt for her being disappointed of her
baby; but she got over it nicely."
"Baby, pooh! I can see Lydgate is making a mess of his practice, and
getting into debt too, by what I hear. I shall have Rosamond coming to
me with a pretty tale one of these days. But they'll get no money from
me, I know. Let _his_ family help him. I never did like that
marriage. But it's no use talking. Ring the bell for lemons, and
don't look dull any more, Lucy. I'll drive you and Louisa to Riverston
to-morrow." | Caleb tells his wife that Mrs. Casaubon is sensible, and understands how farms should operate. Dorothea has hired him as manager for all the farms on the Lowick estate. Caleb Garth is rapidly getting more work than he can do by himself. Eliot steps back to give us some broader historical context: the steam engine has been invented, and railroads are spreading all over England. Some farmers are anxious about it. They're afraid that the noise of the trains will be bad for their livestock if the railroad goes through their property. Many people in the Lowick area don't trust the railroad, partly because they don't really understand what it is. Mr. Solomon Featherstone lives in the area, and he contributes to the mistrust and misunderstanding of the rest of the farmers about the railroad. One day, Caleb Garth is out measuring a piece of land for Dorothea that she was planning on selling to a railroad company. A group of railroad agents is there, too, to discuss the matter with Mr. Garth. But then a group of angry farm workers show up and start to threaten the railroad agents. Caleb and his assistant, a seventeen-year-old boy, hurry to get between the two groups, and Caleb's assistant gets knocked down. Just then, Fred Vincy shows up on horseback . He has the advantage of being on horseback, and intimidates the group of farm workers. The young assistant has a broken arm, so Caleb sends him away on Fred's horse. Caleb is annoyed that he won't be able to finish his day's work on his own, but Fred volunteers to help him. Caleb then leaves Fred for a few minutes to go and scold the farm laborers for attacking the railroad people. He figures someone has been spreading false rumors about the railroad, and he's right. The farm workers sulk a bit, but promise not to get in the way again. Caleb and Fred finish the day's work of measuring in the field, and Fred has a grand time working outdoors and using his head at the same time. He asks Caleb if he thinks that he could learn his business, and admits that he's in love with Mary Garth. Caleb considers it for a while, and decides that he'd be doing a favor to Mary and to Fred if he agreed to hire Fred and teach him the business. He tells Fred to meet him at his office the next morning, and goes home to tell his wife, Susan Garth, about his decision. Mrs. Garth is disappointed, in a way. She was hoping that Mary would marry Mr. Farebrother, but she's proud of her husband for being so generous to Fred. The next morning, Fred sets to work - at a desk. He's good at arithmetic, but his handwriting is terrible. Caleb Garth can't stand bad handwriting, or bad handiwork of any kind. He says Fred will have to work hard at improving it. Mr. Garth promises a decent starting salary to Fred, and Fred goes home to break the news to his family. His father's disappointed, but not all that angry, and Mrs. Vincy cries a bit. Mr. Vincy cheers her up by reminding her that Rosamond wanted pity as much as Fred - after all, Mr. Lydgate is going into debt! What a cheering thought. |
It takes people a long time to learn the difference between talent and
genius, especially ambitious young men and women. Amy was learning
this distinction through much tribulation, for mistaking enthusiasm for
inspiration, she attempted every branch of art with youthful audacity.
For a long time there was a lull in the 'mud-pie' business, and she
devoted herself to the finest pen-and-ink drawing, in which she showed
such taste and skill that her graceful handiwork proved both pleasant
and profitable. But over-strained eyes caused pen and ink to be laid
aside for a bold attempt at poker-sketching. While this attack lasted,
the family lived in constant fear of a conflagration, for the odor of
burning wood pervaded the house at all hours, smoke issued from attic
and shed with alarming frequency, red-hot pokers lay about
promiscuously, and Hannah never went to bed without a pail of water and
the dinner bell at her door in case of fire. Raphael's face was found
boldly executed on the underside of the moulding board, and Bacchus on
the head of a beer barrel. A chanting cherub adorned the cover of the
sugar bucket, and attempts to portray Romeo and Juliet supplied
kindling for some time.
From fire to oil was a natural transition for burned fingers, and Amy
fell to painting with undiminished ardor. An artist friend fitted her
out with his castoff palettes, brushes, and colors, and she daubed
away, producing pastoral and marine views such as were never seen on
land or sea. Her monstrosities in the way of cattle would have taken
prizes at an agricultural fair, and the perilous pitching of her
vessels would have produced seasickness in the most nautical observer,
if the utter disregard to all known rules of shipbuilding and rigging
had not convulsed him with laughter at the first glance. Swarthy boys
and dark-eyed Madonnas, staring at you from one corner of the studio,
suggested Murillo; oily brown shadows of faces with a lurid streak in
the wrong place, meant Rembrandt; buxom ladies and dropiscal infants,
Rubens; and Turner appeared in tempests of blue thunder, orange
lightning, brown rain, and purple clouds, with a tomato-colored splash
in the middle, which might be the sun or a bouy, a sailor's shirt or a
king's robe, as the spectator pleased.
Charcoal portraits came next, and the entire family hung in a row,
looking as wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coalbin. Softened
into crayon sketches, they did better, for the likenesses were good,
and Amy's hair, Jo's nose, Meg's mouth, and Laurie's eyes were
pronounced 'wonderfully fine'. A return to clay and plaster followed,
and ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house, or
tumbled off closet shelves onto people's heads. Children were enticed
in as models, till their incoherent accounts of her mysterious doings
caused Miss Amy to be regarded in the light of a young ogress. Her
efforts in this line, however, were brought to an abrupt close by an
untoward accident, which quenched her ardor. Other models failing her
for a time, she undertook to cast her own pretty foot, and the family
were one day alarmed by an unearthly bumping and screaming and running
to the rescue, found the young enthusiast hopping wildly about the shed
with her foot held fast in a pan full of plaster, which had hardened
with unexpected rapidity. With much difficulty and some danger she was
dug out, for Jo was so overcome with laughter while she excavated that
her knife went too far, cut the poor foot, and left a lasting memorial
of one artistic attempt, at least.
After this Amy subsided, till a mania for sketching from nature set her
to haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies, and
sighing for ruins to copy. She caught endless colds sitting on damp
grass to book 'a delicious bit', composed of a stone, a stump, one
mushroom, and a broken mullein stalk, or 'a heavenly mass of clouds',
that looked like a choice display of featherbeds when done. She
sacrificed her complexion floating on the river in the midsummer sun to
study light and shade, and got a wrinkle over her nose trying after
'points of sight', or whatever the squint-and-string performance is
called.
If 'genius is eternal patience', as Michelangelo affirms, Amy had some
claim to the divine attribute, for she persevered in spite of all
obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly believing that in time
she should do something worthy to be called 'high art'.
She was learning, doing, and enjoying other things, meanwhile, for she
had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even if she
never became a great artist. Here she succeeded better, for she was
one of those happily created beings who please without effort, make
friends everywhere, and take life so gracefully and easily that less
fortunate souls are tempted to believe that such are born under a lucky
star. Everybody liked her, for among her good gifts was tact. She had
an instinctive sense of what was pleasing and proper, always said the
right thing to the right person, did just what suited the time and
place, and was so self-possessed that her sisters used to say, "If Amy
went to court without any rehearsal beforehand, she'd know exactly what
to do."
One of her weaknesses was a desire to move in 'our best society',
without being quite sure what the best really was. Money, position,
fashionable accomplishments, and elegant manners were most desirable
things in her eyes, and she liked to associate with those who possessed
them, often mistaking the false for the true, and admiring what was not
admirable. Never forgetting that by birth she was a gentlewoman, she
cultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings, so that when the
opportunity came she might be ready to take the place from which
poverty now excluded her.
"My lady," as her friends called her, sincerely desired to be a genuine
lady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that money cannot buy
refinement of nature, that rank does not always confer nobility, and
that true breeding makes itself felt in spite of external drawbacks.
"I want to ask a favor of you, Mamma," Amy said, coming in with an
important air one day.
"Well, little girl, what is it?" replied her mother, in whose eyes the
stately young lady still remained 'the baby'.
"Our drawing class breaks up next week, and before the girls separate
for the summer, I want to ask them out here for a day. They are wild
to see the river, sketch the broken bridge, and copy some of the things
they admire in my book. They have been very kind to me in many ways,
and I am grateful, for they are all rich and I know I am poor, yet they
never made any difference."
"Why should they?" and Mrs. March put the question with what the girls
called her 'Maria Theresa air'.
"You know as well as I that it does make a difference with nearly
everyone, so don't ruffle up like a dear, motherly hen, when your
chickens get pecked by smarter birds. The ugly duckling turned out a
swan, you know." and Amy smiled without bitterness, for she possessed
a happy temper and hopeful spirit.
Mrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as she asked,
"Well, my swan, what is your plan?"
"I should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week, to take them
for a drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river,
perhaps, and make a little artistic fete for them."
"That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches,
fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I suppose?"
"Oh, dear, no! We must have cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate
and ice cream, besides. The girls are used to such things, and I want
my lunch to be proper and elegant, though I do work for my living."
"How many young ladies are there?" asked her mother, beginning to look
sober.
"Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they won't all come."
"Bless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry them
about."
"Why, Mother, how can you think of such a thing? Not more than six or
eight will probably come, so I shall hire a beach wagon and borrow Mr.
Laurence's cherry-bounce." (Hannah's pronunciation of char-a-banc.)
"All of this will be expensive, Amy."
"Not very. I've calculated the cost, and I'll pay for it myself."
"Don't you think, dear, that as these girls are used to such things,
and the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler plan
would be pleasanter to them, as a change if nothing more, and much
better for us than buying or borrowing what we don't need, and
attempting a style not in keeping with our circumstances?"
"If I can't have it as I like, I don't care to have it at all. I know
that I can carry it out perfectly well, if you and the girls will help
a little, and I don't see why I can't if I'm willing to pay for it,"
said Amy, with the decision which opposition was apt to change into
obstinacy.
Mrs. March knew that experience was an excellent teacher, and when it
was possible she left her children to learn alone the lessons which she
would gladly have made easier, if they had not objected to taking
advice as much as they did salts and senna.
"Very well, Amy, if your heart is set upon it, and you see your way
through without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper, I'll
say no more. Talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you
decide, I'll do my best to help you."
"Thanks, Mother, you are always so kind." and away went Amy to lay her
plan before her sisters.
Meg agreed at once, and promised her aid, gladly offering anything she
possessed, from her little house itself to her very best saltspoons.
But Jo frowned upon the whole project and would have nothing to do with
it at first.
"Why in the world should you spend your money, worry your family, and
turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don't care a
sixpence for you? I thought you had too much pride and sense to
truckle to any mortal woman just because she wears French boots and
rides in a coupe," said Jo, who, being called from the tragic climax of
her novel, was not in the best mood for social enterprises.
"I don't truckle, and I hate being patronized as much as you do!"
returned Amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such questions
arose. "The girls do care for me, and I for them, and there's a great
deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in spite of what you
call fashionable nonsense. You don't care to make people like you, to
go into good society, and cultivate your manners and tastes. I do, and
I mean to make the most of every chance that comes. You can go through
the world with your elbows out and your nose in the air, and call it
independence, if you like. That's not my way."
When Amy had whetted her tongue and freed her mind she usually got the
best of it, for she seldom failed to have common sense on her side,
while Jo carried her love of liberty and hate of conventionalities to
such an unlimited extent that she naturally found herself worsted in an
argument. Amy's definition of Jo's idea of independence was such a
good hit that both burst out laughing, and the discussion took a more
amiable turn. Much against her will, Jo at length consented to
sacrifice a day to Mrs. Grundy, and help her sister through what she
regarded as 'a nonsensical business'.
The invitations were sent, nearly all accepted, and the following
Monday was set apart for the grand event. Hannah was out of humor
because her week's work was deranged, and prophesied that "ef the
washin' and ironin' warn't done reg'lar, nothin' would go well
anywheres". This hitch in the mainspring of the domestic machinery had
a bad effect upon the whole concern, but Amy's motto was 'Nil
desperandum', and having made up her mind what to do, she proceeded to
do it in spite of all obstacles. To begin with, Hannah's cooking
didn't turn out well. The chicken was tough, the tongue too salty, and
the chocolate wouldn't froth properly. Then the cake and ice cost more
than Amy expected, so did the wagon, and various other expenses, which
seemed trifling at the outset, counted up rather alarmingly afterward.
Beth got a cold and took to her bed. Meg had an unusual number of
callers to keep her at home, and Jo was in such a divided state of mind
that her breakages, accidents, and mistakes were uncommonly numerous,
serious, and trying.
If it was not fair on Monday, the young ladies were to come on Tuesday,
an arrangement which aggravated Jo and Hannah to the last degree. On
Monday morning the weather was in that undecided state which is more
exasperating than a steady pour. It drizzled a little, shone a little,
blew a little, and didn't make up its mind till it was too late for
anyone else to make up theirs. Amy was up at dawn, hustling people out
of their beds and through their breakfasts, that the house might be got
in order. The parlor struck her as looking uncommonly shabby, but
without stopping to sigh for what she had not, she skillfully made the
best of what she had, arranging chairs over the worn places in the
carpet, covering stains on the walls with homemade statuary, which gave
an artistic air to the room, as did the lovely vases of flowers Jo
scattered about.
The lunch looked charming, and as she surveyed it, she sincerely hoped
it would taste well, and that the borrowed glass, china, and silver
would get safely home again. The carriages were promised, Meg and
Mother were all ready to do the honors, Beth was able to help Hannah
behind the scenes, Jo had engaged to be as lively and amiable as an
absent mind, and aching head, and a very decided disapproval of
everybody and everything would allow, and as she wearily dressed, Amy
cheered herself with anticipations of the happy moment when, lunch
safely over, she should drive away with her friends for an afternoon of
artistic delights, for the 'cherry bounce' and the broken bridge were
her strong points.
Then came the hours of suspense, during which she vibrated from parlor
to porch, while public opinion varied like the weathercock. A smart
shower at eleven had evidently quenched the enthusiasm of the young
ladies who were to arrive at twelve, for nobody came, and at two the
exhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the
perishable portions of the feast, that nothing might be lost.
"No doubt about the weather today, they will certainly come, so we must
fly round and be ready for them," said Amy, as the sun woke her next
morning. She spoke briskly, but in her secret soul she wished she had
said nothing about Tuesday, for her interest like her cake was getting
a little stale.
"I can't get any lobsters, so you will have to do without salad today,"
said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, with an expression of
placid despair.
"Use the chicken then, the toughness won't matter in a salad," advised
his wife.
"Hannah left it on the kitchen table a minute, and the kittens got at
it. I'm very sorry, Amy," added Beth, who was still a patroness of
cats.
"Then I must have a lobster, for tongue alone won't do," said Amy
decidedly.
"Shall I rush into town and demand one?" asked Jo, with the magnanimity
of a martyr.
"You'd come bringing it home under your arm without any paper, just to
try me. I'll go myself," answered Amy, whose temper was beginning to
fail.
Shrouded in a thick veil and armed with a genteel traveling basket, she
departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled spirit and
fit her for the labors of the day. After some delay, the object of her
desire was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing to prevent further
loss of time at home, and off she drove again, well pleased with her
own forethought.
As the omnibus contained only one other passenger, a sleepy old lady,
Amy pocketed her veil and beguiled the tedium of the way by trying to
find out where all her money had gone to. So busy was she with her
card full of refractory figures that she did not observe a newcomer,
who entered without stopping the vehicle, till a masculine voice said,
"Good morning, Miss March," and, looking up, she beheld one of Laurie's
most elegant college friends. Fervently hoping that he would get out
before she did, Amy utterly ignored the basket at her feet, and
congratulating herself that she had on her new traveling dress,
returned the young man's greeting with her usual suavity and spirit.
They got on excellently, for Amy's chief care was soon set at rest by
learning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was chatting
away in a peculiarly lofty strain, when the old lady got out. In
stumbling to the door, she upset the basket, and--oh horror!--the
lobster, in all its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to the
highborn eyes of a Tudor!
"By Jove, she's forgotten her dinner!" cried the unconscious youth,
poking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane, and preparing
to hand out the basket after the old lady.
"Please don't--it's--it's mine," murmured Amy, with a face nearly as
red as her fish.
"Oh, really, I beg pardon. It's an uncommonly fine one, isn't it?"
said Tudor, with great presence of mind, and an air of sober interest
that did credit to his breeding.
Amy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the seat,
and said, laughing, "Don't you wish you were to have some of the salad
he's going to make, and to see the charming young ladies who are to eat
it?"
Now that was tact, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine mind
were touched. The lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of
pleasing reminiscences, and curiosity about 'the charming young ladies'
diverted his mind from the comical mishap.
"I suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with Laurie, but I shan't see
them, that's a comfort," thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed.
She did not mention this meeting at home (though she discovered that,
thanks to the upset, her new dress was much damaged by the rivulets of
dressing that meandered down the skirt), but went through with the
preparations which now seemed more irksome than before, and at twelve
o'clock all was ready again. Feeling that the neighbors were
interested in her movements, she wished to efface the memory of
yesterday's failure by a grand success today, so she ordered the
'cherry bounce', and drove away in state to meet and escort her guests
to the banquet.
"There's the rumble, they're coming! I'll go onto the porch and meet
them. It looks hospitable, and I want the poor child to have a good
time after all her trouble," said Mrs. March, suiting the action to the
word. But after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable
expression, for looking quite lost in the big carriage, sat Amy and one
young lady.
"Run, Beth, and help Hannah clear half the things off the table. It
will be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single girl,"
cried Jo, hurrying away to the lower regions, too excited to stop even
for a laugh.
In came Amy, quite calm and delightfully cordial to the one guest who
had kept her promise. The rest of the family, being of a dramatic
turn, played their parts equally well, and Miss Eliott found them a
most hilarious set, for it was impossible to control entirely the
merriment which possessed them. The remodeled lunch being gaily
partaken of, the studio and garden visited, and art discussed with
enthusiasm, Amy ordered a buggy (alas for the elegant cherry-bounce),
and drove her friend quietly about the neighborhood till sunset, when
'the party went out'.
As she came walking in, looking very tired but as composed as ever, she
observed that every vestige of the unfortunate fete had disappeared,
except a suspicious pucker about the corners of Jo's mouth.
"You've had a lovely afternoon for your drive, dear," said her mother,
as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come.
"Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I
thought," observed Beth, with unusual warmth.
"Could you spare me some of your cake? I really need some, I have so
much company, and I can't make such delicious stuff as yours," asked
Meg soberly.
"Take it all. I'm the only one here who likes sweet things, and it
will mold before I can dispose of it," answered Amy, thinking with a
sigh of the generous store she had laid in for such an end as this.
"It's a pity Laurie isn't here to help us," began Jo, as they sat down
to ice cream and salad for the second time in two days.
A warning look from her mother checked any further remarks, and the
whole family ate in heroic silence, till Mr. March mildly observed,
"salad was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and Evelyn..."
Here a general explosion of laughter cut short the 'history of salads',
to the great surprise of the learned gentleman.
"Bundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels. Germans
like messes. I'm sick of the sight of this, and there's no reason you
should all die of a surfeit because I've been a fool," cried Amy,
wiping her eyes.
"I thought I should have died when I saw you two girls rattling about
in the what-you-call-it, like two little kernels in a very big
nutshell, and Mother waiting in state to receive the throng," sighed
Jo, quite spent with laughter.
"I'm very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our best to
satisfy you," said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly regret.
"I am satisfied. I've done what I undertook, and it's not my fault
that it failed. I comfort myself with that," said Amy with a little
quiver in her voice. "I thank you all very much for helping me, and
I'll thank you still more if you won't allude to it for a month, at
least."
No one did for several months, but the word 'fete' always produced a
general smile, and Laurie's birthday gift to Amy was a tiny coral
lobster in the shape of a charm for her watch guard. | Artistic Attempts Amy spends much time working on her art. Though she is not a genius, she has passion. At the end of one of her art classes, she asks Marmee if she can invite her girlfriends over for a luncheon and an afternoon of sketching. She wants to make the party elaborate and lovely, and she offers to pay for all of it. Marmee consents, but only in order to teach Amy a lesson about trying to present herself as something she is not. The party ends up costing more than Amy plans. She must reschedule the picnic because it is rainy and set up everything again the next day. When she goes out to buy lobster, she runs into a friend of Laurie's. He sees the lobster, which was considered low-class food at the time, and she is very embarrassed, although she manages to recover and charm him. Finally, the party begins, but only one person shows up. During the party, Amy is delightful and merry, but she is very disappointed at the way things have turned out. Her family is very kind and tactful |
It was the beginning of February; and Anne, having been a month in
Bath, was growing very eager for news from Uppercross and Lyme. She
wanted to hear much more than Mary had communicated. It was three
weeks since she had heard at all. She only knew that Henrietta was at
home again; and that Louisa, though considered to be recovering fast,
was still in Lyme; and she was thinking of them all very intently one
evening, when a thicker letter than usual from Mary was delivered to
her; and, to quicken the pleasure and surprise, with Admiral and Mrs
Croft's compliments.
The Crofts must be in Bath! A circumstance to interest her. They were
people whom her heart turned to very naturally.
"What is this?" cried Sir Walter. "The Crofts have arrived in Bath?
The Crofts who rent Kellynch? What have they brought you?"
"A letter from Uppercross Cottage, Sir."
"Oh! those letters are convenient passports. They secure an
introduction. I should have visited Admiral Croft, however, at any
rate. I know what is due to my tenant."
Anne could listen no longer; she could not even have told how the poor
Admiral's complexion escaped; her letter engrossed her. It had been
begun several days back.
"February 1st.
"My dear Anne,--I make no apology for my silence, because I know how
little people think of letters in such a place as Bath. You must be a
great deal too happy to care for Uppercross, which, as you well know,
affords little to write about. We have had a very dull Christmas; Mr
and Mrs Musgrove have not had one dinner party all the holidays. I do
not reckon the Hayters as anybody. The holidays, however, are over at
last: I believe no children ever had such long ones. I am sure I had
not. The house was cleared yesterday, except of the little Harvilles;
but you will be surprised to hear they have never gone home. Mrs
Harville must be an odd mother to part with them so long. I do not
understand it. They are not at all nice children, in my opinion; but
Mrs Musgrove seems to like them quite as well, if not better, than her
grandchildren. What dreadful weather we have had! It may not be felt
in Bath, with your nice pavements; but in the country it is of some
consequence. I have not had a creature call on me since the second
week in January, except Charles Hayter, who had been calling much
oftener than was welcome. Between ourselves, I think it a great pity
Henrietta did not remain at Lyme as long as Louisa; it would have kept
her a little out of his way. The carriage is gone to-day, to bring
Louisa and the Harvilles to-morrow. We are not asked to dine with
them, however, till the day after, Mrs Musgrove is so afraid of her
being fatigued by the journey, which is not very likely, considering
the care that will be taken of her; and it would be much more
convenient to me to dine there to-morrow. I am glad you find Mr Elliot
so agreeable, and wish I could be acquainted with him too; but I have
my usual luck: I am always out of the way when any thing desirable is
going on; always the last of my family to be noticed. What an immense
time Mrs Clay has been staying with Elizabeth! Does she never mean to
go away? But perhaps if she were to leave the room vacant, we might
not be invited. Let me know what you think of this. I do not expect
my children to be asked, you know. I can leave them at the Great House
very well, for a month or six weeks. I have this moment heard that the
Crofts are going to Bath almost immediately; they think the Admiral
gouty. Charles heard it quite by chance; they have not had the
civility to give me any notice, or of offering to take anything. I do
not think they improve at all as neighbours. We see nothing of them,
and this is really an instance of gross inattention. Charles joins me
in love, and everything proper. Yours affectionately,
"Mary M---.
"I am sorry to say that I am very far from well; and Jemima has just
told me that the butcher says there is a bad sore-throat very much
about. I dare say I shall catch it; and my sore-throats, you know, are
always worse than anybody's."
So ended the first part, which had been afterwards put into an
envelope, containing nearly as much more.
"I kept my letter open, that I might send you word how Louisa bore her
journey, and now I am extremely glad I did, having a great deal to add.
In the first place, I had a note from Mrs Croft yesterday, offering to
convey anything to you; a very kind, friendly note indeed, addressed to
me, just as it ought; I shall therefore be able to make my letter as
long as I like. The Admiral does not seem very ill, and I sincerely
hope Bath will do him all the good he wants. I shall be truly glad to
have them back again. Our neighbourhood cannot spare such a pleasant
family. But now for Louisa. I have something to communicate that will
astonish you not a little. She and the Harvilles came on Tuesday very
safely, and in the evening we went to ask her how she did, when we were
rather surprised not to find Captain Benwick of the party, for he had
been invited as well as the Harvilles; and what do you think was the
reason? Neither more nor less than his being in love with Louisa, and
not choosing to venture to Uppercross till he had had an answer from Mr
Musgrove; for it was all settled between him and her before she came
away, and he had written to her father by Captain Harville. True, upon
my honour! Are not you astonished? I shall be surprised at least if
you ever received a hint of it, for I never did. Mrs Musgrove protests
solemnly that she knew nothing of the matter. We are all very well
pleased, however, for though it is not equal to her marrying Captain
Wentworth, it is infinitely better than Charles Hayter; and Mr Musgrove
has written his consent, and Captain Benwick is expected to-day. Mrs
Harville says her husband feels a good deal on his poor sister's
account; but, however, Louisa is a great favourite with both. Indeed,
Mrs Harville and I quite agree that we love her the better for having
nursed her. Charles wonders what Captain Wentworth will say; but if
you remember, I never thought him attached to Louisa; I never could see
anything of it. And this is the end, you see, of Captain Benwick's
being supposed to be an admirer of yours. How Charles could take such
a thing into his head was always incomprehensible to me. I hope he
will be more agreeable now. Certainly not a great match for Louisa
Musgrove, but a million times better than marrying among the Hayters."
Mary need not have feared her sister's being in any degree prepared for
the news. She had never in her life been more astonished. Captain
Benwick and Louisa Musgrove! It was almost too wonderful for belief,
and it was with the greatest effort that she could remain in the room,
preserve an air of calmness, and answer the common questions of the
moment. Happily for her, they were not many. Sir Walter wanted to
know whether the Crofts travelled with four horses, and whether they
were likely to be situated in such a part of Bath as it might suit Miss
Elliot and himself to visit in; but had little curiosity beyond.
"How is Mary?" said Elizabeth; and without waiting for an answer, "And
pray what brings the Crofts to Bath?"
"They come on the Admiral's account. He is thought to be gouty."
"Gout and decrepitude!" said Sir Walter. "Poor old gentleman."
"Have they any acquaintance here?" asked Elizabeth.
"I do not know; but I can hardly suppose that, at Admiral Croft's time
of life, and in his profession, he should not have many acquaintance in
such a place as this."
"I suspect," said Sir Walter coolly, "that Admiral Croft will be best
known in Bath as the renter of Kellynch Hall. Elizabeth, may we
venture to present him and his wife in Laura Place?"
"Oh, no! I think not. Situated as we are with Lady Dalrymple, cousins,
we ought to be very careful not to embarrass her with acquaintance she
might not approve. If we were not related, it would not signify; but
as cousins, she would feel scrupulous as to any proposal of ours. We
had better leave the Crofts to find their own level. There are several
odd-looking men walking about here, who, I am told, are sailors. The
Crofts will associate with them."
This was Sir Walter and Elizabeth's share of interest in the letter;
when Mrs Clay had paid her tribute of more decent attention, in an
enquiry after Mrs Charles Musgrove, and her fine little boys, Anne was
at liberty.
In her own room, she tried to comprehend it. Well might Charles wonder
how Captain Wentworth would feel! Perhaps he had quitted the field,
had given Louisa up, had ceased to love, had found he did not love her.
She could not endure the idea of treachery or levity, or anything akin
to ill usage between him and his friend. She could not endure that
such a friendship as theirs should be severed unfairly.
Captain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove! The high-spirited, joyous-talking
Louisa Musgrove, and the dejected, thinking, feeling, reading, Captain
Benwick, seemed each of them everything that would not suit the other.
Their minds most dissimilar! Where could have been the attraction?
The answer soon presented itself. It had been in situation. They had
been thrown together several weeks; they had been living in the same
small family party: since Henrietta's coming away, they must have been
depending almost entirely on each other, and Louisa, just recovering
from illness, had been in an interesting state, and Captain Benwick was
not inconsolable. That was a point which Anne had not been able to
avoid suspecting before; and instead of drawing the same conclusion as
Mary, from the present course of events, they served only to confirm
the idea of his having felt some dawning of tenderness toward herself.
She did not mean, however, to derive much more from it to gratify her
vanity, than Mary might have allowed. She was persuaded that any
tolerably pleasing young woman who had listened and seemed to feel for
him would have received the same compliment. He had an affectionate
heart. He must love somebody.
She saw no reason against their being happy. Louisa had fine naval
fervour to begin with, and they would soon grow more alike. He would
gain cheerfulness, and she would learn to be an enthusiast for Scott
and Lord Byron; nay, that was probably learnt already; of course they
had fallen in love over poetry. The idea of Louisa Musgrove turned
into a person of literary taste, and sentimental reflection was
amusing, but she had no doubt of its being so. The day at Lyme, the
fall from the Cobb, might influence her health, her nerves, her
courage, her character to the end of her life, as thoroughly as it
appeared to have influenced her fate.
The conclusion of the whole was, that if the woman who had been
sensible of Captain Wentworth's merits could be allowed to prefer
another man, there was nothing in the engagement to excite lasting
wonder; and if Captain Wentworth lost no friend by it, certainly
nothing to be regretted. No, it was not regret which made Anne's heart
beat in spite of herself, and brought the colour into her cheeks when
she thought of Captain Wentworth unshackled and free. She had some
feelings which she was ashamed to investigate. They were too much like
joy, senseless joy!
She longed to see the Crofts; but when the meeting took place, it was
evident that no rumour of the news had yet reached them. The visit of
ceremony was paid and returned; and Louisa Musgrove was mentioned, and
Captain Benwick, too, without even half a smile.
The Crofts had placed themselves in lodgings in Gay Street, perfectly
to Sir Walter's satisfaction. He was not at all ashamed of the
acquaintance, and did, in fact, think and talk a great deal more about
the Admiral, than the Admiral ever thought or talked about him.
The Crofts knew quite as many people in Bath as they wished for, and
considered their intercourse with the Elliots as a mere matter of form,
and not in the least likely to afford them any pleasure. They brought
with them their country habit of being almost always together. He was
ordered to walk to keep off the gout, and Mrs Croft seemed to go shares
with him in everything, and to walk for her life to do him good. Anne
saw them wherever she went. Lady Russell took her out in her carriage
almost every morning, and she never failed to think of them, and never
failed to see them. Knowing their feelings as she did, it was a most
attractive picture of happiness to her. She always watched them as
long as she could, delighted to fancy she understood what they might be
talking of, as they walked along in happy independence, or equally
delighted to see the Admiral's hearty shake of the hand when he
encountered an old friend, and observe their eagerness of conversation
when occasionally forming into a little knot of the navy, Mrs Croft
looking as intelligent and keen as any of the officers around her.
Anne was too much engaged with Lady Russell to be often walking
herself; but it so happened that one morning, about a week or ten days
after the Croft's arrival, it suited her best to leave her friend, or
her friend's carriage, in the lower part of the town, and return alone
to Camden Place, and in walking up Milsom Street she had the good
fortune to meet with the Admiral. He was standing by himself at a
printshop window, with his hands behind him, in earnest contemplation
of some print, and she not only might have passed him unseen, but was
obliged to touch as well as address him before she could catch his
notice. When he did perceive and acknowledge her, however, it was done
with all his usual frankness and good humour. "Ha! is it you? Thank
you, thank you. This is treating me like a friend. Here I am, you
see, staring at a picture. I can never get by this shop without
stopping. But what a thing here is, by way of a boat! Do look at it.
Did you ever see the like? What queer fellows your fine painters must
be, to think that anybody would venture their lives in such a shapeless
old cockleshell as that? And yet here are two gentlemen stuck up in it
mightily at their ease, and looking about them at the rocks and
mountains, as if they were not to be upset the next moment, which they
certainly must be. I wonder where that boat was built!" (laughing
heartily); "I would not venture over a horsepond in it. Well,"
(turning away), "now, where are you bound? Can I go anywhere for you,
or with you? Can I be of any use?"
"None, I thank you, unless you will give me the pleasure of your
company the little way our road lies together. I am going home."
"That I will, with all my heart, and farther, too. Yes, yes we will
have a snug walk together, and I have something to tell you as we go
along. There, take my arm; that's right; I do not feel comfortable if
I have not a woman there. Lord! what a boat it is!" taking a last look
at the picture, as they began to be in motion.
"Did you say that you had something to tell me, sir?"
"Yes, I have, presently. But here comes a friend, Captain Brigden; I
shall only say, 'How d'ye do?' as we pass, however. I shall not stop.
'How d'ye do?' Brigden stares to see anybody with me but my wife.
She, poor soul, is tied by the leg. She has a blister on one of her
heels, as large as a three-shilling piece. If you look across the
street, you will see Admiral Brand coming down and his brother. Shabby
fellows, both of them! I am glad they are not on this side of the way.
Sophy cannot bear them. They played me a pitiful trick once: got away
with some of my best men. I will tell you the whole story another
time. There comes old Sir Archibald Drew and his grandson. Look, he
sees us; he kisses his hand to you; he takes you for my wife. Ah! the
peace has come too soon for that younker. Poor old Sir Archibald! How
do you like Bath, Miss Elliot? It suits us very well. We are always
meeting with some old friend or other; the streets full of them every
morning; sure to have plenty of chat; and then we get away from them
all, and shut ourselves in our lodgings, and draw in our chairs, and
are as snug as if we were at Kellynch, ay, or as we used to be even at
North Yarmouth and Deal. We do not like our lodgings here the worse, I
can tell you, for putting us in mind of those we first had at North
Yarmouth. The wind blows through one of the cupboards just in the same
way."
When they were got a little farther, Anne ventured to press again for
what he had to communicate. She hoped when clear of Milsom Street to
have her curiosity gratified; but she was still obliged to wait, for
the Admiral had made up his mind not to begin till they had gained the
greater space and quiet of Belmont; and as she was not really Mrs
Croft, she must let him have his own way. As soon as they were fairly
ascending Belmont, he began--
"Well, now you shall hear something that will surprise you. But first
of all, you must tell me the name of the young lady I am going to talk
about. That young lady, you know, that we have all been so concerned
for. The Miss Musgrove, that all this has been happening to. Her
Christian name: I always forget her Christian name."
Anne had been ashamed to appear to comprehend so soon as she really
did; but now she could safely suggest the name of "Louisa."
"Ay, ay, Miss Louisa Musgrove, that is the name. I wish young ladies
had not such a number of fine Christian names. I should never be out
if they were all Sophys, or something of that sort. Well, this Miss
Louisa, we all thought, you know, was to marry Frederick. He was
courting her week after week. The only wonder was, what they could be
waiting for, till the business at Lyme came; then, indeed, it was clear
enough that they must wait till her brain was set to right. But even
then there was something odd in their way of going on. Instead of
staying at Lyme, he went off to Plymouth, and then he went off to see
Edward. When we came back from Minehead he was gone down to Edward's,
and there he has been ever since. We have seen nothing of him since
November. Even Sophy could not understand it. But now, the matter has
taken the strangest turn of all; for this young lady, the same Miss
Musgrove, instead of being to marry Frederick, is to marry James
Benwick. You know James Benwick."
"A little. I am a little acquainted with Captain Benwick."
"Well, she is to marry him. Nay, most likely they are married already,
for I do not know what they should wait for."
"I thought Captain Benwick a very pleasing young man," said Anne, "and
I understand that he bears an excellent character."
"Oh! yes, yes, there is not a word to be said against James Benwick.
He is only a commander, it is true, made last summer, and these are bad
times for getting on, but he has not another fault that I know of. An
excellent, good-hearted fellow, I assure you; a very active, zealous
officer too, which is more than you would think for, perhaps, for that
soft sort of manner does not do him justice."
"Indeed you are mistaken there, sir; I should never augur want of
spirit from Captain Benwick's manners. I thought them particularly
pleasing, and I will answer for it, they would generally please."
"Well, well, ladies are the best judges; but James Benwick is rather
too piano for me; and though very likely it is all our partiality,
Sophy and I cannot help thinking Frederick's manners better than his.
There is something about Frederick more to our taste."
Anne was caught. She had only meant to oppose the too common idea of
spirit and gentleness being incompatible with each other, not at all to
represent Captain Benwick's manners as the very best that could
possibly be; and, after a little hesitation, she was beginning to say,
"I was not entering into any comparison of the two friends," but the
Admiral interrupted her with--
"And the thing is certainly true. It is not a mere bit of gossip. We
have it from Frederick himself. His sister had a letter from him
yesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a
letter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Uppercross. I fancy
they are all at Uppercross."
This was an opportunity which Anne could not resist; she said,
therefore, "I hope, Admiral, I hope there is nothing in the style of
Captain Wentworth's letter to make you and Mrs Croft particularly
uneasy. It did seem, last autumn, as if there were an attachment
between him and Louisa Musgrove; but I hope it may be understood to
have worn out on each side equally, and without violence. I hope his
letter does not breathe the spirit of an ill-used man."
"Not at all, not at all; there is not an oath or a murmur from
beginning to end."
Anne looked down to hide her smile.
"No, no; Frederick is not a man to whine and complain; he has too much
spirit for that. If the girl likes another man better, it is very fit
she should have him."
"Certainly. But what I mean is, that I hope there is nothing in
Captain Wentworth's manner of writing to make you suppose he thinks
himself ill-used by his friend, which might appear, you know, without
its being absolutely said. I should be very sorry that such a
friendship as has subsisted between him and Captain Benwick should be
destroyed, or even wounded, by a circumstance of this sort."
"Yes, yes, I understand you. But there is nothing at all of that
nature in the letter. He does not give the least fling at Benwick;
does not so much as say, 'I wonder at it, I have a reason of my own for
wondering at it.' No, you would not guess, from his way of writing,
that he had ever thought of this Miss (what's her name?) for himself.
He very handsomely hopes they will be happy together; and there is
nothing very unforgiving in that, I think."
Anne did not receive the perfect conviction which the Admiral meant to
convey, but it would have been useless to press the enquiry farther.
She therefore satisfied herself with common-place remarks or quiet
attention, and the Admiral had it all his own way.
"Poor Frederick!" said he at last. "Now he must begin all over again
with somebody else. I think we must get him to Bath. Sophy must
write, and beg him to come to Bath. Here are pretty girls enough, I am
sure. It would be of no use to go to Uppercross again, for that other
Miss Musgrove, I find, is bespoke by her cousin, the young parson. Do
not you think, Miss Elliot, we had better try to get him to Bath?" | A letter arrives for Anne from Mary, and Anne is pleased to learn that the Crofts have come to Bath. Mary's letter also brings Anne the news that Louisa Musgrove has become engaged to Captain Benwick. To everyone's surprise, they have fall en in love while Louisa was recovering at the Harvilles' home. Mary says that Benwick is not a good match for Louisa, but Mary considers it much better than marrying among the Hayters. Anne is entirely pleased by this news, both because she thinks it very healthy for Captain Benwick to be attached to a young woman, and because this means that Captain Wentworth is once again free. Although she thinks their temperaments very different , she is happy that they have found love. With the Crofts in Bath, Anne looks forward to seeing them frequently. One morning, she has the good fortune to meet the Admiral while walking. He seems happy to see her and he relates to her his knowledge of the engagement between Captain Benwick and Lou isa. He tells her that he and Mrs. Croft are surprised because they expected Louisa to marry their brother, Captain Frederick Wentworth. He tells her that Frederick does not seem to be upset over the news of the engagement. He suggests that Captain Wentwo rth come to Bath, as there are many young, available women here for him to court. |
Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker's shop, set the lamp
down on a workman's bench, and gazed timidly about him with a feeling
of awe and dread, which many people a good deal older than he will be
at no loss to understand. An unfinished coffin on black tressels,
which stood in the middle of the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like
that a cold tremble came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the
direction of the dismal object: from which he almost expected to see
some frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad with terror.
Against the wall were ranged, in regular array, a long row of elm
boards cut in the same shape: looking in the dim light, like
high-shouldered ghosts with their hands in their breeches pockets.
Coffin-plates, elm-chips, bright-headed nails, and shreds of black
cloth, lay scattered on the floor; and the wall behind the counter was
ornamented with a lively representation of two mutes in very stiff
neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hearse drawn by
four black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop was close and
hot. The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The
recess beneath the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust,
looked like a grave.
Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was
alone in a strange place; and we all know how chilled and desolate the
best of us will sometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no
friends to care for, or to care for him. The regret of no recent
separation was fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and
well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart.
But his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he wished, as he crept
into his narrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he could be
lain in a calm and lasting sleep in the churchyard ground, with the
tall grass waving gently above his head, and the sound of the old deep
bell to soothe him in his sleep.
Oliver was awakened in the morning, by a loud kicking at the outside of
the shop-door: which, before he could huddle on his clothes, was
repeated, in an angry and impetuous manner, about twenty-five times.
When he began to undo the chain, the legs desisted, and a voice began.
'Open the door, will yer?' cried the voice which belonged to the legs
which had kicked at the door.
'I will, directly, sir,' replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning
the key.
'I suppose yer the new boy, ain't yer?' said the voice through the
key-hole.
'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver.
'How old are yer?' inquired the voice.
'Ten, sir,' replied Oliver.
'Then I'll whop yer when I get in,' said the voice; 'you just see if I
don't, that's all, my work'us brat!' and having made this obliging
promise, the voice began to whistle.
Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very
expressive monosyllable just recorded bears reference, to entertain the
smallest doubt that the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would
redeem his pledge, most honourably. He drew back the bolts with a
trembling hand, and opened the door.
For a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and down the street,
and over the way: impressed with the belief that the unknown, who had
addressed him through the key-hole, had walked a few paces off, to warm
himself; for nobody did he see but a big charity-boy, sitting on a post
in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter: which he cut
into wedges, the size of his mouth, with a clasp-knife, and then
consumed with great dexterity.
'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Oliver at length: seeing that no other
visitor made his appearance; 'did you knock?'
'I kicked,' replied the charity-boy.
'Did you want a coffin, sir?' inquired Oliver, innocently.
At this, the charity-boy looked monstrous fierce; and said that Oliver
would want one before long, if he cut jokes with his superiors in that
way.
'Yer don't know who I am, I suppose, Work'us?' said the charity-boy, in
continuation: descending from the top of the post, meanwhile, with
edifying gravity.
'No, sir,' rejoined Oliver.
'I'm Mister Noah Claypole,' said the charity-boy, 'and you're under me.
Take down the shutters, yer idle young ruffian!' With this, Mr.
Claypole administered a kick to Oliver, and entered the shop with a
dignified air, which did him great credit. It is difficult for a
large-headed, small-eyed youth, of lumbering make and heavy
countenance, to look dignified under any circumstances; but it is more
especially so, when superadded to these personal attractions are a red
nose and yellow smalls.
Oliver, having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of glass in
his effort to stagger away beneath the weight of the first one to a
small court at the side of the house in which they were kept during the
day, was graciously assisted by Noah: who having consoled him with the
assurance that 'he'd catch it,' condescended to help him. Mr.
Sowerberry came down soon after. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Sowerberry
appeared. Oliver having 'caught it,' in fulfilment of Noah's
prediction, followed that young gentleman down the stairs to breakfast.
'Come near the fire, Noah,' said Charlotte. 'I saved a nice little bit
of bacon for you from master's breakfast. Oliver, shut that door at
Mister Noah's back, and take them bits that I've put out on the cover
of the bread-pan. There's your tea; take it away to that box, and
drink it there, and make haste, for they'll want you to mind the shop.
D'ye hear?'
'D'ye hear, Work'us?' said Noah Claypole.
'Lor, Noah!' said Charlotte, 'what a rum creature you are! Why don't
you let the boy alone?'
'Let him alone!' said Noah. 'Why everybody lets him alone enough, for
the matter of that. Neither his father nor his mother will ever
interfere with him. All his relations let him have his own way pretty
well. Eh, Charlotte? He! he! he!'
'Oh, you queer soul!' said Charlotte, bursting into a hearty laugh, in
which she was joined by Noah; after which they both looked scornfully
at poor Oliver Twist, as he sat shivering on the box in the coldest
corner of the room, and ate the stale pieces which had been specially
reserved for him.
Noah was a charity-boy, but not a workhouse orphan. No chance-child
was he, for he could trace his genealogy all the way back to his
parents, who lived hard by; his mother being a washerwoman, and his
father a drunken soldier, discharged with a wooden leg, and a diurnal
pension of twopence-halfpenny and an unstateable fraction. The
shop-boys in the neighbourhood had long been in the habit of branding
Noah in the public streets, with the ignominious epithets of
'leathers,' 'charity,' and the like; and Noah had bourne them without
reply. But, now that fortune had cast in his way a nameless orphan, at
whom even the meanest could point the finger of scorn, he retorted on
him with interest. This affords charming food for contemplation. It
shows us what a beautiful thing human nature may be made to be; and how
impartially the same amiable qualities are developed in the finest lord
and the dirtiest charity-boy.
Oliver had been sojourning at the undertaker's some three weeks or a
month. Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry--the shop being shut up--were taking
their supper in the little back-parlour, when Mr. Sowerberry, after
several deferential glances at his wife, said,
'My dear--' He was going to say more; but, Mrs. Sowerberry looking up,
with a peculiarly unpropitious aspect, he stopped short.
'Well,' said Mrs. Sowerberry, sharply.
'Nothing, my dear, nothing,' said Mr. Sowerberry.
'Ugh, you brute!' said Mrs. Sowerberry.
'Not at all, my dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry humbly. 'I thought you
didn't want to hear, my dear. I was only going to say--'
'Oh, don't tell me what you were going to say,' interposed Mrs.
Sowerberry. 'I am nobody; don't consult me, pray. _I_ don't want to
intrude upon your secrets.' As Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she gave an
hysterical laugh, which threatened violent consequences.
'But, my dear,' said Sowerberry, 'I want to ask your advice.'
'No, no, don't ask mine,' replied Mrs. Sowerberry, in an affecting
manner: 'ask somebody else's.' Here, there was another hysterical
laugh, which frightened Mr. Sowerberry very much. This is a very
common and much-approved matrimonial course of treatment, which is
often very effective. It at once reduced Mr. Sowerberry to begging, as
a special favour, to be allowed to say what Mrs. Sowerberry was most
curious to hear. After a short duration, the permission was most
graciously conceded.
'It's only about young Twist, my dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry. 'A very
good-looking boy, that, my dear.'
'He need be, for he eats enough,' observed the lady.
'There's an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear,' resumed Mr.
Sowerberry, 'which is very interesting. He would make a delightful
mute, my love.'
Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with an expression of considerable
wonderment. Mr. Sowerberry remarked it and, without allowing time for
any observation on the good lady's part, proceeded.
'I don't mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my dear, but
only for children's practice. It would be very new to have a mute in
proportion, my dear. You may depend upon it, it would have a superb
effect.'
Mrs. Sowerberry, who had a good deal of taste in the undertaking way,
was much struck by the novelty of this idea; but, as it would have been
compromising her dignity to have said so, under existing circumstances,
she merely inquired, with much sharpness, why such an obvious
suggestion had not presented itself to her husband's mind before? Mr.
Sowerberry rightly construed this, as an acquiescence in his
proposition; it was speedily determined, therefore, that Oliver should
be at once initiated into the mysteries of the trade; and, with this
view, that he should accompany his master on the very next occasion of
his services being required.
The occasion was not long in coming. Half an hour after breakfast next
morning, Mr. Bumble entered the shop; and supporting his cane against
the counter, drew forth his large leathern pocket-book: from which he
selected a small scrap of paper, which he handed over to Sowerberry.
'Aha!' said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance;
'an order for a coffin, eh?'
'For a coffin first, and a porochial funeral afterwards,' replied Mr.
Bumble, fastening the strap of the leathern pocket-book: which, like
himself, was very corpulent.
'Bayton,' said the undertaker, looking from the scrap of paper to Mr.
Bumble. 'I never heard the name before.'
Bumble shook his head, as he replied, 'Obstinate people, Mr.
Sowerberry; very obstinate. Proud, too, I'm afraid, sir.'
'Proud, eh?' exclaimed Mr. Sowerberry with a sneer. 'Come, that's too
much.'
'Oh, it's sickening,' replied the beadle. 'Antimonial, Mr. Sowerberry!'
'So it is,' acquiesced the undertaker.
'We only heard of the family the night before last,' said the beadle;
'and we shouldn't have known anything about them, then, only a woman
who lodges in the same house made an application to the porochial
committee for them to send the porochial surgeon to see a woman as was
very bad. He had gone out to dinner; but his 'prentice (which is a
very clever lad) sent 'em some medicine in a blacking-bottle, offhand.'
'Ah, there's promptness,' said the undertaker.
'Promptness, indeed!' replied the beadle. 'But what's the consequence;
what's the ungrateful behaviour of these rebels, sir? Why, the husband
sends back word that the medicine won't suit his wife's complaint, and
so she shan't take it--says she shan't take it, sir! Good, strong,
wholesome medicine, as was given with great success to two Irish
labourers and a coal-heaver, only a week before--sent 'em for nothing,
with a blackin'-bottle in,--and he sends back word that she shan't take
it, sir!'
As the atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble's mind in full force, he
struck the counter sharply with his cane, and became flushed with
indignation.
'Well,' said the undertaker, 'I ne--ver--did--'
'Never did, sir!' ejaculated the beadle. 'No, nor nobody never did;
but now she's dead, we've got to bury her; and that's the direction;
and the sooner it's done, the better.'
Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his cocked hat wrong side first, in a
fever of parochial excitement; and flounced out of the shop.
'Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to ask after you!'
said Mr. Sowerberry, looking after the beadle as he strode down the
street.
'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself out of
sight, during the interview; and who was shaking from head to foot at
the mere recollection of the sound of Mr. Bumble's voice.
He needn't haven taken the trouble to shrink from Mr. Bumble's glance,
however; for that functionary, on whom the prediction of the gentleman
in the white waistcoat had made a very strong impression, thought that
now the undertaker had got Oliver upon trial the subject was better
avoided, until such time as he should be firmly bound for seven years,
and all danger of his being returned upon the hands of the parish
should be thus effectually and legally overcome.
'Well,' said Mr. Sowerberry, taking up his hat, 'the sooner this job is
done, the better. Noah, look after the shop. Oliver, put on your cap,
and come with me.' Oliver obeyed, and followed his master on his
professional mission.
They walked on, for some time, through the most crowded and densely
inhabited part of the town; and then, striking down a narrow street
more dirty and miserable than any they had yet passed through, paused
to look for the house which was the object of their search. The houses
on either side were high and large, but very old, and tenanted by
people of the poorest class: as their neglected appearance would have
sufficiently denoted, without the concurrent testimony afforded by the
squalid looks of the few men and women who, with folded arms and bodies
half doubled, occasionally skulked along. A great many of the
tenements had shop-fronts; but these were fast closed, and mouldering
away; only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had
become insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into
the street, by huge beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly
planted in the road; but even these crazy dens seemed to have been
selected as the nightly haunts of some houseless wretches, for many of
the rough boards which supplied the place of door and window, were
wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture wide enough for
the passage of a human body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy. The
very rats, which here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were
hideous with famine.
There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver
and his master stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark
passage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid the
undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling
against a door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles.
It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker
at once saw enough of what the room contained, to know it was the
apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in; Oliver
followed him.
There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically,
over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the
cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged
children in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door,
there lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket.
Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept
involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was covered up, the
boy felt that it was a corpse.
The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly;
his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two
remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright
and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man.
They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside.
'Nobody shall go near her,' said the man, starting fiercely up, as the
undertaker approached the recess. 'Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if
you've a life to lose!'
'Nonsense, my good man,' said the undertaker, who was pretty well used
to misery in all its shapes. 'Nonsense!'
'I tell you,' said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping
furiously on the floor,--'I tell you I won't have her put into the
ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry her--not eat
her--she is so worn away.'
The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape
from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body.
'Ah!' said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at
the feet of the dead woman; 'kneel down, kneel down--kneel round her,
every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to death.
I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then
her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor
candle; she died in the dark--in the dark! She couldn't even see her
children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged
for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I came back,
she was dying; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they
starved her to death. I swear it before the God that saw it! They
starved her!' He twined his hands in his hair; and, with a loud
scream, rolled grovelling upon the floor: his eyes fixed, and the foam
covering his lips.
The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who had
hitherto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that
passed, menaced them into silence. Having unloosened the cravat of the
man who still remained extended on the ground, she tottered towards the
undertaker.
'She was my daughter,' said the old woman, nodding her head in the
direction of the corpse; and speaking with an idiotic leer, more
ghastly than even the presence of death in such a place. 'Lord, Lord!
Well, it _is_ strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman
then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying there: so cold and
stiff! Lord, Lord!--to think of it; it's as good as a play--as good as
a play!'
As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment,
the undertaker turned to go away.
'Stop, stop!' said the old woman in a loud whisper. 'Will she be
buried to-morrow, or next day, or to-night? I laid her out; and I must
walk, you know. Send me a large cloak: a good warm one: for it is
bitter cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go! Never
mind; send some bread--only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall
we have some bread, dear?' she said eagerly: catching at the
undertaker's coat, as he once more moved towards the door.
'Yes, yes,' said the undertaker,'of course. Anything you like!' He
disengaged himself from the old woman's grasp; and, drawing Oliver
after him, hurried away.
The next day, (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a
half-quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble
himself,) Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode; where
Mr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the
workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been
thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man; and the bare coffin
having been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers,
and carried into the street.
'Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!' whispered
Sowerberry in the old woman's ear; 'we are rather late; and it won't
do, to keep the clergyman waiting. Move on, my men,--as quick as you
like!'
Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the
two mourners kept as near them, as they could. Mr. Bumble and
Sowerberry walked at a good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs
were not so long as his master's, ran by the side.
There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had
anticipated, however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the
churchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish graves were
made, the clergyman had not arrived; and the clerk, who was sitting by
the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it
might be an hour or so, before he came. So, they put the bier on the
brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp
clay, with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys whom the
spectacle had attracted into the churchyard played a noisy game at
hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by
jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and
Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him,
and read the paper.
At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble,
and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave.
Immediately afterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice
as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up
appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the
burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his
surplice to the clerk, and walked away again.
'Now, Bill!' said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. 'Fill up!'
It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the
uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The
grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his
feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who
murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.
'Come, my good fellow!' said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. 'They
want to shut up the yard.'
The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the
grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had
addressed him, walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a
swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss
of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any
attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came
to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed
on their different ways.
'Well, Oliver,' said Sowerberry, as they walked home, 'how do you like
it?'
'Pretty well, thank you, sir' replied Oliver, with considerable
hesitation. 'Not very much, sir.'
'Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver,' said Sowerberry. 'Nothing
when you _are_ used to it, my boy.'
Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time
to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask
the question; and walked back to the shop: thinking over all he had
seen and heard. | In the morning, Noah Claypole, Mr. Sowerberry's apprentice, wakes Oliver. Noah and Charlotte, the maid, taunt Oliver during breakfast. Oliver accompanies Sowerberry to prepare for a pauper's burial. The husband of the deceased delivers a tearful tirade against his wife's death. She has starved to death, and although he once tried to beg for her, the authorities sent him to prison for the offense. The dead woman's mother begs for some bread and a cloak to wear for the funeral. At the graveyard before the funeral, some ragged boys jump back and forth over the coffin to amuse themselves. Mr. Bumble beats a few of the boys. The clergyman performs the service in four minutes. Mr. Bumble quickly ushers the grieving family out of the cemetery, and Mr. Sowerberry takes the cloak away from the dead woman's mother. Oliver decides that he is not at all fond of the undertaking business |
The ducal vineyards covered some forty acres of rich hillside. All day
long the sun beat squarely upon the clustering fruit. A low rambling
building of stone covered the presses and bottling departments, and was
within comparatively easy distance of the city. During the vintage
several hundred men and women found employment. The grand duke derived a
comfortable private revenue from these wines, the Tokay being scarcely
inferior to that made in Hungary. There was a large brewery besides,
which supplied all the near-by cities and towns. The German noble, be he
king, duke, or baron, has always been more or less a merchant; and it
did not embarrass the grand duke of Ehrenstein in the least to see his
coat of arms burnt into oaken wine-casks.
A former steward had full charge of the business, personally hiring and
paying the help and supervising the various branches. He was a gruff old
fellow, just and honest; and once you entered his employ he was as much
a martinet as any captain at sea. The low cunning of the peasant never
eluded his watchful eye. He knew to the last pound of grapes how much
wine there should be, how much beer to the last measure of hops.
The entrance to the vineyards was made through a small lodge where the
ducal vintner lived, and kept his books and moneys till such time as he
should be required to place them before the proper official.
Upon this brave morning, the one following the ball at the palace, the
vintner was reclining against the outside wall of the gates, smoking his
china-pipe and generally at peace with the world. The bloom was early
upon the grape, work was begun, and the vintage promised to be
exceptionally fine. Through a drifting cloud of smoke he discerned a
solitary figure approaching from the direction of Dreiberg, a youthful
figure, buoyant of step, and confident. Herr Hoffman was rather
interested. Ordinarily the peasant who came to this gate had his hat in
his hand and his feet were laggard. Not so this youth. He paused at the
gate and inspected the old man highly.
"Herr Hoffman?"
"Yes."
"I want work."
"So? What can you do?" He was a clean youngster, this, but there was
something in his eyes that vaguely disturbed the head vintner. It was
like mockery more than anything else. The youth recounted his abilities,
and Hoffman was gracious enough to admit that he seemed to know what he
was talking about.
"I have a letter to you also."
"_Ach!_ We shall be properly introduced now," said Hoffman, growling.
"Let me see it."
He saw it, but with starting eyes. There was, then, something new under
the sun? A picker of grapes, recommended by a princess! He turned the
letter inside out, but found no illumination.
"_Du lieber Gott!_ You are Leopold Dietrich?"
"Yes, Herr."
"How did you come by this letter?"
"Her serene highness is patron to Gretchen, the goose-girl, at whose
request the recommendation was given me."
This altered matters. "Follow me," said Hoffman.
The two entered the office.
"Can you write?"
"A little, Herr."
"Then write your name on this piece of paper and that. Each night you
will present yours with the number of pounds, which will be credited to
you. You must bring it back each morning. If you lose it you will be
paid nothing for your labor."
Dietrich wrote his name twice. It was rather hard work, for he screwed
up his mouth and cramped his fingers. Still, Hoffman was not wholly
satisfied with his eyes.
"Gottlieb," he said to one of the men, "take him to terrace
ninety-eight. That hasn't been touched yet. We'll see what sort of
workman he is." He spoke to Dietrich again. "What is Gretchen to you?"
For Hoffman knew Gretchen; many a time she had filled her basket and
drawn her crowns.
"She is my sweetheart, Herr." And there was no mockery in the youth's
eyes as he said this.
"Take him along, Gottlieb. You will have no further use for this letter
from her highness, so I'll keep it and frame it and hang it in the
office." Which showed that Hoffman himself had had lessons in the gentle
art of mockery.
Terrace ninety-eight was given over to small grapes; thus, many bunches
had to be picked to fill the basket. But Dietrich went to work with a
will. His fingers were deft and his knife was sharp; and by midsun he
had turned his sixth basket, which was fair work, considering.
As Hoffman did not feed his employees, Dietrich was obliged to beg from
his co-workers. Very willingly they shared with him their coarse bread
and onions. He ate the bread and stuffed the onions in his pocket. There
was no idling. As soon as the frugal meal was over, the peasants trooped
away to their respective terraces. Once more the youth was alone. He set
down his basket and laughed. Was there ever such a fine world? Had there
ever been a more likable adventure? The very danger of it was the spice
which gave it flavor. He stretched out his arms as if to embrace this
world which appeared so rosal, so joyous to his imagination.
"Thanks, thanks! You have given me youth, and I accept it," he said
aloud, perhaps addressing that mutable goddess who presides over all
follies. "Regret it in my old age? Not I! I shall have lived for one
short month. Youth was given to us to enjoy, and I propose to press the
grape to the final drop. And when I grow old this adventure shall be the
tonic to wipe out many wrinkles of care. A mad fling, a brimming cup,
one short merry month--and then, the reckoning! How I hate the thought!"
He sobered; the laughter went out of his eyes and face. Changeful
twenty, where so many paths reach out into the great world, paths
straight and narrow, of devious turnings which end at precipices, of
blind alleys which lead nowhere and close in behind!
"I love her, I love her!" His face grew bright again, and the wooing
blood ran tingling in his veins. "Am I a thief, a scoundrelly thief,
because I have that right common to all men, to love one woman? Some day
I shall suffer for this; some day my heart shall ache; so be it!"
The sun began the downward circle; the shadows crept eastward and
imperceptibly grew longer; a gray tone settled under the stones at his
feet. Sometimes he sang, sometimes he stood dreaming. His fingers were
growing sore and sticky and there was a twinge in his back as he
shouldered his eighth basket and scrambled down to the man who weighed
the pick. He was beginning his ninth when he saw Gretchen coming along
the purple aisle. She waved a hand in welcome, and he sheathed his
knife. No more work this day for him. He waited.
"What a beautiful day!" said Gretchen, with a happy laugh.
"Aye, what a day for love!"
"And work!"
"Kiss me!"
"When you fill that basket."
"Not before?"
"Not even a little one," mischief in her glance. Out came the knife and
the vintner plied himself furiously. Gretchen had a knife of her own,
and she joined him. They laughed gaily. Snip, snip; bunch by bunch the
contents of the basket grew.
"There!" he said at last. "That's what I call work; but it is worth it.
Now!"
Gretchen saw that it would be futile to hold him off longer; what she
would not give he would of a surety take. So she put her hands behind
her back, closed her eyes, and raised her chin. He kissed not only the
lovely mouth, but the eyes and cheeks and hair.
"Gretchen, you are as good and beautiful as an angel."
"What are angels like?"
"An angel is the most beautiful woman a poet can describe or imagine."
"Then there are no men angels?"
"Only Gabriel; at least I never heard of any other."
"Then I do not want to be an angel. I had rather be what I am. Besides,
angels do not have tempers; they do not long for things they should not
have; they have no sweethearts." She caught him roughly by the arms.
"Ah, if anything should happen to you, I should die! It seems as though
I had a hundred hearts and that they had all melted into one for love of
you. Do men love as women love? Is it everything and all things, or
only an incident? I would give up my soul to you if you asked for it."
"I ask only for your love, Gretchen; only that." And he pressed her
hands. "All men are rogues, more or less. There are so many currents and
eddies entering into a man's life. It is made up of a thousand variant
interests. No, man's love is never like a woman's. But remember this,
Gretchen, I loved you the best I knew how, as a man loves but once,
honorably as it was possible, purely and dearly."
The shade of trouble crossed her face. "Why are you always talking like
that? Do I not know that you love me? Have I not my dowry, and are we
not to be married after the vintage?"
"But your singing?"
"Singing? Why, my voice belongs to you; for your sake I wish to be
great, for no other reason."
He ripped a bunch of grapes from the vine, a thing no careful vintner
should do, and held it toward her.
"Have you ever heard of the kissing cherries?" he asked.
She shook her head. He explained.
"This bunch will do very well."
He took one grape at the bottom in his teeth. Gingerly Gretchen did the
same. Their lips met in a smothered laughter. Then they tried it again.
And this Watteau picture met the gaze of two persons on the terrace
below. The empurpling face of one threatened an explosion, but the
smiling face of the other restrained this vocal thunder. The old head
vintner kicked a stone savagely, and at this rattling noise Gretchen and
her lover turned. They beheld the steward, and peering over his shoulder
the amused countenance of the Princess Hildegarde.
"You--" began the steward, no longer able to contain himself.
"Patience, Hoffman!" warned her highness. Then she laughed blithely. It
was such a charming picture, and never had she seen a handsomer pair of
bucolic lovers. A sudden pang drove the merriment from her face. Ah, but
she envied Gretchen! For the peasant there was freedom, there was the
chosen mate; but for the princess--
"Your hat, scoundrel!" cried Hoffman.
The vintner snatched off his hat apologetically and swung it round on
the tips of his fingers.
"Is this the way you work?"
"I have picked nine baskets."
"You should have picked twelve."
It interested her highness to note that this handsome young fellow was
not afraid of the head vintner. So this was Gretchen's lover? He was
really handsome; there was nothing coarse about his features or figure.
And presently she realized that he was returning her scrutiny with
interest. He had never seen her highness at close range before, and he
now saw that Gretchen was more beautiful only because he saw her through
the eyes of a lover.
The pause was broken by Gretchen.
"Pardon, Highness!"
"For what, Gretchen?"
"For not having seen your approach."
"That was my fault, not yours. When is the wedding?"
"After the vintage, Highness."
Her highness then spoke to the bridegroom-elect. "You will be good to
her?"
"Who could help it, your Highness?"
The pronoun struck her oddly, for peasants as a usual thing never used
it in addressing the nobility.
"Well, on the day of the wedding I will stand sponsor to you both. And
good luck go with you. Come, Hoffman; my horse will be restive and my
men impatient."
She passed down the aisle, and the head vintner followed, wagging his
head. He was not at all satisfied with that tableau. He employed men to
work; he wanted no love-affairs inside his vineyards. As for her
highness, she had come for the sole purpose of seeing Gretchen's lover;
and it occurred to her that the really desirable men were generally
unencumbered by titles.
"He will discharge me," said the young vintner gloomily.
"He will not dare," returned Gretchen. "We have done nothing wrong. Her
highness will stand by us. It must be five o'clock," looking at the sun.
"In that case, no more work for the day."
He swung the basket to his shoulder, and the sun, flashing upon its
contents, turned the bloomy globes into dull rubies. He presented his
card at the office and was duly credited with three crowns, which,
according to Gretchen, was a fine day's work. Hoffman said nothing about
dismissal.
"Come day after to-morrow; to-morrow is a feast-day. You are always
having feast-days when work begins. All summer long you loaf about, but
the minute you start to work you must find excuses to lay off. Clear
out, both of you!"
"Work at last," said Dietrich, as he and Gretchen started for the city.
"If I can get a position in the brewery for the winter I shall be rich."
"Oh, the beautiful world!"
"Do you recall the first day I met you?" he asked.
"Yes. A little more and that dog would have killed the big gander. What
little things bring about big ones! When I walked into the city that
day, had any one told me that I should fall in love, I should have
laughed."
"And I!"
Arm in arm they went on. Sometimes Gretchen sang; often he put her hand
to his lips. By and by they came abreast of an old Gipsy. He wore a
coat of Joseph's, and his face was as lined as a frost-bitten apple. But
his eyes were keen and undimmed, and he walked confidently and erect,
like a man who has always lived in the open.
"Will you tell me how to find the Adlergasse?" he asked in broken
German. His accent was that of a Magyar. He had a smattering of a dozen
tongues at his command, for in his time he had crossed and recrossed the
Danube, the Rhine, and the Rhone.
They carelessly gave him specific directions and passed on. He followed
grimly, like fate, whose agent he was, though long delayed. When he
reached the Adlergasse he looked for a sign. He came to a stop in front
of the dingy shop of the clock-mender. He went inside, and the ancient
clock-mender looked up from his work, for he was always working.
He rose wearily and asked what he could do for his customer. His eyes
were bothering him, so the fact that the man was a Gipsy did not at
first impress him.
The Gipsy smiled mysteriously and laid a hand on his heart.
"Who are you?" sharply demanded the clock-mender.
"Who I am does not matter. I am he whom you seek."
"God in Heaven!" The bony hands of the clock-mender shot out and
clutched the other's coat in a grip which shook, so intense was it. The
Gipsy released himself slowly. "But first show me your pretty crowns and
the paper which will give me immunity from the police. I know something
about you. You never break your word. That is why I came. Your crowns,
as you offered, and immunity; then I speak."
"Man, I can give you the crowns, but God knows I have no longer the
power to give you immunity."
"So?"
The Gipsy shouldered his bundle.
"For God's sake, wait!" begged the clock-mender.
But the Gipsy walked out, unheeding. | For three days, Ani walks in the forest; for four nights, she sleeps on the ground--girl just keeps walking, until she makes it to Gilsa's cottage. This time, she remembers to tell Gilsa she's going to faint before she does. When Ani wakes up, Gilsa tells her that she's been sleeping for a couple days, but she's out of the woods--figuratively of course. Ani's fever has finally broken. Of course Gilsa and Finn have a lot of questions about why she's there--and with a knife wound no less--so Ani tells them everything. We mean everything: being a princess, talking to the wind, Falada's head--every last detail. When she's done with her story, Finn and Gilsa ask her what she's planning on doing next, since she can't just ride around town proclaiming she's a princess. Ani's not sure what to do next, and the story she's just told Finn and Gilsa doesn't seem real to her somehow, so she hangs out at their place while gathering her strength back. She has just been stabbed in the back after all. When Gilsa's neighbor, Frigart, stops by, Ani notices a gold and ruby ring on her hand--her gold and ruby ring. Ani asks the lady about it, and she gets all cagey about where she got it. Until Ani points out a guy was murdered in the woods with that ring on, and then the lady lets up--she got it as payment from a guy she helped get back on his feet. Ani insists on being taken to see this man. Immediately. When they get to Frigart's house, Ani's surprised to see her trusted guard Talone--alive. The two catch up on all that's happened since they were last together. Talone was badly injured, and rested at Frigart's place; he's got no horse or money, and thought Ani was dead this whole time. His plan has been to travel back to Kildenree once he heals in order to tell the queen what happened. He feels guilty that he didn't protect her, but Ani assures him it wasn't his fault. Then she tells Talone all about being a goose girl--and this time when she shares her story, it seems real to her somehow. She's even figured out it was Conrad who turned her in to Ungolad when he went to the king for her reward. Both Talone and Ani want to act right away, but they also both still need to heal, so they decide to go into the city in another week once they are stronger. Gilsa isn't impressed with the news that her forest refugee is actually royalty, and Ani is warmed by it--she feels loved and secure with these people out in the forest, more so than she did six months ago in the palace, that's for sure. She anxiously waits until they can spring into action. |
When the time Mr. Micawber had appointed so mysteriously, was within
four-and-twenty hours of being come, my aunt and I consulted how we
should proceed; for my aunt was very unwilling to leave Dora. Ah! how
easily I carried Dora up and down stairs, now!
We were disposed, notwithstanding Mr. Micawber's stipulation for my
aunt's attendance, to arrange that she should stay at home, and be
represented by Mr. Dick and me. In short, we had resolved to take this
course, when Dora again unsettled us by declaring that she never
would forgive herself, and never would forgive her bad boy, if my aunt
remained behind, on any pretence.
'I won't speak to you,' said Dora, shaking her curls at my aunt. 'I'll
be disagreeable! I'll make Jip bark at you all day. I shall be sure that
you really are a cross old thing, if you don't go!'
'Tut, Blossom!' laughed my aunt. 'You know you can't do without me!'
'Yes, I can,' said Dora. 'You are no use to me at all. You never run up
and down stairs for me, all day long. You never sit and tell me stories
about Doady, when his shoes were worn out, and he was covered with
dust--oh, what a poor little mite of a fellow! You never do anything at
all to please me, do you, dear?' Dora made haste to kiss my aunt, and
say, 'Yes, you do! I'm only joking!'-lest my aunt should think she
really meant it.
'But, aunt,' said Dora, coaxingly, 'now listen. You must go. I shall
tease you, 'till you let me have my own way about it. I shall lead my
naughty boy such a life, if he don't make you go. I shall make myself
so disagreeable--and so will Jip! You'll wish you had gone, like a good
thing, for ever and ever so long, if you don't go. Besides,' said Dora,
putting back her hair, and looking wonderingly at my aunt and me, 'why
shouldn't you both go? I am not very ill indeed. Am I?'
'Why, what a question!' cried my aunt.
'What a fancy!' said I.
'Yes! I know I am a silly little thing!' said Dora, slowly looking from
one of us to the other, and then putting up her pretty lips to kiss us
as she lay upon her couch. 'Well, then, you must both go, or I shall not
believe you; and then I shall cry!'
I saw, in my aunt's face, that she began to give way now, and Dora
brightened again, as she saw it too.
'You'll come back with so much to tell me, that it'll take at least
a week to make me understand!' said Dora. 'Because I know I shan't
understand, for a length of time, if there's any business in it. And
there's sure to be some business in it! If there's anything to add up,
besides, I don't know when I shall make it out; and my bad boy will look
so miserable all the time. There! Now you'll go, won't you? You'll only
be gone one night, and Jip will take care of me while you are gone.
Doady will carry me upstairs before you go, and I won't come down again
till you come back; and you shall take Agnes a dreadfully scolding
letter from me, because she has never been to see us!'
We agreed, without any more consultation, that we would both go, and
that Dora was a little Impostor, who feigned to be rather unwell,
because she liked to be petted. She was greatly pleased, and very merry;
and we four, that is to say, my aunt, Mr. Dick, Traddles, and I, went
down to Canterbury by the Dover mail that night.
At the hotel where Mr. Micawber had requested us to await him, which
we got into, with some trouble, in the middle of the night, I found a
letter, importing that he would appear in the morning punctually at half
past nine. After which, we went shivering, at that uncomfortable hour,
to our respective beds, through various close passages; which smelt as
if they had been steeped, for ages, in a solution of soup and stables.
Early in the morning, I sauntered through the dear old tranquil streets,
and again mingled with the shadows of the venerable gateways and
churches. The rooks were sailing about the cathedral towers; and the
towers themselves, overlooking many a long unaltered mile of the rich
country and its pleasant streams, were cutting the bright morning air,
as if there were no such thing as change on earth. Yet the bells, when
they sounded, told me sorrowfully of change in everything; told me of
their own age, and my pretty Dora's youth; and of the many, never old,
who had lived and loved and died, while the reverberations of the bells
had hummed through the rusty armour of the Black Prince hanging up
within, and, motes upon the deep of Time, had lost themselves in air, as
circles do in water.
I looked at the old house from the corner of the street, but did not go
nearer to it, lest, being observed, I might unwittingly do any harm to
the design I had come to aid. The early sun was striking edgewise on its
gables and lattice-windows, touching them with gold; and some beams of
its old peace seemed to touch my heart.
I strolled into the country for an hour or so, and then returned by
the main street, which in the interval had shaken off its last night's
sleep. Among those who were stirring in the shops, I saw my ancient
enemy the butcher, now advanced to top-boots and a baby, and in business
for himself. He was nursing the baby, and appeared to be a benignant
member of society.
We all became very anxious and impatient, when we sat down to breakfast.
As it approached nearer and nearer to half past nine o'clock, our
restless expectation of Mr. Micawber increased. At last we made no more
pretence of attending to the meal, which, except with Mr. Dick, had been
a mere form from the first; but my aunt walked up and down the room.
Traddles sat upon the sofa affecting to read the paper with his eyes on
the ceiling; and I looked out of the window to give early notice of Mr.
Micawber's coming. Nor had I long to watch, for, at the first chime of
the half hour, he appeared in the street.
'Here he is,' said I, 'and not in his legal attire!'
My aunt tied the strings of her bonnet (she had come down to breakfast
in it), and put on her shawl, as if she were ready for anything that
was resolute and uncompromising. Traddles buttoned his coat with a
determined air. Mr. Dick, disturbed by these formidable appearances, but
feeling it necessary to imitate them, pulled his hat, with both hands,
as firmly over his ears as he possibly could; and instantly took it off
again, to welcome Mr. Micawber.
'Gentlemen, and madam,' said Mr. Micawber, 'good morning! My dear sir,'
to Mr. Dick, who shook hands with him violently, 'you are extremely
good.'
'Have you breakfasted?' said Mr. Dick. 'Have a chop!'
'Not for the world, my good sir!' cried Mr. Micawber, stopping him on
his way to the bell; 'appetite and myself, Mr. Dixon, have long been
strangers.'
Mr. Dixon was so well pleased with his new name, and appeared to think
it so obliging in Mr. Micawber to confer it upon him, that he shook
hands with him again, and laughed rather childishly.
'Dick,' said my aunt, 'attention!'
Mr. Dick recovered himself, with a blush.
'Now, sir,' said my aunt to Mr. Micawber, as she put on her gloves, 'we
are ready for Mount Vesuvius, or anything else, as soon as YOU please.'
'Madam,' returned Mr. Micawber, 'I trust you will shortly witness an
eruption. Mr. Traddles, I have your permission, I believe, to mention
here that we have been in communication together?'
'It is undoubtedly the fact, Copperfield,' said Traddles, to whom I
looked in surprise. 'Mr. Micawber has consulted me in reference to
what he has in contemplation; and I have advised him to the best of my
judgement.'
'Unless I deceive myself, Mr. Traddles,' pursued Mr. Micawber, 'what I
contemplate is a disclosure of an important nature.'
'Highly so,' said Traddles.
'Perhaps, under such circumstances, madam and gentlemen,' said Mr.
Micawber, 'you will do me the favour to submit yourselves, for the
moment, to the direction of one who, however unworthy to be regarded in
any other light but as a Waif and Stray upon the shore of human nature,
is still your fellow-man, though crushed out of his original form
by individual errors, and the accumulative force of a combination of
circumstances?'
'We have perfect confidence in you, Mr. Micawber,' said I, 'and will do
what you please.'
'Mr. Copperfield,' returned Mr. Micawber, 'your confidence is not, at
the existing juncture, ill-bestowed. I would beg to be allowed a start
of five minutes by the clock; and then to receive the present company,
inquiring for Miss Wickfield, at the office of Wickfield and Heep, whose
Stipendiary I am.'
My aunt and I looked at Traddles, who nodded his approval.
'I have no more,' observed Mr. Micawber, 'to say at present.'
With which, to my infinite surprise, he included us all in a
comprehensive bow, and disappeared; his manner being extremely distant,
and his face extremely pale.
Traddles only smiled, and shook his head (with his hair standing upright
on the top of it), when I looked to him for an explanation; so I took
out my watch, and, as a last resource, counted off the five minutes. My
aunt, with her own watch in her hand, did the like. When the time was
expired, Traddles gave her his arm; and we all went out together to the
old house, without saying one word on the way.
We found Mr. Micawber at his desk, in the turret office on the
ground floor, either writing, or pretending to write, hard. The large
office-ruler was stuck into his waistcoat, and was not so well concealed
but that a foot or more of that instrument protruded from his bosom,
like a new kind of shirt-frill.
As it appeared to me that I was expected to speak, I said aloud:
'How do you do, Mr. Micawber?'
'Mr. Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber, gravely, 'I hope I see you well?'
'Is Miss Wickfield at home?' said I.
'Mr. Wickfield is unwell in bed, sir, of a rheumatic fever,' he
returned; 'but Miss Wickfield, I have no doubt, will be happy to see old
friends. Will you walk in, sir?'
He preceded us to the dining-room--the first room I had entered in that
house--and flinging open the door of Mr. Wickfield's former office,
said, in a sonorous voice:
'Miss Trotwood, Mr. David Copperfield, Mr. Thomas Traddles, and Mr.
Dixon!'
I had not seen Uriah Heep since the time of the blow. Our visit
astonished him, evidently; not the less, I dare say, because it
astonished ourselves. He did not gather his eyebrows together, for he
had none worth mentioning; but he frowned to that degree that he almost
closed his small eyes, while the hurried raising of his grisly hand to
his chin betrayed some trepidation or surprise. This was only when we
were in the act of entering his room, and when I caught a glance at him
over my aunt's shoulder. A moment afterwards, he was as fawning and as
humble as ever.
'Well, I am sure,' he said. 'This is indeed an unexpected pleasure! To
have, as I may say, all friends round St. Paul's at once, is a treat
unlooked for! Mr. Copperfield, I hope I see you well, and--if I may
umbly express myself so--friendly towards them as is ever your friends,
whether or not. Mrs. Copperfield, sir, I hope she's getting on. We have
been made quite uneasy by the poor accounts we have had of her state,
lately, I do assure you.'
I felt ashamed to let him take my hand, but I did not know yet what else
to do.
'Things are changed in this office, Miss Trotwood, since I was an umble
clerk, and held your pony; ain't they?' said Uriah, with his sickliest
smile. 'But I am not changed, Miss Trotwood.'
'Well, sir,' returned my aunt, 'to tell you the truth, I think you are
pretty constant to the promise of your youth; if that's any satisfaction
to you.'
'Thank you, Miss Trotwood,' said Uriah, writhing in his ungainly manner,
'for your good opinion! Micawber, tell 'em to let Miss Agnes know--and
mother. Mother will be quite in a state, when she sees the present
company!' said Uriah, setting chairs.
'You are not busy, Mr. Heep?' said Traddles, whose eye the cunning red
eye accidentally caught, as it at once scrutinized and evaded us.
'No, Mr. Traddles,' replied Uriah, resuming his official seat, and
squeezing his bony hands, laid palm to palm between his bony knees. 'Not
so much so as I could wish. But lawyers, sharks, and leeches, are not
easily satisfied, you know! Not but what myself and Micawber have our
hands pretty full, in general, on account of Mr. Wickfield's being
hardly fit for any occupation, sir. But it's a pleasure as well as a
duty, I am sure, to work for him. You've not been intimate with Mr.
Wickfield, I think, Mr. Traddles? I believe I've only had the honour of
seeing you once myself?'
'No, I have not been intimate with Mr. Wickfield,' returned Traddles;
'or I might perhaps have waited on you long ago, Mr. Heep.'
There was something in the tone of this reply, which made Uriah look at
the speaker again, with a very sinister and suspicious expression. But,
seeing only Traddles, with his good-natured face, simple manner, and
hair on end, he dismissed it as he replied, with a jerk of his whole
body, but especially his throat:
'I am sorry for that, Mr. Traddles. You would have admired him as much
as we all do. His little failings would only have endeared him to you
the more. But if you would like to hear my fellow-partner eloquently
spoken of, I should refer you to Copperfield. The family is a subject
he's very strong upon, if you never heard him.'
I was prevented from disclaiming the compliment (if I should have
done so, in any case), by the entrance of Agnes, now ushered in by Mr.
Micawber. She was not quite so self-possessed as usual, I thought; and
had evidently undergone anxiety and fatigue. But her earnest cordiality,
and her quiet beauty, shone with the gentler lustre for it.
I saw Uriah watch her while she greeted us; and he reminded me of an
ugly and rebellious genie watching a good spirit. In the meanwhile,
some slight sign passed between Mr. Micawber and Traddles; and Traddles,
unobserved except by me, went out.
'Don't wait, Micawber,' said Uriah.
Mr. Micawber, with his hand upon the ruler in his breast, stood erect
before the door, most unmistakably contemplating one of his fellow-men,
and that man his employer.
'What are you waiting for?' said Uriah. 'Micawber! did you hear me tell
you not to wait?'
'Yes!' replied the immovable Mr. Micawber.
'Then why DO you wait?' said Uriah.
'Because I--in short, choose,' replied Mr. Micawber, with a burst.
Uriah's cheeks lost colour, and an unwholesome paleness, still faintly
tinged by his pervading red, overspread them. He looked at Mr. Micawber
attentively, with his whole face breathing short and quick in every
feature.
'You are a dissipated fellow, as all the world knows,' he said, with an
effort at a smile, 'and I am afraid you'll oblige me to get rid of you.
Go along! I'll talk to you presently.'
'If there is a scoundrel on this earth,' said Mr. Micawber, suddenly
breaking out again with the utmost vehemence, 'with whom I have already
talked too much, that scoundrel's name is--HEEP!'
Uriah fell back, as if he had been struck or stung. Looking slowly round
upon us with the darkest and wickedest expression that his face could
wear, he said, in a lower voice:
'Oho! This is a conspiracy! You have met here by appointment! You are
playing Booty with my clerk, are you, Copperfield? Now, take care.
You'll make nothing of this. We understand each other, you and me.
There's no love between us. You were always a puppy with a proud
stomach, from your first coming here; and you envy me my rise, do you?
None of your plots against me; I'll counterplot you! Micawber, you be
off. I'll talk to you presently.'
'Mr. Micawber,' said I, 'there is a sudden change in this fellow, in
more respects than the extraordinary one of his speaking the truth in
one particular, which assures me that he is brought to bay. Deal with
him as he deserves!'
'You are a precious set of people, ain't you?' said Uriah, in the same
low voice, and breaking out into a clammy heat, which he wiped from his
forehead, with his long lean hand, 'to buy over my clerk, who is the
very scum of society,--as you yourself were, Copperfield, you know it,
before anyone had charity on you,--to defame me with his lies? Miss
Trotwood, you had better stop this; or I'll stop your husband shorter
than will be pleasant to you. I won't know your story professionally,
for nothing, old lady! Miss Wickfield, if you have any love for your
father, you had better not join that gang. I'll ruin him, if you do.
Now, come! I have got some of you under the harrow. Think twice, before
it goes over you. Think twice, you, Micawber, if you don't want to
be crushed. I recommend you to take yourself off, and be talked to
presently, you fool! while there's time to retreat. Where's mother?' he
said, suddenly appearing to notice, with alarm, the absence of Traddles,
and pulling down the bell-rope. 'Fine doings in a person's own house!'
'Mrs. Heep is here, sir,' said Traddles, returning with that worthy
mother of a worthy son. 'I have taken the liberty of making myself known
to her.'
'Who are you to make yourself known?' retorted Uriah. 'And what do you
want here?'
'I am the agent and friend of Mr. Wickfield, sir,' said Traddles, in a
composed and business-like way. 'And I have a power of attorney from him
in my pocket, to act for him in all matters.'
'The old ass has drunk himself into a state of dotage,' said Uriah,
turning uglier than before, 'and it has been got from him by fraud!'
'Something has been got from him by fraud, I know,' returned Traddles
quietly; 'and so do you, Mr. Heep. We will refer that question, if you
please, to Mr. Micawber.'
'Ury--!' Mrs. Heep began, with an anxious gesture.
'YOU hold your tongue, mother,' he returned; 'least said, soonest
mended.'
'But, my Ury--'
'Will you hold your tongue, mother, and leave it to me?'
Though I had long known that his servility was false, and all his
pretences knavish and hollow, I had had no adequate conception of the
extent of his hypocrisy, until I now saw him with his mask off. The
suddenness with which he dropped it, when he perceived that it was
useless to him; the malice, insolence, and hatred, he revealed; the leer
with which he exulted, even at this moment, in the evil he had done--all
this time being desperate too, and at his wits' end for the means
of getting the better of us--though perfectly consistent with the
experience I had of him, at first took even me by surprise, who had
known him so long, and disliked him so heartily.
I say nothing of the look he conferred on me, as he stood eyeing us,
one after another; for I had always understood that he hated me, and I
remembered the marks of my hand upon his cheek. But when his eyes passed
on to Agnes, and I saw the rage with which he felt his power over her
slipping away, and the exhibition, in their disappointment, of the
odious passions that had led him to aspire to one whose virtues he could
never appreciate or care for, I was shocked by the mere thought of her
having lived, an hour, within sight of such a man.
After some rubbing of the lower part of his face, and some looking at us
with those bad eyes, over his grisly fingers, he made one more address
to me, half whining, and half abusive.
'You think it justifiable, do you, Copperfield, you who pride yourself
so much on your honour and all the rest of it, to sneak about my place,
eaves-dropping with my clerk? If it had been ME, I shouldn't have
wondered; for I don't make myself out a gentleman (though I never was
in the streets either, as you were, according to Micawber), but being
you!--And you're not afraid of doing this, either? You don't think at
all of what I shall do, in return; or of getting yourself into
trouble for conspiracy and so forth? Very well. We shall see! Mr.
What's-your-name, you were going to refer some question to Micawber.
There's your referee. Why don't you make him speak? He has learnt his
lesson, I see.'
Seeing that what he said had no effect on me or any of us, he sat on the
edge of his table with his hands in his pockets, and one of his splay
feet twisted round the other leg, waiting doggedly for what might
follow.
Mr. Micawber, whose impetuosity I had restrained thus far with the
greatest difficulty, and who had repeatedly interposed with the first
syllable of SCOUN-drel! without getting to the second, now burst
forward, drew the ruler from his breast (apparently as a defensive
weapon), and produced from his pocket a foolscap document, folded in the
form of a large letter. Opening this packet, with his old flourish, and
glancing at the contents, as if he cherished an artistic admiration of
their style of composition, he began to read as follows:
'"Dear Miss Trotwood and gentlemen--"'
'Bless and save the man!' exclaimed my aunt in a low voice. 'He'd write
letters by the ream, if it was a capital offence!'
Mr. Micawber, without hearing her, went on.
'"In appearing before you to denounce probably the most consummate
Villain that has ever existed,"' Mr. Micawber, without looking off the
letter, pointed the ruler, like a ghostly truncheon, at Uriah Heep,
'"I ask no consideration for myself. The victim, from my cradle, of
pecuniary liabilities to which I have been unable to respond, I have
ever been the sport and toy of debasing circumstances. Ignominy,
Want, Despair, and Madness, have, collectively or separately, been the
attendants of my career."'
The relish with which Mr. Micawber described himself as a prey to these
dismal calamities, was only to be equalled by the emphasis with which he
read his letter; and the kind of homage he rendered to it with a roll of
his head, when he thought he had hit a sentence very hard indeed.
'"In an accumulation of Ignominy, Want, Despair, and Madness, I entered
the office--or, as our lively neighbour the Gaul would term it, the
Bureau--of the Firm, nominally conducted under the appellation of
Wickfield and--HEEP, but in reality, wielded by--HEEP alone. HEEP, and
only HEEP, is the mainspring of that machine. HEEP, and only HEEP, is
the Forger and the Cheat."'
Uriah, more blue than white at these words, made a dart at the letter,
as if to tear it in pieces. Mr. Micawber, with a perfect miracle of
dexterity or luck, caught his advancing knuckles with the ruler, and
disabled his right hand. It dropped at the wrist, as if it were broken.
The blow sounded as if it had fallen on wood.
'The Devil take you!' said Uriah, writhing in a new way with pain. 'I'll
be even with you.'
'Approach me again, you--you--you HEEP of infamy,' gasped Mr. Micawber,
'and if your head is human, I'll break it. Come on, come on!'
I think I never saw anything more ridiculous--I was sensible of it, even
at the time--than Mr. Micawber making broad-sword guards with the ruler,
and crying, 'Come on!' while Traddles and I pushed him back into a
corner, from which, as often as we got him into it, he persisted in
emerging again.
His enemy, muttering to himself, after wringing his wounded hand for
sometime, slowly drew off his neck-kerchief and bound it up; then
held it in his other hand, and sat upon his table with his sullen face
looking down.
Mr. Micawber, when he was sufficiently cool, proceeded with his letter.
'"The stipendiary emoluments in consideration of which I entered into
the service of--HEEP,"' always pausing before that word and uttering
it with astonishing vigour, '"were not defined, beyond the pittance of
twenty-two shillings and six per week. The rest was left contingent on
the value of my professional exertions; in other and more expressive
words, on the baseness of my nature, the cupidity of my motives, the
poverty of my family, the general moral (or rather immoral) resemblance
between myself and--HEEP. Need I say, that it soon became necessary for
me to solicit from--HEEP--pecuniary advances towards the support of
Mrs. Micawber, and our blighted but rising family? Need I say that this
necessity had been foreseen by--HEEP? That those advances were secured
by I.O.U.'s and other similar acknowledgements, known to the legal
institutions of this country? And that I thus became immeshed in the web
he had spun for my reception?"'
Mr. Micawber's enjoyment of his epistolary powers, in describing this
unfortunate state of things, really seemed to outweigh any pain or
anxiety that the reality could have caused him. He read on:
'"Then it was that--HEEP--began to favour me with just so much of his
confidence, as was necessary to the discharge of his infernal business.
Then it was that I began, if I may so Shakespearianly express myself, to
dwindle, peak, and pine. I found that my services were constantly
called into requisition for the falsification of business, and the
mystification of an individual whom I will designate as Mr. W. That Mr.
W. was imposed upon, kept in ignorance, and deluded, in every possible
way; yet, that all this while, the ruffian--HEEP--was professing
unbounded gratitude to, and unbounded friendship for, that much-abused
gentleman. This was bad enough; but, as the philosophic Dane observes,
with that universal applicability which distinguishes the illustrious
ornament of the Elizabethan Era, worse remains behind!"'
Mr. Micawber was so very much struck by this happy rounding off with a
quotation, that he indulged himself, and us, with a second reading of
the sentence, under pretence of having lost his place.
'"It is not my intention,"' he continued reading on, '"to enter on a
detailed list, within the compass of the present epistle (though it
is ready elsewhere), of the various malpractices of a minor nature,
affecting the individual whom I have denominated Mr. W., to which I
have been a tacitly consenting party. My object, when the contest within
myself between stipend and no stipend, baker and no baker, existence
and non-existence, ceased, was to take advantage of my opportunities
to discover and expose the major malpractices committed, to that
gentleman's grievous wrong and injury, by--HEEP. Stimulated by the
silent monitor within, and by a no less touching and appealing monitor
without--to whom I will briefly refer as Miss W.--I entered on a not
unlaborious task of clandestine investigation, protracted--now, to the
best of my knowledge, information, and belief, over a period exceeding
twelve calendar months."'
He read this passage as if it were from an Act of Parliament; and
appeared majestically refreshed by the sound of the words.
'"My charges against--HEEP,"' he read on, glancing at him, and drawing
the ruler into a convenient position under his left arm, in case of
need, '"are as follows."'
We all held our breath, I think. I am sure Uriah held his.
'"First,"' said Mr. Micawber, '"When Mr. W.'s faculties and memory
for business became, through causes into which it is not necessary or
expedient for me to enter, weakened and confused,--HEEP--designedly
perplexed and complicated the whole of the official transactions. When
Mr. W. was least fit to enter on business,--HEEP was always at hand
to force him to enter on it. He obtained Mr. W.'s signature under such
circumstances to documents of importance, representing them to be other
documents of no importance. He induced Mr. W. to empower him to draw
out, thus, one particular sum of trust-money, amounting to twelve six
fourteen, two and nine, and employed it to meet pretended business
charges and deficiencies which were either already provided for, or
had never really existed. He gave this proceeding, throughout, the
appearance of having originated in Mr. W.'s own dishonest intention, and
of having been accomplished by Mr. W.'s own dishonest act; and has used
it, ever since, to torture and constrain him."'
'You shall prove this, you Copperfield!' said Uriah, with a threatening
shake of the head. 'All in good time!'
'Ask--HEEP--Mr. Traddles, who lived in his house after him,' said Mr.
Micawber, breaking off from the letter; 'will you?'
'The fool himself--and lives there now,' said Uriah, disdainfully.
'Ask--HEEP--if he ever kept a pocket-book in that house,' said Mr.
Micawber; 'will you?'
I saw Uriah's lank hand stop, involuntarily, in the scraping of his
chin.
'Or ask him,' said Mr. Micawber,'if he ever burnt one there. If he says
yes, and asks you where the ashes are, refer him to Wilkins Micawber,
and he will hear of something not at all to his advantage!'
The triumphant flourish with which Mr. Micawber delivered himself of
these words, had a powerful effect in alarming the mother; who cried
out, in much agitation:
'Ury, Ury! Be umble, and make terms, my dear!'
'Mother!' he retorted, 'will you keep quiet? You're in a fright, and
don't know what you say or mean. Umble!' he repeated, looking at me,
with a snarl; 'I've umbled some of 'em for a pretty long time back,
umble as I was!'
Mr. Micawber, genteelly adjusting his chin in his cravat, presently
proceeded with his composition.
'"Second. HEEP has, on several occasions, to the best of my knowledge,
information, and belief--"'
'But that won't do,' muttered Uriah, relieved. 'Mother, you keep quiet.'
'We will endeavour to provide something that WILL do, and do for you
finally, sir, very shortly,' replied Mr. Micawber.
'"Second. HEEP has, on several occasions, to the best of my knowledge,
information, and belief, systematically forged, to various entries,
books, and documents, the signature of Mr. W.; and has distinctly done
so in one instance, capable of proof by me. To wit, in manner following,
that is to say:"'
Again, Mr. Micawber had a relish in this formal piling up of words,
which, however ludicrously displayed in his case, was, I must say, not
at all peculiar to him. I have observed it, in the course of my life,
in numbers of men. It seems to me to be a general rule. In the taking of
legal oaths, for instance, deponents seem to enjoy themselves mightily
when they come to several good words in succession, for the expression
of one idea; as, that they utterly detest, abominate, and abjure, or so
forth; and the old anathemas were made relishing on the same principle.
We talk about the tyranny of words, but we like to tyrannize over them
too; we are fond of having a large superfluous establishment of words to
wait upon us on great occasions; we think it looks important, and sounds
well. As we are not particular about the meaning of our liveries on
state occasions, if they be but fine and numerous enough, so, the
meaning or necessity of our words is a secondary consideration, if there
be but a great parade of them. And as individuals get into trouble by
making too great a show of liveries, or as slaves when they are too
numerous rise against their masters, so I think I could mention a
nation that has got into many great difficulties, and will get into many
greater, from maintaining too large a retinue of words.
Mr. Micawber read on, almost smacking his lips:
'"To wit, in manner following, that is to say. Mr. W. being infirm, and
it being within the bounds of probability that his decease might lead
to some discoveries, and to the downfall of--HEEP'S--power over the W.
family,--as I, Wilkins Micawber, the undersigned, assume--unless the
filial affection of his daughter could be secretly influenced from
allowing any investigation of the partnership affairs to be ever made,
the said--HEEP--deemed it expedient to have a bond ready by him, as from
Mr. W., for the before-mentioned sum of twelve six fourteen, two and
nine, with interest, stated therein to have been advanced by--HEEP--to
Mr. W. to save Mr. W. from dishonour; though really the sum was never
advanced by him, and has long been replaced. The signatures to this
instrument purporting to be executed by Mr. W. and attested by Wilkins
Micawber, are forgeries by--HEEP. I have, in my possession, in his hand
and pocket-book, several similar imitations of Mr. W.'s signature, here
and there defaced by fire, but legible to anyone. I never attested any
such document. And I have the document itself, in my possession."' Uriah
Heep, with a start, took out of his pocket a bunch of keys, and opened
a certain drawer; then, suddenly bethought himself of what he was about,
and turned again towards us, without looking in it.
'"And I have the document,"' Mr. Micawber read again, looking about as
if it were the text of a sermon, '"in my possession,--that is to say,
I had, early this morning, when this was written, but have since
relinquished it to Mr. Traddles."'
'It is quite true,' assented Traddles.
'Ury, Ury!' cried the mother, 'be umble and make terms. I know my
son will be umble, gentlemen, if you'll give him time to think. Mr.
Copperfield, I'm sure you know that he was always very umble, sir!'
It was singular to see how the mother still held to the old trick, when
the son had abandoned it as useless.
'Mother,' he said, with an impatient bite at the handkerchief in which
his hand was wrapped, 'you had better take and fire a loaded gun at me.'
'But I love you, Ury,' cried Mrs. Heep. And I have no doubt she did; or
that he loved her, however strange it may appear; though, to be sure,
they were a congenial couple. 'And I can't bear to hear you provoking
the gentlemen, and endangering of yourself more. I told the gentleman
at first, when he told me upstairs it was come to light, that I would
answer for your being umble, and making amends. Oh, see how umble I am,
gentlemen, and don't mind him!'
'Why, there's Copperfield, mother,' he angrily retorted, pointing his
lean finger at me, against whom all his animosity was levelled, as the
prime mover in the discovery; and I did not undeceive him; 'there's
Copperfield, would have given you a hundred pound to say less than
you've blurted out!'
'I can't help it, Ury,' cried his mother. 'I can't see you running into
danger, through carrying your head so high. Better be umble, as you
always was.'
He remained for a little, biting the handkerchief, and then said to me
with a scowl:
'What more have you got to bring forward? If anything, go on with it.
What do you look at me for?'
Mr. Micawber promptly resumed his letter, glad to revert to a
performance with which he was so highly satisfied.
'"Third. And last. I am now in a condition to show, by--HEEP'S--false
books, and--HEEP'S--real memoranda, beginning with the partially
destroyed pocket-book (which I was unable to comprehend, at the time of
its accidental discovery by Mrs. Micawber, on our taking possession of
our present abode, in the locker or bin devoted to the reception of the
ashes calcined on our domestic hearth), that the weaknesses, the faults,
the very virtues, the parental affections, and the sense of honour, of
the unhappy Mr. W. have been for years acted on by, and warped to the
base purposes of--HEEP. That Mr. W. has been for years deluded and
plundered, in every conceivable manner, to the pecuniary aggrandisement
of the avaricious, false, and grasping--HEEP. That the engrossing object
of--HEEP--was, next to gain, to subdue Mr. and Miss W. (of his ulterior
views in reference to the latter I say nothing) entirely to himself.
That his last act, completed but a few months since, was to induce Mr.
W. to execute a relinquishment of his share in the partnership, and even
a bill of sale on the very furniture of his house, in consideration of a
certain annuity, to be well and truly paid by--HEEP--on the four common
quarter-days in each and every year. That these meshes; beginning with
alarming and falsified accounts of the estate of which Mr. W. is the
receiver, at a period when Mr. W. had launched into imprudent and
ill-judged speculations, and may not have had the money, for which he
was morally and legally responsible, in hand; going on with pretended
borrowings of money at enormous interest, really coming from--HEEP--and
by--HEEP--fraudulently obtained or withheld from Mr. W. himself,
on pretence of such speculations or otherwise; perpetuated by a
miscellaneous catalogue of unscrupulous chicaneries--gradually
thickened, until the unhappy Mr. W. could see no world beyond. Bankrupt,
as he believed, alike in circumstances, in all other hope, and
in honour, his sole reliance was upon the monster in the garb of
man,"'--Mr. Micawber made a good deal of this, as a new turn of
expression,--'"who, by making himself necessary to him, had achieved his
destruction. All this I undertake to show. Probably much more!"'
I whispered a few words to Agnes, who was weeping, half joyfully, half
sorrowfully, at my side; and there was a movement among us, as if Mr.
Micawber had finished. He said, with exceeding gravity, 'Pardon me,'
and proceeded, with a mixture of the lowest spirits and the most intense
enjoyment, to the peroration of his letter.
'"I have now concluded. It merely remains for me to substantiate these
accusations; and then, with my ill-starred family, to disappear from the
landscape on which we appear to be an encumbrance. That is soon done. It
may be reasonably inferred that our baby will first expire of inanition,
as being the frailest member of our circle; and that our twins will
follow next in order. So be it! For myself, my Canterbury Pilgrimage has
done much; imprisonment on civil process, and want, will soon do more.
I trust that the labour and hazard of an investigation--of which the
smallest results have been slowly pieced together, in the pressure of
arduous avocations, under grinding penurious apprehensions, at rise of
morn, at dewy eve, in the shadows of night, under the watchful eye of
one whom it were superfluous to call Demon--combined with the struggle
of parental Poverty to turn it, when completed, to the right account,
may be as the sprinkling of a few drops of sweet water on my funeral
pyre. I ask no more. Let it be, in justice, merely said of me, as of a
gallant and eminent naval Hero, with whom I have no pretensions to
cope, that what I have done, I did, in despite of mercenary and selfish
objects,
For England, home, and Beauty.
'"Remaining always, &c. &c., WILKINS MICAWBER."'
Much affected, but still intensely enjoying himself, Mr. Micawber folded
up his letter, and handed it with a bow to my aunt, as something she
might like to keep.
There was, as I had noticed on my first visit long ago, an iron safe in
the room. The key was in it. A hasty suspicion seemed to strike Uriah;
and, with a glance at Mr. Micawber, he went to it, and threw the doors
clanking open. It was empty.
'Where are the books?' he cried, with a frightful face. 'Some thief has
stolen the books!'
Mr. Micawber tapped himself with the ruler. 'I did, when I got the key
from you as usual--but a little earlier--and opened it this morning.'
'Don't be uneasy,' said Traddles. 'They have come into my possession. I
will take care of them, under the authority I mentioned.'
'You receive stolen goods, do you?' cried Uriah.
'Under such circumstances,' answered Traddles, 'yes.'
What was my astonishment when I beheld my aunt, who had been profoundly
quiet and attentive, make a dart at Uriah Heep, and seize him by the
collar with both hands!
'You know what I want?' said my aunt.
'A strait-waistcoat,' said he.
'No. My property!' returned my aunt. 'Agnes, my dear, as long as
I believed it had been really made away with by your father, I
wouldn't--and, my dear, I didn't, even to Trot, as he knows--breathe a
syllable of its having been placed here for investment. But, now I know
this fellow's answerable for it, and I'll have it! Trot, come and take
it away from him!'
Whether my aunt supposed, for the moment, that he kept her property in
his neck-kerchief, I am sure I don't know; but she certainly pulled at
it as if she thought so. I hastened to put myself between them, and to
assure her that we would all take care that he should make the utmost
restitution of everything he had wrongly got. This, and a few moments'
reflection, pacified her; but she was not at all disconcerted by what
she had done (though I cannot say as much for her bonnet) and resumed
her seat composedly.
During the last few minutes, Mrs. Heep had been clamouring to her son
to be 'umble'; and had been going down on her knees to all of us in
succession, and making the wildest promises. Her son sat her down in his
chair; and, standing sulkily by her, holding her arm with his hand, but
not rudely, said to me, with a ferocious look:
'What do you want done?'
'I will tell you what must be done,' said Traddles.
'Has that Copperfield no tongue?' muttered Uriah, 'I would do a good
deal for you if you could tell me, without lying, that somebody had cut
it out.'
'My Uriah means to be umble!' cried his mother. 'Don't mind what he
says, good gentlemen!'
'What must be done,' said Traddles, 'is this. First, the deed of
relinquishment, that we have heard of, must be given over to me
now--here.'
'Suppose I haven't got it,' he interrupted.
'But you have,' said Traddles; 'therefore, you know, we won't suppose
so.' And I cannot help avowing that this was the first occasion on
which I really did justice to the clear head, and the plain, patient,
practical good sense, of my old schoolfellow. 'Then,' said Traddles,
'you must prepare to disgorge all that your rapacity has become
possessed of, and to make restoration to the last farthing. All the
partnership books and papers must remain in our possession; all your
books and papers; all money accounts and securities, of both kinds. In
short, everything here.'
'Must it? I don't know that,' said Uriah. 'I must have time to think
about that.'
'Certainly,' replied Traddles; 'but, in the meanwhile, and until
everything is done to our satisfaction, we shall maintain possession
of these things; and beg you--in short, compel you--to keep to your own
room, and hold no communication with anyone.'
'I won't do it!' said Uriah, with an oath.
'Maidstone jail is a safer place of detention,' observed Traddles; 'and
though the law may be longer in righting us, and may not be able to
right us so completely as you can, there is no doubt of its punishing
YOU. Dear me, you know that quite as well as I! Copperfield, will you go
round to the Guildhall, and bring a couple of officers?'
Here, Mrs. Heep broke out again, crying on her knees to Agnes to
interfere in their behalf, exclaiming that he was very humble, and it
was all true, and if he didn't do what we wanted, she would, and much
more to the same purpose; being half frantic with fears for her darling.
To inquire what he might have done, if he had had any boldness, would
be like inquiring what a mongrel cur might do, if it had the spirit of
a tiger. He was a coward, from head to foot; and showed his dastardly
nature through his sullenness and mortification, as much as at any time
of his mean life.
'Stop!' he growled to me; and wiped his hot face with his hand. 'Mother,
hold your noise. Well! Let 'em have that deed. Go and fetch it!'
'Do you help her, Mr. Dick,' said Traddles, 'if you please.'
Proud of his commission, and understanding it, Mr. Dick accompanied her
as a shepherd's dog might accompany a sheep. But, Mrs. Heep gave him
little trouble; for she not only returned with the deed, but with the
box in which it was, where we found a banker's book and some other
papers that were afterwards serviceable.
'Good!' said Traddles, when this was brought. 'Now, Mr. Heep, you can
retire to think: particularly observing, if you please, that I declare
to you, on the part of all present, that there is only one thing to be
done; that it is what I have explained; and that it must be done without
delay.'
Uriah, without lifting his eyes from the ground, shuffled across the
room with his hand to his chin, and pausing at the door, said:
'Copperfield, I have always hated you. You've always been an upstart,
and you've always been against me.'
'As I think I told you once before,' said I, 'it is you who have been,
in your greed and cunning, against all the world. It may be profitable
to you to reflect, in future, that there never were greed and cunning in
the world yet, that did not do too much, and overreach themselves. It is
as certain as death.'
'Or as certain as they used to teach at school (the same school where I
picked up so much umbleness), from nine o'clock to eleven, that labour
was a curse; and from eleven o'clock to one, that it was a blessing and
a cheerfulness, and a dignity, and I don't know what all, eh?' said
he with a sneer. 'You preach, about as consistent as they did.
Won't umbleness go down? I shouldn't have got round my gentleman
fellow-partner without it, I think. --Micawber, you old bully, I'll pay
YOU!'
Mr. Micawber, supremely defiant of him and his extended finger, and
making a great deal of his chest until he had slunk out at the door,
then addressed himself to me, and proffered me the satisfaction of
'witnessing the re-establishment of mutual confidence between himself
and Mrs. Micawber'. After which, he invited the company generally to the
contemplation of that affecting spectacle.
'The veil that has long been interposed between Mrs. Micawber and
myself, is now withdrawn,' said Mr. Micawber; 'and my children and the
Author of their Being can once more come in contact on equal terms.'
As we were all very grateful to him, and all desirous to show that we
were, as well as the hurry and disorder of our spirits would permit, I
dare say we should all have gone, but that it was necessary for Agnes to
return to her father, as yet unable to bear more than the dawn of
hope; and for someone else to hold Uriah in safe keeping. So, Traddles
remained for the latter purpose, to be presently relieved by Mr. Dick;
and Mr. Dick, my aunt, and I, went home with Mr. Micawber. As I parted
hurriedly from the dear girl to whom I owed so much, and thought from
what she had been saved, perhaps, that morning--her better resolution
notwithstanding--I felt devoutly thankful for the miseries of my younger
days which had brought me to the knowledge of Mr. Micawber.
His house was not far off; and as the street door opened into the
sitting-room, and he bolted in with a precipitation quite his own,
we found ourselves at once in the bosom of the family. Mr. Micawber
exclaiming, 'Emma! my life!' rushed into Mrs. Micawber's arms. Mrs.
Micawber shrieked, and folded Mr. Micawber in her embrace. Miss
Micawber, nursing the unconscious stranger of Mrs. Micawber's last
letter to me, was sensibly affected. The stranger leaped. The twins
testified their joy by several inconvenient but innocent demonstrations.
Master Micawber, whose disposition appeared to have been soured by
early disappointment, and whose aspect had become morose, yielded to his
better feelings, and blubbered.
'Emma!' said Mr. Micawber. 'The cloud is past from my mind. Mutual
confidence, so long preserved between us once, is restored, to know
no further interruption. Now, welcome poverty!' cried Mr. Micawber,
shedding tears. 'Welcome misery, welcome houselessness, welcome hunger,
rags, tempest, and beggary! Mutual confidence will sustain us to the
end!'
With these expressions, Mr. Micawber placed Mrs. Micawber in a chair,
and embraced the family all round; welcoming a variety of bleak
prospects, which appeared, to the best of my judgement, to be anything
but welcome to them; and calling upon them to come out into Canterbury
and sing a chorus, as nothing else was left for their support.
But Mrs. Micawber having, in the strength of her emotions, fainted away,
the first thing to be done, even before the chorus could be considered
complete, was to recover her. This my aunt and Mr. Micawber did; and
then my aunt was introduced, and Mrs. Micawber recognized me.
'Excuse me, dear Mr. Copperfield,' said the poor lady, giving me her
hand, 'but I am not strong; and the removal of the late misunderstanding
between Mr. Micawber and myself was at first too much for me.'
'Is this all your family, ma'am?' said my aunt.
'There are no more at present,' returned Mrs. Micawber.
'Good gracious, I didn't mean that, ma'am,' said my aunt. 'I mean, are
all these yours?'
'Madam,' replied Mr. Micawber, 'it is a true bill.'
'And that eldest young gentleman, now,' said my aunt, musing, 'what has
he been brought up to?'
'It was my hope when I came here,' said Mr. Micawber, 'to have got
Wilkins into the Church: or perhaps I shall express my meaning more
strictly, if I say the Choir. But there was no vacancy for a tenor in
the venerable Pile for which this city is so justly eminent; and he
has--in short, he has contracted a habit of singing in public-houses,
rather than in sacred edifices.'
'But he means well,' said Mrs. Micawber, tenderly.
'I dare say, my love,' rejoined Mr. Micawber, 'that he means
particularly well; but I have not yet found that he carries out his
meaning, in any given direction whatsoever.'
Master Micawber's moroseness of aspect returned upon him again, and he
demanded, with some temper, what he was to do? Whether he had been born
a carpenter, or a coach-painter, any more than he had been born a bird?
Whether he could go into the next street, and open a chemist's shop?
Whether he could rush to the next assizes, and proclaim himself a
lawyer? Whether he could come out by force at the opera, and succeed
by violence? Whether he could do anything, without being brought up to
something?
My aunt mused a little while, and then said:
'Mr. Micawber, I wonder you have never turned your thoughts to
emigration.'
'Madam,' returned Mr. Micawber, 'it was the dream of my youth, and the
fallacious aspiration of my riper years.' I am thoroughly persuaded, by
the by, that he had never thought of it in his life.
'Aye?' said my aunt, with a glance at me. 'Why, what a thing it would
be for yourselves and your family, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, if you were to
emigrate now.'
'Capital, madam, capital,' urged Mr. Micawber, gloomily.
'That is the principal, I may say the only difficulty, my dear Mr.
Copperfield,' assented his wife.
'Capital?' cried my aunt. 'But you are doing us a great service--have
done us a great service, I may say, for surely much will come out of
the fire--and what could we do for you, that would be half so good as to
find the capital?'
'I could not receive it as a gift,' said Mr. Micawber, full of fire and
animation, 'but if a sufficient sum could be advanced, say at five per
cent interest, per annum, upon my personal liability--say my notes of
hand, at twelve, eighteen, and twenty-four months, respectively, to
allow time for something to turn up--'
'Could be? Can be and shall be, on your own terms,' returned my aunt,
'if you say the word. Think of this now, both of you. Here are some
people David knows, going out to Australia shortly. If you decide to go,
why shouldn't you go in the same ship? You may help each other. Think of
this now, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. Take your time, and weigh it well.'
'There is but one question, my dear ma'am, I could wish to ask,' said
Mrs. Micawber. 'The climate, I believe, is healthy?'
'Finest in the world!' said my aunt.
'Just so,' returned Mrs. Micawber. 'Then my question arises. Now, are
the circumstances of the country such, that a man of Mr. Micawber's
abilities would have a fair chance of rising in the social scale? I will
not say, at present, might he aspire to be Governor, or anything of that
sort; but would there be a reasonable opening for his talents to
develop themselves--that would be amply sufficient--and find their own
expansion?'
'No better opening anywhere,' said my aunt, 'for a man who conducts
himself well, and is industrious.'
'For a man who conducts himself well,' repeated Mrs. Micawber, with her
clearest business manner, 'and is industrious. Precisely. It is
evident to me that Australia is the legitimate sphere of action for Mr.
Micawber!'
'I entertain the conviction, my dear madam,' said Mr. Micawber, 'that
it is, under existing circumstances, the land, the only land, for myself
and family; and that something of an extraordinary nature will turn up
on that shore. It is no distance--comparatively speaking; and though
consideration is due to the kindness of your proposal, I assure you that
is a mere matter of form.'
Shall I ever forget how, in a moment, he was the most sanguine of men,
looking on to fortune; or how Mrs. Micawber presently discoursed
about the habits of the kangaroo! Shall I ever recall that street of
Canterbury on a market-day, without recalling him, as he walked
back with us; expressing, in the hardy roving manner he assumed, the
unsettled habits of a temporary sojourner in the land; and looking at
the bullocks, as they came by, with the eye of an Australian farmer! | I assist at an Explosion Traddles, David, Miss Betsey, Agnes, and Mr. Micawber all confront Uriah Heep at his home. Mr. Micawber has prepared a list of the frauds that Uriah has committed and has collected much of the evidence necessary to prove that Uriah has committed those frauds. The moment he realizes he is caught, Uriah abandons his humility and becomes very violent toward David. Miss Betsey reveals that Uriah was the source of her ruin and demands her property back. Uriah continues to sling insults at everyone, especially David. Now that the air is cleared regarding Uriah, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber are reconciled. Miss Betsey is introduced to Mrs. Micawber. Miss Betsey suggests that perhaps the Micawbers would like to move to Australia, and she offers to loan them the money they need for the trip. |
The blinds of Mrs. Peniston's drawing-room were drawn down against the
oppressive June sun, and in the sultry twilight the faces of her
assembled relatives took on a fitting shadow of bereavement. They were
all there: Van Alstynes, Stepneys and Melsons--even a stray Peniston or
two, indicating, by a greater latitude in dress and manner, the fact of
remoter relationship and more settled hopes. The Peniston side was, in
fact, secure in the knowledge that the bulk of Mr. Peniston's property
"went back"; while the direct connection hung suspended on the disposal
of his widow's private fortune and on the uncertainty of its extent.
Jack Stepney, in his new character as the richest nephew, tacitly took
the lead, emphasizing his importance by the deeper gloss of his mourning
and the subdued authority of his manner; while his wife's bored attitude
and frivolous gown proclaimed the heiress's disregard of the
insignificant interests at stake. Old Ned Van Alstyne, seated next to her
in a coat that made affliction dapper, twirled his white moustache to
conceal the eager twitch of his lips; and Grace Stepney, red-nosed and
smelling of crape, whispered emotionally to Mrs. Herbert Melson: "I
couldn't BEAR to see the Niagara anywhere else!"
A rustle of weeds and quick turning of heads hailed the opening of the
door, and Lily Bart appeared, tall and noble in her black dress, with
Gerty Farish at her side. The women's faces, as she paused
interrogatively on the threshold, were a study in hesitation. One or two
made faint motions of recognition, which might have been subdued either
by the solemnity of the scene, or by the doubt as to how far the others
meant to go; Mrs. Jack Stepney gave a careless nod, and Grace Stepney,
with a sepulchral gesture, indicated a seat at her side. But Lily,
ignoring the invitation, as well as Jack Stepney's official attempt to
direct her, moved across the room with her smooth free gait, and seated
herself in a chair which seemed to have been purposely placed apart from
the others.
It was the first time that she had faced her family since her return from
Europe, two weeks earlier; but if she perceived any uncertainty in their
welcome, it served only to add a tinge of irony to the usual composure of
her bearing. The shock of dismay with which, on the dock, she had heard
from Gerty Farish of Mrs. Peniston's sudden death, had been mitigated,
almost at once, by the irrepressible thought that now, at last, she would
be able to pay her debts. She had looked forward with considerable
uneasiness to her first encounter with her aunt. Mrs. Peniston had
vehemently opposed her niece's departure with the Dorsets, and had marked
her continued disapproval by not writing during Lily's absence. The
certainty that she had heard of the rupture with the Dorsets made the
prospect of the meeting more formidable; and how should Lily have
repressed a quick sense of relief at the thought that, instead of
undergoing the anticipated ordeal, she had only to enter gracefully on a
long-assured inheritance? It had been, in the consecrated phrase, "always
understood" that Mrs. Peniston was to provide handsomely for her niece;
and in the latter's mind the understanding had long since crystallized
into fact.
"She gets everything, of course--I don't see what we're here for," Mrs.
Jack Stepney remarked with careless loudness to Ned Van Alstyne; and the
latter's deprecating murmur--"Julia was always a just woman"--might have
been interpreted as signifying either acquiescence or doubt.
"Well, it's only about four hundred thousand," Mrs. Stepney rejoined with
a yawn; and Grace Stepney, in the silence produced by the lawyer's
preliminary cough, was heard to sob out: "They won't find a towel
missing--I went over them with her the very day----"
Lily, oppressed by the close atmosphere, and the stifling odour of fresh
mourning, felt her attention straying as Mrs. Peniston's lawyer, solemnly
erect behind the Buhl table at the end of the room, began to rattle
through the preamble of the will.
"It's like being in church," she reflected, wondering vaguely where Gwen
Stepney had got such an awful hat. Then she noticed how stout Jack had
grown--he would soon be almost as plethoric as Herbert Melson, who sat a
few feet off, breathing puffily as he leaned his black-gloved hands on
his stick.
"I wonder why rich people always grow fat--I suppose it's because there's
nothing to worry them. If I inherit, I shall have to be careful of my
figure," she mused, while the lawyer droned on through a labyrinth of
legacies. The servants came first, then a few charitable institutions,
then several remoter Melsons and Stepneys, who stirred consciously as
their names rang out, and then subsided into a state of impassiveness
befitting the solemnity of the occasion. Ned Van Alstyne, Jack Stepney,
and a cousin or two followed, each coupled with the mention of a few
thousands: Lily wondered that Grace Stepney was not among them. Then she
heard her own name--"to my niece Lily Bart ten thousand dollars--" and
after that the lawyer again lost himself in a coil of unintelligible
periods, from which the concluding phrase flashed out with startling
distinctness: "and the residue of my estate to my dear cousin and
name-sake, Grace Julia Stepney."
There was a subdued gasp of surprise, a rapid turning of heads, and a
surging of sable figures toward the corner in which Miss Stepney wailed
out her sense of unworthiness through the crumpled ball of a black-edged
handkerchief.
Lily stood apart from the general movement, feeling herself for the first
time utterly alone. No one looked at her, no one seemed aware of her
presence; she was probing the very depths of insignificance. And under
her sense of the collective indifference came the acuter pang of hopes
deceived. Disinherited--she had been disinherited--and for Grace
Stepney! She met Gerty's lamentable eyes, fixed on her in a despairing
effort at consolation, and the look brought her to herself. There was
something to be done before she left the house: to be done with all the
nobility she knew how to put into such gestures. She advanced to the
group about Miss Stepney, and holding out her hand said simply: "Dear
Grace, I am so glad."
The other ladies had fallen back at her approach, and a space created
itself about her. It widened as she turned to go, and no one advanced to
fill it up. She paused a moment, glancing about her, calmly taking the
measure of her situation. She heard some one ask a question about the
date of the will; she caught a fragment of the lawyer's answer--something
about a sudden summons, and an "earlier instrument." Then the tide of
dispersal began to drift past her; Mrs. Jack Stepney and Mrs. Herbert
Melson stood on the doorstep awaiting their motor; a sympathizing group
escorted Grace Stepney to the cab it was felt to be fitting she should
take, though she lived but a street or two away; and Miss Bart and Gerty
found themselves almost alone in the purple drawing-room, which more than
ever, in its stuffy dimness, resembled a well-kept family vault, in which
the last corpse had just been decently deposited.
In Gerty Farish's sitting-room, whither a hansom had carried the two
friends, Lily dropped into a chair with a faint sound of laughter: it
struck her as a humorous coincidence that her aunt's legacy should so
nearly represent the amount of her debt to Trenor. The need of
discharging that debt had reasserted itself with increased urgency since
her return to America, and she spoke her first thought in saying to the
anxiously hovering Gerty: "I wonder when the legacies will be paid."
But Miss Farish could not pause over the legacies; she broke into a
larger indignation. "Oh, Lily, it's unjust; it's cruel--Grace Stepney
must FEEL she has no right to all that money!"
"Any one who knew how to please Aunt Julia has a right to her money,"
Miss Bart rejoined philosophically.
"But she was devoted to you--she led every one to think--" Gerty checked
herself in evident embarrassment, and Miss Bart turned to her with a
direct look. "Gerty, be honest: this will was made only six weeks ago.
She had heard of my break with the Dorsets?"
"Every one heard, of course, that there had been some disagreement--some
misunderstanding----"
"Did she hear that Bertha turned me off the yacht?"
"Lily!"
"That was what happened, you know. She said I was trying to marry George
Dorset. She did it to make him think she was jealous. Isn't that what
she told Gwen Stepney?"
"I don't know--I don't listen to such horrors."
"I MUST listen to them--I must know where I stand." She paused, and again
sounded a faint note of derision. "Did you notice the women? They were
afraid to snub me while they thought I was going to get the
money--afterward they scuttled off as if I had the plague." Gerty
remained silent, and she continued: "I stayed on to see what would
happen. They took their cue from Gwen Stepney and Lulu Melson--I saw them
watching to see what Gwen would do.--Gerty, I must know just what is
being said of me."
"I tell you I don't listen----"
"One hears such things without listening." She rose and laid her resolute
hands on Miss Farish's shoulders. "Gerty, are people going to cut me?"
"Your FRIENDS, Lily--how can you think it?"
"Who are one's friends at such a time? Who, but you, you poor trustful
darling? And heaven knows what YOU suspect me of!" She kissed Gerty with
a whimsical murmur. "You'd never let it make any difference--but then
you're fond of criminals, Gerty! How about the irreclaimable ones,
though? For I'm absolutely impenitent, you know."
She drew herself up to the full height of her slender majesty, towering
like some dark angel of defiance above the troubled Gerty, who could only
falter out: "Lily, Lily--how can you laugh about such things?"
"So as not to weep, perhaps. But no--I'm not of the tearful order. I
discovered early that crying makes my nose red, and the knowledge has
helped me through several painful episodes." She took a restless turn
about the room, and then, reseating herself, lifted the bright mockery of
her eyes to Gerty's anxious countenance.
"I shouldn't have minded, you know, if I'd got the money--" and at Miss
Farish's protesting "Oh!" she repeated calmly: "Not a straw, my dear;
for, in the first place, they wouldn't have quite dared to ignore me; and
if they had, it wouldn't have mattered, because I should have been
independent of them. But now--!" The irony faded from her eyes, and she
bent a clouded face upon her friend.
"How can you talk so, Lily? Of course the money ought to have been yours,
but after all that makes no difference. The important thing----" Gerty
paused, and then continued firmly: "The important thing is that you
should clear yourself--should tell your friends the whole truth."
"The whole truth?" Miss Bart laughed. "What is truth? Where a woman is
concerned, it's the story that's easiest to believe. In this case it's a
great deal easier to believe Bertha Dorset's story than mine, because she
has a big house and an opera box, and it's convenient to be on good terms
with her."
Miss Farish still fixed her with an anxious gaze. "But what IS your
story, Lily? I don't believe any one knows it yet."
"My story?--I don't believe I know it myself. You see I never thought of
preparing a version in advance as Bertha did--and if I had, I don't think
I should take the trouble to use it now."
But Gerty continued with her quiet reasonableness: "I don't want a
version prepared in advance--but I want you to tell me exactly what
happened from the beginning."
"From the beginning?" Miss Bart gently mimicked her. "Dear Gerty, how
little imagination you good people have! Why, the beginning was in my
cradle, I suppose--in the way I was brought up, and the things I was
taught to care for. Or no--I won't blame anybody for my faults: I'll say
it was in my blood, that I got it from some wicked pleasure-loving
ancestress, who reacted against the homely virtues of New Amsterdam, and
wanted to be back at the court of the Charleses!" And as Miss Farish
continued to press her with troubled eyes, she went on impatiently: "You
asked me just now for the truth--well, the truth about any girl is that
once she's talked about she's done for; and the more she explains her
case the worse it looks.--My good Gerty, you don't happen to have a
cigarette about you?"
In her stuffy room at the hotel to which she had gone on landing, Lily
Bart that evening reviewed her situation. It was the last week in June,
and none of her friends were in town. The few relatives who had stayed
on, or returned, for the reading of Mrs. Peniston's will, had taken
flight again that afternoon to Newport or Long Island; and not one of
them had made any proffer of hospitality to Lily. For the first time in
her life she found herself utterly alone except for Gerty Farish. Even at
the actual moment of her break with the Dorsets she had not had so keen a
sense of its consequences, for the Duchess of Beltshire, hearing of the
catastrophe from Lord Hubert, had instantly offered her protection, and
under her sheltering wing Lily had made an almost triumphant progress to
London. There she had been sorely tempted to linger on in a society which
asked of her only to amuse and charm it, without enquiring too curiously
how she had acquired her gift for doing so; but Selden, before they
parted, had pressed on her the urgent need of returning at once to her
aunt, and Lord Hubert, when he presently reappeared in London, abounded
in the same counsel. Lily did not need to be told that the Duchess's
championship was not the best road to social rehabilitation, and as she
was besides aware that her noble defender might at any moment drop her in
favour of a new PROTEGEE, she reluctantly decided to return to America.
But she had not been ten minutes on her native shore before she realized
that she had delayed too long to regain it. The Dorsets, the Stepneys,
the Brys--all the actors and witnesses in the miserable drama--had
preceded her with their version of the case; and, even had she seen the
least chance of gaining a hearing for her own, some obscure disdain and
reluctance would have restrained her. She knew it was not by
explanations and counter-charges that she could ever hope to recover her
lost standing; but even had she felt the least trust in their efficacy,
she would still have been held back by the feeling which had kept her
from defending herself to Gerty Farish--a feeling that was half pride and
half humiliation. For though she knew she had been ruthlessly sacrificed
to Bertha Dorset's determination to win back her husband, and though her
own relation to Dorset had been that of the merest good-fellowship, yet
she had been perfectly aware from the outset that her part in the affair
was, as Carry Fisher brutally put it, to distract Dorset's attention from
his wife. That was what she was "there for": it was the price she had
chosen to pay for three months of luxury and freedom from care. Her
habit of resolutely facing the facts, in her rare moments of
introspection, did not now allow her to put any false gloss on the
situation. She had suffered for the very faithfulness with which she had
carried out her part of the tacit compact, but the part was not a
handsome one at best, and she saw it now in all the ugliness of failure.
She saw, too, in the same uncompromising light, the train of consequences
resulting from that failure; and these became clearer to her with every
day of her weary lingering in town. She stayed on partly for the comfort
of Gerty Farish's nearness, and partly for lack of knowing where to go.
She understood well enough the nature of the task before her. She must
set out to regain, little by little, the position she had lost; and the
first step in the tedious task was to find out, as soon as possible, on
how many of her friends she could count. Her hopes were mainly centred on
Mrs. Trenor, who had treasures of easy-going tolerance for those who were
amusing or useful to her, and in the noisy rush of whose existence the
still small voice of detraction was slow to make itself heard. But Judy,
though she must have been apprised of Miss Bart's return, had not even
recognized it by the formal note of condolence which her friend's
bereavement demanded. Any advance on Lily's side might have been
perilous: there was nothing to do but to trust to the happy chance of an
accidental meeting, and Lily knew that, even so late in the season, there
was always a hope of running across her friends in their frequent
passages through town.
To this end she assiduously showed herself at the restaurants they
frequented, where, attended by the troubled Gerty, she lunched
luxuriously, as she said, on her expectations.
"My dear Gerty, you wouldn't have me let the head-waiter see that I've
nothing to live on but Aunt Julia's legacy? Think of Grace Stepney's
satisfaction if she came in and found us lunching on cold mutton and tea!
What sweet shall we have today, dear--COUPE JACQUES or PECHES A LA MELBA?"
She dropped the MENU abruptly, with a quick heightening of colour, and
Gerty, following her glance, was aware of the advance, from an inner
room, of a party headed by Mrs. Trenor and Carry Fisher. It was
impossible for these ladies and their companions--among whom Lily had at
once distinguished both Trenor and Rosedale--not to pass, in going out,
the table at which the two girls were seated; and Gerty's sense of the
fact betrayed itself in the helpless trepidation of her manner. Miss
Bart, on the contrary, borne forward on the wave of her buoyant grace,
and neither shrinking from her friends nor appearing to lie in wait for
them, gave to the encounter the touch of naturalness which she could
impart to the most strained situations. Such embarrassment as was shown
was on Mrs. Trenor's side, and manifested itself in the mingling of
exaggerated warmth with imperceptible reservations. Her loudly affirmed
pleasure at seeing Miss Bart took the form of a nebulous generalization,
which included neither enquiries as to her future nor the expression of a
definite wish to see her again. Lily, well-versed in the language of
these omissions, knew that they were equally intelligible to the other
members of the party: even Rosedale, flushed as he was with the
importance of keeping such company, at once took the temperature of Mrs.
Trenor's cordiality, and reflected it in his off-hand greeting of Miss
Bart. Trenor, red and uncomfortable, had cut short his salutations on the
pretext of a word to say to the head-waiter; and the rest of the group
soon melted away in Mrs. Trenor's wake.
It was over in a moment--the waiter, MENU in hand, still hung on the
result of the choice between COUPE JACQUES and PECHES A LA MELBA--but
Miss Bart, in the interval, had taken the measure of her fate. Where Judy
Trenor led, all the world would follow; and Lily had the doomed sense of
the castaway who has signalled in vain to fleeing sails.
In a flash she remembered Mrs. Trenor's complaints of Carry Fisher's
rapacity, and saw that they denoted an unexpected acquaintance with her
husband's private affairs. In the large tumultuous disorder of the life
at Bellomont, where no one seemed to have time to observe any one else,
and private aims and personal interests were swept along unheeded in the
rush of collective activities, Lily had fancied herself sheltered from
inconvenient scrutiny; but if Judy knew when Mrs. Fisher borrowed money
of her husband, was she likely to ignore the same transaction on Lily's
part? If she was careless of his affections she was plainly jealous of
his pocket; and in that fact Lily read the explanation of her rebuff. The
immediate result of these conclusions was the passionate resolve to pay
back her debt to Trenor. That obligation discharged, she would have but a
thousand dollars of Mrs. Peniston's legacy left, and nothing to live on
but her own small income, which was considerably less than Gerty Farish's
wretched pittance; but this consideration gave way to the imperative
claim of her wounded pride. She must be quits with the Trenors first;
after that she would take thought for the future.
In her ignorance of legal procrastinations she had supposed that her
legacy would be paid over within a few days of the reading of her aunt's
will; and after an interval of anxious suspense, she wrote to enquire the
cause of the delay. There was another interval before Mrs. Peniston's
lawyer, who was also one of the executors, replied to the effect that,
some questions having arisen relative to the interpretation of the will,
he and his associates might not be in a position to pay the legacies till
the close of the twelvemonth legally allotted for their settlement.
Bewildered and indignant, Lily resolved to try the effect of a personal
appeal; but she returned from her expedition with a sense of the
powerlessness of beauty and charm against the unfeeling processes of the
law. It seemed intolerable to live on for another year under the weight
of her debt; and in her extremity she decided to turn to Miss Stepney,
who still lingered in town, immersed in the delectable duty of "going
over" her benefactress's effects. It was bitter enough for Lily to ask a
favour of Grace Stepney, but the alternative was bitterer still; and one
morning she presented herself at Mrs. Peniston's, where Grace, for the
facilitation of her pious task, had taken up a provisional abode.
The strangeness of entering as a suppliant the house where she had so
long commanded, increased Lily's desire to shorten the ordeal; and when
Miss Stepney entered the darkened drawing-room, rustling with the best
quality of crape, her visitor went straight to the point: would she be
willing to advance the amount of the expected legacy?
Grace, in reply, wept and wondered at the request, bemoaned the
inexorableness of the law, and was astonished that Lily had not realized
the exact similarity of their positions. Did she think that only the
payment of the legacies had been delayed? Why, Miss Stepney herself had
not received a penny of her inheritance, and was paying rent--yes,
actually!--for the privilege of living in a house that belonged to her.
She was sure it was not what poor dear cousin Julia would have
wished--she had told the executors so to their faces; but they were
inaccessible to reason, and there was nothing to do but to wait. Let Lily
take example by her, and be patient--let them both remember how
beautifully patient cousin Julia had always been.
Lily made a movement which showed her imperfect assimilation of this
example. "But you will have everything, Grace--it would be easy for you
to borrow ten times the amount I am asking for."
"Borrow--easy for me to borrow?" Grace Stepney rose up before her in
sable wrath. "Do you imagine for a moment that I would raise money on my
expectations from cousin Julia, when I know so well her unspeakable
horror of every transaction of the sort? Why, Lily, if you must know the
truth, it was the idea of your being in debt that brought on her
illness--you remember she had a slight attack before you sailed. Oh, I
don't know the particulars, of course--I don't WANT to know them--but
there were rumours about your affairs that made her most unhappy--no one
could be with her without seeing that. I can't help it if you are
offended by my telling you this now--if I can do anything to make you
realize the folly of your course, and how deeply SHE disapproved of it, I
shall feel it is the truest way of making up to you for her loss." | Lily leaves France and, under the auspices of the Duchess, goes to London. While she is in London, the Dorsets, Brys, and Stepneys return to New York with their own versions of Lily's exploits in Europe. Upon her return from London, Lily is told that her aunt and benefactor, Mrs. Peniston, has died. At the reading of the will, she is surprised to learn that Grace has been the left the majority of Mrs. Peniston's estate, and that Lily will receive only $10,000. Lily is determined to use her inheritance to settle her debt with Trenor. She discusses the Dorsets' shunning her and her meek inheritance with Gerty. Rather than relate the actual details of the incident to Gerty, Lily tells her that an accusation is as good as the truth in society. The two go to lunch and are joined by Carry, who is glad to see Lily. While dining with Gerty, Lily encounters Judy. She notices that Judy is cordial, but she also conspicuously refrains from asking Lily about her future and further neglects to express a desire to see her again. Desperate for money, Lily goes to Grace to borrow money against her inheritance. Grace tells Lily that the estate will not be settled for some time. She refuses the request to borrow money against the inheritance on the grounds that Mrs. Peniston did not condone borrowing. Grace also tells Lily that Mrs. Peniston's meager allotment to Lily was intended as an admonishment for Lily's behavior. |
CHAPTER XXXII
I
CAROL was on the back porch, tightening a bolt on the baby's go-cart,
this Sunday afternoon. Through an open window of the Bogart house she
heard a screeching, heard Mrs. Bogart's haggish voice:
" . . . did too, and there's no use your denying it no you don't, you march
yourself right straight out of the house . . . never in my life heard of
such . . . never had nobody talk to me like . . . walk in the ways of sin
and nastiness . . . leave your clothes here, and heaven knows that's more
than you deserve . . . any of your lip or I'll call the policeman."
The voice of the other interlocutor Carol did not catch, nor, though
Mrs. Bogart was proclaiming that he was her confidant and present
assistant, did she catch the voice of Mrs. Bogart's God.
"Another row with Cy," Carol inferred.
She trundled the go-cart down the back steps and tentatively wheeled it
across the yard, proud of her repairs. She heard steps on the sidewalk.
She saw not Cy Bogart but Fern Mullins, carrying a suit-case, hurrying
up the street with her head low. The widow, standing on the porch with
buttery arms akimbo, yammered after the fleeing girl:
"And don't you dare show your face on this block again. You can send the
drayman for your trunk. My house has been contaminated long enough. Why
the Lord should afflict me----"
Fern was gone. The righteous widow glared, banged into the house, came
out poking at her bonnet, marched away. By this time Carol was staring
in a manner not visibly to be distinguished from the window-peeping of
the rest of Gopher Prairie. She saw Mrs. Bogart enter the Howland house,
then the Casses'. Not till suppertime did she reach the Kennicotts. The
doctor answered her ring, and greeted her, "Well, well? how's the good
neighbor?"
The good neighbor charged into the living-room, waving the most unctuous
of black kid gloves and delightedly sputtering:
"You may well ask how I am! I really do wonder how I could go through
the awful scenes of this day--and the impudence I took from that woman's
tongue, that ought to be cut out----"
"Whoa! Whoa! Hold up!" roared Kennicott. "Who's the hussy, Sister
Bogart? Sit down and take it cool and tell us about it."
"I can't sit down, I must hurry home, but I couldn't devote myself to my
own selfish cares till I'd warned you, and heaven knows I don't expect
any thanks for trying to warn the town against her, there's always so
much evil in the world that folks simply won't see or appreciate your
trying to safeguard them----And forcing herself in here to get in with
you and Carrie, many 's the time I've seen her doing it, and, thank
heaven, she was found out in time before she could do any more harm, it
simply breaks my heart and prostrates me to think what she may have done
already, even if some of us that understand and know about things----"
"Whoa-up! Who are you talking about?"
"She's talking about Fern Mullins," Carol put in, not pleasantly.
"Huh?"
Kennicott was incredulous.
"I certainly am!" flourished Mrs. Bogart, "and good and thankful you
may be that I found her out in time, before she could get YOU into
something, Carol, because even if you are my neighbor and Will's wife
and a cultured lady, let me tell you right now, Carol Kennicott, that
you ain't always as respectful to--you ain't as reverent--you don't
stick by the good old ways like they was laid down for us by God in the
Bible, and while of course there ain't a bit of harm in having a good
laugh, and I know there ain't any real wickedness in you, yet just the
same you don't fear God and hate the transgressors of his commandments
like you ought to, and you may be thankful I found out this serpent I
nourished in my bosom--and oh yes! oh yes indeed! my lady must have
two eggs every morning for breakfast, and eggs sixty cents a dozen, and
wa'n't satisfied with one, like most folks--what did she care how much
they cost or if a person couldn't make hardly nothing on her board and
room, in fact I just took her in out of charity and I might have known
from the kind of stockings and clothes that she sneaked into my house in
her trunk----"
Before they got her story she had five more minutes of obscene
wallowing. The gutter comedy turned into high tragedy, with Nemesis
in black kid gloves. The actual story was simple, depressing, and
unimportant. As to details Mrs. Bogart was indefinite, and angry that
she should be questioned.
Fern Mullins and Cy had, the evening before, driven alone to a
barn-dance in the country. (Carol brought out the admission that Fern
had tried to get a chaperon.) At the dance Cy had kissed Fern--she
confessed that. Cy had obtained a pint of whisky; he said that he didn't
remember where he had got it; Mrs. Bogart implied that Fern had given
it to him; Fern herself insisted that he had stolen it from a farmer's
overcoat--which, Mrs. Bogart raged, was obviously a lie. He had become
soggily drunk. Fern had driven him home; deposited him, retching and
wabbling, on the Bogart porch.
Never before had her boy been drunk, shrieked Mrs. Bogart. When
Kennicott grunted, she owned, "Well, maybe once or twice I've smelled
licker on his breath." She also, with an air of being only too
scrupulously exact, granted that sometimes he did not come home till
morning. But he couldn't ever have been drunk, for he always had
the best excuses: the other boys had tempted him to go down the lake
spearing pickerel by torchlight, or he had been out in a "machine that
ran out of gas." Anyway, never before had her boy fallen into the hands
of a "designing woman."
"What do you suppose Miss Mullins could design to do with him?" insisted
Carol.
Mrs. Bogart was puzzled, gave it up, went on. This morning, when she had
faced both of them, Cy had manfully confessed that all of the blame was
on Fern, because the teacher--his own teacher--had dared him to take a
drink. Fern had tried to deny it.
"Then," gabbled Mrs. Bogart, "then that woman had the impudence to
say to me, 'What purpose could I have in wanting the filthy pup to get
drunk?' That's just what she called him--pup. 'I'll have no such nasty
language in my house,' I says, 'and you pretending and pulling the wool
over people's eyes and making them think you're educated and fit to be
a teacher and look out for young people's morals--you're worse 'n any
street-walker!' I says. I let her have it good. I wa'n't going to flinch
from my bounden duty and let her think that decent folks had to stand
for her vile talk. 'Purpose?' I says, 'Purpose? I'll tell you what
purpose you had! Ain't I seen you making up to everything in pants
that'd waste time and pay attention to your impert'nence? Ain't I seen
you showing off your legs with them short skirts of yours, trying
to make out like you was so girlish and la-de-da, running along the
street?'"
Carol was very sick at this version of Fern's eager youth, but she was
sicker as Mrs. Bogart hinted that no one could tell what had happened
between Fern and Cy before the drive home. Without exactly describing
the scene, by her power of lustful imagination the woman suggested dark
country places apart from the lanterns and rude fiddling and banging
dance-steps in the barn, then madness and harsh hateful conquest. Carol
was too sick to interrupt. It was Kennicott who cried, "Oh, for God's
sake quit it! You haven't any idea what happened. You haven't given us a
single proof yet that Fern is anything but a rattle-brained youngster."
"I haven't, eh? Well, what do you say to this? I come straight out and
I says to her, 'Did you or did you not taste the whisky Cy had?' and she
says, 'I think I did take one sip--Cy made me,' she said. She owned up
to that much, so you can imagine----"
"Does that prove her a prostitute?" asked Carol.
"Carrie! Don't you never use a word like that again!" wailed the
outraged Puritan.
"Well, does it prove her to be a bad woman, that she took a taste of
whisky? I've done it myself!"
"That's different. Not that I approve your doing it. What do the
Scriptures tell us? 'Strong drink is a mocker'! But that's entirely
different from a teacher drinking with one of her own pupils."
"Yes, it does sound bad. Fern was silly, undoubtedly. But as a matter
of fact she's only a year or two older than Cy and probably a good many
years younger in experience of vice."
"That's--not--true! She is plenty old enough to corrupt him!
"The job of corrupting Cy was done by your sinless town, five years
ago!"
Mrs. Bogart did not rage in return. Suddenly she was hopeless. Her head
drooped. She patted her black kid gloves, picked at a thread of her
faded brown skirt, and sighed, "He's a good boy, and awful affectionate
if you treat him right. Some thinks he's terrible wild, but that's
because he's young. And he's so brave and truthful--why, he was one of
the first in town that wanted to enlist for the war, and I had to speak
real sharp to him to keep him from running away. I didn't want him to
get into no bad influences round these camps--and then," Mrs. Bogart
rose from her pitifulness, recovered her pace, "then I go and bring into
my own house a woman that's worse, when all's said and done, than any
bad woman he could have met. You say this Mullins woman is too young
and inexperienced to corrupt Cy. Well then, she's too young and
inexperienced to teach him, too, one or t'other, you can't have your
cake and eat it! So it don't make no difference which reason they fire
her for, and that's practically almost what I said to the school-board."
"Have you been telling this story to the members of the school-board?"
"I certainly have! Every one of 'em! And their wives I says to them,
''Tain't my affair to decide what you should or should not do with your
teachers,' I says, 'and I ain't presuming to dictate in any way, shape,
manner, or form. I just want to know,' I says, 'whether you're going
to go on record as keeping here in our schools, among a lot of innocent
boys and girls, a woman that drinks, smokes, curses, uses bad language,
and does such dreadful things as I wouldn't lay tongue to but you know
what I mean,' I says, 'and if so, I'll just see to it that the town
learns about it.' And that's what I told Professor Mott, too, being
superintendent--and he's a righteous man, not going autoing on the
Sabbath like the school-board members. And the professor as much as
admitted he was suspicious of the Mullins woman himself."
II
Kennicott was less shocked and much less frightened than Carol, and more
articulate in his description of Mrs. Bogart, when she had gone.
Maud Dyer telephoned to Carol and, after a rather improbable question
about cooking lima beans with bacon, demanded, "Have you heard the
scandal about this Miss Mullins and Cy Bogart?"
"I'm sure it's a lie."
"Oh, probably is." Maud's manner indicated that the falsity of the story
was an insignificant flaw in its general delightfulness.
Carol crept to her room, sat with hands curled tight together as she
listened to a plague of voices. She could hear the town yelping with it,
every soul of them, gleeful at new details, panting to win importance by
having details of their own to add. How well they would make up for what
they had been afraid to do by imagining it in another! They who had
not been entirely afraid (but merely careful and sneaky), all the
barber-shop roues and millinery-parlor mondaines, how archly they
were giggling (this second--she could hear them at it); with what
self-commendation they were cackling their suavest wit: "You can't tell
ME she ain't a gay bird; I'm wise!"
And not one man in town to carry out their pioneer tradition of superb
and contemptuous cursing, not one to verify the myth that their "rough
chivalry" and "rugged virtues" were more generous than the petty
scandal-picking of older lands, not one dramatic frontiersman to
thunder, with fantastic and fictional oaths, "What are you hinting
at? What are you snickering at? What facts have you? What are these
unheard-of sins you condemn so much--and like so well?"
No one to say it. Not Kennicott nor Guy Pollock nor Champ Perry.
Erik? Possibly. He would sputter uneasy protest.
She suddenly wondered what subterranean connection her interest in Erik
had with this affair. Wasn't it because they had been prevented by her
caste from bounding on her own trail that they were howling at Fern?
III
Before supper she found, by half a dozen telephone calls, that Fern had
fled to the Minniemashie House. She hastened there, trying not to be
self-conscious about the people who looked at her on the street. The
clerk said indifferently that he "guessed" Miss Mullins was up in Room
37, and left Carol to find the way. She hunted along the stale-smelling
corridors with their wallpaper of cerise daisies and poison-green
rosettes, streaked in white spots from spilled water, their frayed red
and yellow matting, and rows of pine doors painted a sickly blue. She
could not find the number. In the darkness at the end of a corridor she
had to feel the aluminum figures on the door-panels. She was startled
once by a man's voice: "Yep? Whadyuh want?" and fled. When she reached
the right door she stood listening. She made out a long sobbing. There
was no answer till her third knock; then an alarmed "Who is it? Go
away!"
Her hatred of the town turned resolute as she pushed open the door.
Yesterday she had seen Fern Mullins in boots and tweed skirt and
canary-yellow sweater, fleet and self-possessed. Now she lay across
the bed, in crumpled lavender cotton and shabby pumps, very feminine,
utterly cowed. She lifted her head in stupid terror. Her hair was in
tousled strings and her face was sallow, creased. Her eyes were a blur
from weeping.
"I didn't! I didn't!" was all she would say at first, and she repeated
it while Carol kissed her cheek, stroked her hair, bathed her forehead.
She rested then, while Carol looked about the room--the welcome to
strangers, the sanctuary of hospitable Main Street, the lucrative
property of Kennicott's friend, Jackson Elder. It smelled of old linen
and decaying carpet and ancient tobacco smoke. The bed was rickety,
with a thin knotty mattress; the sand-colored walls were scratched and
gouged; in every corner, under everything, were fluffy dust and cigar
ashes; on the tilted wash-stand was a nicked and squatty pitcher; the
only chair was a grim straight object of spotty varnish; but there was
an altogether splendid gilt and rose cuspidor.
She did not try to draw out Fern's story; Fern insisted on telling it.
She had gone to the party, not quite liking Cy but willing to endure him
for the sake of dancing, of escaping from Mrs. Bogart's flow of moral
comments, of relaxing after the first strained weeks of teaching. Cy
"promised to be good." He was, on the way out. There were a few workmen
from Gopher Prairie at the dance, with many young farm-people. Half
a dozen squatters from a degenerate colony in a brush-hidden hollow,
planters of potatoes, suspected thieves, came in noisily drunk. They all
pounded the floor of the barn in old-fashioned square dances, swinging
their partners, skipping, laughing, under the incantations of Del
Snafflin the barber, who fiddled and called the figures. Cy had two
drinks from pocket-flasks. Fern saw him fumbling among the overcoats
piled on the feedbox at the far end of the barn; soon after she heard a
farmer declaring that some one had stolen his bottle. She taxed Cy with
the theft; he chuckled, "Oh, it's just a joke; I'm going to give it
back." He demanded that she take a drink. Unless she did, he wouldn't
return the bottle.
"I just brushed my lips with it, and gave it back to him," moaned Fern.
She sat up, glared at Carol. "Did you ever take a drink?"
"I have. A few. I'd love to have one right now! This contact with
righteousness has about done me up!"
Fern could laugh then. "So would I! I don't suppose I've had five drinks
in my life, but if I meet just one more Bogart and Son----Well, I didn't
really touch that bottle--horrible raw whisky--though I'd have loved
some wine. I felt so jolly. The barn was almost like a stage scene--the
high rafters, and the dark stalls, and tin lanterns swinging, and a
silage-cutter up at the end like some mysterious kind of machine. And
I'd been having lots of fun dancing with the nicest young farmer, so
strong and nice, and awfully intelligent. But I got uneasy when I saw
how Cy was. So I doubt if I touched two drops of the beastly stuff. Do
you suppose God is punishing me for even wanting wine?"
"My dear, Mrs. Bogart's god may be--Main Street's god. But all the
courageous intelligent people are fighting him . . . though he slay us."
Fern danced again with the young farmer; she forgot Cy while she was
talking with a girl who had taken the University agricultural course.
Cy could not have returned the bottle; he came staggering toward
her--taking time to make himself offensive to every girl on the way
and to dance a jig. She insisted on their returning. Cy went with her,
chuckling and jigging. He kissed her, outside the door. . . . "And
to think I used to think it was interesting to have men kiss you at
a dance!". . . She ignored the kiss, in the need of getting him home
before he started a fight. A farmer helped her harness the buggy, while
Cy snored in the seat. He awoke before they set out; all the way home he
alternately slept and tried to make love to her.
"I'm almost as strong as he is. I managed to keep him away while I
drove--such a rickety buggy. I didn't feel like a girl; I felt like a
scrubwoman--no, I guess I was too scared to have any feelings at all. It
was terribly dark. I got home, somehow. But it was hard, the time I had
to get out, and it was quite muddy, to read a sign-post--I lit matches
that I took from Cy's coat pocket, and he followed me--he fell off
the buggy step into the mud, and got up and tried to make love to me,
and----I was scared. But I hit him. Quite hard. And got in, and so he
ran after the buggy, crying like a baby, and I let him in again, and
right away again he was trying----But no matter. I got him home. Up on
the porch. Mrs. Bogart was waiting up. . . .
"You know, it was funny; all the time she was--oh, talking to me--and Cy
was being terribly sick--I just kept thinking, 'I've still got to drive
the buggy down to the livery stable. I wonder if the livery man will be
awake?' But I got through somehow. I took the buggy down to the stable,
and got to my room. I locked my door, but Mrs. Bogart kept saying
things, outside the door. Stood out there saying things about me,
dreadful things, and rattling the knob. And all the while I could hear
Cy in the back yard-being sick. I don't think I'll ever marry any man.
And then today----
"She drove me right out of the house. She wouldn't listen to me, all
morning. Just to Cy. I suppose he's over his headache now. Even at
breakfast he thought the whole thing was a grand joke. I suppose right
this minute he's going around town boasting about his 'conquest.' You
understand--oh, DON'T you understand? I DID keep him away! But I don't
see how I can face my school. They say country towns are fine for
bringing up boys in, but----I can't believe this is me, lying here and
saying this. I don't BELIEVE what happened last night.
"Oh. This was curious: When I took off my dress last night--it was a
darling dress, I loved it so, but of course the mud had spoiled it. I
cried over it and----No matter. But my white silk stockings were all
torn, and the strange thing is, I don't know whether I caught my legs
in the briers when I got out to look at the sign-post, or whether Cy
scratched me when I was fighting him off."
IV
Sam Clark was president of the school-board. When Carol told him Fern's
story Sam looked sympathetic and neighborly, and Mrs. Clark sat by
cooing, "Oh, isn't that too bad." Carol was interrupted only when Mrs.
Clark begged, "Dear, don't speak so bitter about 'pious' people. There's
lots of sincere practising Christians that are real tolerant. Like the
Champ Perrys."
"Yes. I know. Unfortunately there are enough kindly people in the
churches to keep them going."
When Carol had finished, Mrs. Clark breathed, "Poor girl; I don't doubt
her story a bit," and Sam rumbled, "Yuh, sure. Miss Mullins is young and
reckless, but everybody in town, except Ma Bogart, knows what Cy is. But
Miss Mullins was a fool to go with him."
"But not wicked enough to pay for it with disgrace?"
"N-no, but----" Sam avoided verdicts, clung to the entrancing horrors
of the story. "Ma Bogart cussed her out all morning, did she? Jumped her
neck, eh? Ma certainly is one hell-cat."
"Yes, you know how she is; so vicious."
"Oh no, her best style ain't her viciousness. What she pulls in our
store is to come in smiling with Christian Fortitude and keep a clerk
busy for one hour while she picks out half a dozen fourpenny nails. I
remember one time----"
"Sam!" Carol was uneasy. "You'll fight for Fern, won't you? When Mrs.
Bogart came to see you did she make definite charges?"
"Well, yes, you might say she did."
"But the school-board won't act on them?"
"Guess we'll more or less have to."
"But you'll exonerate Fern?"
"I'll do what I can for the girl personally, but you know what the board
is. There's Reverend Zitterel; Sister Bogart about half runs his church,
so of course he'll take her say-so; and Ezra Stowbody, as a banker he
has to be all hell for morality and purity. Might 's well admit it,
Carrie; I'm afraid there'll be a majority of the board against her. Not
that any of us would believe a word Cy said, not if he swore it on a
stack of Bibles, but still, after all this gossip, Miss Mullins wouldn't
hardly be the party to chaperon our basket-ball team when it went out of
town to play other high schools, would she!"
"Perhaps not, but couldn't some one else?"
"Why, that's one of the things she was hired for." Sam sounded stubborn.
"Do you realize that this isn't just a matter of a job, and hiring and
firing; that it's actually sending a splendid girl out with a beastly
stain on her, giving all the other Bogarts in the world a chance at her?
That's what will happen if you discharge her."
Sam moved uncomfortably, looked at his wife, scratched his head, sighed,
said nothing.
"Won't you fight for her on the board? If you lose, won't you, and
whoever agrees with you, make a minority report?"
"No reports made in a case like this. Our rule is to just decide the
thing and announce the final decision, whether it's unanimous or not."
"Rules! Against a girl's future! Dear God! Rules of a school-board! Sam!
Won't you stand by Fern, and threaten to resign from the board if they
try to discharge her?"
Rather testy, tired of so many subtleties, he complained, "Well, I'll do
what I can, but I'll have to wait till the board meets."
And "I'll do what I can," together with the secret admission "Of
course you and I know what Ma Bogart is," was all Carol could get
from Superintendent George Edwin Mott, Ezra Stowbody, the Reverend Mr.
Zitterel or any other member of the school-board.
Afterward she wondered whether Mr. Zitterel could have been referring
to herself when he observed, "There's too much license in high places
in this town, though, and the wages of sin is death--or anyway, bein'
fired." The holy leer with which the priest said it remained in her
mind.
She was at the hotel before eight next morning. Fern longed to go to
school, to face the tittering, but she was too shaky. Carol read to
her all day and, by reassuring her, convinced her own self that the
school-board would be just. She was less sure of it that evening when,
at the motion pictures, she heard Mrs. Gougerling exclaim to Mrs.
Howland, "She may be so innocent and all, and I suppose she probably is,
but still, if she drank a whole bottle of whisky at that dance, the way
everybody says she did, she may have forgotten she was so innocent! Hee,
hee, hee!" Maud Dyer, leaning back from her seat, put in, "That's what
I've said all along. I don't want to roast anybody, but have you noticed
the way she looks at men?"
"When will they have me on the scaffold?" Carol speculated.
Nat Hicks stopped the Kennicotts on their way home. Carol hated him for
his manner of assuming that they two had a mysterious understanding.
Without quite winking he seemed to wink at her as he gurgled, "What do
you folks think about this Mullins woman? I'm not strait-laced, but I
tell you we got to have decent women in our schools. D' you know what I
heard? They say whatever she may of done afterwards, this Mullins dame
took two quarts of whisky to the dance with her, and got stewed before
Cy did! Some tank, that wren! Ha, ha, ha!"
"Rats, I don't believe it," Kennicott muttered.
He got Carol away before she was able to speak.
She saw Erik passing the house, late, alone, and she stared after him,
longing for the lively bitterness of the things he would say about the
town. Kennicott had nothing for her but "Oh, course, ev'body likes a
juicy story, but they don't intend to be mean."
She went up to bed proving to herself that the members of the
school-board were superior men.
It was Tuesday afternoon before she learned that the board had met
at ten in the morning and voted to "accept Miss Fern Mullins's
resignation." Sam Clark telephoned the news to her. "We're not making
any charges. We're just letting her resign. Would you like to drop over
to the hotel and ask her to write the resignation, now we've accepted
it? Glad I could get the board to put it that way. It's thanks to you."
"But can't you see that the town will take this as proof of the
charges?"
"We're--not--making--no--charges--whatever!" Sam was obviously finding
it hard to be patient.
Fern left town that evening.
Carol went with her to the train. The two girls elbowed through a silent
lip-licking crowd. Carol tried to stare them down but in face of
the impishness of the boys and the bovine gaping of the men, she was
embarrassed. Fern did not glance at them. Carol felt her arm tremble,
though she was tearless, listless, plodding. She squeezed Carol's hand,
said something unintelligible, stumbled up into the vestibule.
Carol remembered that Miles Bjornstam had also taken a train. What would
be the scene at the station when she herself took departure?
She walked up-town behind two strangers.
One of them was giggling, "See that good-looking wench that got on here?
The swell kid with the small black hat? She's some charmer! I was here
yesterday, before my jump to Ojibway Falls, and I heard all about
her. Seems she was a teacher, but she certainly was a high-roller--O
boy!--high, wide, and fancy! Her and couple of other skirts bought a
whole case of whisky and went on a tear, and one night, darned if this
bunch of cradle-robbers didn't get hold of some young kids, just small
boys, and they all got lit up like a White Way, and went out to a
roughneck dance, and they say----"
The narrator turned, saw a woman near and, not being a common person nor
a coarse workman but a clever salesman and a householder, lowered
his voice for the rest of the tale. During it the other man laughed
hoarsely.
Carol turned off on a side-street.
She passed Cy Bogart. He was humorously narrating some achievement to a
group which included Nat Hicks, Del Snafflin, Bert Tybee the bartender,
and A. Tennyson O'Hearn the shyster lawyer. They were men far older than
Cy but they accepted him as one of their own, and encouraged him to go
on.
It was a week before she received from Fern a letter of which this was a
part:
. . . & of course my family did not really believe the story but as
they were sure I must have done something wrong they just lectured
me generally, in fact jawed me till I have gone to live at a boarding
house. The teachers' agencies must know the story, man at one almost
slammed the door in my face when I went to ask about a job, & at another
the woman in charge was beastly. Don't know what I will do. Don't seem
to feel very well. May marry a fellow that's in love with me but he's so
stupid that he makes me SCREAM.
Dear Mrs. Kennicott you were the only one that believed me. I guess it's
a joke on me, I was such a simp, I felt quite heroic while I was driving
the buggy back that night & keeping Cy away from me. I guess I expected
the people in Gopher Prairie to admire me. I did use to be admired for
my athletics at the U.--just five months ago. | Carol is outside doing some work when she overhears Mrs. Bogart from next door throwing Fern Mullins out of her house. Fern has been boarding with Mrs. Bogart until now, but Mrs. Bogart calls her an immoral harlot and kicks her into the street. When Carol asks what's going on, Bogart tells her that Fern took her poor, innocent son Cy to a barn dance and got him drunk. And she's his teacher, for crying out loud! Carol immediately knows the whole story is a lie, because Cy is the most dishonest kid in town. But Mrs. Bogart refuses to believe her son is anything other than a total angel. Carol knows she needs to protect Fern. If Fern gets fired by the local school board, she'll never find a job anywhere, because word about why she got fired will spread quickly. Carol visits the school board president, Sam Clark, to straighten things out. Sam Clark knows that the story didn't happen and that Cy Bogart is a liar, but he still thinks Fern will be fired because of the scandal the story has caused. Carol can't believe Sam is willing to ruin a young woman's career so easily, but he says his hands are tied because there are some mighty conservative people on the school board. Fern ends up leaving the town in disgrace. She later sends a letter to Carol thanking her for being the only person in Gopher Prairie who believed in her. |
<CHAPTER>
5--Sharp Words Are Spoken, and a Crisis Ensues
When Yeobright was not with Eustacia he was sitting slavishly over his
books; when he was not reading he was meeting her. These meetings were
carried on with the greatest secrecy.
One afternoon his mother came home from a morning visit to Thomasin. He
could see from a disturbance in the lines of her face that something had
happened.
"I have been told an incomprehensible thing," she said mournfully. "The
captain has let out at the Woman that you and Eustacia Vye are engaged
to be married."
"We are," said Yeobright. "But it may not be yet for a very long time."
"I should hardly think it WOULD be yet for a very long time! You will
take her to Paris, I suppose?" She spoke with weary hopelessness.
"I am not going back to Paris."
"What will you do with a wife, then?"
"Keep a school in Budmouth, as I have told you."
"That's incredible! The place is overrun with schoolmasters. You have no
special qualifications. What possible chance is there for such as you?"
"There is no chance of getting rich. But with my system of education,
which is as new as it is true, I shall do a great deal of good to my
fellow-creatures."
"Dreams, dreams! If there had been any system left to be invented they
would have found it out at the universities long before this time."
"Never, Mother. They cannot find it out, because their teachers don't
come in contact with the class which demands such a system--that
is, those who have had no preliminary training. My plan is one for
instilling high knowledge into empty minds without first cramming them
with what has to be uncrammed again before true study begins."
"I might have believed you if you had kept yourself free from
entanglements; but this woman--if she had been a good girl it would have
been bad enough; but being----"
"She is a good girl."
"So you think. A Corfu bandmaster's daughter! What has her life been?
Her surname even is not her true one."
"She is Captain Vye's granddaughter, and her father merely took her
mother's name. And she is a lady by instinct."
"They call him 'captain,' but anybody is captain."
"He was in the Royal Navy!"
"No doubt he has been to sea in some tub or other. Why doesn't he look
after her? No lady would rove about the heath at all hours of the day
and night as she does. But that's not all of it. There was something
queer between her and Thomasin's husband at one time--I am as sure of it
as that I stand here."
"Eustacia has told me. He did pay her a little attention a year ago; but
there's no harm in that. I like her all the better."
"Clym," said his mother with firmness, "I have no proofs against her,
unfortunately. But if she makes you a good wife, there has never been a
bad one."
"Believe me, you are almost exasperating," said Yeobright vehemently.
"And this very day I had intended to arrange a meeting between you. But
you give me no peace; you try to thwart my wishes in everything."
"I hate the thought of any son of mine marrying badly! I wish I had
never lived to see this; it is too much for me--it is more than I
dreamt!" She turned to the window. Her breath was coming quickly, and
her lips were pale, parted, and trembling.
"Mother," said Clym, "whatever you do, you will always be dear to
me--that you know. But one thing I have a right to say, which is, that
at my age I am old enough to know what is best for me."
Mrs. Yeobright remained for some time silent and shaken, as if she could
say no more. Then she replied, "Best? Is it best for you to injure your
prospects for such a voluptuous, idle woman as that? Don't you see that
by the very fact of your choosing her you prove that you do not know
what is best for you? You give up your whole thought--you set your whole
soul--to please a woman."
"I do. And that woman is you."
"How can you treat me so flippantly!" said his mother, turning again to
him with a tearful look. "You are unnatural, Clym, and I did not expect
it."
"Very likely," said he cheerlessly. "You did not know the measure you
were going to mete me, and therefore did not know the measure that would
be returned to you again."
"You answer me; you think only of her. You stick to her in all things."
"That proves her to be worthy. I have never yet supported what is bad.
And I do not care only for her. I care for you and for myself, and
for anything that is good. When a woman once dislikes another she is
merciless!"
"O Clym! please don't go setting down as my fault what is your obstinate
wrongheadedness. If you wished to connect yourself with an unworthy
person why did you come home here to do it? Why didn't you do it in
Paris?--it is more the fashion there. You have come only to distress me,
a lonely woman, and shorten my days! I wish that you would bestow your
presence where you bestow your love!"
Clym said huskily, "You are my mother. I will say no more--beyond this,
that I beg your pardon for having thought this my home. I will no longer
inflict myself upon you; I'll go." And he went out with tears in his
eyes.
It was a sunny afternoon at the beginning of summer, and the moist
hollows of the heath had passed from their brown to their green stage.
Yeobright walked to the edge of the basin which extended down from
Mistover and Rainbarrow.
By this time he was calm, and he looked over the landscape. In the minor
valleys, between the hillocks which diversified the contour of the vale,
the fresh young ferns were luxuriantly growing up, ultimately to reach
a height of five or six feet. He descended a little way, flung himself
down in a spot where a path emerged from one of the small hollows, and
waited. Hither it was that he had promised Eustacia to bring his mother
this afternoon, that they might meet and be friends. His attempt had
utterly failed.
He was in a nest of vivid green. The ferny vegetation round him, though
so abundant, was quite uniform--it was a grove of machine-made foliage,
a world of green triangles with saw-edges, and not a single flower. The
air was warm with a vaporous warmth, and the stillness was unbroken.
Lizards, grasshoppers, and ants were the only living things to
be beheld. The scene seemed to belong to the ancient world of the
carboniferous period, when the forms of plants were few, and of the fern
kind; when there was neither bud nor blossom, nothing but a monotonous
extent of leafage, amid which no bird sang.
When he had reclined for some considerable time, gloomily pondering, he
discerned above the ferns a drawn bonnet of white silk approaching from
the left, and Yeobright knew directly that it covered the head of her
he loved. His heart awoke from its apathy to a warm excitement, and,
jumping to his feet, he said aloud, "I knew she was sure to come."
She vanished in a hollow for a few moments, and then her whole form
unfolded itself from the brake.
"Only you here?" she exclaimed, with a disappointed air, whose
hollowness was proved by her rising redness and her half-guilty low
laugh. "Where is Mrs. Yeobright?"
"She has not come," he replied in a subdued tone.
"I wish I had known that you would be here alone," she said seriously,
"and that we were going to have such an idle, pleasant time as this.
Pleasure not known beforehand is half wasted; to anticipate it is to
double it. I have not thought once today of having you all to myself
this afternoon, and the actual moment of a thing is so soon gone."
"It is indeed."
"Poor Clym!" she continued, looking tenderly into his face. "You are
sad. Something has happened at your home. Never mind what is--let us
only look at what seems."
"But, darling, what shall we do?" said he.
"Still go on as we do now--just live on from meeting to meeting, never
minding about another day. You, I know, are always thinking of that--I
can see you are. But you must not--will you, dear Clym?"
"You are just like all women. They are ever content to build their lives
on any incidental position that offers itself; whilst men would fain
make a globe to suit them. Listen to this, Eustacia. There is a subject
I have determined to put off no longer. Your sentiment on the wisdom
of Carpe diem does not impress me today. Our present mode of life must
shortly be brought to an end."
"It is your mother!"
"It is. I love you none the less in telling you; it is only right you
should know."
"I have feared my bliss," she said, with the merest motion of her lips.
"It has been too intense and consuming."
"There is hope yet. There are forty years of work in me yet, and why
should you despair? I am only at an awkward turning. I wish people
wouldn't be so ready to think that there is no progress without
uniformity."
"Ah--your mind runs off to the philosophical side of it. Well, these sad
and hopeless obstacles are welcome in one sense, for they enable us to
look with indifference upon the cruel satires that Fate loves to indulge
in. I have heard of people, who, upon coming suddenly into happiness,
have died from anxiety lest they should not live to enjoy it. I felt
myself in that whimsical state of uneasiness lately; but I shall be
spared it now. Let us walk on."
Clym took the hand which was already bared for him--it was a favourite
way with them to walk bare hand in bare hand--and led her through the
ferns. They formed a very comely picture of love at full flush, as they
walked along the valley that late afternoon, the sun sloping down on
their right, and throwing their thin spectral shadows, tall as poplar
trees, far out across the furze and fern. Eustacia went with her head
thrown back fancifully, a certain glad and voluptuous air of triumph
pervading her eyes at having won by her own unaided self a man who was
her perfect complement in attainment, appearance, and age. On the young
man's part, the paleness of face which he had brought with him
from Paris, and the incipient marks of time and thought, were less
perceptible than when he returned, the healthful and energetic
sturdiness which was his by nature having partially recovered its
original proportions. They wandered onward till they reached the nether
margin of the heath, where it became marshy and merged in moorland.
"I must part from you here, Clym," said Eustacia.
They stood still and prepared to bid each other farewell. Everything
before them was on a perfect level. The sun, resting on the horizon
line, streamed across the ground from between copper-coloured and lilac
clouds, stretched out in flats beneath a sky of pale soft green. All
dark objects on the earth that lay towards the sun were overspread by
a purple haze, against which groups of wailing gnats shone out, rising
upwards and dancing about like sparks of fire.
"O! this leaving you is too hard to bear!" exclaimed Eustacia in a
sudden whisper of anguish. "Your mother will influence you too much;
I shall not be judged fairly, it will get afloat that I am not a good
girl, and the witch story will be added to make me blacker!"
"They cannot. Nobody dares to speak disrespectfully of you or of me."
"Oh how I wish I was sure of never losing you--that you could not be
able to desert me anyhow!"
Clym stood silent a moment. His feelings were high, the moment was
passionate, and he cut the knot.
"You shall be sure of me, darling," he said, folding her in his arms.
"We will be married at once."
"O Clym!"
"Do you agree to it?"
"If--if we can."
"We certainly can, both being of full age. And I have not followed my
occupation all these years without having accumulated money; and if you
will agree to live in a tiny cottage somewhere on the heath, until I
take a house in Budmouth for the school, we can do it at a very little
expense."
"How long shall we have to live in the tiny cottage, Clym?"
"About six months. At the end of that time I shall have finished my
reading--yes, we will do it, and this heart-aching will be over. We
shall, of course, live in absolute seclusion, and our married life will
only begin to outward view when we take the house in Budmouth, where I
have already addressed a letter on the matter. Would your grandfather
allow you?"
"I think he would--on the understanding that it should not last longer
than six months."
"I will guarantee that, if no misfortune happens."
"If no misfortune happens," she repeated slowly.
"Which is not likely. Dearest, fix the exact day."
And then they consulted on the question, and the day was chosen. It was
to be a fortnight from that time.
This was the end of their talk, and Eustacia left him. Clym watched her
as she retired towards the sun. The luminous rays wrapped her up with
her increasing distance, and the rustle of her dress over the sprouting
sedge and grass died away. As he watched, the dead flat of the scenery
overpowered him, though he was fully alive to the beauty of that
untarnished early summer green which was worn for the nonce by the
poorest blade. There was something in its oppressive horizontality which
too much reminded him of the arena of life; it gave him a sense of bare
equality with, and no superiority to, a single living thing under the
sun.
Eustacia was now no longer the goddess but the woman to him, a being
to fight for, support, help, be maligned for. Now that he had reached
a cooler moment he would have preferred a less hasty marriage; but the
card was laid, and he determined to abide by the game. Whether Eustacia
was to add one other to the list of those who love too hotly to love
long and well, the forthcoming event was certainly a ready way of
proving.
</CHAPTER> | So Clym finally breaks the news of his engagement to his mom, who flips out. They have a huge argument. Mrs. Yeobright disses Eustacia's family, Eustacia herself, and Clym. Mrs. Yeobright finishes her rant with a flourish - "If you wished to connect yourself with an unworthy person why did you come home here to do it? Why didn't you do it in Paris? - it's more the fashion there" . Clym storms out after that and goes to commune with nature. Eustacia comes to meet him and sympathizes with him over his mom. She agrees to get married immediately and Clym shares the happy news that they'll have to live in a tiny cottage at first while he continues to study. Eustacia makes him promise it will only be for a few months and says her grandpa should be cool with it as long as it's not for too long. Clym gets depressed after Eustacia leaves. But he feels like he's stuck now and must make her see the best of it. Apparently, if your last name is Yeobright, you have a tendency to rush into ill-advised marriages and then regret it soon afterwards. |
Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with
his happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he
reached Bartlett's Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs.
Jennings, who called on her again the next day with her
congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in
her life.
Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and
she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their
being all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas.
So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor
that credit which Edward WOULD give her, that she spoke of her
friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to
own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion
for their good on Miss Dashwood's part, either present or future, would
ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing any thing in
the world for those she really valued. As for Colonel Brandon, she was
not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly
anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns;
anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and scarcely
resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could,
of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry.
It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley
Street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his
wife's indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel
it necessary to pay her a visit.--This was an obligation, however,
which not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the
assistance of any encouragement from her companions. Marianne, not
contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to
prevent her sister's going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her
carriage was always at Elinor's service, so very much disliked Mrs.
John Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after
the late discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking
Edward's part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company
again. The consequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a
visit, for which no one could really have less inclination, and to run
the risk of a tete-a-tete with a woman, whom neither of the others had
so much reason to dislike.
Mrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the
house, her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure
in meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in
Berkeley Street, and, assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see
her, invited her to come in.
They walked up stairs in to the drawing-room.--Nobody was there.
"Fanny is in her own room, I suppose," said he:--"I will go to her
presently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the
world to seeing YOU.-- Very far from it, indeed. NOW especially there
cannot be--but however, you and Marianne were always great
favourites.--Why would not Marianne come?"--
Elinor made what excuse she could for her.
"I am not sorry to see you alone," he replied, "for I have a good deal
to say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon's--can it be true?--has
he really given it to Edward?--I heard it yesterday by chance, and was
coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it."
"It is perfectly true.--Colonel Brandon has given the living of
Delaford to Edward."
"Really!--Well, this is very astonishing!--no relationship!--no
connection between them!--and now that livings fetch such a
price!--what was the value of this?"
"About two hundred a year."
"Very well--and for the next presentation to a living of that
value--supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and
likely to vacate it soon--he might have got I dare say--fourteen
hundred pounds. And how came he not to have settled that matter before
this person's death?--NOW indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a
man of Colonel Brandon's sense!--I wonder he should be so improvident
in a point of such common, such natural, concern!--Well, I am convinced
that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every human
character. I suppose, however--on recollection--that the case may
probably be THIS. Edward is only to hold the living till the person to
whom the Colonel has really sold the presentation, is old enough to
take it.--Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it."
Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that
she had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel
Brandon to Edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which
it was given, obliged him to submit to her authority.
"It is truly astonishing!"--he cried, after hearing what she
said--"what could be the Colonel's motive?"
"A very simple one--to be of use to Mr. Ferrars."
"Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very lucky
man.--You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I
have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,--she will not like
to hear it much talked of."
Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she
thought Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth
to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly
impoverished.
"Mrs. Ferrars," added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so
important a subject, "knows nothing about it at present, and I believe
it will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may
be.-- When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all."
"But why should such precaution be used?--Though it is not to be
supposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in
knowing that her son has money enough to live upon,--for THAT must be
quite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she
supposed to feel at all?--She has done with her son, she cast him off
for ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast
him off likewise. Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined
liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account--she cannot
be interested in any thing that befalls him.-- She would not be so weak
as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of
a parent!"
"Ah! Elinor," said John, "your reasoning is very good, but it is
founded on ignorance of human nature. When Edward's unhappy match
takes place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had
never discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may
accelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as
possible. Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son."
"You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her memory
by THIS time."
"You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most
affectionate mothers in the world."
Elinor was silent.
"We think NOW,"--said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause, "of ROBERT'S
marrying Miss Morton."
Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's
tone, calmly replied,
"The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair."
"Choice!--how do you mean?"
"I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be
the same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert."
"Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to all
intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;--and as to any
thing else, they are both very agreeable young men: I do not know that
one is superior to the other."
Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent.--His
reflections ended thus.
"Of ONE thing, my dear sister," kindly taking her hand, and speaking in
an awful whisper,--"I may assure you;--and I WILL do it, because I know
it must gratify you. I have good reason to think--indeed I have it
from the best authority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise it
would be very wrong to say any thing about it--but I have it from the
very best authority--not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars say
it herself--but her daughter DID, and I have it from her--That in
short, whatever objections there might be against a certain--a certain
connection--you understand me--it would have been far preferable to
her, it would not have given her half the vexation that THIS does. I
was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars considered it in that
light--a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all. 'It would
have been beyond comparison,' she said, 'the least evil of the two, and
she would be glad to compound NOW for nothing worse.' But however, all
that is quite out of the question--not to be thought of or
mentioned--as to any attachment you know--it never could be--all that
is gone by. But I thought I would just tell you of this, because I
knew how much it must please you. Not that you have any reason to
regret, my dear Elinor. There is no doubt of your doing exceedingly
well--quite as well, or better, perhaps, all things considered. Has
Colonel Brandon been with you lately?"
Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her
self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;--and she was
therefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply
herself, and from the danger of hearing any thing more from her
brother, by the entrance of Mr. Robert Ferrars. After a few moments'
chat, John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of her
sister's being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and Elinor was
left to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, by the gay
unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so
unfair a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the prejudice
of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of
life, and that brother's integrity, was confirming her most
unfavourable opinion of his head and heart.
They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to
speak of Edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very
inquisitive on the subject. Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as
she had given them to John; and their effect on Robert, though very
different, was not less striking than it had been on HIM. He laughed
most immoderately. The idea of Edward's being a clergyman, and living
in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;--and when to
that was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a
white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between John Smith
and Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.
Elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the
conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed
on him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited. It was a
look, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings,
and gave no intelligence to him. He was recalled from wit to wisdom,
not by any reproof of hers, but by his own sensibility.
"We may treat it as a joke," said he, at last, recovering from the
affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety
of the moment--"but, upon my soul, it is a most serious business. Poor
Edward! he is ruined for ever. I am extremely sorry for it--for I
know him to be a very good-hearted creature; as well-meaning a fellow
perhaps, as any in the world. You must not judge of him, Miss
Dashwood, from YOUR slight acquaintance.--Poor Edward!--His manners are
certainly not the happiest in nature.--But we are not all born, you
know, with the same powers,--the same address.-- Poor fellow!--to see
him in a circle of strangers!--to be sure it was pitiable enough!--but
upon my soul, I believe he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom;
and I declare and protest to you I never was so shocked in my life, as
when it all burst forth. I could not believe it.-- My mother was the
first person who told me of it; and I, feeling myself called on to act
with resolution, immediately said to her, 'My dear madam, I do not know
what you may intend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, I must
say, that if Edward does marry this young woman, I never will see him
again.' That was what I said immediately.-- I was most uncommonly
shocked, indeed!--Poor Edward!--he has done for himself
completely--shut himself out for ever from all decent society!--but, as
I directly said to my mother, I am not in the least surprised at it;
from his style of education, it was always to be expected. My poor
mother was half frantic."
"Have you ever seen the lady?"
"Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop in
for ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her. The merest awkward
country girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty.--
I remember her perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose
likely to captivate poor Edward. I offered immediately, as soon as my
mother related the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade
him from the match; but it was too late THEN, I found, to do any thing,
for unluckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it
till after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you
know, to interfere. But had I been informed of it a few hours
earlier--I think it is most probable--that something might have been
hit on. I certainly should have represented it to Edward in a very
strong light. 'My dear fellow,' I should have said, 'consider what you
are doing. You are making a most disgraceful connection, and such a
one as your family are unanimous in disapproving.' I cannot help
thinking, in short, that means might have been found. But now it is
all too late. He must be starved, you know;--that is certain;
absolutely starved."
He had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance
of Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject. But though SHE never
spoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see its influence on
her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which she
entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself. She
even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that Elinor and her
sister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more of
them;--an exertion in which her husband, who attended her into the
room, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish every
thing that was most affectionate and graceful. | Mrs. Jennings goes to see Lucy the next day with congratulations, and is reassured that both she and Edward are very happy. She's confident that they'll all be together soon at Delaford Parsonage. She gives credit in the matter to Elinor and Colonel Brandon for their assistance. It's been about a week since anyone heard anything from John and Fanny, and Elinor feels obliged to visit, despite Marianne's desire not to. She goes by herself to check on Fanny. When she gets to the Dashwood home, she runs into her brother, who invites her in to see Fanny. John, as usual, is happy to see his sister, and wants to investigate the matter of Colonel Brandon's gift to Edward - can it be true? Can Colonel Brandon really be offering Edward a job? John is totally shocked by all of this considering that Colonel Brandon barely knows Edward at all. He begs Elinor not to mention Edward to Fanny. He doesn't want his mother-in-law to find out about this yet. Elinor wants to know why any of this should matter to Mrs. Ferrars - after all, she cast out her son completely. Why should she care what happens to him, either good or bad? John corrects his sister, saying that Mrs. Ferrars still loves Edward, and won't be able to hear of his horrible marriage without being distressed. The topic shifts to the other Ferrars brother - the clan plans to marry the unfortunate Miss Morton off to Robert now. Elinor asks if Miss Morton has any choice in the matter, and is informed pragmatically that it's the same difference. Robert's the one with the money now, so why should she care which one he is? Before she sees Fanny, John wants to tell Elinor one more thing - Mrs. Ferrars has actually admitted that she would have infinitely preferred it if Edward had just married Elinor, instead of Lucy, despite the fact that she had originally looked down on that connection. At this point, Robert enters the room and starts chatting with Elinor, while John goes to tell Fanny that his sister is there to see her. Robert continues to be obnoxious, and again trash talks Edward. He laughs at the idea of Edward as a clergyman, and is totally insensitive to the fact that his family has basically screwed over his only brother. He claims to be sorry for Edward, even though he's laughing at him. Robert dismisses his brother as ruined forever. Elinor asks if Robert has met his future sister-in-law, and he replies that he only saw her once, and was thoroughly unimpressed. He even went so far as to tell Edward that he was making a terrible mistake in marrying her. Finally, Fanny emerges to greet Elinor - surprisingly, with a moderate degree of friendliness. She even says that she wishes that Elinor and Marianne were staying in town longer. |
41 THE SEIGE OF LA ROCHELLE
The Siege of La Rochelle was one of the great political events of the
reign of Louis XIII, and one of the great military enterprises of the
cardinal. It is, then, interesting and even necessary that we should say
a few words about it, particularly as many details of this siege are
connected in too important a manner with the story we have undertaken to
relate to allow us to pass it over in silence.
The political plans of the cardinal when he undertook this siege were
extensive. Let us unfold them first, and then pass on to the private
plans which perhaps had not less influence upon his Eminence than the
others.
Of the important cities given up by Henry IV to the Huguenots as places
of safety, there only remained La Rochelle. It became necessary,
therefore, to destroy this last bulwark of Calvinism--a dangerous leaven
with which the ferments of civil revolt and foreign war were constantly
mingling.
Spaniards, Englishmen, and Italian malcontents, adventurers of all
nations, and soldiers of fortune of every sect, flocked at the first
summons under the standard of the Protestants, and organized themselves
like a vast association, whose branches diverged freely over all parts
of Europe.
La Rochelle, which had derived a new importance from the ruin of the
other Calvinist cities, was, then, the focus of dissensions and
ambition. Moreover, its port was the last in the kingdom of France open
to the English, and by closing it against England, our eternal enemy,
the cardinal completed the work of Joan of Arc and the Duc de Guise.
Thus Bassompierre, who was at once Protestant and Catholic--Protestant
by conviction and Catholic as commander of the order of the Holy Ghost;
Bassompierre, who was a German by birth and a Frenchman at heart--in
short, Bassompierre, who had a distinguished command at the siege of La
Rochelle, said, in charging at the head of several other Protestant
nobles like himself, "You will see, gentlemen, that we shall be fools
enough to take La Rochelle."
And Bassompierre was right. The cannonade of the Isle of Re presaged to
him the dragonnades of the Cevennes; the taking of La Rochelle was the
preface to the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
We have hinted that by the side of these views of the leveling and
simplifying minister, which belong to history, the chronicler is forced
to recognize the lesser motives of the amorous man and jealous rival.
Richelieu, as everyone knows, had loved the queen. Was this love a
simple political affair, or was it naturally one of those profound
passions which Anne of Austria inspired in those who approached her?
That we are not able to say; but at all events, we have seen, by the
anterior developments of this story, that Buckingham had the advantage
over him, and in two or three circumstances, particularly that of the
diamond studs, had, thanks to the devotedness of the three Musketeers
and the courage and conduct of d'Artagnan, cruelly mystified him.
It was, then, Richelieu's object, not only to get rid of an enemy of
France, but to avenge himself on a rival; but this vengeance must be
grand and striking and worthy in every way of a man who held in his
hand, as his weapon for combat, the forces of a kingdom.
Richelieu knew that in combating England he combated Buckingham; that in
triumphing over England he triumphed over Buckingham--in short, that in
humiliating England in the eyes of Europe he humiliated Buckingham in
the eyes of the queen.
On his side Buckingham, in pretending to maintain the honor of England,
was moved by interests exactly like those of the cardinal. Buckingham
also was pursuing a private vengeance. Buckingham could not under any
pretense be admitted into France as an ambassador; he wished to enter it
as a conqueror.
It resulted from this that the real stake in this game, which two most
powerful kingdoms played for the good pleasure of two amorous men, was
simply a kind look from Anne of Austria.
The first advantage had been gained by Buckingham. Arriving unexpectedly
in sight of the Isle of Re with ninety vessels and nearly twenty
thousand men, he had surprised the Comte de Toiras, who commanded for
the king in the Isle, and he had, after a bloody conflict, effected his
landing.
Allow us to observe in passing that in this fight perished the Baron de
Chantal; that the Baron de Chantal left a little orphan girl eighteen
months old, and that this little girl was afterward Mme. de Sevigne.
The Comte de Toiras retired into the citadel St. Martin with his
garrison, and threw a hundred men into a little fort called the fort of
La Pree.
This event had hastened the resolutions of the cardinal; and till the
king and he could take the command of the siege of La Rochelle, which
was determined, he had sent Monsieur to direct the first operations, and
had ordered all the troops he could dispose of to march toward the
theater of war. It was of this detachment, sent as a vanguard, that our
friend d'Artagnan formed a part.
The king, as we have said, was to follow as soon as his Bed of Justice
had been held; but on rising from his Bed of Justice on the
twenty-eighth of June, he felt himself attacked by fever. He was,
notwithstanding, anxious to set out; but his illness becoming more
serious, he was forced to stop at Villeroy.
Now, whenever the king halted, the Musketeers halted. It followed that
d'Artagnan, who was as yet purely and simply in the Guards, found
himself, for the time at least, separated from his good friends--Athos,
Porthos, and Aramis. This separation, which was no more than an
unpleasant circumstance, would have certainly become a cause of serious
uneasiness if he had been able to guess by what unknown dangers he was
surrounded.
He, however, arrived without accident in the camp established before La
Rochelle, on the tenth of the month of September of the year 1627.
Everything was in the same state. The Duke of Buckingham and his
English, masters of the Isle of Re, continued to besiege, but without
success, the citadel St. Martin and the fort of La Pree; and hostilities
with La Rochelle had commenced, two or three days before, about a fort
which the Duc d'Angouleme had caused to be constructed near the city.
The Guards, under the command of M. Dessessart, took up their quarters
at the Minimes; but, as we know, d'Artagnan, possessed with ambition to
enter the Musketeers, had formed but few friendships among his comrades,
and he felt himself isolated and given up to his own reflections.
His reflections were not very cheerful. From the time of his arrival in
Paris, he had been mixed up with public affairs; but his own private
affairs had made no great progress, either in love or fortune. As to
love, the only woman he could have loved was Mme. Bonacieux; and Mme.
Bonacieux had disappeared, without his being able to discover what had
become of her. As to fortune, he had made--he, humble as he was--an
enemy of the cardinal; that is to say, of a man before whom trembled the
greatest men of the kingdom, beginning with the king.
That man had the power to crush him, and yet he had not done so. For a
mind so perspicuous as that of d'Artagnan, this indulgence was a light
by which he caught a glimpse of a better future.
Then he had made himself another enemy, less to be feared, he thought;
but nevertheless, he instinctively felt, not to be despised. This enemy
was Milady.
In exchange for all this, he had acquired the protection and good will
of the queen; but the favor of the queen was at the present time an
additional cause of persecution, and her protection, as it was known,
protected badly--as witness Chalais and Mme. Bonacieux.
What he had clearly gained in all this was the diamond, worth five or
six thousand livres, which he wore on his finger; and even this
diamond--supposing that d'Artagnan, in his projects of ambition, wished
to keep it, to make it someday a pledge for the gratitude of the
queen--had not in the meanwhile, since he could not part with it, more
value than the gravel he trod under his feet.
We say the gravel he trod under his feet, for d'Artagnan made these
reflections while walking solitarily along a pretty little road which
led from the camp to the village of Angoutin. Now, these reflections had
led him further than he intended, and the day was beginning to decline
when, by the last ray of the setting sun, he thought he saw the barrel
of a musket glitter from behind a hedge.
D'Artagnan had a quick eye and a prompt understanding. He comprehended
that the musket had not come there of itself, and that he who bore it
had not concealed himself behind a hedge with any friendly intentions.
He determined, therefore, to direct his course as clear from it as he
could when, on the opposite side of the road, from behind a rock, he
perceived the extremity of another musket.
This was evidently an ambuscade.
The young man cast a glance at the first musket and saw, with a certain
degree of inquietude, that it was leveled in his direction; but as soon
as he perceived that the orifice of the barrel was motionless, he threw
himself upon the ground. At the same instant the gun was fired, and he
heard the whistling of a ball pass over his head.
No time was to be lost. D'Artagnan sprang up with a bound, and at the
same instant the ball from the other musket tore up the gravel on the
very spot on the road where he had thrown himself with his face to the
ground.
D'Artagnan was not one of those foolhardy men who seek a ridiculous
death in order that it may be said of them that they did not retreat a
single step. Besides, courage was out of the question here; d'Artagnan
had fallen into an ambush.
"If there is a third shot," said he to himself, "I am a lost man."
He immediately, therefore, took to his heels and ran toward the camp,
with the swiftness of the young men of his country, so renowned for
their agility; but whatever might be his speed, the first who fired,
having had time to reload, fired a second shot, and this time so well
aimed that it struck his hat, and carried it ten paces from him.
As he, however, had no other hat, he picked up this as he ran, and
arrived at his quarters very pale and quite out of breath. He sat down
without saying a word to anybody, and began to reflect.
This event might have three causes:
The first and the most natural was that it might be an ambuscade of the
Rochellais, who might not be sorry to kill one of his Majesty's Guards,
because it would be an enemy the less, and this enemy might have a
well-furnished purse in his pocket.
D'Artagnan took his hat, examined the hole made by the ball, and shook
his head. The ball was not a musket ball--it was an arquebus ball. The
accuracy of the aim had first given him the idea that a special weapon
had been employed. This could not, then, be a military ambuscade, as the
ball was not of the regular caliber.
This might be a kind remembrance of Monsieur the Cardinal. It may be
observed that at the very moment when, thanks to the ray of the sun, he
perceived the gun barrel, he was thinking with astonishment on the
forbearance of his Eminence with respect to him.
But d'Artagnan again shook his head. For people toward whom he had but
to put forth his hand, his Eminence had rarely recourse to such means.
It might be a vengeance of Milady; that was most probable.
He tried in vain to remember the faces or dress of the assassins; he had
escaped so rapidly that he had not had leisure to notice anything.
"Ah, my poor friends!" murmured d'Artagnan; "where are you? And that you
should fail me!"
D'Artagnan passed a very bad night. Three or four times he started up,
imagining that a man was approaching his bed for the purpose of stabbing
him. Nevertheless, day dawned without darkness having brought any
accident.
But d'Artagnan well suspected that that which was deferred was not
relinquished.
D'Artagnan remained all day in his quarters, assigning as a reason to
himself that the weather was bad.
At nine o'clock the next morning, the drums beat to arms. The Duc
d'Orleans visited the posts. The guards were under arms, and d'Artagnan
took his place in the midst of his comrades.
Monsieur passed along the front of the line; then all the superior
officers approached him to pay their compliments, M. Dessessart, captain
of the Guards, as well as the others.
At the expiration of a minute or two, it appeared to d'Artagnan that M.
Dessessart made him a sign to approach. He waited for a fresh gesture on
the part of his superior, for fear he might be mistaken; but this
gesture being repeated, he left the ranks, and advanced to receive
orders.
"Monsieur is about to ask for some men of good will for a dangerous
mission, but one which will do honor to those who shall accomplish it;
and I made you a sign in order that you might hold yourself in
readiness."
"Thanks, my captain!" replied d'Artagnan, who wished for nothing better
than an opportunity to distinguish himself under the eye of the
lieutenant general.
In fact the Rochellais had made a sortie during the night, and had
retaken a bastion of which the royal army had gained possession two days
before. The matter was to ascertain, by reconnoitering, how the enemy
guarded this bastion.
At the end of a few minutes Monsieur raised his voice, and said, "I want
for this mission three or four volunteers, led by a man who can be
depended upon."
"As to the man to be depended upon, I have him under my hand, monsieur,"
said M. Dessessart, pointing to d'Artagnan; "and as to the four or five
volunteers, Monsieur has but to make his intentions known, and the men
will not be wanting."
"Four men of good will who will risk being killed with me!" said
d'Artagnan, raising his sword.
Two of his comrades of the Guards immediately sprang forward, and two
other soldiers having joined them, the number was deemed sufficient.
D'Artagnan declined all others, being unwilling to take the first chance
from those who had the priority.
It was not known whether, after the taking of the bastion, the
Rochellais had evacuated it or left a garrison in it; the object then
was to examine the place near enough to verify the reports.
D'Artagnan set out with his four companions, and followed the trench;
the two Guards marched abreast with him, and the two soldiers followed
behind.
They arrived thus, screened by the lining of the trench, till they came
within a hundred paces of the bastion. There, on turning round,
d'Artagnan perceived that the two soldiers had disappeared.
He thought that, beginning to be afraid, they had stayed behind, and he
continued to advance.
At the turning of the counterscarp they found themselves within about
sixty paces of the bastion. They saw no one, and the bastion seemed
abandoned.
The three composing our forlorn hope were deliberating whether they
should proceed any further, when all at once a circle of smoke enveloped
the giant of stone, and a dozen balls came whistling around d'Artagnan
and his companions.
They knew all they wished to know; the bastion was guarded. A longer
stay in this dangerous spot would have been useless imprudence.
D'Artagnan and his two companions turned their backs, and commenced a
retreat which resembled a flight.
On arriving at the angle of the trench which was to serve them as a
rampart, one of the Guardsmen fell. A ball had passed through his
breast. The other, who was safe and sound, continued his way toward the
camp.
D'Artagnan was not willing to abandon his companion thus, and stooped to
raise him and assist him in regaining the lines; but at this moment two
shots were fired. One ball struck the head of the already-wounded guard,
and the other flattened itself against a rock, after having passed
within two inches of d'Artagnan.
The young man turned quickly round, for this attack could not have come
from the bastion, which was hidden by the angle of the trench. The idea
of the two soldiers who had abandoned him occurred to his mind, and with
them he remembered the assassins of two evenings before. He resolved
this time to know with whom he had to deal, and fell upon the body of
his comrade as if he were dead.
He quickly saw two heads appear above an abandoned work within thirty
paces of him; they were the heads of the two soldiers. D'Artagnan had
not been deceived; these two men had only followed for the purpose of
assassinating him, hoping that the young man's death would be placed to
the account of the enemy.
As he might be only wounded and might denounce their crime, they came up
to him with the purpose of making sure. Fortunately, deceived by
d'Artagnan's trick, they neglected to reload their guns.
When they were within ten paces of him, d'Artagnan, who in falling had
taken care not to let go his sword, sprang up close to them.
The assassins comprehended that if they fled toward the camp without
having killed their man, they should be accused by him; therefore their
first idea was to join the enemy. One of them took his gun by the
barrel, and used it as he would a club. He aimed a terrible blow at
d'Artagnan, who avoided it by springing to one side; but by this
movement he left a passage free to the bandit, who darted off toward the
bastion. As the Rochellais who guarded the bastion were ignorant of the
intentions of the man they saw coming toward them, they fired upon him,
and he fell, struck by a ball which broke his shoulder.
Meantime d'Artagnan had thrown himself upon the other soldier, attacking
him with his sword. The conflict was not long; the wretch had nothing to
defend himself with but his discharged arquebus. The sword of the
Guardsman slipped along the barrel of the now-useless weapon, and passed
through the thigh of the assassin, who fell.
D'Artagnan immediately placed the point of his sword at his throat.
"Oh, do not kill me!" cried the bandit. "Pardon, pardon, my officer, and
I will tell you all."
"Is your secret of enough importance to me to spare your life for it?"
asked the young man, withholding his arm.
"Yes; if you think existence worth anything to a man of twenty, as you
are, and who may hope for everything, being handsome and brave, as you
are."
"Wretch," cried d'Artagnan, "speak quickly! Who employed you to
assassinate me?"
"A woman whom I don't know, but who is called Milady."
"But if you don't know this woman, how do you know her name?"
"My comrade knows her, and called her so. It was with him she agreed,
and not with me; he even has in his pocket a letter from that person,
who attaches great importance to you, as I have heard him say."
"But how did you become concerned in this villainous affair?"
"He proposed to me to undertake it with him, and I agreed."
"And how much did she give you for this fine enterprise?"
"A hundred louis."
"Well, come!" said the young man, laughing, "she thinks I am worth
something. A hundred louis? Well, that was a temptation for two wretches
like you. I understand why you accepted it, and I grant you my pardon;
but upon one condition."
"What is that?" said the soldier, uneasy at perceiving that all was not
over.
"That you will go and fetch me the letter your comrade has in his
pocket."
"But," cried the bandit, "that is only another way of killing me. How
can I go and fetch that letter under the fire of the bastion?"
"You must nevertheless make up your mind to go and get it, or I swear
you shall die by my hand."
"Pardon, monsieur; pity! In the name of that young lady you love, and
whom you perhaps believe dead but who is not!" cried the bandit,
throwing himself upon his knees and leaning upon his hand--for he began
to lose his strength with his blood.
"And how do you know there is a young woman whom I love, and that I
believed that woman dead?" asked d'Artagnan.
"By that letter which my comrade has in his pocket."
"You see, then," said d'Artagnan, "that I must have that letter. So no
more delay, no more hesitation; or else whatever may be my repugnance to
soiling my sword a second time with the blood of a wretch like you, I
swear by my faith as an honest man--" and at these words d'Artagnan made
so fierce a gesture that the wounded man sprang up.
"Stop, stop!" cried he, regaining strength by force of terror. "I will
go--I will go!"
D'Artagnan took the soldier's arquebus, made him go on before him, and
urged him toward his companion by pricking him behind with his sword.
It was a frightful thing to see this wretch, leaving a long track of
blood on the ground he passed over, pale with approaching death, trying
to drag himself along without being seen to the body of his accomplice,
which lay twenty paces from him.
Terror was so strongly painted on his face, covered with a cold sweat,
that d'Artagnan took pity on him, and casting upon him a look of
contempt, "Stop," said he, "I will show you the difference between a man
of courage and such a coward as you. Stay where you are; I will go
myself."
And with a light step, an eye on the watch, observing the movements of
the enemy and taking advantage of the accidents of the ground,
d'Artagnan succeeded in reaching the second soldier.
There were two means of gaining his object--to search him on the spot,
or to carry him away, making a buckler of his body, and search him in
the trench.
D'Artagnan preferred the second means, and lifted the assassin onto his
shoulders at the moment the enemy fired.
A slight shock, the dull noise of three balls which penetrated the
flesh, a last cry, a convulsion of agony, proved to d'Artagnan that the
would-be assassin had saved his life.
D'Artagnan regained the trench, and threw the corpse beside the wounded
man, who was as pale as death.
Then he began to search. A leather pocketbook, a purse, in which was
evidently a part of the sum which the bandit had received, with a dice
box and dice, completed the possessions of the dead man.
He left the box and dice where they fell, threw the purse to the wounded
man, and eagerly opened the pocketbook.
Among some unimportant papers he found the following letter, that which
he had sought at the risk of his life:
"Since you have lost sight of that woman and she is now in safety in the
convent, which you should never have allowed her to reach, try, at
least, not to miss the man. If you do, you know that my hand stretches
far, and that you shall pay very dearly for the hundred louis you have
from me."
No signature. Nevertheless it was plain the letter came from Milady. He
consequently kept it as a piece of evidence, and being in safety behind
the angle of the trench, he began to interrogate the wounded man. He
confessed that he had undertaken with his comrade--the same who was
killed--to carry off a young woman who was to leave Paris by the
Barriere de La Villette; but having stopped to drink at a cabaret, they
had missed the carriage by ten minutes.
"But what were you to do with that woman?" asked d'Artagnan, with
anguish.
"We were to have conveyed her to a hotel in the Place Royale," said the
wounded man.
"Yes, yes!" murmured d'Artagnan; "that's the place--Milady's own
residence!"
Then the young man tremblingly comprehended what a terrible thirst for
vengeance urged this woman on to destroy him, as well as all who loved
him, and how well she must be acquainted with the affairs of the court,
since she had discovered all. There could be no doubt she owed this
information to the cardinal.
But amid all this he perceived, with a feeling of real joy, that the
queen must have discovered the prison in which poor Mme. Bonacieux was
explaining her devotion, and that she had freed her from that prison;
and the letter he had received from the young woman, and her passage
along the road of Chaillot like an apparition, were now explained.
Then also, as Athos had predicted, it became possible to find Mme.
Bonacieux, and a convent was not impregnable.
This idea completely restored clemency to his heart. He turned toward
the wounded man, who had watched with intense anxiety all the various
expressions of his countenance, and holding out his arm to him, said,
"Come, I will not abandon you thus. Lean upon me, and let us return to
the camp."
"Yes," said the man, who could scarcely believe in such magnanimity,
"but is it not to have me hanged?"
"You have my word," said he; "for the second time I give you your life."
The wounded man sank upon his knees, to again kiss the feet of his
preserver; but d'Artagnan, who had no longer a motive for staying so
near the enemy, abridged the testimonials of his gratitude.
The Guardsman who had returned at the first discharge announced the
death of his four companions. They were therefore much astonished and
delighted in the regiment when they saw the young man come back safe and
sound.
D'Artagnan explained the sword wound of his companion by a sortie which
he improvised. He described the death of the other soldier, and the
perils they had encountered. This recital was for him the occasion of
veritable triumph. The whole army talked of this expedition for a day,
and Monsieur paid him his compliments upon it. Besides this, as every
great action bears its recompense with it, the brave exploit of
d'Artagnan resulted in the restoration of the tranquility he had lost.
In fact, d'Artagnan believed that he might be tranquil, as one of his
two enemies was killed and the other devoted to his interests.
This tranquillity proved one thing--that d'Artagnan did not yet know
Milady. | The narrator of The Three Musketeers also provides a historical overview in this chapter. Remember the Huguenots and the Catholics from Mousqueton's story earlier? To recap, the Huguenots are French Protestants who saw Catholicism as far too invested in pompous ritual and overly materialistic. Since most of France, including all the powerful people, such as the King, were Catholic, the Huguenots were not in a good position. Several holy wars ensued, which were halted temporarily when King Henry IV of France issued the Edict of Nantes, One of those areas was La Rochelle. La Rochelle became a hotbed of civic unrest, and foreign influence. The city revolted, and the Musketeers are on their way to put down this revolt. Although it's not historically accurate, the narrator frames the issue entirely around Queen Anne. The English are a natural ally of the Huguenots, . Still, in the world of The Three Musketeers, the Duke of Buckingham uses the war as a pretext for seeing Anne. The Cardinal uses the war as a pretext to get some revenge on the guy whom Anne currently favors. The narrator points out that the "real stake in the game... was simply a kind look from Anne of Austria." Since he is not a Musketeer, D'Artagnan is member of a company apart from his friends. The narrator says this might have troubled him had he known the dangers he was about to face. D'Artagnan is going for a walk to reflect on life when he spots two muskets being aimed at him. He drops to the ground. Bullets fire at him. He runs back to camp as fast as possible while bullets continue coming at him. One of them hits his hat. He keeps running. Later, he considers who these enemies could be: the Rochellais, the Cardinal, or Milady. He decides it must be Milady. The next day, Dessessart signals out D'Artagnan for a dangerous mission. He asks him to pick a couple men to go with him. The assignment is to evaluate the protection of a recently recaptured bastion. Four men volunteer to accompany D'Artagnan. Before they reach the bastion, two of the men disappear. The rest of them go to check out the bastion and then commence a retreat. One of the men gets hit by a musket ball. D'Artagnan is trying to help the wounded man when more shots ring out. He soon realizes that these shots are not coming from the enemy. Quickly, he falls to the ground and pretends to be hurt. The two would-be assassins--the same soldiers who disappeared earlier--come forward to make sure D'Artagnan is really dead. He's not at all dead--he gets up with his sword in hand! One of the men runs away straight into enemy fire. He falls. The other man begs for mercy, and tells D'Artagnan that a woman named Milady put them up to this task. The man tells D'Artagnan that the instructions are with his comrade. D'Artagnan tells him to fetch it, but the man is too afraid to venture into enemy fire. D'Artagnan winds up going himself. He finds a letter chastising the two would-be assassins for their neglect of keeping an eye on one particular woman; Milady hopes her assassins will do better getting rid of D'Artagnan. He keeps the letter as future evidence. D'Artagnan now fully comprehends what Milady will do to exact revenge on him. At the same time, he realizes that the Queen must have discovered where Milady was hiding Constance, and extricated the poor Madame Bonacieux. D'Artagnan spares the life of the wounded man; the two of them go back to camp. Strangely enough, D'Artagnan feels much more at ease regarding his life. The narrator points out that this means he still underestimates Milady. |
THE CAREW MURDER CASE
NEARLY a year later, in the month of October, 18---, London was
startled by a crime of singular ferocity and rendered all the more
notable by the high position of the victim. The details were few and
startling. A maid servant living alone in a house not far from the
river, had gone up-stairs to bed about eleven. Although a fog rolled
over the city in the small hours, the early part of the night was
cloudless, and the lane, which the maid's window overlooked, was
brilliantly lit by the full moon. It seems she was romantically
given, for she sat down upon her box, which stood immediately under
the window, and fell into a dream of musing. Never (she used to say,
with streaming tears, when she narrated that experience), never had
she felt more at peace with all men or thought more kindly of the
world. And as she so sat she became aware of an aged and beautiful
gentleman with white hair, drawing near along the lane; and
advancing to meet him, another and very small gentleman, to whom at
first she
29)
paid less attention. When they had come within speech (which was
just under the maid's eyes) the older man bowed and accosted the
other with a very pretty manner of politeness. It did not seem as
if the subject of his address were of great importance; indeed,
from his pointing, it sometimes appeared as if he were only
inquiring his way; but the moon shone on his face as he spoke, and
the girl was pleased to watch it, it seemed to breathe such an
innocent and old-world kindness of disposition, yet with something
high too, as of a well-founded self-content. Presently her eye
wandered to the other, and she was surprised to recognise in him a
certain Mr. Hyde, who had once visited her master and for whom she
had conceived a dislike. He had in his hand a heavy cane, with which
he was trifling; but he answered never a word, and seemed to listen
with an ill-contained impatience. And then all of a sudden he broke
out in a great flame of anger, stamping with his foot, brandishing
the cane, and carrying on (as the maid described it) like a madman.
The old gentleman took a step back, with the air of one very much
surprised and a trifle hurt; and at that Mr. Hyde broke out of all
bounds and clubbed him to the earth. And next moment, with ape-like
fury, he was trampling his victim under foot and hailing down a
storm of blows, under which the bones were audibly shattered and the
body jumped upon the roadway. At the horror of these sights and
sounds, the maid fainted.
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It was two o'clock when she came to herself and called for the
police. The murderer was gone long ago; but there lay his victim in
the middle of the lane, incredibly mangled. The stick with which the
deed had been done, although it was of some rare and very tough and
heavy wood, had broken in the middle under the stress of this
insensate cruelty; and one splintered half had rolled in the
neighbouring gutter--the other, without doubt, had been carried
away by the murderer. A purse and a gold watch were found upon the
victim: but no cards or papers, except a sealed and stamped
envelope, which he had been probably carrying to the post, and which
bore the name and address of Mr. Utterson.
This was brought to the lawyer the next morning, before he was out
of bed; and he had no sooner seen it, and been told the
circumstances, than he shot out a solemn lip. "I shall say nothing
till I have seen the body," said he; "this may be very serious. Have
the kindness to wait while I dress." And with the same grave
countenance he hurried through his breakfast and drove to the police
station, whither the body had been carried. As soon as he came into
the cell, he nodded.
"Yes," said he, "I recognise him. I am sorry to say that this is
Sir Danvers Carew."
"Good God, sir," exclaimed the officer, "is it possible?" And the
next moment his eye
31)
lighted up with professional ambition. "This will make a deal of
noise," he said. "And perhaps you can help us to the man." And he
briefly narrated what the maid had seen, and showed the broken
stick.
Mr. Utterson had already quailed at the name of Hyde; but when the
stick was laid before him, he could doubt no longer; broken and
battered as it was, he recognised it for one that he had himself
presented many years before to Henry Jekyll.
"Is this Mr. Hyde a person of small stature?" he inquired.
"Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, is what the
maid calls him," said the officer.
Mr. Utterson reflected; and then, raising his head, "If you will
come with me in my cab," he said, "I think I can take you to his
house."
It was by this time about nine in the morning, and the first fog of
the season. A great chocolate-coloured pall lowered over heaven, but
the wind was continually charging and routing these embattled
vapours; so that as the cab crawled from street to street, Mr.
Utterson beheld a marvellous number of degrees and hues of twilight;
for here it would be dark like the back-end of evening; and there
would be a glow of a rich, lurid brown, like the light of some
strange conflagration; and here, for a moment, the fog would be
quite broken up, and a haggard shaft
32)
of daylight would glance in between the swirling wreaths. The
dismal quarter of Soho seen under these changing glimpses, with its
muddy ways, and slatternly passengers, and its lamps, which had
never been extinguished or had been kindled afresh to combat this
mournful re-invasion of darkness, seemed, in the lawyer's eyes, like
a district of some city in a nightmare. The thoughts of his mind,
besides, were of the gloomiest dye; and when he glanced at the
companion of his drive, he was conscious of some touch of that
terror of the law and the law's officers, which may at times assail
the most honest.
As the cab drew up before the address indicated, the fog lifted a
little and showed him a dingy street, a gin palace, a low French
eating-house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and twopenny
salads, many ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many
women of different nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a
morning glass; and the next moment the fog settled down again upon
that part, as brown as umber, and cut him off from his blackguardly
surroundings. This was the home of Henry Jekyll's favourite; of a
man who was heir to a quarter of a million sterling.
An ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman opened the door. She
had an evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy; but her manners were
excellent. Yes, she said, this was Mr. Hyde's, but he was not at
home; he had been in that night very late,
33)
but had gone away again in less than an hour; there was nothing
strange in that; his habits were very irregular, and he was often
absent; for instance, it was nearly two months since she had seen
him till yesterday.
"Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms," said the lawyer; and
when the woman began to declare it was impossible, "I had better
tell you who this person is," he added. "This is Inspector Newcomen
of Scotland Yard."
A flash of odious joy appeared upon the woman's face. "Ah!" said
she, "he is in trouble! What has he done?"
Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances. "He don't seem a
very popular character," observed the latter. "And now, my good
woman, just let me and this gentleman have a look about us."
In the whole extent of the house, which but for the old woman
remained otherwise empty, Mr. Hyde had only used a couple of rooms;
but these were furnished with luxury and good taste. A closet was
filled with wine; the plate was of silver, the napery elegant; a
good picture hung upon the walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from
Henry Jekyll, who was much of a connoisseur; and the carpets were of
many plies and agreeable in colour. At this moment, however, the
rooms bore every mark of having been recently and hurriedly
ransacked; clothes lay about the floor, with their pockets inside
out;
34)
lock-fast drawers stood open; and on the hearth there lay a pile of
grey ashes, as though many papers had been burned. From these
embers the inspector disinterred the butt-end of a green
cheque-book, which had resisted the action of the fire; the other
half of the stick was found behind the door; and as this clinched
his suspicions, the officer declared himself delighted. A visit to
the bank, where several thousand pounds were found to be lying to
the murderer's credit, completed his gratification.
"You may depend upon it, sir," he told Mr. Utterson: "I have him in
my hand. He must have lost his head, or he never would have left the
stick or, above all, burned the cheque-book. Why, money's life to
the man. We have nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and get
out the handbills."
This last, however, was not so easy of accomplishment; for Mr. Hyde
had numbered few familiars--even the master of the servant-maid
had only seen him twice; his family could nowhere be traced; he had
never been photographed; and the few who could describe him differed
widely, as common observers will. Only on one point, were they
agreed; and that was the haunting sense of unexpressed deformity
with which the fugitive impressed his beholders. | "The Carew Murder Case" Approximately one year later, the scene opens on a maid who, sitting at her window in the wee hours of the morning, witnesses a murder take place in the street below. She sees a small, evil-looking man, whom she recognizes as Mr. Hyde, encounter a polite, aged gentleman; when the gentleman offers Hyde a greeting, Hyde suddenly turns on him with a stick, beating him to death. The police find a letter addressed to Utterson on the dead body, and they consequently summon the lawyer. He identifies the body as Sir Danvers Carew, a popular member of Parliament and one of his clients. Utterson still has Hyde's address, and he accompanies the police to a set of rooms located in a poor, evil-looking part of town. Utterson reflects on how odd it is that a man who lives in such squalor is the heir to Henry Jekyll's fortune. Hyde's villainous-looking landlady lets the men in, but the suspected murderer is not at home. The police find the murder weapon and the burned remains of Hyde's checkbook. Upon a subsequent visit to the bank, the police inspector learns that Hyde still has an account there. The officer assumes that he need only wait for Hyde to go and withdraw money. In the days and weeks that follow, however, no sign of Hyde turns up; he has no family, no friends, and those who have seen him are unable to give accurate descriptions, differ on details, and agree only on the evil aspect of his appearance |
Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with
herself. He was so much displeased, that it was longer than usual before
he came to Hartfield again; and when they did meet, his grave looks
shewed that she was not forgiven. She was sorry, but could not repent.
On the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more justified
and endeared to her by the general appearances of the next few days.
The Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr.
Elton's return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common
sitting-room, he got up to look at it, and sighed out his half sentences
of admiration just as he ought; and as for Harriet's feelings, they were
visibly forming themselves into as strong and steady an attachment as
her youth and sort of mind admitted. Emma was soon perfectly satisfied
of Mr. Martin's being no otherwise remembered, than as he furnished a
contrast with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage to the latter.
Her views of improving her little friend's mind, by a great deal of
useful reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than a few
first chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow. It was much
easier to chat than to study; much pleasanter to let her imagination
range and work at Harriet's fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge
her comprehension or exercise it on sober facts; and the only literary
pursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the only mental provision she
was making for the evening of life, was the collecting and transcribing
all the riddles of every sort that she could meet with, into a thin
quarto of hot-pressed paper, made up by her friend, and ornamented with
ciphers and trophies.
In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are
not uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs. Goddard's, had written out
at least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken the first hint of it
from her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse's help, to get a great many more.
Emma assisted with her invention, memory and taste; and as Harriet wrote
a very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of the first
order, in form as well as quantity.
Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the
girls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting
in. "So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young--he
wondered he could not remember them! but he hoped he should in time."
And it always ended in "Kitty, a fair but frozen maid."
His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject,
did not at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind; but he
had desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much,
something, he thought, might come from that quarter.
It was by no means his daughter's wish that the intellects of Highbury
in general should be put under requisition. Mr. Elton was the only one
whose assistance she asked. He was invited to contribute any really good
enigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect; and she had
the pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his recollections;
and at the same time, as she could perceive, most earnestly careful that
nothing ungallant, nothing that did not breathe a compliment to the
sex should pass his lips. They owed to him their two or three politest
puzzles; and the joy and exultation with which at last he recalled, and
rather sentimentally recited, that well-known charade,
My first doth affliction denote,
Which my second is destin'd to feel
And my whole is the best antidote
That affliction to soften and heal.--
made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some
pages ago already.
"Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?" said she; "that
is the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be easier to
you."
"Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind in his
life. The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse"--he
stopt a moment--"or Miss Smith could inspire him."
The very next day however produced some proof of inspiration. He
called for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table
containing, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed
to a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his
manner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own.
"I do not offer it for Miss Smith's collection," said he. "Being my
friend's, I have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye,
but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it."
The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could
understand. There was deep consciousness about him, and he found
it easier to meet her eye than her friend's. He was gone the next
moment:--after another moment's pause,
"Take it," said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper towards
Harriet--"it is for you. Take your own."
But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma, never
loth to be first, was obliged to examine it herself.
To Miss--
CHARADE.
My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,
Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.
Another view of man, my second brings,
Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
But ah! united, what reverse we have!
Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown;
Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,
And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
Thy ready wit the word will soon supply,
May its approval beam in that soft eye!
She cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, read it through
again to be quite certain, and quite mistress of the lines, and then
passing it to Harriet, sat happily smiling, and saying to herself, while
Harriet was puzzling over the paper in all the confusion of hope and
dulness, "Very well, Mr. Elton, very well indeed. I have read worse
charades. _Courtship_--a very good hint. I give you credit for it. This
is feeling your way. This is saying very plainly--'Pray, Miss Smith,
give me leave to pay my addresses to you. Approve my charade and my
intentions in the same glance.'
May its approval beam in that soft eye!
Harriet exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye--of all epithets, the
justest that could be given.
Thy ready wit the word will soon supply.
Humph--Harriet's ready wit! All the better. A man must be very much in
love, indeed, to describe her so. Ah! Mr. Knightley, I wish you had the
benefit of this; I think this would convince you. For once in your life
you would be obliged to own yourself mistaken. An excellent charade
indeed! and very much to the purpose. Things must come to a crisis soon
now."
She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations,
which were otherwise of a sort to run into great length, by the
eagerness of Harriet's wondering questions.
"What can it be, Miss Woodhouse?--what can it be? I have not an idea--I
cannot guess it in the least. What can it possibly be? Do try to find
it out, Miss Woodhouse. Do help me. I never saw any thing so hard. Is it
kingdom? I wonder who the friend was--and who could be the young lady.
Do you think it is a good one? Can it be woman?
And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
Can it be Neptune?
Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
Or a trident? or a mermaid? or a shark? Oh, no! shark is only one
syllable. It must be very clever, or he would not have brought it. Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, do you think we shall ever find it out?"
"Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you thinking
of? Where would be the use of his bringing us a charade made by a friend
upon a mermaid or a shark? Give me the paper and listen.
For Miss ------, read Miss Smith.
My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,
Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.
That is _court_.
Another view of man, my second brings;
Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
That is _ship_;--plain as it can be.--Now for the cream.
But ah! united, (_courtship_, you know,) what reverse we have!
Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown.
Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,
And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
A very proper compliment!--and then follows the application, which
I think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in
comprehending. Read it in comfort to yourself. There can be no doubt of
its being written for you and to you."
Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion. She read
the concluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness. She could not
speak. But she was not wanted to speak. It was enough for her to feel.
Emma spoke for her.
"There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this compliment,"
said she, "that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Elton's intentions. You
are his object--and you will soon receive the completest proof of it. I
thought it must be so. I thought I could not be so deceived; but now, it
is clear; the state of his mind is as clear and decided, as my wishes on
the subject have been ever since I knew you. Yes, Harriet, just so long
have I been wanting the very circumstance to happen that has happened.
I could never tell whether an attachment between you and Mr. Elton were
most desirable or most natural. Its probability and its eligibility have
really so equalled each other! I am very happy. I congratulate you, my
dear Harriet, with all my heart. This is an attachment which a woman may
well feel pride in creating. This is a connexion which offers nothing
but good. It will give you every thing that you want--consideration,
independence, a proper home--it will fix you in the centre of all your
real friends, close to Hartfield and to me, and confirm our intimacy
for ever. This, Harriet, is an alliance which can never raise a blush in
either of us."
"Dear Miss Woodhouse!"--and "Dear Miss Woodhouse," was all that Harriet,
with many tender embraces could articulate at first; but when they did
arrive at something more like conversation, it was sufficiently clear to
her friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered just as she
ought. Mr. Elton's superiority had very ample acknowledgment.
"Whatever you say is always right," cried Harriet, "and therefore I
suppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but otherwise I could not
have imagined it. It is so much beyond any thing I deserve. Mr. Elton,
who might marry any body! There cannot be two opinions about _him_. He
is so very superior. Only think of those sweet verses--'To Miss ------.'
Dear me, how clever!--Could it really be meant for me?"
"I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about that. It is a
certainty. Receive it on my judgment. It is a sort of prologue to
the play, a motto to the chapter; and will be soon followed by
matter-of-fact prose."
"It is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected. I am sure,
a month ago, I had no more idea myself!--The strangest things do take
place!"
"When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted--they do indeed--and
really it is strange; it is out of the common course that what is so
evidently, so palpably desirable--what courts the pre-arrangement of
other people, should so immediately shape itself into the proper form.
You and Mr. Elton are by situation called together; you belong to one
another by every circumstance of your respective homes. Your marrying
will be equal to the match at Randalls. There does seem to be a
something in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right
direction, and sends it into the very channel where it ought to flow.
The course of true love never did run smooth--
A Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that
passage."
"That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,--me, of all people,
who did not know him, to speak to him, at Michaelmas! And he, the very
handsomest man that ever was, and a man that every body looks up to,
quite like Mr. Knightley! His company so sought after, that every body
says he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not chuse it;
that he has more invitations than there are days in the week. And so
excellent in the Church! Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has
ever preached from since he came to Highbury. Dear me! When I look back
to the first time I saw him! How little did I think!--The two Abbots and
I ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he
was going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look
through herself; however, she called me back presently, and let me
look too, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he
looked! He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole."
"This is an alliance which, whoever--whatever your friends may be, must
be agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense; and we
are not to be addressing our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to
see you _happily_ married, here is a man whose amiable character gives
every assurance of it;--if they wish to have you settled in the same
country and circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will
be accomplished; and if their only object is that you should, in the
common phrase, be _well_ married, here is the comfortable fortune, the
respectable establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy
them."
"Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you. You understand
every thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the other. This
charade!--If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never have made any
thing like it."
"I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it
yesterday."
"I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read."
"I never read one more to the purpose, certainly."
"It is as long again as almost all we have had before."
"I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such things
in general cannot be too short."
Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory
comparisons were rising in her mind.
"It is one thing," said she, presently--her cheeks in a glow--"to have
very good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is
any thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you
must, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like
this."
Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin's
prose.
"Such sweet lines!" continued Harriet--"these two last!--But how shall I
ever be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out?--Oh! Miss
Woodhouse, what can we do about that?"
"Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening, I dare
say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will
pass between us, and you shall not be committed.--Your soft eyes shall
chuse their own time for beaming. Trust to me."
"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful
charade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good."
"Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you should not
write it into your book."
"Oh! but those two lines are"--
--"The best of all. Granted;--for private enjoyment; and for private
enjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less written you know,
because you divide them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its
meaning change. But take it away, and all _appropriation_ ceases, and a
very pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend upon
it, he would not like to have his charade slighted, much better than his
passion. A poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities, or
neither. Give me the book, I will write it down, and then there can be
no possible reflection on you."
Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts,
so as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a
declaration of love. It seemed too precious an offering for any degree
of publicity.
"I shall never let that book go out of my own hands," said she.
"Very well," replied Emma; "a most natural feeling; and the longer it
lasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my father coming: you
will not object to my reading the charade to him. It will be giving him
so much pleasure! He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any
thing that pays woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of
gallantry towards us all!--You must let me read it to him."
Harriet looked grave.
"My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this charade.--You
will betray your feelings improperly, if you are too conscious and too
quick, and appear to affix more meaning, or even quite all the meaning
which may be affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little
tribute of admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not
have left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me
than towards you. Do not let us be too solemn on the business. He has
encouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over
this charade."
"Oh! no--I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please."
Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the
recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of "Well, my dears, how does
your book go on?--Have you got any thing fresh?"
"Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something quite fresh. A
piece of paper was found on the table this morning--(dropt, we suppose,
by a fairy)--containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied
it in."
She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read, slowly and
distinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every
part as she proceeded--and he was very much pleased, and, as she had
foreseen, especially struck with the complimentary conclusion.
"Aye, that's very just, indeed, that's very properly said. Very true.
'Woman, lovely woman.' It is such a pretty charade, my dear, that I
can easily guess what fairy brought it.--Nobody could have written so
prettily, but you, Emma."
Emma only nodded, and smiled.--After a little thinking, and a very
tender sigh, he added,
"Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your dear mother
was so clever at all those things! If I had but her memory! But I can
remember nothing;--not even that particular riddle which you have
heard me mention; I can only recollect the first stanza; and there are
several.
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,
Kindled a flame I yet deplore,
The hood-wink'd boy I called to aid,
Though of his near approach afraid,
So fatal to my suit before.
And that is all that I can recollect of it--but it is very clever all
the way through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got it."
"Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied it from the
Elegant Extracts. It was Garrick's, you know."
"Aye, very true.--I wish I could recollect more of it.
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.
The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near being
christened Catherine after her grandmama. I hope we shall have her here
next week. Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put her--and what
room there will be for the children?"
"Oh! yes--she will have her own room, of course; the room she always
has;--and there is the nursery for the children,--just as usual, you
know. Why should there be any change?"
"I do not know, my dear--but it is so long since she was here!--not
since last Easter, and then only for a few days.--Mr. John Knightley's
being a lawyer is very inconvenient.--Poor Isabella!--she is sadly taken
away from us all!--and how sorry she will be when she comes, not to see
Miss Taylor here!"
"She will not be surprized, papa, at least."
"I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much surprized when I
first heard she was going to be married."
"We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while Isabella is
here."
"Yes, my dear, if there is time.--But--(in a very depressed tone)--she
is coming for only one week. There will not be time for any thing."
"It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer--but it seems a case of
necessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the 28th, and we
ought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole of the time
they can give to the country, that two or three days are not to be taken
out for the Abbey. Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim this
Christmas--though you know it is longer since they were with him, than
with us."
"It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella were to be
anywhere but at Hartfield."
Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley's claims on his
brother, or any body's claims on Isabella, except his own. He sat musing
a little while, and then said,
"But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to go back so
soon, though he does. I think, Emma, I shall try and persuade her to
stay longer with us. She and the children might stay very well."
"Ah! papa--that is what you never have been able to accomplish, and I
do not think you ever will. Isabella cannot bear to stay behind her
husband."
This was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome as it was, Mr. Woodhouse
could only give a submissive sigh; and as Emma saw his spirits affected
by the idea of his daughter's attachment to her husband, she immediately
led to such a branch of the subject as must raise them.
"Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while my brother
and sister are here. I am sure she will be pleased with the children.
We are very proud of the children, are not we, papa? I wonder which she
will think the handsomest, Henry or John?"
"Aye, I wonder which she will. Poor little dears, how glad they will be
to come. They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet."
"I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I do not know who is not."
"Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama. Henry is the
eldest, he was named after me, not after his father. John, the second,
is named after his father. Some people are surprized, I believe, that
the eldest was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I
thought very pretty of her. And he is a very clever boy, indeed. They
are all remarkably clever; and they have so many pretty ways. They will
come and stand by my chair, and say, 'Grandpapa, can you give me a bit
of string?' and once Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives
were only made for grandpapas. I think their father is too rough with
them very often."
"He appears rough to you," said Emma, "because you are so very gentle
yourself; but if you could compare him with other papas, you would not
think him rough. He wishes his boys to be active and hardy; and if
they misbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then; but he is an
affectionate father--certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate
father. The children are all fond of him."
"And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the ceiling in a
very frightful way!"
"But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much. It is such
enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of
their taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other."
"Well, I cannot understand it."
"That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot
understand the pleasures of the other."
Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate
in preparation for the regular four o'clock dinner, the hero of this
inimitable charade walked in again. Harriet turned away; but Emma could
receive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in
his the consciousness of having made a push--of having thrown a die;
and she imagined he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible
reason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse's party could be made
up in the evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest
degree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, every thing else must give
way; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his
dining with him--had made such a point of it, that he had promised him
conditionally to come.
Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend
on their account; her father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged--she
re-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the
paper from the table, she returned it--
"Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us; thank
you for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I have ventured
to write it into Miss Smith's collection. Your friend will not take it
amiss I hope. Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight
lines."
Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked rather
doubtingly--rather confused; said something about "honour,"--glanced at
Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open on the table, took
it up, and examined it very attentively. With the view of passing off an
awkward moment, Emma smilingly said,
"You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade
must not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman's
approbation while he writes with such gallantry."
"I have no hesitation in saying," replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating
a good deal while he spoke; "I have no hesitation in saying--at least
if my friend feels at all as _I_ do--I have not the smallest doubt that,
could he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it, (looking at the
book again, and replacing it on the table), he would consider it as the
proudest moment of his life."
After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think
it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was
a sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to
laugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and
the sublime of pleasure to Harriet's share. | Emma and Harriet have been collecting riddles into a scrapbook, and when Mr. Elton returns from London with the framed portrait of Harriet, he contributes one. Emma immediately decodes the riddle and sees that its answer is the word "courtship. She translates the riddle for Harriet, who could not solve it herself, but Harriet is nonetheless flattered by its meaning. Emma convinces Harriet that the riddle foretells a proposal, and she copies the riddle into Harriet's book. After some discussion among the family anticipating the upcoming Christmas visit of Isabella, Mr. John Knightley, and their children, Emma tells Mr. Elton that she has solved his charade and copied it into Harriet's book. Elton is clearly moved, and Emma concludes that his emotion comes from seeing his riddle in Harriet's book |
SCENE VII.
Verona. JULIA'S house
Enter JULIA and LUCETTA
JULIA. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me;
And, ev'n in kind love, I do conjure thee,
Who art the table wherein all my thoughts
Are visibly character'd and engrav'd,
To lesson me and tell me some good mean
How, with my honour, I may undertake
A journey to my loving Proteus.
LUCETTA. Alas, the way is wearisome and long!
JULIA. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary
To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps;
Much less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly,
And when the flight is made to one so dear,
Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus.
LUCETTA. Better forbear till Proteus make return.
JULIA. O, know'st thou not his looks are my soul's food?
Pity the dearth that I have pined in
By longing for that food so long a time.
Didst thou but know the inly touch of love.
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow
As seek to quench the fire of love with words.
LUCETTA. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire,
But qualify the fire's extreme rage,
Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.
JULIA. The more thou dam'st it up, the more it burns.
The current that with gentle murmur glides,
Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage;
But when his fair course is not hindered,
He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;
And so by many winding nooks he strays,
With willing sport, to the wild ocean.
Then let me go, and hinder not my course.
I'll be as patient as a gentle stream,
And make a pastime of each weary step,
Till the last step have brought me to my love;
And there I'll rest as, after much turmoil,
A blessed soul doth in Elysium.
LUCETTA. But in what habit will you go along?
JULIA. Not like a woman, for I would prevent
The loose encounters of lascivious men;
Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds
As may beseem some well-reputed page.
LUCETTA. Why then, your ladyship must cut your hair.
JULIA. No, girl; I'll knit it up in silken strings
With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots-
To be fantastic may become a youth
Of greater time than I shall show to be.
LUCETTA. What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches?
JULIA. That fits as well as 'Tell me, good my lord,
What compass will you wear your farthingale.'
Why ev'n what fashion thou best likes, Lucetta.
LUCETTA. You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam.
JULIA. Out, out, Lucetta, that will be ill-favour'd.
LUCETTA. A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin,
Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on.
JULIA. Lucetta, as thou lov'st me, let me have
What thou think'st meet, and is most mannerly.
But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me
For undertaking so unstaid a journey?
I fear me it will make me scandaliz'd.
LUCETTA. If you think so, then stay at home and go not.
JULIA. Nay, that I will not.
LUCETTA. Then never dream on infamy, but go.
If Proteus like your journey when you come,
No matter who's displeas'd when you are gone.
I fear me he will scarce be pleas'd withal.
JULIA. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear:
A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears,
And instances of infinite of love,
Warrant me welcome to my Proteus.
LUCETTA. All these are servants to deceitful men.
JULIA. Base men that use them to so base effect!
But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth;
His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles,
His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate,
His tears pure messengers sent from his heart,
His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.
LUCETTA. Pray heav'n he prove so when you come to him.
JULIA. Now, as thou lov'st me, do him not that wrong
To bear a hard opinion of his truth;
Only deserve my love by loving him.
And presently go with me to my chamber,
To take a note of what I stand in need of
To furnish me upon my longing journey.
All that is mine I leave at thy dispose,
My goods, my lands, my reputation;
Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence.
Come, answer not, but to it presently;
I am impatient of my tarriance. Exeunt | Back in Verona, Julia and Lucetta brainstorm about ways for Julia to travel to Milan without losing her "honour." Lucetta advises Julia to stay home and wait it out - Proteus will be back eventually. Julia's not hearing any of this. She's in love and wants to be with Proteus, pronto. Julia decides to dress up like a boy to "prevent" any unwanted encounters with "lascivious men" . She'll tie up her hair in fashionable knots to make her appear older and Lucetta will make her a pair of pants. Lucetta advises Julia to also wear a codpiece. Julia worries that travelling alone and cross-dressing will ruin her reputation, but she decides that it's worth it because Proteus is the most faithful and loyal guy in the world. Julia and Lucetta make preparations for the journey. |
|MARILLA came briskly forward as Matthew opened the door. But when her
eyes fell on the odd little figure in the stiff, ugly dress, with the
long braids of red hair and the eager, luminous eyes, she stopped short
in amazement.
"Matthew Cuthbert, who's that?" she ejaculated. "Where is the boy?"
"There wasn't any boy," said Matthew wretchedly. "There was only _her_."
He nodded at the child, remembering that he had never even asked her
name.
"No boy! But there _must_ have been a boy," insisted Marilla. "We sent
word to Mrs. Spencer to bring a boy."
"Well, she didn't. She brought _her_. I asked the station-master. And I
had to bring her home. She couldn't be left there, no matter where the
mistake had come in."
"Well, this is a pretty piece of business!" ejaculated Marilla.
During this dialogue the child had remained silent, her eyes roving from
one to the other, all the animation fading out of her face. Suddenly
she seemed to grasp the full meaning of what had been said. Dropping her
precious carpet-bag she sprang forward a step and clasped her hands.
"You don't want me!" she cried. "You don't want me because I'm not a
boy! I might have expected it. Nobody ever did want me. I might have
known it was all too beautiful to last. I might have known nobody really
did want me. Oh, what shall I do? I'm going to burst into tears!"
Burst into tears she did. Sitting down on a chair by the table, flinging
her arms out upon it, and burying her face in them, she proceeded to cry
stormily. Marilla and Matthew looked at each other deprecatingly across
the stove. Neither of them knew what to say or do. Finally Marilla
stepped lamely into the breach.
"Well, well, there's no need to cry so about it."
"Yes, there _is_ need!" The child raised her head quickly, revealing a
tear-stained face and trembling lips. "_You_ would cry, too, if you were
an orphan and had come to a place you thought was going to be home and
found that they didn't want you because you weren't a boy. Oh, this is
the most _tragical_ thing that ever happened to me!"
Something like a reluctant smile, rather rusty from long disuse,
mellowed Marilla's grim expression.
"Well, don't cry any more. We're not going to turn you out-of-doors
to-night. You'll have to stay here until we investigate this affair.
What's your name?"
The child hesitated for a moment.
"Will you please call me Cordelia?" she said eagerly.
"_Call_ you Cordelia? Is that your name?"
"No-o-o, it's not exactly my name, but I would love to be called
Cordelia. It's such a perfectly elegant name."
"I don't know what on earth you mean. If Cordelia isn't your name, what
is?"
"Anne Shirley," reluctantly faltered forth the owner of that name, "but,
oh, please do call me Cordelia. It can't matter much to you what you
call me if I'm only going to be here a little while, can it? And Anne is
such an unromantic name."
"Unromantic fiddlesticks!" said the unsympathetic Marilla. "Anne is a
real good plain sensible name. You've no need to be ashamed of it."
"Oh, I'm not ashamed of it," explained Anne, "only I like Cordelia
better. I've always imagined that my name was Cordelia--at least, I
always have of late years. When I was young I used to imagine it was
Geraldine, but I like Cordelia better now. But if you call me Anne
please call me Anne spelled with an E."
"What difference does it make how it's spelled?" asked Marilla with
another rusty smile as she picked up the teapot.
"Oh, it makes _such_ a difference. It _looks_ so much nicer. When you hear
a name pronounced can't you always see it in your mind, just as if it
was printed out? I can; and A-n-n looks dreadful, but A-n-n-e looks so
much more distinguished. If you'll only call me Anne spelled with an E I
shall try to reconcile myself to not being called Cordelia."
"Very well, then, Anne spelled with an E, can you tell us how this
mistake came to be made? We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring us a boy.
Were there no boys at the asylum?"
"Oh, yes, there was an abundance of them. But Mrs. Spencer said
_distinctly_ that you wanted a girl about eleven years old. And the
matron said she thought I would do. You don't know how delighted I was.
I couldn't sleep all last night for joy. Oh," she added reproachfully,
turning to Matthew, "why didn't you tell me at the station that you
didn't want me and leave me there? If I hadn't seen the White Way of
Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters it wouldn't be so hard."
"What on earth does she mean?" demanded Marilla, staring at Matthew.
"She--she's just referring to some conversation we had on the road,"
said Matthew hastily. "I'm going out to put the mare in, Marilla. Have
tea ready when I come back."
"Did Mrs. Spencer bring anybody over besides you?" continued Marilla
when Matthew had gone out.
"She brought Lily Jones for herself. Lily is only five years old and she
is very beautiful and had nut-brown hair. If I was very beautiful and
had nut-brown hair would you keep me?"
"No. We want a boy to help Matthew on the farm. A girl would be of
no use to us. Take off your hat. I'll lay it and your bag on the hall
table."
Anne took off her hat meekly. Matthew came back presently and they sat
down to supper. But Anne could not eat. In vain she nibbled at the
bread and butter and pecked at the crab-apple preserve out of the little
scalloped glass dish by her plate. She did not really make any headway
at all.
"You're not eating anything," said Marilla sharply, eying her as if it
were a serious shortcoming. Anne sighed.
"I can't. I'm in the depths of despair. Can you eat when you are in the
depths of despair?"
"I've never been in the depths of despair, so I can't say," responded
Marilla.
"Weren't you? Well, did you ever try to _imagine_ you were in the depths
of despair?"
"No, I didn't."
"Then I don't think you can understand what it's like. It's a very
uncomfortable feeling indeed. When you try to eat a lump comes right
up in your throat and you can't swallow anything, not even if it was a
chocolate caramel. I had one chocolate caramel once two years ago and it
was simply delicious. I've often dreamed since then that I had a lot
of chocolate caramels, but I always wake up just when I'm going to eat
them. I do hope you won't be offended because I can't eat. Everything is
extremely nice, but still I cannot eat."
"I guess she's tired," said Matthew, who hadn't spoken since his return
from the barn. "Best put her to bed, Marilla."
Marilla had been wondering where Anne should be put to bed. She had
prepared a couch in the kitchen chamber for the desired and expected
boy. But, although it was neat and clean, it did not seem quite the
thing to put a girl there somehow. But the spare room was out of the
question for such a stray waif, so there remained only the east gable
room. Marilla lighted a candle and told Anne to follow her, which Anne
spiritlessly did, taking her hat and carpet-bag from the hall table as
she passed. The hall was fearsomely clean; the little gable chamber in
which she presently found herself seemed still cleaner.
Marilla set the candle on a three-legged, three-cornered table and
turned down the bedclothes.
"I suppose you have a nightgown?" she questioned.
Anne nodded.
"Yes, I have two. The matron of the asylum made them for me. They're
fearfully skimpy. There is never enough to go around in an asylum, so
things are always skimpy--at least in a poor asylum like ours. I hate
skimpy night-dresses. But one can dream just as well in them as
in lovely trailing ones, with frills around the neck, that's one
consolation."
"Well, undress as quick as you can and go to bed. I'll come back in a
few minutes for the candle. I daren't trust you to put it out yourself.
You'd likely set the place on fire."
When Marilla had gone Anne looked around her wistfully. The whitewashed
walls were so painfully bare and staring that she thought they must ache
over their own bareness. The floor was bare, too, except for a round
braided mat in the middle such as Anne had never seen before. In
one corner was the bed, a high, old-fashioned one, with four dark,
low-turned posts. In the other corner was the aforesaid three-corner
table adorned with a fat, red velvet pin-cushion hard enough to turn the
point of the most adventurous pin. Above it hung a little six-by-eight
mirror. Midway between table and bed was the window, with an icy white
muslin frill over it, and opposite it was the wash-stand. The whole
apartment was of a rigidity not to be described in words, but which
sent a shiver to the very marrow of Anne's bones. With a sob she hastily
discarded her garments, put on the skimpy nightgown and sprang into bed
where she burrowed face downward into the pillow and pulled the clothes
over her head. When Marilla came up for the light various skimpy
articles of raiment scattered most untidily over the floor and a certain
tempestuous appearance of the bed were the only indications of any
presence save her own.
She deliberately picked up Anne's clothes, placed them neatly on a prim
yellow chair, and then, taking up the candle, went over to the bed.
"Good night," she said, a little awkwardly, but not unkindly.
Anne's white face and big eyes appeared over the bedclothes with a
startling suddenness.
"How can you call it a _good_ night when you know it must be the very
worst night I've ever had?" she said reproachfully.
Then she dived down into invisibility again.
Marilla went slowly down to the kitchen and proceeded to wash the supper
dishes. Matthew was smoking--a sure sign of perturbation of mind. He
seldom smoked, for Marilla set her face against it as a filthy habit;
but at certain times and seasons he felt driven to it and them Marilla
winked at the practice, realizing that a mere man must have some vent
for his emotions.
"Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish," she said wrathfully. "This is
what comes of sending word instead of going ourselves. Richard Spencer's
folks have twisted that message somehow. One of us will have to drive
over and see Mrs. Spencer tomorrow, that's certain. This girl will have
to be sent back to the asylum."
"Yes, I suppose so," said Matthew reluctantly.
"You _suppose_ so! Don't you know it?"
"Well now, she's a real nice little thing, Marilla. It's kind of a pity
to send her back when she's so set on staying here."
"Matthew Cuthbert, you don't mean to say you think we ought to keep
her!"
Marilla's astonishment could not have been greater if Matthew had
expressed a predilection for standing on his head.
"Well, now, no, I suppose not--not exactly," stammered Matthew,
uncomfortably driven into a corner for his precise meaning. "I
suppose--we could hardly be expected to keep her."
"I should say not. What good would she be to us?"
"We might be some good to her," said Matthew suddenly and unexpectedly.
"Matthew Cuthbert, I believe that child has bewitched you! I can see as
plain as plain that you want to keep her."
"Well now, she's a real interesting little thing," persisted Matthew.
"You should have heard her talk coming from the station."
"Oh, she can talk fast enough. I saw that at once. It's nothing in her
favour, either. I don't like children who have so much to say. I don't
want an orphan girl and if I did she isn't the style I'd pick out.
There's something I don't understand about her. No, she's got to be
despatched straight-way back to where she came from."
"I could hire a French boy to help me," said Matthew, "and she'd be
company for you."
"I'm not suffering for company," said Marilla shortly. "And I'm not
going to keep her."
"Well now, it's just as you say, of course, Marilla," said Matthew
rising and putting his pipe away. "I'm going to bed."
To bed went Matthew. And to bed, when she had put her dishes away, went
Marilla, frowning most resolutely. And up-stairs, in the east gable, a
lonely, heart-hungry, friendless child cried herself to sleep. | Marilla Cuthbert Is Surprised Unlike Matthew, Marilla does not shrink from voicing her surprise upon seeing a girl orphan, instead of a boy, at her front door. As the Cuthberts talk about Mrs. Spencer's mistake, Anne realizes she is not wanted. She dramatically bursts into tears, crying, "Nobody ever did want me. I might have known it was all too beautiful to last. Marilla and Matthew worriedly look at each other over the weeping child. Marilla interrupts the girl's outpouring to ask her name. Anne replies that she would like to be called Cordelia because she thinks the name elegant. Pressed to reveal her real name, she admits that it is Anne. She considers her name plain and unromantic, but likes the fact that her name is spelled with an "e," which she feels makes it far more distinguished than if it were "Ann. Marilla dismisses Anne's musings about the spelling of her name with a quick "fiddlesticks. Anne, focused on her situation at the Cuthberts, cannot eat supper and mournfully explains that she is "in the depths of despair. She appeals to Marilla, asking if Marilla has ever been in the depths of despair. Marilla answers that she has not and cannot imagine what such a thing might feel like. After supper, Anne dons her skimpy orphanage nightgown and cries herself to sleep in the desolate spare room. Downstairs, Marilla broaches the subject of how they will get rid of the unwanted girl. To her amazement, the usually passive Matthew voices an opinion, suggesting they might keep the child, who is so excited to stay at Green Gables and so sweet. When Marilla asks what good a girl would do on a farm, Matthew says, "We might be some good to her |
In the course of time this sorrow was removed. At the beginning of the
fifth year of her married life Christina was safely delivered of a boy.
This was on the sixth of September 1835.
Word was immediately sent to old Mr Pontifex, who received the news with
real pleasure. His son John's wife had borne daughters only, and he was
seriously uneasy lest there should be a failure in the male line of his
descendants. The good news, therefore, was doubly welcome, and caused as
much delight at Elmhurst as dismay in Woburn Square, where the John
Pontifexes were then living.
Here, indeed, this freak of fortune was felt to be all the more cruel on
account of the impossibility of resenting it openly; but the delighted
grandfather cared nothing for what the John Pontifexes might feel or not
feel; he had wanted a grandson and he had got a grandson, and this should
be enough for everybody; and, now that Mrs Theobald had taken to good
ways, she might bring him more grandsons, which would be desirable, for
he should not feel safe with fewer than three.
He rang the bell for the butler.
"Gelstrap," he said solemnly, "I want to go down into the cellar."
Then Gelstrap preceded him with a candle, and he went into the inner
vault where he kept his choicest wines.
He passed many bins: there was 1803 Port, 1792 Imperial Tokay, 1800
Claret, 1812 Sherry, these and many others were passed, but it was not
for them that the head of the Pontifex family had gone down into his
inner cellar. A bin, which had appeared empty until the full light of
the candle had been brought to bear upon it, was now found to contain a
single pint bottle. This was the object of Mr Pontifex's search.
Gelstrap had often pondered over this bottle. It had been placed there
by Mr Pontifex himself about a dozen years previously, on his return from
a visit to his friend the celebrated traveller Dr Jones--but there was no
tablet above the bin which might give a clue to the nature of its
contents. On more than one occasion when his master had gone out and
left his keys accidentally behind him, as he sometimes did, Gelstrap had
submitted the bottle to all the tests he could venture upon, but it was
so carefully sealed that wisdom remained quite shut out from that
entrance at which he would have welcomed her most gladly--and indeed from
all other entrances, for he could make out nothing at all.
And now the mystery was to be solved. But alas! it seemed as though the
last chance of securing even a sip of the contents was to be removed for
ever, for Mr Pontifex took the bottle into his own hands and held it up
to the light after carefully examining the seal. He smiled and left the
bin with the bottle in his hands.
Then came a catastrophe. He stumbled over an empty hamper; there was the
sound of a fall--a smash of broken glass, and in an instant the cellar
floor was covered with the liquid that had been preserved so carefully
for so many years.
With his usual presence of mind Mr Pontifex gasped out a month's warning
to Gelstrap. Then he got up, and stamped as Theobald had done when
Christina had wanted not to order his dinner.
"It's water from the Jordan," he exclaimed furiously, "which I have been
saving for the baptism of my eldest grandson. Damn you, Gelstrap, how
dare you be so infernally careless as to leave that hamper littering
about the cellar?"
I wonder the water of the sacred stream did not stand upright as an heap
upon the cellar floor and rebuke him. Gelstrap told the other servants
afterwards that his master's language had made his backbone curdle.
The moment, however, that he heard the word "water," he saw his way
again, and flew to the pantry. Before his master had well noted his
absence he returned with a little sponge and a basin, and had begun
sopping up the waters of the Jordan as though they had been a common
slop.
"I'll filter it, Sir," said Gelstrap meekly. "It'll come quite clean."
Mr Pontifex saw hope in this suggestion, which was shortly carried out by
the help of a piece of blotting paper and a funnel, under his own eyes.
Eventually it was found that half a pint was saved, and this was held to
be sufficient.
Then he made preparations for a visit to Battersby. He ordered goodly
hampers of the choicest eatables, he selected a goodly hamper of choice
drinkables. I say choice and not choicest, for although in his first
exaltation he had selected some of his very best wine, yet on reflection
he had felt that there was moderation in all things, and as he was
parting with his best water from the Jordan, he would only send some of
his second best wine.
Before he went to Battersby he stayed a day or two in London, which he
now seldom did, being over seventy years old, and having practically
retired from business. The John Pontifexes, who kept a sharp eye on him,
discovered to their dismay that he had had an interview with his
solicitors.
For the first time in his life Theobald felt that he had done something
right, and could look forward to meeting his father without alarm. The
old gentleman, indeed, had written him a most cordial letter, announcing
his intention of standing godfather to the boy--nay, I may as well give
it in full, as it shows the writer at his best. It runs:
"Dear Theobald,--Your letter gave me very sincere pleasure, the more
so because I had made up my mind for the worst; pray accept my most
hearty congratulations for my daughter-in-law and for yourself.
"I have long preserved a phial of water from the Jordan for the
christening of my first grandson, should it please God to grant me
one. It was given me by my old friend Dr Jones. You will agree with
me that though the efficacy of the sacrament does not depend upon the
source of the baptismal waters, yet, _ceteris paribus_, there is a
sentiment attaching to the waters of the Jordan which should not be
despised. Small matters like this sometimes influence a child's whole
future career.
"I shall bring my own cook, and have told him to get everything ready
for the christening dinner. Ask as many of your best neighbours as
your table will hold. By the way, I have told Lesueur _not to get a
lobster_--you had better drive over yourself and get one from Saltness
(for Battersby was only fourteen or fifteen miles from the sea coast);
they are better there, at least I think so, than anywhere else in
England.
"I have put your boy down for something in the event of his attaining
the age of twenty-one years. If your brother John continues to have
nothing but girls I may do more later on, but I have many claims upon
me, and am not as well off as you may imagine.--Your affectionate
father,
"G. PONTIFEX."
A few days afterwards the writer of the above letter made his appearance
in a fly which had brought him from Gildenham to Battersby, a distance of
fourteen miles. There was Lesueur, the cook, on the box with the driver,
and as many hampers as the fly could carry were disposed upon the roof
and elsewhere. Next day the John Pontifexes had to come, and Eliza and
Maria, as well as Alethea, who, by her own special request, was godmother
to the boy, for Mr Pontifex had decided that they were to form a happy
family party; so come they all must, and be happy they all must, or it
would be the worse for them. Next day the author of all this hubbub was
actually christened. Theobald had proposed to call him George after old
Mr Pontifex, but strange to say, Mr Pontifex over-ruled him in favour of
the name Ernest. The word "earnest" was just beginning to come into
fashion, and he thought the possession of such a name might, like his
having been baptised in water from the Jordan, have a permanent effect
upon the boy's character, and influence him for good during the more
critical periods of his life.
I was asked to be his second godfather, and was rejoiced to have an
opportunity of meeting Alethea, whom I had not seen for some few years,
but with whom I had been in constant correspondence. She and I had
always been friends from the time we had played together as children
onwards. When the death of her grandfather and grandmother severed her
connection with Paleham my intimacy with the Pontifexes was kept up by my
having been at school and college with Theobald, and each time I saw her
I admired her more and more as the best, kindest, wittiest, most lovable,
and, to my mind, handsomest woman whom I had ever seen. None of the
Pontifexes were deficient in good looks; they were a well-grown shapely
family enough, but Alethea was the flower of the flock even as regards
good looks, while in respect of all other qualities that make a woman
lovable, it seemed as though the stock that had been intended for the
three daughters, and would have been about sufficient for them, had all
been allotted to herself, her sisters getting none, and she all.
It is impossible for me to explain how it was that she and I never
married. We two knew exceedingly well, and that must suffice for the
reader. There was the most perfect sympathy and understanding between
us; we knew that neither of us would marry anyone else. I had asked her
to marry me a dozen times over; having said this much I will say no more
upon a point which is in no way necessary for the development of my
story. For the last few years there had been difficulties in the way of
our meeting, and I had not seen her, though, as I have said, keeping up a
close correspondence with her. Naturally I was overjoyed to meet her
again; she was now just thirty years old, but I thought she looked
handsomer than ever.
Her father, of course, was the lion of the party, but seeing that we were
all meek and quite willing to be eaten, he roared to us rather than at
us. It was a fine sight to see him tucking his napkin under his rosy old
gills, and letting it fall over his capacious waistcoat while the high
light from the chandelier danced about the bump of benevolence on his
bald old head like a star of Bethlehem.
The soup was real turtle; the old gentleman was evidently well pleased
and he was beginning to come out. Gelstrap stood behind his master's
chair. I sat next Mrs Theobald on her left hand, and was thus just
opposite her father-in-law, whom I had every opportunity of observing.
During the first ten minutes or so, which were taken up with the soup and
the bringing in of the fish, I should probably have thought, if I had not
long since made up my mind about him, what a fine old man he was and how
proud his children should be of him; but suddenly as he was helping
himself to lobster sauce, he flushed crimson, a look of extreme vexation
suffused his face, and he darted two furtive but fiery glances to the two
ends of the table, one for Theobald and one for Christina. They, poor
simple souls, of course saw that something was exceedingly wrong, and so
did I, but I couldn't guess what it was till I heard the old man hiss in
Christina's ear: "It was not made with a hen lobster. What's the use,"
he continued, "of my calling the boy Ernest, and getting him christened
in water from the Jordan, if his own father does not know a cock from a
hen lobster?"
This cut me too, for I felt that till that moment I had not so much as
known that there were cocks and hens among lobsters, but had vaguely
thought that in the matter of matrimony they were even as the angels in
heaven, and grew up almost spontaneously from rocks and sea-weed.
Before the next course was over Mr Pontifex had recovered his temper, and
from that time to the end of the evening he was at his best. He told us
all about the water from the Jordan; how it had been brought by Dr Jones
along with some stone jars of water from the Rhine, the Rhone, the Elbe
and the Danube, and what trouble he had had with them at the Custom
Houses, and how the intention had been to make punch with waters from all
the greatest rivers in Europe; and how he, Mr Pontifex, had saved the
Jordan water from going into the bowl, etc., etc. "No, no, no," he
continued, "it wouldn't have done at all, you know; very profane idea; so
we each took a pint bottle of it home with us, and the punch was much
better without it. I had a narrow escape with mine, though, the other
day; I fell over a hamper in the cellar, when I was getting it up to
bring to Battersby, and if I had not taken the greatest care the bottle
would certainly have been broken, but I saved it." And Gelstrap was
standing behind his chair all the time!
Nothing more happened to ruffle Mr Pontifex, so we had a delightful
evening, which has often recurred to me while watching the after career
of my godson.
I called a day or two afterwards and found Mr Pontifex still at
Battersby, laid up with one of those attacks of liver and depression to
which he was becoming more and more subject. I stayed to luncheon. The
old gentleman was cross and very difficult; he could eat nothing--had no
appetite at all. Christina tried to coax him with a little bit of the
fleshy part of a mutton chop. "How in the name of reason can I be asked
to eat a mutton chop?" he exclaimed angrily; "you forget, my dear
Christina, that you have to deal with a stomach that is totally
disorganised," and he pushed the plate from him, pouting and frowning
like a naughty old child. Writing as I do by the light of a later
knowledge, I suppose I should have seen nothing in this but the world's
growing pains, the disturbance inseparable from transition in human
things. I suppose in reality not a leaf goes yellow in autumn without
ceasing to care about its sap and making the parent tree very
uncomfortable by long growling and grumbling--but surely nature might
find some less irritating way of carrying on business if she would give
her mind to it. Why should the generations overlap one another at all?
Why cannot we be buried as eggs in neat little cells with ten or twenty
thousand pounds each wrapped round us in Bank of England notes, and wake
up, as the sphex wasp does, to find that its papa and mamma have not only
left ample provision at its elbow, but have been eaten by sparrows some
weeks before it began to live consciously on its own account?
About a year and a half afterwards the tables were turned on
Battersby--for Mrs John Pontifex was safely delivered of a boy. A year
or so later still, George Pontifex was himself struck down suddenly by a
fit of paralysis, much as his mother had been, but he did not see the
years of his mother. When his will was opened, it was found that an
original bequest of 20,000 pounds to Theobald himself (over and above the
sum that had been settled upon him and Christina at the time of his
marriage) had been cut down to 17,500 pounds when Mr Pontifex left
"something" to Ernest. The "something" proved to be 2500 pounds, which
was to accumulate in the hands of trustees. The rest of the property
went to John Pontifex, except that each of the daughters was left with
about 15,000 pounds over and above 5000 pounds a piece which they
inherited from their mother.
Theobald's father then had told him the truth but not the whole truth.
Nevertheless, what right had Theobald to complain? Certainly it was
rather hard to make him think that he and his were to be gainers, and get
the honour and glory of the bequest, when all the time the money was
virtually being taken out of Theobald's own pocket. On the other hand
the father doubtless argued that he had never told Theobald he was to
have anything at all; he had a full right to do what he liked with his
own money; if Theobald chose to indulge in unwarrantable expectations
that was no affair of his; as it was he was providing for him liberally;
and if he did take 2500 pounds of Theobald's share he was still leaving
it to Theobald's son, which, of course, was much the same thing in the
end.
No one can deny that the testator had strict right upon his side;
nevertheless the reader will agree with me that Theobald and Christina
might not have considered the christening dinner so great a success if
all the facts had been before them. Mr Pontifex had during his own
lifetime set up a monument in Elmhurst Church to the memory of his wife
(a slab with urns and cherubs like illegitimate children of King George
the Fourth, and all the rest of it), and had left space for his own
epitaph underneath that of his wife. I do not know whether it was
written by one of his children, or whether they got some friend to write
it for them. I do not believe that any satire was intended. I believe
that it was the intention to convey that nothing short of the Day of
Judgement could give anyone an idea how good a man Mr Pontifex had been,
but at first I found it hard to think that it was free from guile.
The epitaph begins by giving dates of birth and death; then sets out that
the deceased was for many years head of the firm of Fairlie and Pontifex,
and also resident in the parish of Elmhurst. There is not a syllable of
either praise or dispraise. The last lines run as follows:--
HE NOW LIES AWAITING A JOYFUL RESURRECTION
AT THE LAST DAY.
WHAT MANNER OF MAN HE WAS
THAT DAY WILL DISCOVER.
This much, however, we may say in the meantime, that having lived to be
nearly seventy-three years old and died rich he must have been in very
fair harmony with his surroundings. I have heard it said sometimes that
such and such a person's life was a lie: but no man's life can be a very
bad lie; as long as it continues at all it is at worst nine-tenths of it
true.
Mr Pontifex's life not only continued a long time, but was prosperous
right up to the end. Is not this enough? Being in this world is it not
our most obvious business to make the most of it--to observe what things
do _bona fide_ tend to long life and comfort, and to act accordingly? All
animals, except man, know that the principal business of life is to enjoy
it--and they do enjoy it as much as man and other circumstances will
allow. He has spent his life best who has enjoyed it most; God will take
care that we do not enjoy it any more than is good for us. If Mr
Pontifex is to be blamed it is for not having eaten and drunk less and
thus suffered less from his liver, and lived perhaps a year or two
longer.
Goodness is naught unless it tends towards old age and sufficiency of
means. I speak broadly and _exceptis excipiendis_. So the psalmist
says, "The righteous shall not lack anything that is good." Either this
is mere poetical license, or it follows that he who lacks anything that
is good is not righteous; there is a presumption also that he who has
passed a long life without lacking anything that is good has himself also
been good enough for practical purposes.
Mr Pontifex never lacked anything he much cared about. True, he might
have been happier than he was if he had cared about things which he did
not care for, but the gist of this lies in the "if he had cared." We
have all sinned and come short of the glory of making ourselves as
comfortable as we easily might have done, but in this particular case Mr
Pontifex did not care, and would not have gained much by getting what he
did not want.
There is no casting of swine's meat before men worse than that which
would flatter virtue as though her true origin were not good enough for
her, but she must have a lineage, deduced as it were by spiritual
heralds, from some stock with which she has nothing to do. Virtue's true
lineage is older and more respectable than any that can be invented for
her. She springs from man's experience concerning his own well-being--and
this, though not infallible, is still the least fallible thing we have. A
system which cannot stand without a better foundation than this must have
something so unstable within itself that it will topple over on whatever
pedestal we place it.
The world has long ago settled that morality and virtue are what bring
men peace at the last. "Be virtuous," says the copy-book, "and you will
be happy." Surely if a reputed virtue fails often in this respect it is
only an insidious form of vice, and if a reputed vice brings no very
serious mischief on a man's later years it is not so bad a vice as it is
said to be. Unfortunately though we are all of a mind about the main
opinion that virtue is what tends to happiness, and vice what ends in
sorrow, we are not so unanimous about details--that is to say as to
whether any given course, such, we will say, as smoking, has a tendency
to happiness or the reverse.
I submit it as the result of my own poor observation, that a good deal of
unkindness and selfishness on the part of parents towards children is not
generally followed by ill consequences to the parents themselves. They
may cast a gloom over their children's lives for many years without
having to suffer anything that will hurt them. I should say, then, that
it shows no great moral obliquity on the part of parents if within
certain limits they make their children's lives a burden to them.
Granted that Mr Pontifex's was not a very exalted character, ordinary men
are not required to have very exalted characters. It is enough if we are
of the same moral and mental stature as the "main" or "mean" part of
men--that is to say as the average.
It is involved in the very essence of things that rich men who die old
shall have been mean. The greatest and wisest of mankind will be almost
always found to be the meanest--the ones who have kept the "mean" best
between excess either of virtue or vice. They hardly ever have been
prosperous if they have not done this, and, considering how many miscarry
altogether, it is no small feather in a man's cap if he has been no worse
than his neighbours. Homer tells us about some one who made it his
business [Greek text]--always to excel and to stand higher than other
people. What an uncompanionable disagreeable person he must have been!
Homer's heroes generally came to a bad end, and I doubt not that this
gentleman, whoever he was, did so sooner or later.
A very high standard, again, involves the possession of rare virtues, and
rare virtues are like rare plants or animals, things that have not been
able to hold their own in the world. A virtue to be serviceable must,
like gold, be alloyed with some commoner but more durable metal.
People divide off vice and virtue as though they were two things, neither
of which had with it anything of the other. This is not so. There is no
useful virtue which has not some alloy of vice, and hardly any vice, if
any, which carries not with it a little dash of virtue; virtue and vice
are like life and death, or mind and matter--things which cannot exist
without being qualified by their opposite. The most absolute life
contains death, and the corpse is still in many respects living; so also
it has been said, "If thou, Lord, wilt be extreme to mark what is done
amiss," which shows that even the highest ideal we can conceive will yet
admit so much compromise with vice as shall countenance the poor abuses
of the time, if they are not too outrageous. That vice pays homage to
virtue is notorious; we call this hypocrisy; there should be a word found
for the homage which virtue not unfrequently pays, or at any rate would
be wise in paying, to vice.
I grant that some men will find happiness in having what we all feel to
be a higher moral standard than others. If they go in for this, however,
they must be content with virtue as her own reward, and not grumble if
they find lofty Quixotism an expensive luxury, whose rewards belong to a
kingdom that is not of this world. They must not wonder if they cut a
poor figure in trying to make the most of both worlds. Disbelieve as we
may the details of the accounts which record the growth of the Christian
religion, yet a great part of Christian teaching will remain as true as
though we accepted the details. We cannot serve God and Mammon; strait
is the way and narrow is the gate which leads to what those who live by
faith hold to be best worth having, and there is no way of saying this
better than the Bible has done. It is well there should be some who
think thus, as it is well there should be speculators in commerce, who
will often burn their fingers--but it is not well that the majority
should leave the "mean" and beaten path.
For most men, and most circumstances, pleasure--tangible material
prosperity in this world--is the safest test of virtue. Progress has
ever been through the pleasures rather than through the extreme sharp
virtues, and the most virtuous have leaned to excess rather than to
asceticism. To use a commercial metaphor, competition is so keen, and
the margin of profits has been cut down so closely that virtue cannot
afford to throw any _bona fide_ chance away, and must base her action
rather on the actual moneying out of conduct than on a flattering
prospectus. She will not therefore neglect--as some do who are prudent
and economical enough in other matters--the important factor of our
chance of escaping detection, or at any rate of our dying first. A
reasonable virtue will give this chance its due value, neither more nor
less.
Pleasure, after all, is a safer guide than either right or duty. For
hard as it is to know what gives us pleasure, right and duty are often
still harder to distinguish and, if we go wrong with them, will lead us
into just as sorry a plight as a mistaken opinion concerning pleasure.
When men burn their fingers through following after pleasure they find
out their mistake and get to see where they have gone wrong more easily
than when they have burnt them through following after a fancied duty, or
a fancied idea concerning right virtue. The devil, in fact, when he
dresses himself in angel's clothes, can only be detected by experts of
exceptional skill, and so often does he adopt this disguise that it is
hardly safe to be seen talking to an angel at all, and prudent people
will follow after pleasure as a more homely but more respectable and on
the whole much more trustworthy guide.
Returning to Mr Pontifex, over and above his having lived long and
prosperously, he left numerous offspring, to all of whom he communicated
not only his physical and mental characteristics, with no more than the
usual amount of modification, but also no small share of characteristics
which are less easily transmitted--I mean his pecuniary characteristics.
It may be said that he acquired these by sitting still and letting money
run, as it were, right up against him, but against how many does not
money run who do not take it when it does, or who, even if they hold it
for a little while, cannot so incorporate it with themselves that it
shall descend through them to their offspring? Mr Pontifex did this. He
kept what he may be said to have made, and money is like a reputation for
ability--more easily made than kept.
Take him, then, for all in all, I am not inclined to be so severe upon
him as my father was. Judge him according to any very lofty standard,
and he is nowhere. Judge him according to a fair average standard, and
there is not much fault to be found with him. I have said what I have
said in the foregoing chapter once for all, and shall not break my thread
to repeat it. It should go without saying in modification of the verdict
which the reader may be inclined to pass too hastily, not only upon Mr
George Pontifex, but also upon Theobald and Christina. And now I will
continue my story.
The birth of his son opened Theobald's eyes to a good deal which he had
but faintly realised hitherto. He had had no idea how great a nuisance a
baby was. Babies come into the world so suddenly at the end, and upset
everything so terribly when they do come: why cannot they steal in upon
us with less of a shock to the domestic system? His wife, too, did not
recover rapidly from her confinement; she remained an invalid for months;
here was another nuisance and an expensive one, which interfered with the
amount which Theobald liked to put by out of his income against, as he
said, a rainy day, or to make provision for his family if he should have
one. Now he was getting a family, so that it became all the more
necessary to put money by, and here was the baby hindering him. Theorists
may say what they like about a man's children being a continuation of his
own identity, but it will generally be found that those who talk in this
way have no children of their own. Practical family men know better.
About twelve months after the birth of Ernest there came a second, also a
boy, who was christened Joseph, and in less than twelve months
afterwards, a girl, to whom was given the name of Charlotte. A few
months before this girl was born Christina paid a visit to the John
Pontifexes in London, and, knowing her condition, passed a good deal of
time at the Royal Academy exhibition looking at the types of female
beauty portrayed by the Academicians, for she had made up her mind that
the child this time was to be a girl. Alethea warned her not to do this,
but she persisted, and certainly the child turned out plain, but whether
the pictures caused this or no I cannot say.
Theobald had never liked children. He had always got away from them as
soon as he could, and so had they from him; oh, why, he was inclined to
ask himself, could not children be born into the world grown up? If
Christina could have given birth to a few full-grown clergymen in
priest's orders--of moderate views, but inclining rather to
Evangelicalism, with comfortable livings and in all respects facsimiles
of Theobald himself--why, there might have been more sense in it; or if
people could buy ready-made children at a shop of whatever age and sex
they liked, instead of always having to make them at home and to begin at
the beginning with them--that might do better, but as it was he did not
like it. He felt as he had felt when he had been required to come and be
married to Christina--that he had been going on for a long time quite
nicely, and would much rather continue things on their present footing.
In the matter of getting married he had been obliged to pretend he liked
it; but times were changed, and if he did not like a thing now, he could
find a hundred unexceptionable ways of making his dislike apparent.
It might have been better if Theobald in his younger days had kicked more
against his father: the fact that he had not done so encouraged him to
expect the most implicit obedience from his own children. He could trust
himself, he said (and so did Christina), to be more lenient than perhaps
his father had been to himself; his danger, he said (and so again did
Christina), would be rather in the direction of being too indulgent; he
must be on his guard against this, for no duty could be more important
than that of teaching a child to obey its parents in all things.
He had read not long since of an Eastern traveller, who, while exploring
somewhere in the more remote parts of Arabia and Asia Minor, had come
upon a remarkably hardy, sober, industrious little Christian
community--all of them in the best of health--who had turned out to be
the actual living descendants of Jonadab, the son of Rechab; and two men
in European costume, indeed, but speaking English with a broken accent,
and by their colour evidently Oriental, had come begging to Battersby
soon afterwards, and represented themselves as belonging to this people;
they had said they were collecting funds to promote the conversion of
their fellow tribesmen to the English branch of the Christian religion.
True, they turned out to be impostors, for when he gave them a pound and
Christina five shillings from her private purse, they went and got drunk
with it in the next village but one to Battersby; still, this did not
invalidate the story of the Eastern traveller. Then there were the
Romans--whose greatness was probably due to the wholesome authority
exercised by the head of a family over all its members. Some Romans had
even killed their children; this was going too far, but then the Romans
were not Christians, and knew no better.
The practical outcome of the foregoing was a conviction in Theobald's
mind, and if in his, then in Christina's, that it was their duty to begin
training up their children in the way they should go, even from their
earliest infancy. The first signs of self-will must be carefully looked
for, and plucked up by the roots at once before they had time to grow.
Theobald picked up this numb serpent of a metaphor and cherished it in
his bosom.
Before Ernest could well crawl he was taught to kneel; before he could
well speak he was taught to lisp the Lord's prayer, and the general
confession. How was it possible that these things could be taught too
early? If his attention flagged or his memory failed him, here was an
ill weed which would grow apace, unless it were plucked out immediately,
and the only way to pluck it out was to whip him, or shut him up in a
cupboard, or dock him of some of the small pleasures of childhood. Before
he was three years old he could read and, after a fashion, write. Before
he was four he was learning Latin, and could do rule of three sums.
As for the child himself, he was naturally of an even temper, he doted
upon his nurse, on kittens and puppies, and on all things that would do
him the kindness of allowing him to be fond of them. He was fond of his
mother, too, but as regards his father, he has told me in later life he
could remember no feeling but fear and shrinking. Christina did not
remonstrate with Theobald concerning the severity of the tasks imposed
upon their boy, nor yet as to the continual whippings that were found
necessary at lesson times. Indeed, when during any absence of Theobald's
the lessons were entrusted to her, she found to her sorrow that it was
the only thing to do, and she did it no less effectually than Theobald
himself, nevertheless she was fond of her boy, which Theobald never was,
and it was long before she could destroy all affection for herself in the
mind of her first-born. But she persevered.
Strange! for she believed she doted upon him, and certainly she loved him
better than either of her other children. Her version of the matter was
that there had never yet been two parents so self-denying and devoted to
the highest welfare of their children as Theobald and herself. For
Ernest, a very great future--she was certain of it--was in store. This
made severity all the more necessary, so that from the first he might
have been kept pure from every taint of evil. She could not allow
herself the scope for castle building which, we read, was indulged in by
every Jewish matron before the appearance of the Messiah, for the Messiah
had now come, but there was to be a millennium shortly, certainly not
later than 1866, when Ernest would be just about the right age for it,
and a modern Elias would be wanted to herald its approach. Heaven would
bear her witness that she had never shrunk from the idea of martyrdom for
herself and Theobald, nor would she avoid it for her boy, if his life was
required of her in her Redeemer's service. Oh, no! If God told her to
offer up her first-born, as He had told Abraham, she would take him up to
Pigbury Beacon and plunge the--no, that she could not do, but it would be
unnecessary--some one else might do that. It was not for nothing that
Ernest had been baptised in water from the Jordan. It had not been her
doing, nor yet Theobald's. They had not sought it. When water from the
sacred stream was wanted for a sacred infant, the channel had been found
through which it was to flow from far Palestine over land and sea to the
door of the house where the child was lying. Why, it was a miracle! It
was! It was! She saw it all now. The Jordan had left its bed and
flowed into her own house. It was idle to say that this was not a
miracle. No miracle was effected without means of some kind; the
difference between the faithful and the unbeliever consisted in the very
fact that the former could see a miracle where the latter could not. The
Jews could see no miracle even in the raising of Lazarus and the feeding
of the five thousand. The John Pontifexes would see no miracle in this
matter of the water from the Jordan. The essence of a miracle lay not in
the fact that means had been dispensed with, but in the adoption of means
to a great end that had not been available without interference; and no
one would suppose that Dr Jones would have brought the water unless he
had been directed. She would tell this to Theobald, and get him to see
it in the . . . and yet perhaps it would be better not. The insight of
women upon matters of this sort was deeper and more unerring than that of
men. It was a woman and not a man who had been filled most completely
with the whole fulness of the Deity. But why had they not treasured up
the water after it was used? It ought never, never to have been thrown
away, but it had been. Perhaps, however, this was for the best too--they
might have been tempted to set too much store by it, and it might have
become a source of spiritual danger to them--perhaps even of spiritual
pride, the very sin of all others which she most abhorred. As for the
channel through which the Jordan had flowed to Battersby, that mattered
not more than the earth through which the river ran in Palestine itself.
Dr Jones was certainly worldly--very worldly; so, she regretted to feel,
had been her father-in-law, though in a less degree; spiritual, at heart,
doubtless, and becoming more and more spiritual continually as he grew
older, still he was tainted with the world, till a very few hours,
probably, before his death, whereas she and Theobald had given up all for
Christ's sake. _They_ were not worldly. At least Theobald was not. She
had been, but she was sure she had grown in grace since she had left off
eating things strangled and blood--this was as the washing in Jordan as
against Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus. Her boy should never
touch a strangled fowl nor a black pudding--that, at any rate, she could
see to. He should have a coral from the neighbourhood of Joppa--there
were coral insects on those coasts, so that the thing could easily be
done with a little energy; she would write to Dr Jones about it, etc. And
so on for hours together day after day for years. Truly, Mrs Theobald
loved her child according to her lights with an exceeding great fondness,
but the dreams she had dreamed in sleep were sober realities in
comparison with those she indulged in while awake.
When Ernest was in his second year, Theobald, as I have already said,
began to teach him to read. He began to whip him two days after he had
begun to teach him.
"It was painful," as he said to Christina, but it was the only thing to
do and it was done. The child was puny, white and sickly, so they sent
continually for the doctor who dosed him with calomel and James's powder.
All was done in love, anxiety, timidity, stupidity, and impatience. They
were stupid in little things; and he that is stupid in little will be
stupid also in much.
Presently old Mr Pontifex died, and then came the revelation of the
little alteration he had made in his will simultaneously with his bequest
to Ernest. It was rather hard to bear, especially as there was no way of
conveying a bit of their minds to the testator now that he could no
longer hurt them. As regards the boy himself anyone must see that the
bequest would be an unmitigated misfortune to him. To leave him a small
independence was perhaps the greatest injury which one could inflict upon
a young man. It would cripple his energies, and deaden his desire for
active employment. Many a youth was led into evil courses by the
knowledge that on arriving at majority he would come into a few
thousands. They might surely have been trusted to have their boy's
interests at heart, and must be better judges of those interests than he,
at twenty-one, could be expected to be: besides if Jonadab, the son of
Rechab's father--or perhaps it might be simpler under the circumstances
to say Rechab at once--if Rechab, then, had left handsome legacies to his
grandchildren--why Jonadab might not have found those children so easy to
deal with, etc. "My dear," said Theobald, after having discussed the
matter with Christina for the twentieth time, "my dear, the only thing to
guide and console us under misfortunes of this kind is to take refuge in
practical work. I will go and pay a visit to Mrs Thompson."
On those days Mrs Thompson would be told that her sins were all washed
white, etc., a little sooner and a little more peremptorily than on
others. | The birth of Ernest during the fifth year of Theobald and Christina's marriage is especially welcome news to George Pontifex, for Ernest is his first grandson. Wishing to mark the event in a special way, George personally enters his wine cellar to retrieve a bottle of water taken from the Jordan River. Unfortunately, he drops the bottle, but his servant's quick work with a sponge and filter saves enough of the precious fluid to be used at the infant's christening. The family dinner following the event goes exceedingly well, Overton observes, excepting George's extreme perturbation at being served a cock lobster instead of a hen lobster. The dinner is also notable for the presence of Theobald's sister, Alethea , and the narrator, Overton . Overton makes a brief comment on his long courtship of Alethea, who, for some unexplained reason, has never consented to marry him. Neither of them, Overton observes, will ever marry anyone else. In writing about Ernest's christening many years after the actual event, Overton wryly asks himself, "Why cannot we be buried as eggs in neat little cells with ten or twenty thousand pounds each wrapped round us in Bank of England notes" before we wake to find "that papa and mamma . . . have been eaten by sparrows?" The death of George Pontifex from a chronic liver condition caused by excessive eating and drinking elicits a eulogy from Overton. Admitting that the deceased had his full share of faults, Overton believes that, on the whole, George lived according to the pleasure principle which most unexceptional men should follow. If George had been a mean person, he was mean in the total sense of the word and not merely crabbed nor excessive in his virtues and vices. The observance of higher moral standards would have prevented him from obtaining the wealth he needed to live pleasurably. If he had been something of a miser, his money-gathering represents a talent which few people possess. "Judge him according to a fair average standard," Overton concludes, "and there is not much fault to be found with him." Ernest is scarcely a toddler when his parents begin the regimen which continues until Ernest is sent away to school. Theobald does not like children, and Christina wishes that they could be born as "full-grown clergymen . . . with comfortable livings." Constantly on guard against leniency, Theobald gives his eldest child daily lessons and beatings to eradicate any signs of self-will in him or in his younger brother and sister. Christina obediently tries to follow her husband's example in child rearing, but she succeeds better in entertaining idle fancies about their futures than in administrating corporal punishment. Imagining herself grown more spiritually pure from having "left off eating things strangled and blood," Christina dreams of herself as a possible Madonna and Ernest as a reincarnation of Christ. |
"Oh, more or less." I fancy my smile was pale. "Not absolutely. We
shouldn't like that!" I went on.
"No--I suppose we shouldn't. Of course we have the others."
"We have the others--we have indeed the others," I concurred.
"Yet even though we have them," he returned, still with his hands in
his pockets and planted there in front of me, "they don't much count, do
they?"
I made the best of it, but I felt wan. "It depends on what you call
'much'!"
"Yes"--with all accommodation--"everything depends!" On this, however,
he faced to the window again and presently reached it with his vague,
restless, cogitating step. He remained there awhile, with his forehead
against the glass, in contemplation of the stupid shrubs I knew and the
dull things of November. I had always my hypocrisy of "work," behind
which, now, I gained the sofa. Steadying myself with it there as I had
repeatedly done at those moments of torment that I have described as the
moments of my knowing the children to be given to something from which
I was barred, I sufficiently obeyed my habit of being prepared for the
worst. But an extraordinary impression dropped on me as I extracted a
meaning from the boy's embarrassed back--none other than the impression
that I was not barred now. This inference grew in a few minutes to sharp
intensity and seemed bound up with the direct perception that it was
positively HE who was. The frames and squares of the great window were a
kind of image, for him, of a kind of failure. I felt that I saw him, at
any rate, shut in or shut out. He was admirable, but not comfortable: I
took it in with a throb of hope. Wasn't he looking, through the haunted
pane, for something he couldn't see?--and wasn't it the first time in
the whole business that he had known such a lapse? The first, the very
first: I found it a splendid portent. It made him anxious, though he
watched himself; he had been anxious all day and, even while in his
usual sweet little manner he sat at table, had needed all his small
strange genius to give it a gloss. When he at last turned round to meet
me, it was almost as if this genius had succumbed. "Well, I think I'm
glad Bly agrees with ME!"
"You would certainly seem to have seen, these twenty-four hours, a good
deal more of it than for some time before. I hope," I went on bravely,
"that you've been enjoying yourself."
"Oh, yes, I've been ever so far; all round about--miles and miles away.
I've never been so free."
He had really a manner of his own, and I could only try to keep up with
him. "Well, do you like it?"
He stood there smiling; then at last he put into two words--"Do
YOU?"--more discrimination than I had ever heard two words contain.
Before I had time to deal with that, however, he continued as if with
the sense that this was an impertinence to be softened. "Nothing could
be more charming than the way you take it, for of course if we're alone
together now it's you that are alone most. But I hope," he threw in,
"you don't particularly mind!"
"Having to do with you?" I asked. "My dear child, how can I help
minding? Though I've renounced all claim to your company--you're so
beyond me--I at least greatly enjoy it. What else should I stay on for?"
He looked at me more directly, and the expression of his face, graver
now, struck me as the most beautiful I had ever found in it. "You stay
on just for THAT?"
"Certainly. I stay on as your friend and from the tremendous interest
I take in you till something can be done for you that may be more worth
your while. That needn't surprise you." My voice trembled so that I felt
it impossible to suppress the shake. "Don't you remember how I told you,
when I came and sat on your bed the night of the storm, that there was
nothing in the world I wouldn't do for you?"
"Yes, yes!" He, on his side, more and more visibly nervous, had a tone
to master; but he was so much more successful than I that, laughing out
through his gravity, he could pretend we were pleasantly jesting. "Only
that, I think, was to get me to do something for YOU!"
"It was partly to get you to do something," I conceded. "But, you know,
you didn't do it."
"Oh, yes," he said with the brightest superficial eagerness, "you wanted
me to tell you something."
"That's it. Out, straight out. What you have on your mind, you know."
"Ah, then, is THAT what you've stayed over for?"
He spoke with a gaiety through which I could still catch the finest
little quiver of resentful passion; but I can't begin to express the
effect upon me of an implication of surrender even so faint. It was as
if what I had yearned for had come at last only to astonish me. "Well,
yes--I may as well make a clean breast of it, it was precisely for
that."
He waited so long that I supposed it for the purpose of repudiating the
assumption on which my action had been founded; but what he finally said
was: "Do you mean now--here?"
"There couldn't be a better place or time." He looked round him
uneasily, and I had the rare--oh, the queer!--impression of the very
first symptom I had seen in him of the approach of immediate fear.
It was as if he were suddenly afraid of me--which struck me indeed as
perhaps the best thing to make him. Yet in the very pang of the effort
I felt it vain to try sternness, and I heard myself the next instant so
gentle as to be almost grotesque. "You want so to go out again?"
"Awfully!" He smiled at me heroically, and the touching little bravery
of it was enhanced by his actually flushing with pain. He had picked up
his hat, which he had brought in, and stood twirling it in a way that
gave me, even as I was just nearly reaching port, a perverse horror of
what I was doing. To do it in ANY way was an act of violence, for what
did it consist of but the obtrusion of the idea of grossness and guilt
on a small helpless creature who had been for me a revelation of the
possibilities of beautiful intercourse? Wasn't it base to create for a
being so exquisite a mere alien awkwardness? I suppose I now read into
our situation a clearness it couldn't have had at the time, for I seem
to see our poor eyes already lighted with some spark of a prevision
of the anguish that was to come. So we circled about, with terrors and
scruples, like fighters not daring to close. But it was for each other
we feared! That kept us a little longer suspended and unbruised. "I'll
tell you everything," Miles said--"I mean I'll tell you anything you
like. You'll stay on with me, and we shall both be all right, and I WILL
tell you--I WILL. But not now."
"Why not now?"
My insistence turned him from me and kept him once more at his window
in a silence during which, between us, you might have heard a pin drop.
Then he was before me again with the air of a person for whom, outside,
someone who had frankly to be reckoned with was waiting. "I have to see
Luke."
I had not yet reduced him to quite so vulgar a lie, and I felt
proportionately ashamed. But, horrible as it was, his lies made up my
truth. I achieved thoughtfully a few loops of my knitting. "Well, then,
go to Luke, and I'll wait for what you promise. Only, in return for
that, satisfy, before you leave me, one very much smaller request."
He looked as if he felt he had succeeded enough to be able still a
little to bargain. "Very much smaller--?"
"Yes, a mere fraction of the whole. Tell me"--oh, my work preoccupied
me, and I was offhand!--"if, yesterday afternoon, from the table in the
hall, you took, you know, my letter."
My sense of how he received this suffered for a minute from something
that I can describe only as a fierce split of my attention--a stroke
that at first, as I sprang straight up, reduced me to the mere blind
movement of getting hold of him, drawing him close, and, while I just
fell for support against the nearest piece of furniture, instinctively
keeping him with his back to the window. The appearance was full upon us
that I had already had to deal with here: Peter Quint had come into view
like a sentinel before a prison. The next thing I saw was that, from
outside, he had reached the window, and then I knew that, close to the
glass and glaring in through it, he offered once more to the room his
white face of damnation. It represents but grossly what took place
within me at the sight to say that on the second my decision was made;
yet I believe that no woman so overwhelmed ever in so short a time
recovered her grasp of the ACT. It came to me in the very horror of the
immediate presence that the act would be, seeing and facing what I saw
and faced, to keep the boy himself unaware. The inspiration--I can
call it by no other name--was that I felt how voluntarily, how
transcendently, I MIGHT. It was like fighting with a demon for a
human soul, and when I had fairly so appraised it I saw how the human
soul--held out, in the tremor of my hands, at arm's length--had a
perfect dew of sweat on a lovely childish forehead. The face that was
close to mine was as white as the face against the glass, and out of it
presently came a sound, not low nor weak, but as if from much further
away, that I drank like a waft of fragrance.
"Yes--I took it."
At this, with a moan of joy, I enfolded, I drew him close; and while
I held him to my breast, where I could feel in the sudden fever of his
little body the tremendous pulse of his little heart, I kept my eyes on
the thing at the window and saw it move and shift its posture. I have
likened it to a sentinel, but its slow wheel, for a moment, was rather
the prowl of a baffled beast. My present quickened courage, however, was
such that, not too much to let it through, I had to shade, as it were,
my flame. Meanwhile the glare of the face was again at the window, the
scoundrel fixed as if to watch and wait. It was the very confidence that
I might now defy him, as well as the positive certitude, by this time,
of the child's unconsciousness, that made me go on. "What did you take
it for?"
"To see what you said about me."
"You opened the letter?"
"I opened it."
My eyes were now, as I held him off a little again, on Miles's own face,
in which the collapse of mockery showed me how complete was the ravage
of uneasiness. What was prodigious was that at last, by my success, his
sense was sealed and his communication stopped: he knew that he was in
presence, but knew not of what, and knew still less that I also was and
that I did know. And what did this strain of trouble matter when my eyes
went back to the window only to see that the air was clear again and--by
my personal triumph--the influence quenched? There was nothing there. I
felt that the cause was mine and that I should surely get ALL. "And you
found nothing!"--I let my elation out.
He gave the most mournful, thoughtful little headshake. "Nothing."
"Nothing, nothing!" I almost shouted in my joy.
"Nothing, nothing," he sadly repeated.
I kissed his forehead; it was drenched. "So what have you done with it?"
"I've burned it."
"Burned it?" It was now or never. "Is that what you did at school?"
Oh, what this brought up! "At school?"
"Did you take letters?--or other things?"
"Other things?" He appeared now to be thinking of something far off and
that reached him only through the pressure of his anxiety. Yet it did
reach him. "Did I STEAL?"
I felt myself redden to the roots of my hair as well as wonder if it
were more strange to put to a gentleman such a question or to see him
take it with allowances that gave the very distance of his fall in the
world. "Was it for that you mightn't go back?"
The only thing he felt was rather a dreary little surprise. "Did you
know I mightn't go back?"
"I know everything."
He gave me at this the longest and strangest look. "Everything?"
"Everything. Therefore DID you--?" But I couldn't say it again.
Miles could, very simply. "No. I didn't steal."
My face must have shown him I believed him utterly; yet my hands--but it
was for pure tenderness--shook him as if to ask him why, if it was all
for nothing, he had condemned me to months of torment. "What then did
you do?"
He looked in vague pain all round the top of the room and drew his
breath, two or three times over, as if with difficulty. He might have
been standing at the bottom of the sea and raising his eyes to some
faint green twilight. "Well--I said things."
"Only that?"
"They thought it was enough!"
"To turn you out for?"
Never, truly, had a person "turned out" shown so little to explain it
as this little person! He appeared to weigh my question, but in a manner
quite detached and almost helpless. "Well, I suppose I oughtn't."
"But to whom did you say them?"
He evidently tried to remember, but it dropped--he had lost it. "I don't
know!"
He almost smiled at me in the desolation of his surrender, which was
indeed practically, by this time, so complete that I ought to have left
it there. But I was infatuated--I was blind with victory, though even
then the very effect that was to have brought him so much nearer was
already that of added separation. "Was it to everyone?" I asked.
"No; it was only to--" But he gave a sick little headshake. "I don't
remember their names."
"Were they then so many?"
"No--only a few. Those I liked."
Those he liked? I seemed to float not into clearness, but into a darker
obscure, and within a minute there had come to me out of my very pity
the appalling alarm of his being perhaps innocent. It was for the
instant confounding and bottomless, for if he WERE innocent, what then
on earth was _I_? Paralyzed, while it lasted, by the mere brush of the
question, I let him go a little, so that, with a deep-drawn sigh, he
turned away from me again; which, as he faced toward the clear window,
I suffered, feeling that I had nothing now there to keep him from. "And
did they repeat what you said?" I went on after a moment.
He was soon at some distance from me, still breathing hard and again
with the air, though now without anger for it, of being confined against
his will. Once more, as he had done before, he looked up at the dim
day as if, of what had hitherto sustained him, nothing was left but an
unspeakable anxiety. "Oh, yes," he nevertheless replied--"they must have
repeated them. To those THEY liked," he added.
There was, somehow, less of it than I had expected; but I turned it
over. "And these things came round--?"
"To the masters? Oh, yes!" he answered very simply. "But I didn't know
they'd tell."
"The masters? They didn't--they've never told. That's why I ask you."
He turned to me again his little beautiful fevered face. "Yes, it was
too bad."
"Too bad?"
"What I suppose I sometimes said. To write home."
I can't name the exquisite pathos of the contradiction given to such
a speech by such a speaker; I only know that the next instant I heard
myself throw off with homely force: "Stuff and nonsense!" But the next
after that I must have sounded stern enough. "What WERE these things?"
My sternness was all for his judge, his executioner; yet it made him
avert himself again, and that movement made ME, with a single bound and
an irrepressible cry, spring straight upon him. For there again, against
the glass, as if to blight his confession and stay his answer, was the
hideous author of our woe--the white face of damnation. I felt a sick
swim at the drop of my victory and all the return of my battle, so that
the wildness of my veritable leap only served as a great betrayal. I
saw him, from the midst of my act, meet it with a divination, and on the
perception that even now he only guessed, and that the window was still
to his own eyes free, I let the impulse flame up to convert the climax
of his dismay into the very proof of his liberation. "No more, no
more, no more!" I shrieked, as I tried to press him against me, to my
visitant.
"Is she HERE?" Miles panted as he caught with his sealed eyes the
direction of my words. Then as his strange "she" staggered me and, with
a gasp, I echoed it, "Miss Jessel, Miss Jessel!" he with a sudden fury
gave me back.
I seized, stupefied, his supposition--some sequel to what we had done to
Flora, but this made me only want to show him that it was better still
than that. "It's not Miss Jessel! But it's at the window--straight
before us. It's THERE--the coward horror, there for the last time!"
At this, after a second in which his head made the movement of a baffled
dog's on a scent and then gave a frantic little shake for air and light,
he was at me in a white rage, bewildered, glaring vainly over the place
and missing wholly, though it now, to my sense, filled the room like the
taste of poison, the wide, overwhelming presence. "It's HE?"
I was so determined to have all my proof that I flashed into ice to
challenge him. "Whom do you mean by 'he'?"
"Peter Quint--you devil!" His face gave again, round the room, its
convulsed supplication. "WHERE?"
They are in my ears still, his supreme surrender of the name and his
tribute to my devotion. "What does he matter now, my own?--what will he
EVER matter? _I_ have you," I launched at the beast, "but he has lost
you forever!" Then, for the demonstration of my work, "There, THERE!" I
said to Miles.
But he had already jerked straight round, stared, glared again, and
seen but the quiet day. With the stroke of the loss I was so proud of he
uttered the cry of a creature hurled over an abyss, and the grasp with
which I recovered him might have been that of catching him in his fall.
I caught him, yes, I held him--it may be imagined with what a passion;
but at the end of a minute I began to feel what it truly was that
I held. We were alone with the quiet day, and his little heart,
dispossessed, had stopped. | After Flora is gone, Miles joins the governess, and they talk about how they are alone. The governess explains that she stayed to be with and help Miles. She reminds him that she is willing to do anything for him, and he promises that he will tell her anything she wants to know. First, she asks him if he took the letter she had written to his uncle. The boy readily admits that he took it and opened it in order to see what she had written about him. He further admits that he found out nothing and burned the letter. The governess asks him if he stole letters at his school or did he take other things. Miles explains that he said certain bad things to his friends, who must have said the same things to other friends until it all got back to the masters. Just as the governess is about to insist on knowing what he said, she sees the apparition of Peter Quint at the window. She hears Miles ask if it is Miss Jessel, but she forces him to admit that it is Peter Quint who is at the window. He turns suddenly around to look and falls in her arms. The governess clutches him, but instead of a triumph, she discovers that she is holding Miles' dead body. |
Mrs. Elton was first seen at church: but though devotion might be
interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and
it must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid, to
settle whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or
not pretty at all.
Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to make
her resolve on not being the last to pay her respects; and she made a
point of Harriet's going with her, that the worst of the business might
be gone through as soon as possible.
She could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to
which she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to
lace up her boot, without _recollecting_. A thousand vexatious thoughts
would recur. Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was
not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too; but
she behaved very well, and was only rather pale and silent. The visit
was of course short; and there was so much embarrassment and occupation
of mind to shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself entirely to
form an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give one, beyond the
nothing-meaning terms of being "elegantly dressed, and very pleasing."
She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to find fault,
but she suspected that there was no elegance;--ease, but not elegance.--
She was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there
was too much ease. Her person was rather good; her face not unpretty;
but neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant. Emma
thought at least it would turn out so.
As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear--but no, she would not
permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners. It was an
awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man
had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman
was better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the
privilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense to
depend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr.
Elton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just
married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had
been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as
little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as
could be.
"Well, Miss Woodhouse," said Harriet, when they had quitted the
house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; "Well, Miss
Woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do you think of her?--Is not she
very charming?"
There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.
"Oh! yes--very--a very pleasing young woman."
"I think her beautiful, quite beautiful."
"Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown."
"I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love."
"Oh! no--there is nothing to surprize one at all.--A pretty fortune; and
she came in his way."
"I dare say," returned Harriet, sighing again, "I dare say she was very
much attached to him."
"Perhaps she might; but it is not every man's fate to marry the woman
who loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home, and thought this
the best offer she was likely to have."
"Yes," said Harriet earnestly, "and well she might, nobody could ever
have a better. Well, I wish them happy with all my heart. And now, Miss
Woodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again. He is just as
superior as ever;--but being married, you know, it is quite a different
thing. No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I can sit and
admire him now without any great misery. To know that he has not thrown
himself away, is such a comfort!--She does seem a charming young woman,
just what he deserves. Happy creature! He called her 'Augusta.' How
delightful!"
When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind. She could then see
more and judge better. From Harriet's happening not to be at Hartfield,
and her father's being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter
of an hour of the lady's conversation to herself, and could composedly
attend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that
Mrs. Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with herself, and
thinking much of her own importance; that she meant to shine and be very
superior, but with manners which had been formed in a bad school, pert
and familiar; that all her notions were drawn from one set of people,
and one style of living; that if not foolish she was ignorant, and that
her society would certainly do Mr. Elton no good.
Harriet would have been a better match. If not wise or refined herself,
she would have connected him with those who were; but Miss Hawkins, it
might be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been the best of
her own set. The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the
alliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of him.
The very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, "My brother
Mr. Suckling's seat;"--a comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove. The
grounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty; and the house was
modern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed
by the size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or
imagine. "Very like Maple Grove indeed!--She was quite struck by the
likeness!--That room was the very shape and size of the morning-room
at Maple Grove; her sister's favourite room."--Mr. Elton was appealed
to.--"Was not it astonishingly like?--She could really almost fancy
herself at Maple Grove."
"And the staircase--You know, as I came in, I observed how very like the
staircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house. I really
could not help exclaiming! I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very
delightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to
as Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there! (with a little
sigh of sentiment). A charming place, undoubtedly. Every body who
sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a home.
Whenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will
understand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing at all like
what one has left behind. I always say this is quite one of the evils of
matrimony."
Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient
for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.
"So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the house--the
grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like.
The laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand
very much in the same way--just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse
of a fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in
mind! My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. People
who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing
in the same style."
Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that
people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the
extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to attack
an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply,
"When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think you
have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties."
"Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you
know. Surry is the garden of England."
"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many
counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as
Surry."
"No, I fancy not," replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile.
"I never heard any county but Surry called so."
Emma was silenced.
"My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or summer
at farthest," continued Mrs. Elton; "and that will be our time for
exploring. While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare
say. They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds four
perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_ carriage,
we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely well. They
would hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season of the
year. Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly recommend their
bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much preferable.
When people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you know, Miss
Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as possible; and Mr.
Suckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored to King's-Weston
twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully, just after their
first having the barouche-landau. You have many parties of that kind
here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?"
"No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very
striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and we
are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home
than engage in schemes of pleasure."
"Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can
be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at Maple
Grove. Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to Bristol,
'I really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I absolutely must
go in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the barouche-landau
without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will,
would never stir beyond the park paling.' Many a time has she said so;
and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I think, on the contrary,
when people shut themselves up entirely from society, it is a very
bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to mix in the world in
a proper degree, without living in it either too much or too little. I
perfectly understand your situation, however, Miss Woodhouse--(looking
towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your father's state of health must be a great
drawback. Why does not he try Bath?--Indeed he should. Let me recommend
Bath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of its doing Mr. Woodhouse
good."
"My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any
benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you,
does not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now."
"Ah! that's a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the
waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath
life, I have seen such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place,
that it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse's spirits,
which, I understand, are sometimes much depressed. And as to its
recommendations to _you_, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell
on them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally
understood. It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived
so secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best
society in the place. A line from me would bring you a little host of
acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have
always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any
attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public
with."
It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea
of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an
_introduction_--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend
of Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the
help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!--The dignity of Miss
Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed!
She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have
given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going to Bath was
quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that
the place might suit her better than her father." And then, to prevent
farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.
"I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions,
a lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long known
that you are a superior performer."
"Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior
performer!--very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial
a quarter your information came. I am doatingly fond of
music--passionately fond;--and my friends say I am not entirely devoid
of taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is
_mediocre_ to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play
delightfully. I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction,
comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got
into. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a necessary of life to
me; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at
Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I
honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future
home, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be
disagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too--knowing what I had
been accustomed to--of course he was not wholly without apprehension.
When he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that _the_
_world_ I could give up--parties, balls, plays--for I had no fear of
retirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was
not necessary to _me_. I could do very well without it. To those who had
no resources it was a different thing; but my resources made me quite
independent. And as to smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I
really could not give it a thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal to any
sacrifice of that description. Certainly I had been accustomed to every
luxury at Maple Grove; but I did assure him that two carriages were not
necessary to my happiness, nor were spacious apartments. 'But,' said I,
'to be quite honest, I do not think I can live without something of a
musical society. I condition for nothing else; but without music, life
would be a blank to me.'"
"We cannot suppose," said Emma, smiling, "that Mr. Elton would hesitate
to assure you of there being a _very_ musical society in Highbury; and
I hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than may be
pardoned, in consideration of the motive."
"No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am delighted to
find myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have many sweet little
concerts together. I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I must establish a
musical club, and have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours.
Will not it be a good plan? If _we_ exert ourselves, I think we shall
not be long in want of allies. Something of that nature would be
particularly desirable for _me_, as an inducement to keep me in
practice; for married women, you know--there is a sad story against
them, in general. They are but too apt to give up music."
"But you, who are so extremely fond of it--there can be no danger,
surely?"
"I should hope not; but really when I look around among my acquaintance,
I tremble. Selina has entirely given up music--never touches the
instrument--though she played sweetly. And the same may be said of Mrs.
Jeffereys--Clara Partridge, that was--and of the two Milmans, now Mrs.
Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can enumerate. Upon my
word it is enough to put one in a fright. I used to be quite angry with
Selina; but really I begin now to comprehend that a married woman has
many things to call her attention. I believe I was half an hour this
morning shut up with my housekeeper."
"But every thing of that kind," said Emma, "will soon be in so regular a
train--"
"Well," said Mrs. Elton, laughing, "we shall see."
Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music, had nothing
more to say; and, after a moment's pause, Mrs. Elton chose another
subject.
"We have been calling at Randalls," said she, "and found them both at
home; and very pleasant people they seem to be. I like them extremely.
Mr. Weston seems an excellent creature--quite a first-rate favourite
with me already, I assure you. And _she_ appears so truly good--there is
something so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one
directly. She was your governess, I think?"
Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton hardly
waited for the affirmative before she went on.
"Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to find her so very
lady-like! But she is really quite the gentlewoman."
"Mrs. Weston's manners," said Emma, "were always particularly good.
Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest
model for any young woman."
"And who do you think came in while we were there?"
Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance--and
how could she possibly guess?
"Knightley!" continued Mrs. Elton; "Knightley himself!--Was not it
lucky?--for, not being within when he called the other day, I had never
seen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E.'s,
I had a great curiosity. 'My friend Knightley' had been so often
mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I must do my
caro sposo the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his friend.
Knightley is quite the gentleman. I like him very much. Decidedly, I
think, a very gentleman-like man."
Happily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and Emma could
breathe.
"Insufferable woman!" was her immediate exclamation. "Worse than I had
supposed. Absolutely insufferable! Knightley!--I could not have
believed it. Knightley!--never seen him in her life before, and call
him Knightley!--and discover that he is a gentleman! A little upstart,
vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her _caro_ _sposo_, and her
resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery.
Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether
he will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could
not have believed it! And to propose that she and I should unite to
form a musical club! One would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs.
Weston!--Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a
gentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her equal. Much beyond
my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank
Churchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted he
would be! Ah! there I am--thinking of him directly. Always the first
person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes
as regularly into my mind!"--
All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father
had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons' departure, and was
ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending.
"Well, my dear," he deliberately began, "considering we never saw her
before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she
was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little
quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe
I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and
poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved
young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think
he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not
having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I
said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to
have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews
what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage
Lane."
"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you."
"Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her
if possible. It was being very deficient."
"But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why
should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to
be no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you
make so much of them."
"No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always
wish to pay every proper attention to a lady--and a bride, especially,
is never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to _her_. A bride, you
know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who
they may."
"Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what
is. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to
such vanity-baits for poor young ladies."
"My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere
common politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any
encouragement to people to marry."
Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand
_her_. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton's offences, and long, very long,
did they occupy her. | Emma first sees the new Mrs. Elton at church, but she cannot be in the vicinity of the Eltons without recollecting Mr. Elton's bad behavior and Emma's meddling. Emma finds that Mrs. Elton has no elegance and maintains that Harriet would have been a better wife for Mr. Elton because of her higher social connections. When Emma meets with Mrs. Elton, she compares Hartfield to Maple Grove, where her brother resides, and is quite presumptuous, calling Mrs. Weston surprisingly ladylike considering her former occupation. She even calls Mr. Knightley the much less formal "Knightley. |
SCENE IV.
_A room in ANGELO'S house._
_Enter ANGELO and ESCALUS._
_Escal._ Every letter he hath writ hath disvouched other.
_Ang._ In most uneven and distracted manner. His
actions show much like to madness: pray heaven his wisdom
be not tainted! And why meet him at the gates,
and redeliver our authorities there? 5
_Escal._ I guess not.
_Ang._ And why should we proclaim it in an hour before
his entering, that if any crave redress of injustice, they
should exhibit their petitions in the street?
_Escal._ He shows his reason for that: to have a dispatch 10
of complaints, and to deliver us from devices hereafter,
which shall then have no power to stand against us.
_Ang._ Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaimed betimes
i' the morn; I'll call you at your house: give notice to such
men of sort and suit as are to meet him. 15
_Escal._ I shall, sir. Fare you well.
_Ang._ Good night. [_Exit Escalus._
This deed unshapes me quite, makes me unpregnant,
And dull to all proceedings. A deflower'd maid!
And by an eminent body that enforced 20
The law against it! But that her tender shame
Will not proclaim against her maiden loss,
How might she tongue me! Yet reason dares her no;
For my authority bears of a credent bulk,
That no particular scandal once can touch 25
But it confounds the breather. He should have lived,
Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous sense,
Might in the times to come have ta'en revenge,
By so receiving a dishonour'd life
With ransom of such shame. Would yet he had lived! 30
Alack, when once our grace we have forgot,
Nothing goes right: we would, and we would not. [_Exit._
NOTES: IV, 4.
SCENE IV.] SCENE XII. Pope.
A room ... house.] Capell. The palace. Rowe.
2, sqq.: Angelo's speeches in this scene Collier prints as verse.
5: _redeliver_] Capell. _re-liver_] F1. _deliver_ F2 F3 F4.
13: A colon is put after _proclaim'd_ by Capell, who prints
lines 13-16 as verse.
19: _And_] om. Hanmer.
23: _dares her no;_] Ff. _dares her:_ Pope. _dares her: no,_ Hanmer.
_dares her No_ Warburton. _dares her? no:_ Capell.
_dares her note_ Theobald conj. _dares her not_ Steevens conj.
_dares her on_ Grant White (Becket conj.).
_reason ... no_] _treason dares her?--No_ Jackson conj.
24: _bears of a credent bulk_] F1 F2 F3.
_bears off a credent bulk_ F4. _bears off all credence_ Pope.
_bears a credent bulk_ Theobald.
_bears such a credent bulk_ Collier MS.
_here's of a credent bulk_ Singer. _bears so credent bulk_ Dyce.
_bears up a credent bulk_ Grant White. | At Angelo's house, Escalus and Angelo read a letter from the Duke and note that Vincentio's letters don't seem to make any sense. Has he gone mad, they wonder. Angelo also wonders why the Duke wants them to meet him at the city's gate and why the Duke wants them to make an announcement that anyone who's got a beef with Angelo's version of justice should make a public declaration. Escalus reasons, incorrectly, that the Duke just wants to make things easier for them. Escalus says so long to Angelo and heads home for the night. Alone on stage, Angelo tells us that he knows he's in deep, deep trouble. He hopes that Isabella will be too ashamed to accuse him of taking her virginity. Angelo also confesses that he didn't hold up his end of the bargain because he was afraid Claudio would want revenge. |
William's desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a momentary
impression on his uncle. The hope of an opportunity, which Sir Thomas
had then given, was not given to be thought of no more. He remained
steadily inclined to gratify so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody
else who might wish to see Fanny dance, and to give pleasure to the
young people in general; and having thought the matter over, and taken
his resolution in quiet independence, the result of it appeared the
next morning at breakfast, when, after recalling and commending what
his nephew had said, he added, "I do not like, William, that you
should leave Northamptonshire without this indulgence. It would give me
pleasure to see you both dance. You spoke of the balls at Northampton.
Your cousins have occasionally attended them; but they would not
altogether suit us now. The fatigue would be too much for your aunt. I
believe we must not think of a Northampton ball. A dance at home would
be more eligible; and if--"
"Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!" interrupted Mrs. Norris, "I knew what was
coming. I knew what you were going to say. If dear Julia were at home,
or dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton, to afford a reason, an occasion
for such a thing, you would be tempted to give the young people a dance
at Mansfield. I know you would. If _they_ were at home to grace the
ball, a ball you would have this very Christmas. Thank your uncle,
William, thank your uncle!"
"My daughters," replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing, "have their
pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy; but the dance which I
think of giving at Mansfield will be for their cousins. Could we be all
assembled, our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete, but the
absence of some is not to debar the others of amusement."
Mrs. Norris had not another word to say. She saw decision in his looks,
and her surprise and vexation required some minutes' silence to be
settled into composure. A ball at such a time! His daughters absent and
herself not consulted! There was comfort, however, soon at hand. _She_
must be the doer of everything: Lady Bertram would of course be spared
all thought and exertion, and it would all fall upon _her_. She should
have to do the honours of the evening; and this reflection quickly
restored so much of her good-humour as enabled her to join in with the
others, before their happiness and thanks were all expressed.
Edmund, William, and Fanny did, in their different ways, look and speak
as much grateful pleasure in the promised ball as Sir Thomas could
desire. Edmund's feelings were for the other two. His father had never
conferred a favour or shewn a kindness more to his satisfaction.
Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented, and had no
objections to make. Sir Thomas engaged for its giving her very little
trouble; and she assured him "that she was not at all afraid of the
trouble; indeed, she could not imagine there would be any."
Mrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he would
think fittest to be used, but found it all prearranged; and when she
would have conjectured and hinted about the day, it appeared that the
day was settled too. Sir Thomas had been amusing himself with shaping a
very complete outline of the business; and as soon as she would listen
quietly, could read his list of the families to be invited, from whom
he calculated, with all necessary allowance for the shortness of the
notice, to collect young people enough to form twelve or fourteen
couple: and could detail the considerations which had induced him to
fix on the 22nd as the most eligible day. William was required to be at
Portsmouth on the 24th; the 22nd would therefore be the last day of his
visit; but where the days were so few it would be unwise to fix on any
earlier. Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied with thinking just the
same, and with having been on the point of proposing the 22nd herself,
as by far the best day for the purpose.
The ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening a proclaimed
thing to all whom it concerned. Invitations were sent with despatch,
and many a young lady went to bed that night with her head full of happy
cares as well as Fanny. To her the cares were sometimes almost beyond
the happiness; for young and inexperienced, with small means of choice
and no confidence in her own taste, the "how she should be dressed" was
a point of painful solicitude; and the almost solitary ornament in her
possession, a very pretty amber cross which William had brought her from
Sicily, was the greatest distress of all, for she had nothing but a bit
of ribbon to fasten it to; and though she had worn it in that manner
once, would it be allowable at such a time in the midst of all the rich
ornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies would appear in?
And yet not to wear it! William had wanted to buy her a gold chain too,
but the purchase had been beyond his means, and therefore not to wear
the cross might be mortifying him. These were anxious considerations;
enough to sober her spirits even under the prospect of a ball given
principally for her gratification.
The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued to sit on
her sofa without any inconvenience from them. She had some extra visits
from the housekeeper, and her maid was rather hurried in making up a new
dress for her: Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran about; but
all this gave _her_ no trouble, and as she had foreseen, "there was, in
fact, no trouble in the business."
Edmund was at this time particularly full of cares: his mind being
deeply occupied in the consideration of two important events now
at hand, which were to fix his fate in life--ordination and
matrimony--events of such a serious character as to make the ball, which
would be very quickly followed by one of them, appear of less moment in
his eyes than in those of any other person in the house. On the 23rd
he was going to a friend near Peterborough, in the same situation
as himself, and they were to receive ordination in the course of the
Christmas week. Half his destiny would then be determined, but the
other half might not be so very smoothly wooed. His duties would be
established, but the wife who was to share, and animate, and reward
those duties, might yet be unattainable. He knew his own mind, but he
was not always perfectly assured of knowing Miss Crawford's. There were
points on which they did not quite agree; there were moments in which
she did not seem propitious; and though trusting altogether to her
affection, so far as to be resolved--almost resolved--on bringing it to
a decision within a very short time, as soon as the variety of business
before him were arranged, and he knew what he had to offer her, he
had many anxious feelings, many doubting hours as to the result. His
conviction of her regard for him was sometimes very strong; he could
look back on a long course of encouragement, and she was as perfect in
disinterested attachment as in everything else. But at other times
doubt and alarm intermingled with his hopes; and when he thought of
her acknowledged disinclination for privacy and retirement, her decided
preference of a London life, what could he expect but a determined
rejection? unless it were an acceptance even more to be deprecated,
demanding such sacrifices of situation and employment on his side as
conscience must forbid.
The issue of all depended on one question. Did she love him well enough
to forego what had used to be essential points? Did she love him well
enough to make them no longer essential? And this question, which he was
continually repeating to himself, though oftenest answered with a "Yes,"
had sometimes its "No."
Miss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this circumstance the
"no" and the "yes" had been very recently in alternation. He had seen
her eyes sparkle as she spoke of the dear friend's letter, which claimed
a long visit from her in London, and of the kindness of Henry, in
engaging to remain where he was till January, that he might convey her
thither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure of such a journey with
an animation which had "no" in every tone. But this had occurred on the
first day of its being settled, within the first hour of the burst of
such enjoyment, when nothing but the friends she was to visit was before
her. He had since heard her express herself differently, with other
feelings, more chequered feelings: he had heard her tell Mrs. Grant that
she should leave her with regret; that she began to believe neither the
friends nor the pleasures she was going to were worth those she left
behind; and that though she felt she must go, and knew she should enjoy
herself when once away, she was already looking forward to being at
Mansfield again. Was there not a "yes" in all this?
With such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and re-arrange, Edmund
could not, on his own account, think very much of the evening which the
rest of the family were looking forward to with a more equal degree of
strong interest. Independent of his two cousins' enjoyment in it, the
evening was to him of no higher value than any other appointed meeting
of the two families might be. In every meeting there was a hope of
receiving farther confirmation of Miss Crawford's attachment; but the
whirl of a ballroom, perhaps, was not particularly favourable to the
excitement or expression of serious feelings. To engage her early for
the two first dances was all the command of individual happiness which
he felt in his power, and the only preparation for the ball which he
could enter into, in spite of all that was passing around him on the
subject, from morning till night.
Thursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday morning Fanny, still
unable to satisfy herself as to what she ought to wear, determined to
seek the counsel of the more enlightened, and apply to Mrs. Grant and
her sister, whose acknowledged taste would certainly bear her blameless;
and as Edmund and William were gone to Northampton, and she had reason
to think Mr. Crawford likewise out, she walked down to the Parsonage
without much fear of wanting an opportunity for private discussion;
and the privacy of such a discussion was a most important part of it to
Fanny, being more than half-ashamed of her own solicitude.
She met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage, just setting
out to call on her, and as it seemed to her that her friend, though
obliged to insist on turning back, was unwilling to lose her walk, she
explained her business at once, and observed, that if she would be so
kind as to give her opinion, it might be all talked over as well without
doors as within. Miss Crawford appeared gratified by the application,
and after a moment's thought, urged Fanny's returning with her in a much
more cordial manner than before, and proposed their going up into her
room, where they might have a comfortable coze, without disturbing Dr.
and Mrs. Grant, who were together in the drawing-room. It was just the
plan to suit Fanny; and with a great deal of gratitude on her side for
such ready and kind attention, they proceeded indoors, and upstairs, and
were soon deep in the interesting subject. Miss Crawford, pleased with
the appeal, gave her all her best judgment and taste, made everything
easy by her suggestions, and tried to make everything agreeable by her
encouragement. The dress being settled in all its grander parts--"But
what shall you have by way of necklace?" said Miss Crawford. "Shall not
you wear your brother's cross?" And as she spoke she was undoing a
small parcel, which Fanny had observed in her hand when they met. Fanny
acknowledged her wishes and doubts on this point: she did not know
how either to wear the cross, or to refrain from wearing it. She was
answered by having a small trinket-box placed before her, and being
requested to chuse from among several gold chains and necklaces. Such
had been the parcel with which Miss Crawford was provided, and such the
object of her intended visit: and in the kindest manner she now urged
Fanny's taking one for the cross and to keep for her sake, saying
everything she could think of to obviate the scruples which were making
Fanny start back at first with a look of horror at the proposal.
"You see what a collection I have," said she; "more by half than I ever
use or think of. I do not offer them as new. I offer nothing but an old
necklace. You must forgive the liberty, and oblige me."
Fanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was too valuable. But
Miss Crawford persevered, and argued the case with so much affectionate
earnestness through all the heads of William and the cross, and the
ball, and herself, as to be finally successful. Fanny found
herself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused of pride
or indifference, or some other littleness; and having with modest
reluctance given her consent, proceeded to make the selection. She
looked and looked, longing to know which might be least valuable; and
was determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was one necklace
more frequently placed before her eyes than the rest. It was of gold,
prettily worked; and though Fanny would have preferred a longer and a
plainer chain as more adapted for her purpose, she hoped, in fixing
on this, to be chusing what Miss Crawford least wished to keep. Miss
Crawford smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened to complete the
gift by putting the necklace round her, and making her see how well
it looked. Fanny had not a word to say against its becomingness, and,
excepting what remained of her scruples, was exceedingly pleased with
an acquisition so very apropos. She would rather, perhaps, have been
obliged to some other person. But this was an unworthy feeling. Miss
Crawford had anticipated her wants with a kindness which proved her a
real friend. "When I wear this necklace I shall always think of you,"
said she, "and feel how very kind you were."
"You must think of somebody else too, when you wear that necklace,"
replied Miss Crawford. "You must think of Henry, for it was his choice
in the first place. He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make over
to you all the duty of remembering the original giver. It is to be
a family remembrancer. The sister is not to be in your mind without
bringing the brother too."
Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned the
present instantly. To take what had been the gift of another person,
of a brother too, impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness
and embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid down the
necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved either to take another
or none at all. Miss Crawford thought she had never seen a prettier
consciousness. "My dear child," said she, laughing, "what are you afraid
of? Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine, and fancy you
did not come honestly by it? or are you imagining he would be too much
flattered by seeing round your lovely throat an ornament which his money
purchased three years ago, before he knew there was such a throat in the
world? or perhaps"--looking archly--"you suspect a confederacy between
us, and that what I am now doing is with his knowledge and at his
desire?"
With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought.
"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all
believing her, "to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as
unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the necklace
and say no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother's need not make
the smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure you it makes
none in my willingness to part with it. He is always giving me something
or other. I have such innumerable presents from him that it is quite
impossible for me to value or for him to remember half. And as for this
necklace, I do not suppose I have worn it six times: it is very pretty,
but I never think of it; and though you would be most heartily welcome
to any other in my trinket-box, you have happened to fix on the very
one which, if I have a choice, I would rather part with and see in your
possession than any other. Say no more against it, I entreat you. Such a
trifle is not worth half so many words."
Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with renewed but less
happy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an expression in
Miss Crawford's eyes which she could not be satisfied with.
It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's change of
manners. She had long seen it. He evidently tried to please her: he was
gallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had been to her
cousins: he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity as
he had cheated them; and whether he might not have some concern in this
necklace--she could not be convinced that he had not, for Miss Crawford,
complaisant as a sister, was careless as a woman and a friend.
Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what she had
so much wished for did not bring much satisfaction, she now walked
home again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her
treading that path before. | Sir Thomas decides to throw a ball at Mansfield Park in honor of the Price siblings. Though Mrs. Norris isn't thrilled to have a ball for the Prices, she is thrilled to be planning everything. The young people are psyched for a ball and they set a date for it that falls right before William has to leave again. Fanny has a cross from William that she wants to wear but she doesn't have a chain for it. Everyone is busy preparing for the ball. Edmund is even busier since he's getting ordained a few days after the ball. Edmund decides that, while he and Mary don't agree on a lot of things, he does love her and hopes to marry her. He's doubtful about her feelings for him, though, which causes him anxiety. The big question is whether or not Mary loves him enough to compromise and to give up some things for him. Edmund goes back and forth on whether or not Mary loves him. Fanny's still uncertain about what to wear to her first ball so she reluctantly goes to the Grants' house to ask Mary's advice. Turns out, Mary was already heading out to call on Fanny but heads back to the Parsonage when Fanny explains that she needs help. Mary is happy to assist. They figure out what Fanny should wear and Mary asks about William's cross. Fanny confesses that she lacks a chain for it and Mary insists that Fanny take one of her old ones since she has so many. Fanny, of course, flips out and refuses to take it about 80 times before Mary successfully pressures her into picking one. Fanny tries to choose one that she thinks Mary wants her to have. This turns out to be a chain that Henry gave Mary and Mary tells Fanny to think of Henry whenever she wears it. Fanny finds this whole thing suspicious but she accepts the chain and goes home, embarrassed and agitated. |
THE WOMEN'S SOCIAL WORK IN LONDON
At the commencement of my investigation of this branch of the
Salvation Army activities in England, I discussed its general aspects
with Mrs. Bramwell Booth, who has it in her charge. She pointed out to
me that this Women's Social Work is a much larger business than it was
believed to be even by those who had some acquaintance with the
Salvation Army, and that it deals with many matters of great
importance in their bearing on the complex problems of our
civilization.
Among them, to take some that she mentioned, which recur to my mind,
are the questions of illegitimacy and prostitution, of maternity homes
for poor girls who have fallen into trouble, of women thieves, of what
is known as the White Slave traffic, of female children who have been
exposed to awful treatment, of women who are drunkards or drug-takers,
of aged and destitute women, of intractable or vicious-minded girls,
and, lastly, of the training of young persons to enable them to deal
scientifically with all these evils, or under the name of Slum
Sisters, to wait upon the poor in their homes, and nurse them through
the trials of maternity.
How practical and efficient this training is, no one can know who has
not, like myself, visited and inquired into the various Institutions
and Refuges of the Army in different cities of the land. It is a
wonderful thing, as has happened to me again and again, to see some
quiet, middle-aged lady, often so shy that it is difficult to extract
from her the information required, ruling with the most perfect
success a number of young women, who, a few weeks or months before,
were the vilest of the vile, and what is stranger still, reforming as
she rules. These ladies exercise no severity; the punishment, which,
perhaps necessarily, is a leading feature in some of our Government
Institutions, is unknown to their system. I am told that no one is
ever struck, no one is imprisoned, no one is restricted in diet for
any offence. As an Officer said to me:--
'If we cannot manage a girl by love, we recognize that the case is
beyond us, and ask her to go away. This, however, very seldom
happens.'
As a matter of fact, that case which is beyond the regenerating powers
of the Army must be very bad indeed, at any rate where young people
are concerned. In the vast majority of instances a cure is effected,
and apparently a permanent cure. In every one of these Homes there is
a room reserved for the accommodation of those who have passed through
it and gone out into the world again, should they care to return there
in their holidays or other intervals of leisure. That room is always
in great demand, and I can imagine no more eloquent testimony to the
manner of the treatment of its occupants while they dwelt in these
Homes as 'cases.'
In truth, a study of the female Officers of the Salvation Army is
calculated to convert the observer not only to a belief in the right
of women to the suffrage, but also to that of their fitness to rule
among, or even over men. Only I never heard that any of these ladies
ever sought such privileges; moreover, few of the sex would care to
win them at the price of the training, self-denial, and stern
experience which it is their lot to undergo.
Mrs. Bramwell Booth pointed out to me that although the actual work of
the Army on these women's questions is 'more than just a little,' it
had, as it were, only touched their fringe. Yet even this 'fringe' has
many threads, seeing that over 44,000 of these women's cases have been
helped in one way or another since this branch of the home work began
about twenty years ago.
She added that scarcely a month goes by in which the Army does not
break out in a new direction, open a new Institution, or attempt to
attack a new problem; and this, be it remembered, not only in these
islands but over the face of half the earth. At present its sphere of
influence is limited by the lack of funds. Give it enough money, she
said, and there is little that it would not dare to try. Everywhere
the harvest is plentiful, and if the workers remain comparatively few,
it is because material means are lacking for their support. Given the
money and the workers would be found. Nor will they ask much for
maintenance or salary, enough to provide the necessary buildings, and
to keep body and soul together, that is all.[4]
What are these women doing? In London they run more than a score of
Homes and Agencies, including a Maternity Hospital, which I will
describe later, where hundreds of poor deceived girls are taken in
during their trouble. I believe it is almost the only one of the sort,
at any rate on the same scale, in that great city.
Also they manage various Homes for drunken women. It has always been
supposed to be a practical impossibility to effect a cure in such
cases, but the lady Officers of the Salvation Army succeed in turning
about 50 per cent of their patients into perfectly sober persons. At
least they remain sober for three years from the date of their
discharge, after which they are often followed no further.
Another of their objects is to find out the fathers of illegitimate
children, and persuade them to sign a form of agreement which has been
carefully drawn by Counsel, binding themselves to contribute towards
the cost of the maintenance of the child. Or failing this, should the
evidence be sufficient, they try to obtain affiliation orders against
such fathers in a Magistrates' Court. Here I may state that the amount
of affiliation money collected in England by the Army in 1909 was
L1,217, of which L208 was for new cases. Further, L671 was collected
and paid over for maintenance to deserted wives. Little or none of
this money would have been forthcoming but for its exertions.
Mrs. Bramwell Booth informed me that there exists a class of young
men, most of them in the employ of tradesfolk, who habitually amuse
themselves by getting servant girls into trouble, often under a
promise of marriage. Then, if the usual results follow, it is common
for these men to move away to another town, taking their references
with them and, sometimes under a new name, to repeat the process
there. She was of opinion that the age of consent ought to be raised
to eighteen at least, a course for which there is much to be said.
Also she thought, and this is more controversial, that when any young
girl has been seduced under promise of marriage, the seducer should be
liable to punishment under the criminal law. Of course, one of the
difficulties here would be to prove the promise of marriage beyond all
reasonable doubt.
Also to bring such matters within the cognizance of the criminal law
would be a new and, indeed, a dangerous departure not altogether easy
to justify, especially as old magistrates like myself, who have
considerable experience of such cases must know, it is not always the
man who is to blame. Personally, I incline to the view that if the age
of consent were raised, and the contribution exacted from the putative
father of an illegitimate child made proportionate to his means, and
not limited, as it is now, to a maximum of 5s. a week, the criminal
law might well be left out of the question. It must be remembered
further, as Mrs. Booth pointed out herself, that there is another
remedy, namely, that of a better home-training of girls who should be
prepared by their mothers or friends to face the dangers of the world,
a duty which these too often neglect. The result is that many young
women who feel lonely and desire to get married, overstep the limits
of prudence on receipt of a promise that thus they may attain their
end, with the result that generally they find themselves ruined and
deserted.
Mrs. Bramwell Booth said that the Army is doing its utmost to mitigate
the horrors of what is known as the White Slave traffic, both here and
in many other countries. With this object it has a Bill before
Parliament at the present time, of which one of the aims is to prevent
children from being sent out of this country to France under
circumstances that practically ensure their moral destruction. It
seems that the state of things in Paris in this connexion is, in her
own words, 'most abominable, too horrible for words.' Children are
procured from certain theatre dancing schools, and their birth
certificates sometimes falsified to make it appear that they are over
fourteen, although often they may be as young as twelve or even ten.
Then they are conveyed to vile places in Paris where their doom is
sure.
Let us hope that in due course this Bill will become law, for if girls
are protected up to sixteen in this country, surely they should not be
sent out of it in doubtful circumstances under that age.
Needless to say abominations of this nature are not unknown in London.
Thus a while ago the Army received a telegram from a German girl
asking, 'Can you help?' Two of its people went at once to the address
given, and, contriving to get into the house, discovered there a young
woman who, imagining that she had been engaged in Germany as a servant
in an English family, found herself in a London brothel. Fortunately,
being a girl of some character and resource, she held her own, and,
having heard of the Salvation Army in her own land, persuaded a
milkman to take the telegram that brought about her delivery from this
den of wickedness.
Unfortunately it proved impossible to discover the woman who had hired
her abroad, as the victim of the plot really knew nothing about that
procuress. This girl was restored to her home in Germany none the
worse for her terrific adventure, and a few weeks later refunded her
travelling expenses. But how many must there be who have never heard
of the Salvation Army, and can find no milkman to help them out of
their vile prisons, for such places are no less.
Another branch of the Army women's work is that of the rescue of
prostitutes from the streets, which is known as the 'Midnight Work.'
For the purpose of this endeavour it hires a flat in Great Titchfield
Street, of which, and of the mission that centres round it, I will
speak later in this book.
The Women's Social Work of the Salvation Army began in London, in the
year 1884, at the cottage of a woman-soldier of the Army who lived in
Whitechapel. This lady, who was interested in girls without character,
took some of them into her home. Eventually she left the place which
came into the hands of the Army, whereon Mrs. Bramwell Booth was sent
to take charge of the twelve inmates whom it would accommodate. The
seed that was thus sown in 1884 has now multiplied itself into
fifty-nine Homes and Agencies for women in Great Britain alone, to say
nothing of others abroad and in the Colonies. But this is only a
beginning.
'We look forward,' said Mrs. Bramwell Booth to me, 'to a great
increase of this side of our work at home. No year has passed without
the opening of a new Women's Home of some kind, and we hope that this
will continue. Thus I want to build a very big Maternity Hospital if I
can get the money. We have about L20,000 in hand for this purpose; but
the lesser of the two schemes before us will cost L35,000.'
Will not some rich and charitable person provide the L15,000 that are
lacking? | Prior goes to Sarah's door to see if she will come out with him that weekend. She is angry with him for standing her up last week, but when he tells her the truth about how the people at Craiglockhart would not let him out, she forgives him and agrees to go out with him. Prior notices the yellow tinge to Sarah's skin from working at the munitions factory. Together they board a train to the coast. When they arrive, they walk along the seashore. Prior pays attention to the crowds enjoying themselves on the shore, licking ice cream cones and playing in the sand. He feels completely separated from this carefree world, and he envies and despises Sarah for belonging with them. He feels that they owe him something and that Sarah "should pay. Prior and Sarah go for a quick swim and see a storm coming overhead. There is not enough time for them to escape it, so they find cover under a thorn bush. Prior feels he no longer despises Sarah, and they make love under the bushes. After they are finished and the storm is over, they go to a pub for a drink. Prior does not want Sarah to think that anything important happened on the beach. He discusses how one of his men during the war wrote the exact same letter to his wife every week for two years. It was Prior's job to censor the letters, but no one ever censored his own personal letters because he was an officer and he was on his honor. Sarah is upset that the army feels that only officers are assumed to have honor. They leave the pub. |
One of the first consequences of the discovery of the union was that
Jurgis became desirous of learning English. He wanted to know what was
going on at the meetings, and to be able to take part in them, and so he
began to look about him, and to try to pick up words. The children, who
were at school, and learning fast, would teach him a few; and a friend
loaned him a little book that had some in it, and Ona would read them to
him. Then Jurgis became sorry that he could not read himself; and later
on in the winter, when some one told him that there was a night school
that was free, he went and enrolled. After that, every evening that he
got home from the yards in time, he would go to the school; he would go
even if he were in time for only half an hour. They were teaching him
both to read and to speak English--and they would have taught him other
things, if only he had had a little time.
Also the union made another great difference with him--it made him begin
to pay attention to the country. It was the beginning of democracy with
him. It was a little state, the union, a miniature republic; its affairs
were every man's affairs, and every man had a real say about them. In
other words, in the union Jurgis learned to talk politics. In the place
where he had come from there had not been any politics--in Russia one
thought of the government as an affliction like the lightning and the
hail. "Duck, little brother, duck," the wise old peasants would whisper;
"everything passes away." And when Jurgis had first come to America he
had supposed that it was the same. He had heard people say that it was
a free country--but what did that mean? He found that here, precisely
as in Russia, there were rich men who owned everything; and if one could
not find any work, was not the hunger he began to feel the same sort of
hunger?
When Jurgis had been working about three weeks at Brown's, there had
come to him one noontime a man who was employed as a night watchman, and
who asked him if he would not like to take out naturalization papers
and become a citizen. Jurgis did not know what that meant, but the man
explained the advantages. In the first place, it would not cost him
anything, and it would get him half a day off, with his pay just the
same; and then when election time came he would be able to vote--and
there was something in that. Jurgis was naturally glad to accept, and so
the night watchman said a few words to the boss, and he was excused for
the rest of the day. When, later on, he wanted a holiday to get married
he could not get it; and as for a holiday with pay just the same--what
power had wrought that miracle heaven only knew! However, he went with
the man, who picked up several other newly landed immigrants, Poles,
Lithuanians, and Slovaks, and took them all outside, where stood a great
four-horse tallyho coach, with fifteen or twenty men already in it. It
was a fine chance to see the sights of the city, and the party had a
merry time, with plenty of beer handed up from inside. So they drove
downtown and stopped before an imposing granite building, in which they
interviewed an official, who had the papers all ready, with only the
names to be filled in. So each man in turn took an oath of which he did
not understand a word, and then was presented with a handsome ornamented
document with a big red seal and the shield of the United States upon
it, and was told that he had become a citizen of the Republic and the
equal of the President himself.
A month or two later Jurgis had another interview with this same man,
who told him where to go to "register." And then finally, when election
day came, the packing houses posted a notice that men who desired to
vote might remain away until nine that morning, and the same night
watchman took Jurgis and the rest of his flock into the back room of a
saloon, and showed each of them where and how to mark a ballot, and then
gave each two dollars, and took them to the polling place, where there
was a policeman on duty especially to see that they got through all
right. Jurgis felt quite proud of this good luck till he got home and
met Jonas, who had taken the leader aside and whispered to him, offering
to vote three times for four dollars, which offer had been accepted.
And now in the union Jurgis met men who explained all this mystery
to him; and he learned that America differed from Russia in that its
government existed under the form of a democracy. The officials who
ruled it, and got all the graft, had to be elected first; and so there
were two rival sets of grafters, known as political parties, and the one
got the office which bought the most votes. Now and then, the election
was very close, and that was the time the poor man came in. In the
stockyards this was only in national and state elections, for in local
elections the Democratic Party always carried everything. The ruler of
the district was therefore the Democratic boss, a little Irishman named
Mike Scully. Scully held an important party office in the state, and
bossed even the mayor of the city, it was said; it was his boast that he
carried the stockyards in his pocket. He was an enormously rich man--he
had a hand in all the big graft in the neighborhood. It was Scully, for
instance, who owned that dump which Jurgis and Ona had seen the first
day of their arrival. Not only did he own the dump, but he owned the
brick factory as well, and first he took out the clay and made it into
bricks, and then he had the city bring garbage to fill up the hole, so
that he could build houses to sell to the people. Then, too, he sold the
bricks to the city, at his own price, and the city came and got them
in its own wagons. And also he owned the other hole near by, where the
stagnant water was; and it was he who cut the ice and sold it; and what
was more, if the men told truth, he had not had to pay any taxes for the
water, and he had built the ice-house out of city lumber, and had not had
to pay anything for that. The newspapers had got hold of that story, and
there had been a scandal; but Scully had hired somebody to confess and
take all the blame, and then skip the country. It was said, too, that he
had built his brick-kiln in the same way, and that the workmen were on
the city payroll while they did it; however, one had to press closely to
get these things out of the men, for it was not their business, and Mike
Scully was a good man to stand in with. A note signed by him was equal
to a job any time at the packing houses; and also he employed a good
many men himself, and worked them only eight hours a day, and paid them
the highest wages. This gave him many friends--all of whom he had gotten
together into the "War Whoop League," whose clubhouse you might see
just outside of the yards. It was the biggest clubhouse, and the biggest
club, in all Chicago; and they had prizefights every now and then,
and cockfights and even dogfights. The policemen in the district all
belonged to the league, and instead of suppressing the fights, they sold
tickets for them. The man that had taken Jurgis to be naturalized was
one of these "Indians," as they were called; and on election day there
would be hundreds of them out, and all with big wads of money in their
pockets and free drinks at every saloon in the district. That was
another thing, the men said--all the saloon-keepers had to be "Indians,"
and to put up on demand, otherwise they could not do business on
Sundays, nor have any gambling at all. In the same way Scully had all
the jobs in the fire department at his disposal, and all the rest of the
city graft in the stockyards district; he was building a block of flats
somewhere up on Ashland Avenue, and the man who was overseeing it for
him was drawing pay as a city inspector of sewers. The city inspector of
water pipes had been dead and buried for over a year, but somebody was
still drawing his pay. The city inspector of sidewalks was a barkeeper
at the War Whoop Cafe--and maybe he could make it uncomfortable for any
tradesman who did not stand in with Scully!
Even the packers were in awe of him, so the men said. It gave them
pleasure to believe this, for Scully stood as the people's man, and
boasted of it boldly when election day came. The packers had wanted a
bridge at Ashland Avenue, but they had not been able to get it till they
had seen Scully; and it was the same with "Bubbly Creek," which the city
had threatened to make the packers cover over, till Scully had come to
their aid. "Bubbly Creek" is an arm of the Chicago River, and forms the
southern boundary of the yards: all the drainage of the square mile of
packing houses empties into it, so that it is really a great open sewer
a hundred or two feet wide. One long arm of it is blind, and the filth
stays there forever and a day. The grease and chemicals that are poured
into it undergo all sorts of strange transformations, which are the
cause of its name; it is constantly in motion, as if huge fish were
feeding in it, or great leviathans disporting themselves in its depths.
Bubbles of carbonic acid gas will rise to the surface and burst, and
make rings two or three feet wide. Here and there the grease and filth
have caked solid, and the creek looks like a bed of lava; chickens walk
about on it, feeding, and many times an unwary stranger has started to
stroll across, and vanished temporarily. The packers used to leave the
creek that way, till every now and then the surface would catch on fire
and burn furiously, and the fire department would have to come and put
it out. Once, however, an ingenious stranger came and started to gather
this filth in scows, to make lard out of; then the packers took the
cue, and got out an injunction to stop him, and afterward gathered it
themselves. The banks of "Bubbly Creek" are plastered thick with hairs,
and this also the packers gather and clean.
And there were things even stranger than this, according to the gossip
of the men. The packers had secret mains, through which they stole
billions of gallons of the city's water. The newspapers had been full of
this scandal--once there had even been an investigation, and an actual
uncovering of the pipes; but nobody had been punished, and the thing
went right on. And then there was the condemned meat industry, with its
endless horrors. The people of Chicago saw the government inspectors
in Packingtown, and they all took that to mean that they were protected
from diseased meat; they did not understand that these hundred and
sixty-three inspectors had been appointed at the request of the packers,
and that they were paid by the United States government to certify
that all the diseased meat was kept in the state. They had no authority
beyond that; for the inspection of meat to be sold in the city and state
the whole force in Packingtown consisted of three henchmen of the local
political machine!*
(*Rules and Regulations for the Inspection of Livestock and
Their Products. United States Department of Agriculture,
Bureau of Animal Industries, Order No. 125:--
Section 1. Proprietors of slaughterhouses, canning, salting,
packing, or rendering establishments engaged in the
slaughtering of cattle, sheep, or swine, or the packing of
any of their products, the carcasses or products of which
are to become subjects of interstate or foreign commerce,
shall make application to the Secretary of Agriculture for
inspection of said animals and their products....
Section 15. Such rejected or condemned animals shall at once
be removed by the owners from the pens containing animals
which have been inspected and found to be free from disease
and fit for human food, and shall be disposed of in
accordance with the laws, ordinances, and regulations of the
state and municipality in which said rejected or condemned
animals are located....
Section 25. A microscopic examination for trichinae shall be
made of all swine products exported to countries requiring
such examination. No microscopic examination will be made of
hogs slaughtered for interstate trade, but this examination
shall be confined to those intended for the export trade.)
And shortly afterward one of these, a physician, made the discovery that
the carcasses of steers which had been condemned as tubercular by the
government inspectors, and which therefore contained ptomaines, which
are deadly poisons, were left upon an open platform and carted away to
be sold in the city; and so he insisted that these carcasses be treated
with an injection of kerosene--and was ordered to resign the same week!
So indignant were the packers that they went farther, and compelled
the mayor to abolish the whole bureau of inspection; so that since then
there has not been even a pretense of any interference with the graft.
There was said to be two thousand dollars a week hush money from the
tubercular steers alone; and as much again from the hogs which had died
of cholera on the trains, and which you might see any day being loaded
into boxcars and hauled away to a place called Globe, in Indiana, where
they made a fancy grade of lard.
Jurgis heard of these things little by little, in the gossip of those
who were obliged to perpetrate them. It seemed as if every time you
met a person from a new department, you heard of new swindles and new
crimes. There was, for instance, a Lithuanian who was a cattle butcher
for the plant where Marija had worked, which killed meat for canning
only; and to hear this man describe the animals which came to his place
would have been worthwhile for a Dante or a Zola. It seemed that they
must have agencies all over the country, to hunt out old and crippled
and diseased cattle to be canned. There were cattle which had been fed
on "whisky-malt," the refuse of the breweries, and had become what the
men called "steerly"--which means covered with boils. It was a nasty
job killing these, for when you plunged your knife into them they would
burst and splash foul-smelling stuff into your face; and when a man's
sleeves were smeared with blood, and his hands steeped in it, how was he
ever to wipe his face, or to clear his eyes so that he could see? It was
stuff such as this that made the "embalmed beef" that had killed
several times as many United States soldiers as all the bullets of the
Spaniards; only the army beef, besides, was not fresh canned, it was old
stuff that had been lying for years in the cellars.
Then one Sunday evening, Jurgis sat puffing his pipe by the kitchen
stove, and talking with an old fellow whom Jonas had introduced, and
who worked in the canning rooms at Durham's; and so Jurgis learned a few
things about the great and only Durham canned goods, which had become
a national institution. They were regular alchemists at Durham's; they
advertised a mushroom-catsup, and the men who made it did not know what
a mushroom looked like. They advertised "potted chicken,"--and it was
like the boardinghouse soup of the comic papers, through which a chicken
had walked with rubbers on. Perhaps they had a secret process for making
chickens chemically--who knows? said Jurgis' friend; the things that
went into the mixture were tripe, and the fat of pork, and beef suet,
and hearts of beef, and finally the waste ends of veal, when they had
any. They put these up in several grades, and sold them at several
prices; but the contents of the cans all came out of the same hopper.
And then there was "potted game" and "potted grouse," "potted ham," and
"deviled ham"--de-vyled, as the men called it. "De-vyled" ham was made
out of the waste ends of smoked beef that were too small to be sliced by
the machines; and also tripe, dyed with chemicals so that it would not
show white; and trimmings of hams and corned beef; and potatoes, skins
and all; and finally the hard cartilaginous gullets of beef, after the
tongues had been cut out. All this ingenious mixture was ground up and
flavored with spices to make it taste like something. Anybody who could
invent a new imitation had been sure of a fortune from old Durham, said
Jurgis' informant; but it was hard to think of anything new in a
place where so many sharp wits had been at work for so long; where men
welcomed tuberculosis in the cattle they were feeding, because it made
them fatten more quickly; and where they bought up all the old rancid
butter left over in the grocery stores of a continent, and "oxidized" it
by a forced-air process, to take away the odor, rechurned it with skim
milk, and sold it in bricks in the cities! Up to a year or two ago
it had been the custom to kill horses in the yards--ostensibly for
fertilizer; but after long agitation the newspapers had been able to
make the public realize that the horses were being canned. Now it was
against the law to kill horses in Packingtown, and the law was really
complied with--for the present, at any rate. Any day, however, one might
see sharp-horned and shaggy-haired creatures running with the sheep and
yet what a job you would have to get the public to believe that a good
part of what it buys for lamb and mutton is really goat's flesh!
There was another interesting set of statistics that a person might
have gathered in Packingtown--those of the various afflictions of
the workers. When Jurgis had first inspected the packing plants with
Szedvilas, he had marveled while he listened to the tale of all the
things that were made out of the carcasses of animals, and of all the
lesser industries that were maintained there; now he found that each one
of these lesser industries was a separate little inferno, in its way as
horrible as the killing beds, the source and fountain of them all.
The workers in each of them had their own peculiar diseases. And the
wandering visitor might be skeptical about all the swindles, but he
could not be skeptical about these, for the worker bore the evidence
of them about on his own person--generally he had only to hold out his
hand.
There were the men in the pickle rooms, for instance, where old Antanas
had gotten his death; scarce a one of these that had not some spot of
horror on his person. Let a man so much as scrape his finger pushing a
truck in the pickle rooms, and he might have a sore that would put him
out of the world; all the joints in his fingers might be eaten by the
acid, one by one. Of the butchers and floorsmen, the beef-boners and
trimmers, and all those who used knives, you could scarcely find a
person who had the use of his thumb; time and time again the base of it
had been slashed, till it was a mere lump of flesh against which the
man pressed the knife to hold it. The hands of these men would be
criss-crossed with cuts, until you could no longer pretend to count
them or to trace them. They would have no nails,--they had worn them off
pulling hides; their knuckles were swollen so that their fingers spread
out like a fan. There were men who worked in the cooking rooms, in the
midst of steam and sickening odors, by artificial light; in these rooms
the germs of tuberculosis might live for two years, but the supply
was renewed every hour. There were the beef-luggers, who carried
two-hundred-pound quarters into the refrigerator-cars; a fearful kind of
work, that began at four o'clock in the morning, and that wore out the
most powerful men in a few years. There were those who worked in the
chilling rooms, and whose special disease was rheumatism; the time limit
that a man could work in the chilling rooms was said to be five years.
There were the wool-pluckers, whose hands went to pieces even sooner
than the hands of the pickle men; for the pelts of the sheep had to be
painted with acid to loosen the wool, and then the pluckers had to
pull out this wool with their bare hands, till the acid had eaten their
fingers off. There were those who made the tins for the canned meat; and
their hands, too, were a maze of cuts, and each cut represented a chance
for blood poisoning. Some worked at the stamping machines, and it was
very seldom that one could work long there at the pace that was set, and
not give out and forget himself and have a part of his hand chopped off.
There were the "hoisters," as they were called, whose task it was to
press the lever which lifted the dead cattle off the floor. They ran
along upon a rafter, peering down through the damp and the steam; and
as old Durham's architects had not built the killing room for the
convenience of the hoisters, at every few feet they would have to stoop
under a beam, say four feet above the one they ran on; which got them
into the habit of stooping, so that in a few years they would be walking
like chimpanzees. Worst of any, however, were the fertilizer men, and
those who served in the cooking rooms. These people could not be shown
to the visitor,--for the odor of a fertilizer man would scare any
ordinary visitor at a hundred yards, and as for the other men, who
worked in tank rooms full of steam, and in some of which there were open
vats near the level of the floor, their peculiar trouble was that they
fell into the vats; and when they were fished out, there was never
enough of them left to be worth exhibiting,--sometimes they would be
overlooked for days, till all but the bones of them had gone out to the
world as Durham's Pure Leaf Lard! | Jurgis's involvement with the unions makes him want to learn English so that he can understand the meetings he attends. He enrolls in a school, takes night classes, and learns to read and speak. He also begins to pay attention to politics. He finds it hard to believe that the United States is any different from Russia, where there are "rich men who everything" and where it is difficult for common men to make a living. One day a man comes to Jurgis and asks him if he wants to be a citizen. The man tells Jurgis that this will allow him a half day off with pay and that he will be allowed to vote. Though Jurgis does not understand the process, he goes to a courthouse, takes an oath, and is told that he has "become a citizen of the Republic and the equal of the President himself. A few months later, Jurgis has the morning off to go vote in an election. The police usher all the workers into the back rooms of the saloons and they are each given two dollars and told to cast a vote for a particular candidate. The union men explain the process to him: the government exists under a democracy where there are political parties. The party that "bought the most votes" was the party that will be allowed to govern. Jurgis learns about Mike Scully, the most powerful man in Packingtown. Scully owns the trash dumps and the lake of fetid water that is used for ice in the winter. There have been numerous scandals associated with Scully, but he always pays someone else to take the blame and then that person leaves the country. Scully is the leader of the "War-Whoop League," a political club. This club also holds entertainment events, such as cockfights and dogfights, for the workers. Scully's "Indians," as they are called, are responsible for rounding up the immigrant men and making them citizens so that they can vote. Scully is so powerful that "even the packers in awe of him. There are other scandals in the packinghouses as well. The government inspectors, which all the people believe are protecting them from diseased meat, are actually appointed at the request of the packinghouses themselves. The only authority these men have is to make sure all diseased meat stays in the state. It does not mean that it cannot be used for food. The packers also pay the local government "two thousand dollars a week hush-money" so that there are no inspections on tubercular steers. The packers like to butcher tubercular steers because they fatten more quickly. There are multiple horrors of the meatpacking trade. The diseased parts of the steers and hogs are injected with chemicals and spices and canned to be sold to the public. They have different labels, some costing more than others are, but it is all the same product. The packers buy rancid butter, which they oxidize to get rid of the odor. They re-churn it and then sell it. The lamb meat that people often think they are buying is really goat meat. The men that work in the packing plants are also inflicted with disease. The butchers often cut their hands and have to work with bleeding fingers. They contract disease and sores. Men who work with chemicals often have their skin eaten away. Those that work in the chilling rooms can generally only last five years before severe rheumatism sets in. Anyone who works with cans has their own cuts and blood poisoning is common. A man who works at the stamping machines is always at risk for losing a limb. There are men who work around tanks of chemicals and they sometimes fall in the chemical vats. When they are pulled out, there is "never enough of them left to be worth exhibiting," and "sometimes they overlooked for days, till all but the bones of them had gone out to the world as Durham's Pure Leaf Lard |
Emma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles. The visit
afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she
might be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must
be amply repaid in the splendour of popularity. She must have delighted
the Coles--worthy people, who deserved to be made happy!--And left a
name behind her that would not soon die away.
Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two
points on which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether she had not
transgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of
Jane Fairfax's feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly right; but it
had been so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and his submission
to all that she told, was a compliment to her penetration, which made
it difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her
tongue.
The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and
there she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret the
inferiority of her own playing and singing. She did most heartily
grieve over the idleness of her childhood--and sat down and practised
vigorously an hour and a half.
She was then interrupted by Harriet's coming in; and if Harriet's praise
could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted.
"Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!"
"Don't class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like her's,
than a lamp is like sunshine."
"Oh! dear--I think you play the best of the two. I think you play quite
as well as she does. I am sure I had much rather hear you. Every body
last night said how well you played."
"Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference. The
truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised,
but Jane Fairfax's is much beyond it."
"Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or
that if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out. Mr. Cole
said how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great deal
about your taste, and that he valued taste much more than execution."
"Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet."
"Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any
taste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing.--There is no
understanding a word of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you
know, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have to
teach. The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into
any great family. How did you think the Coxes looked?"
"Just as they always do--very vulgar."
"They told me something," said Harriet rather hesitatingly; "but it is
nothing of any consequence."
Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its
producing Mr. Elton.
"They told me--that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday."
"Oh!"
"He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay to
dinner."
"Oh!"
"They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not know
what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay there
again next summer."
"She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should
be."
"She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat by her at
dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to marry
him."
"Very likely.--I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar
girls in Highbury."
Harriet had business at Ford's.--Emma thought it most prudent to go with
her. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible, and in
her present state, would be dangerous.
Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always
very long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins
and changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement.--Much could
not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;--Mr.
Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the
office-door, Mr. Cole's carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a
stray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she
could presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on the butcher with
his tray, a tidy old woman travelling homewards from shop with her full
basket, two curs quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling
children round the baker's little bow-window eyeing the gingerbread, she
knew she had no reason to complain, and was amused enough; quite enough
still to stand at the door. A mind lively and at ease, can do with
seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer.
She looked down the Randalls road. The scene enlarged; two persons
appeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they were walking into
Highbury;--to Hartfield of course. They were stopping, however, in the
first place at Mrs. Bates's; whose house was a little nearer
Randalls than Ford's; and had all but knocked, when Emma caught their
eye.--Immediately they crossed the road and came forward to her; and the
agreeableness of yesterday's engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure to
the present meeting. Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to call
on the Bateses, in order to hear the new instrument.
"For my companion tells me," said she, "that I absolutely promised Miss
Bates last night, that I would come this morning. I was not aware of it
myself. I did not know that I had fixed a day, but as he says I did, I
am going now."
"And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be allowed, I hope," said
Frank Churchill, "to join your party and wait for her at Hartfield--if
you are going home."
Mrs. Weston was disappointed.
"I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very much pleased."
"Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps--I may be equally in the
way here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me. My aunt always
sends me off when she is shopping. She says I fidget her to death; and
Miss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same. What am I to
do?"
"I am here on no business of my own," said Emma; "I am only waiting for
my friend. She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go home.
But you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument."
"Well--if you advise it.--But (with a smile) if Colonel Campbell should
have employed a careless friend, and if it should prove to have an
indifferent tone--what shall I say? I shall be no support to Mrs.
Weston. She might do very well by herself. A disagreeable truth would be
palatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the world
at a civil falsehood."
"I do not believe any such thing," replied Emma.--"I am persuaded that
you can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary; but
there is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite
otherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax's opinion last night."
"Do come with me," said Mrs. Weston, "if it be not very disagreeable to
you. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield afterwards.
We will follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It
will be felt so great an attention! and I always thought you meant it."
He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him,
returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates's door. Emma watched them in,
and then joined Harriet at the interesting counter,--trying, with all
the force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain
muslin it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be
it ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern. At
last it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel.
"Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard's, ma'am?" asked Mrs.
Ford.--"Yes--no--yes, to Mrs. Goddard's. Only my pattern gown is at
Hartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please. But then,
Mrs. Goddard will want to see it.--And I could take the pattern gown
home any day. But I shall want the ribbon directly--so it had better go
to Hartfield--at least the ribbon. You could make it into two parcels,
Mrs. Ford, could not you?"
"It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two
parcels."
"No more it is."
"No trouble in the world, ma'am," said the obliging Mrs. Ford.
"Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one. Then, if you
please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard's--I do not know--No, I
think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield, and
take it home with me at night. What do you advise?"
"That you do not give another half-second to the subject. To Hartfield,
if you please, Mrs. Ford."
"Aye, that will be much best," said Harriet, quite satisfied, "I should
not at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard's."
Voices approached the shop--or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs.
Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door.
"My dear Miss Woodhouse," said the latter, "I am just run across to
entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while,
and give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith. How
do you do, Miss Smith?--Very well I thank you.--And I begged Mrs. Weston
to come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding."
"I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are--"
"Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well;
and Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse?--I am so glad
to hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.--Oh!
then, said I, I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse will allow me
just to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother will be so
very happy to see her--and now we are such a nice party, she cannot
refuse.--'Aye, pray do,' said Mr. Frank Churchill, 'Miss Woodhouse's
opinion of the instrument will be worth having.'--But, said I, I shall
be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me.--'Oh,' said
he, 'wait half a minute, till I have finished my job;'--For, would you
believe it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging manner in
the world, fastening in the rivet of my mother's spectacles.--The rivet
came out, you know, this morning.--So very obliging!--For my mother had
no use of her spectacles--could not put them on. And, by the bye, every
body ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed. Jane said
so. I meant to take them over to John Saunders the first thing I did,
but something or other hindered me all the morning; first one thing,
then another, there is no saying what, you know. At one time Patty came
to say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping. Oh, said I,
Patty do not come with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet of your
mistress's spectacles out. Then the baked apples came home, Mrs. Wallis
sent them by her boy; they are extremely civil and obliging to us, the
Wallises, always--I have heard some people say that Mrs. Wallis can be
uncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have never known any thing
but the greatest attention from them. And it cannot be for the value
of our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread, you know?
Only three of us.--besides dear Jane at present--and she really eats
nothing--makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite frightened
if you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little she eats--so I
say one thing and then I say another, and it passes off. But about the
middle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she likes so
well as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome, for I took
the opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I happened to meet
him in the street. Not that I had any doubt before--I have so often
heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it is the only
way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly wholesome. We
have apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty makes an excellent
apple-dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and these
ladies will oblige us."
Emma would be "very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.," and they did at
last move out of the shop, with no farther delay from Miss Bates than,
"How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did not see you before.
I hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from town. Jane
came back delighted yesterday. Thank ye, the gloves do very well--only a
little too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in."
"What was I talking of?" said she, beginning again when they were all in
the street.
Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix.
"I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.--Oh! my mother's
spectacles. So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill! 'Oh!' said he,
'I do think I can fasten the rivet; I like a job of this kind
excessively.'--Which you know shewed him to be so very.... Indeed I must
say that, much as I had heard of him before and much as I had expected,
he very far exceeds any thing.... I do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston,
most warmly. He seems every thing the fondest parent could....
'Oh!' said he, 'I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that sort
excessively.' I never shall forget his manner. And when I brought out
the baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would be so very
obliging as to take some, 'Oh!' said he directly, 'there is nothing
in the way of fruit half so good, and these are the finest-looking
home-baked apples I ever saw in my life.' That, you know, was so
very.... And I am sure, by his manner, it was no compliment. Indeed they
are very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them full justice--only
we do not have them baked more than twice, and Mr. Woodhouse made us
promise to have them done three times--but Miss Woodhouse will be so
good as not to mention it. The apples themselves are the very finest
sort for baking, beyond a doubt; all from Donwell--some of Mr.
Knightley's most liberal supply. He sends us a sack every year; and
certainly there never was such a keeping apple anywhere as one of his
trees--I believe there is two of them. My mother says the orchard was
always famous in her younger days. But I was really quite shocked the
other day--for Mr. Knightley called one morning, and Jane was eating
these apples, and we talked about them and said how much she enjoyed
them, and he asked whether we were not got to the end of our stock. 'I
am sure you must be,' said he, 'and I will send you another supply; for
I have a great many more than I can ever use. William Larkins let me
keep a larger quantity than usual this year. I will send you some more,
before they get good for nothing.' So I begged he would not--for really
as to ours being gone, I could not absolutely say that we had a great
many left--it was but half a dozen indeed; but they should be all kept
for Jane; and I could not at all bear that he should be sending us more,
so liberal as he had been already; and Jane said the same. And when
he was gone, she almost quarrelled with me--No, I should not say
quarrelled, for we never had a quarrel in our lives; but she was quite
distressed that I had owned the apples were so nearly gone; she wished
I had made him believe we had a great many left. Oh, said I, my dear,
I did say as much as I could. However, the very same evening William
Larkins came over with a large basket of apples, the same sort of
apples, a bushel at least, and I was very much obliged, and went down
and spoke to William Larkins and said every thing, as you may suppose.
William Larkins is such an old acquaintance! I am always glad to see
him. But, however, I found afterwards from Patty, that William said it
was all the apples of _that_ sort his master had; he had brought them
all--and now his master had not one left to bake or boil. William did
not seem to mind it himself, he was so pleased to think his master had
sold so many; for William, you know, thinks more of his master's profit
than any thing; but Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their
being all sent away. She could not bear that her master should not be
able to have another apple-tart this spring. He told Patty this, but bid
her not mind it, and be sure not to say any thing to us about it, for
Mrs. Hodges _would_ be cross sometimes, and as long as so many sacks
were sold, it did not signify who ate the remainder. And so Patty told
me, and I was excessively shocked indeed! I would not have Mr. Knightley
know any thing about it for the world! He would be so very.... I wanted
to keep it from Jane's knowledge; but, unluckily, I had mentioned it
before I was aware."
Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and her visitors
walked upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to,
pursued only by the sounds of her desultory good-will.
"Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turning. Pray take
care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase--rather darker
and narrower than one could wish. Miss Smith, pray take care. Miss
Woodhouse, I am quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot. Miss
Smith, the step at the turning." | As Emma thinks about the party the next morning, she almost regrets spreading rumors about Jane . It doesn't quite seem like the proper thing to have done. Emma walks with Harriet to town. They meet Frank and Mrs. Weston on the way. There's a funny scene involving Harriet picking out a dress. Read the book to find out more. As they leave the store, Miss Bates rushes out to meet them. She invites them all to hear Jane play on her new piano. It turns out that Frank is already at the Bates house fixing Mrs. Bates' glasses. He's so helpful. |
Florence lived alone in the great dreary house, and day succeeded day,
and still she lived alone; and the blank walls looked down upon her with
a vacant stare, as if they had a Gorgon-like mind to stare her youth and
beauty into stone.
No magic dwelling-place in magic story, shut up in the heart of a thick
wood, was ever more solitary and deserted to the fancy, than was her
father's mansion in its grim reality, as it stood lowering on the
street: always by night, when lights were shining from neighbouring
windows, a blot upon its scanty brightness; always by day, a frown upon
its never-smiling face.
There were not two dragon sentries keeping ward before the gate of this
above, as in magic legend are usually found on duty over the wronged
innocence imprisoned; but besides a glowering visage, with its thin lips
parted wickedly, that surveyed all comers from above the archway of the
door, there was a monstrous fantasy of rusty iron, curling and twisting
like a petrifaction of an arbour over threshold, budding in spikes
and corkscrew points, and bearing, one on either side, two ominous
extinguishers, that seemed to say, 'Who enter here, leave light behind!'
There were no talismanic characters engraven on the portal, but the
house was now so neglected in appearance, that boys chalked the railings
and the pavement--particularly round the corner where the side wall
was--and drew ghosts on the stable door; and being sometimes driven off
by Mr Towlinson, made portraits of him, in return, with his ears growing
out horizontally from under his hat. Noise ceased to be, within the
shadow of the roof. The brass band that came into the street once a
week, in the morning, never brayed a note in at those windows; but all
such company, down to a poor little piping organ of weak intellect,
with an imbecile party of automaton dancers, waltzing in and out at
folding-doors, fell off from it with one accord, and shunned it as a
hopeless place.
The spell upon it was more wasting than the spell that used to set
enchanted houses sleeping once upon a time, but left their waking
freshness unimpaired.
The passive desolation of disuse was everywhere silently manifest about
it. Within doors, curtains, drooping heavily, lost their old folds and
shapes, and hung like cumbrous palls. Hecatombs of furniture, still
piled and covered up, shrunk like imprisoned and forgotten men, and
changed insensibly. Mirrors were dim as with the breath of years.
Patterns of carpets faded and became perplexed and faint, like the
memory of those years' trifling incidents. Boards, starting at unwonted
footsteps, creaked and shook. Keys rusted in the locks of doors. Damp
started on the walls, and as the stains came out, the pictures seemed to
go in and secrete themselves. Mildew and mould began to lurk in closets.
Fungus trees grew in corners of the cellars. Dust accumulated, nobody
knew whence nor how; spiders, moths, and grubs were heard of every day.
An exploratory blackbeetle now and then was found immovable upon the
stairs, or in an upper room, as wondering how he got there. Rats began
to squeak and scuffle in the night time, through dark galleries they
mined behind the panelling.
The dreary magnificence of the state rooms, seen imperfectly by the
doubtful light admitted through closed shutters, would have answered
well enough for an enchanted abode. Such as the tarnished paws of
gilded lions, stealthily put out from beneath their wrappers; the marble
lineaments of busts on pedestals, fearfully revealing themselves through
veils; the clocks that never told the time, or, if wound up by any
chance, told it wrong, and struck unearthly numbers, which are not
upon the dial; the accidental tinklings among the pendant lustres, more
startling than alarm-bells; the softened sounds and laggard air that
made their way among these objects, and a phantom crowd of others,
shrouded and hooded, and made spectral of shape. But, besides, there was
the great staircase, where the lord of the place so rarely set his foot,
and by which his little child had gone up to Heaven. There were other
staircases and passages where no one went for weeks together; there were
two closed rooms associated with dead members of the family, and with
whispered recollections of them; and to all the house but Florence,
there was a gentle figure moving through the solitude and gloom, that
gave to every lifeless thing a touch of present human interest and
wonder.
For Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and day succeeded day,
and still she lived alone, and the cold walls looked down upon her with
a vacant stare, as if they had a Gorgon-like mind to stare her youth and
beauty into stone.
The grass began to grow upon the roof, and in the crevices of the
basement paving. A scaly crumbling vegetation sprouted round the
window-sills. Fragments of mortar lost their hold upon the insides of
the unused chimneys, and came dropping down. The two trees with the
smoky trunks were blighted high up, and the withered branches domineered
above the leaves, Through the whole building white had turned yellow,
yellow nearly black; and since the time when the poor lady died, it had
slowly become a dark gap in the long monotonous street.
But Florence bloomed there, like the king's fair daughter in the
story. Her books, her music, and her daily teachers, were her only real
companions, Susan Nipper and Diogenes excepted: of whom the former, in
her attendance on the studies of her young mistress, began to grow
quite learned herself, while the latter, softened possibly by the same
influences, would lay his head upon the window-ledge, and placidly
open and shut his eyes upon the street, all through a summer morning;
sometimes pricking up his head to look with great significance after
some noisy dog in a cart, who was barking his way along, and sometimes,
with an exasperated and unaccountable recollection of his supposed enemy
in the neighbourhood, rushing to the door, whence, after a deafening
disturbance, he would come jogging back with a ridiculous complacency
that belonged to him, and lay his jaw upon the window-ledge again, with
the air of a dog who had done a public service.
So Florence lived in her wilderness of a home, within the circle of her
innocent pursuits and thoughts, and nothing harmed her. She could go
down to her father's rooms now, and think of him, and suffer her loving
heart humbly to approach him, without fear of repulse. She could look
upon the objects that had surrounded him in his sorrow, and could nestle
near his chair, and not dread the glance that she so well remembered.
She could render him such little tokens of her duty and service, as
putting everything in order for him with her own hands, binding little
nosegays for table, changing them as one by one they withered and he did
not come back, preparing something for him every day, and leaving some
timid mark of her presence near his usual seat. To-day, it was a little
painted stand for his watch; tomorrow she would be afraid to leave it,
and would substitute some other trifle of her making not so likely to
attract his eye. Waking in the night, perhaps, she would tremble at the
thought of his coming home and angrily rejecting it, and would hurry
down with slippered feet and quickly beating heart, and bring it away.
At another time, she would only lay her face upon his desk, and leave a
kiss there, and a tear.
Still no one knew of this. Unless the household found it out when she
was not there--and they all held Mr Dombey's rooms in awe--it was as
deep a secret in her breast as what had gone before it. Florence stole
into those rooms at twilight, early in the morning, and at times when
meals were served downstairs. And although they were in every nook the
better and the brighter for her care, she entered and passed out as
quietly as any sunbeam, opting that she left her light behind.
Shadowy company attended Florence up and down the echoing house, and
sat with her in the dismantled rooms. As if her life were an enchanted
vision, there arose out of her solitude ministering thoughts, that made
it fanciful and unreal. She imagined so often what her life would have
been if her father could have loved her and she had been a favourite
child, that sometimes, for the moment, she almost believed it was so,
and, borne on by the current of that pensive fiction, seemed to remember
how they had watched her brother in his grave together; how they had
freely shared his heart between them; how they were united in the dear
remembrance of him; how they often spoke about him yet; and her kind
father, looking at her gently, told her of their common hope and trust
in God. At other times she pictured to herself her mother yet alive. And
oh the happiness of falling on her neck, and clinging to her with
the love and confidence of all her soul! And oh the desolation of the
solitary house again, with evening coming on, and no one there!
But there was one thought, scarcely shaped out to herself, yet fervent
and strong within her, that upheld Florence when she strove and filled
her true young heart, so sorely tried, with constancy of purpose. Into
her mind, as into all others contending with the great affliction of
our mortal nature, there had stolen solemn wonderings and hopes, arising
in the dim world beyond the present life, and murmuring, like faint
music, of recognition in the far-off land between her brother and her
mother: of some present consciousness in both of her: some love and
commiseration for her: and some knowledge of her as she went her way
upon the earth. It was a soothing consolation to Florence to give
shelter to these thoughts, until one day--it was soon after she had last
seen her father in his own room, late at night--the fancy came upon her,
that, in weeping for his alienated heart, she might stir the spirits of
the dead against him. Wild, weak, childish, as it may have been to think
so, and to tremble at the half-formed thought, it was the impulse of
her loving nature; and from that hour Florence strove against the cruel
wound in her breast, and tried to think of him whose hand had made it,
only with hope.
Her father did not know--she held to it from that time--how much she
loved him. She was very young, and had no mother, and had never learned,
by some fault or misfortune, how to express to him that she loved him.
She would be patient, and would try to gain that art in time, and win
him to a better knowledge of his only child.
This became the purpose of her life. The morning sun shone down upon the
faded house, and found the resolution bright and fresh within the bosom
of its solitary mistress, Through all the duties of the day, it
animated her; for Florence hoped that the more she knew, and the more
accomplished she became, the more glad he would be when he came to know
and like her. Sometimes she wondered, with a swelling heart and rising
tear, whether she was proficient enough in anything to surprise him when
they should become companions. Sometimes she tried to think if there
were any kind of knowledge that would bespeak his interest more readily
than another. Always: at her books, her music, and her work: in her
morning walks, and in her nightly prayers: she had her engrossing aim
in view. Strange study for a child, to learn the road to a hard parent's
heart!
There were many careless loungers through the street, as the summer
evening deepened into night, who glanced across the road at the sombre
house, and saw the youthful figure at the window, such a contrast to it,
looking upward at the stars as they began to shine, who would have slept
the worse if they had known on what design she mused so steadfastly. The
reputation of the mansion as a haunted house, would not have been
the gayer with some humble dwellers elsewhere, who were struck by its
external gloom in passing and repassing on their daily avocations, and
so named it, if they could have read its story in the darkening face.
But Florence held her sacred purpose, unsuspected and unaided: and
studied only how to bring her father to the understanding that she loved
him, and made no appeal against him in any wandering thought.
Thus Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and day succeeded day,
and still she lived alone, and the monotonous walls looked down upon her
with a stare, as if they had a Gorgon-like intent to stare her youth and
beauty into stone.
Susan Nipper stood opposite to her young mistress one morning, as she
folded and sealed a note she had been writing: and showed in her looks
an approving knowledge of its contents.
'Better late than never, dear Miss Floy,' said Susan, 'and I do say,
that even a visit to them old Skettleses will be a Godsend.'
'It is very good of Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles, Susan,' returned
Florence, with a mild correction of that young lady's familiar mention
of the family in question, 'to repeat their invitation so kindly.'
Miss Nipper, who was perhaps the most thoroughgoing partisan on the face
of the earth, and who carried her partisanship into all matters great or
small, and perpetually waged war with it against society, screwed up
her lips and shook her head, as a protest against any recognition of
disinterestedness in the Skettleses, and a plea in bar that they would
have valuable consideration for their kindness, in the company of
Florence.
'They know what they're about, if ever people did,' murmured Miss
Nipper, drawing in her breath 'oh! trust them Skettleses for that!'
'I am not very anxious to go to Fulham, Susan, I confess,' said Florence
thoughtfully: 'but it will be right to go. I think it will be better.'
'Much better,' interposed Susan, with another emphatic shake of her
head.
'And so,' said Florence, 'though I would prefer to have gone when there
was no one there, instead of in this vacation time, when it seems there
are some young people staying in the house, I have thankfully said yes.'
'For which I say, Miss Floy, Oh be joyful!' returned Susan, 'Ah! h--h!'
This last ejaculation, with which Miss Nipper frequently wound up a
sentence, at about that epoch of time, was supposed below the level of
the hall to have a general reference to Mr Dombey, and to be expressive
of a yearning in Miss Nipper to favour that gentleman with a piece of
her mind. But she never explained it; and it had, in consequence,
the charm of mystery, in addition to the advantage of the sharpest
expression.
'How long it is before we have any news of Walter, Susan!' observed
Florence, after a moment's silence.
'Long indeed, Miss Floy!' replied her maid. 'And Perch said, when he
came just now to see for letters--but what signifies what he says!'
exclaimed Susan, reddening and breaking off. 'Much he knows about it!'
Florence raised her eyes quickly, and a flush overspread her face.
'If I hadn't,' said Susan Nipper, evidently struggling with some
latent anxiety and alarm, and looking full at her young mistress,
while endeavouring to work herself into a state of resentment with the
unoffending Mr Perch's image, 'if I hadn't more manliness than that
insipidest of his sex, I'd never take pride in my hair again, but turn
it up behind my ears, and wear coarse caps, without a bit of border,
until death released me from my insignificance. I may not be a Amazon,
Miss Floy, and wouldn't so demean myself by such disfigurement, but
anyways I'm not a giver up, I hope.'
'Give up! What?' cried Florence, with a face of terror.
'Why, nothing, Miss,' said Susan. 'Good gracious, nothing! It's only
that wet curl-paper of a man, Perch, that anyone might almost make
away with, with a touch, and really it would be a blessed event for all
parties if someone would take pity on him, and would have the goodness!'
'Does he give up the ship, Susan?' inquired Florence, very pale.
'No, Miss,' returned Susan, 'I should like to see him make so bold as
do it to my face! No, Miss, but he goes on about some bothering ginger
that Mr Walter was to send to Mrs Perch, and shakes his dismal head, and
says he hopes it may be coming; anyhow, he says, it can't come now in
time for the intended occasion, but may do for next, which really,' said
Miss Nipper, with aggravated scorn, 'puts me out of patience with the
man, for though I can bear a great deal, I am not a camel, neither am
I,' added Susan, after a moment's consideration, 'if I know myself, a
dromedary neither.'
'What else does he say, Susan?' inquired Florence, earnestly. 'Won't you
tell me?'
'As if I wouldn't tell you anything, Miss Floy, and everything!' said
Susan. 'Why, nothing Miss, he says that there begins to be a general
talk about the ship, and that they have never had a ship on that voyage
half so long unheard of, and that the Captain's wife was at the office
yesterday, and seemed a little put out about it, but anyone could say
that, we knew nearly that before.'
'I must visit Walter's uncle,' said Florence, hurriedly, 'before I leave
home. I will go and see him this morning. Let us walk there, directly,
Susan.'
Miss Nipper having nothing to urge against the proposal, but being
perfectly acquiescent, they were soon equipped, and in the streets, and
on their way towards the little Midshipman.
The state of mind in which poor Walter had gone to Captain Cuttle's,
on the day when Brogley the broker came into possession, and when there
seemed to him to be an execution in the very steeples, was pretty much
the same as that in which Florence now took her way to Uncle Sol's; with
this difference, that Florence suffered the added pain of thinking that
she had been, perhaps, the innocent occasion of involving Walter in
peril, and all to whom he was dear, herself included, in an agony of
suspense. For the rest, uncertainty and danger seemed written upon
everything. The weathercocks on spires and housetops were mysterious
with hints of stormy wind, and pointed, like so many ghostly fingers,
out to dangerous seas, where fragments of great wrecks were drifting,
perhaps, and helpless men were rocked upon them into a sleep as deep as
the unfathomable waters. When Florence came into the City, and passed
gentlemen who were talking together, she dreaded to hear them speaking
of the ship, and saying it was lost. Pictures and prints of vessels
fighting with the rolling waves filled her with alarm. The smoke and
clouds, though moving gently, moved too fast for her apprehensions, and
made her fear there was a tempest blowing at that moment on the ocean.
Susan Nipper may or may not have been affected similarly, but having her
attention much engaged in struggles with boys, whenever there was any
press of people--for, between that grade of human kind and herself,
there was some natural animosity that invariably broke out, whenever
they came together--it would seem that she had not much leisure on the
road for intellectual operations.
Arriving in good time abreast of the wooden Midshipman on the opposite
side of the way, and waiting for an opportunity to cross the street,
they were a little surprised at first to see, at the Instrument-maker's
door, a round-headed lad, with his chubby face addressed towards the
sky, who, as they looked at him, suddenly thrust into his capacious
mouth two fingers of each hand, and with the assistance of that
machinery whistled, with astonishing shrillness, to some pigeons at a
considerable elevation in the air.
'Mrs Richards's eldest, Miss!' said Susan, 'and the worrit of Mrs
Richards's life!'
As Polly had been to tell Florence of the resuscitated prospects of her
son and heir, Florence was prepared for the meeting: so, a favourable
moment presenting itself, they both hastened across, without any
further contemplation of Mrs Richards's bane. That sporting character,
unconscious of their approach, again whistled with his utmost might, and
then yelled in a rapture of excitement, 'Strays! Whoo-oop! Strays!' which
identification had such an effect upon the conscience-stricken pigeons,
that instead of going direct to some town in the North of England, as
appeared to have been their original intention, they began to wheel and
falter; whereupon Mrs Richards's first born pierced them with another
whistle, and again yelled, in a voice that rose above the turmoil of the
street, 'Strays! Whoo-oop! Strays!'
From this transport, he was abruptly recalled to terrestrial objects, by
a poke from Miss Nipper, which sent him into the shop.
'Is this the way you show your penitence, when Mrs Richards has been
fretting for you months and months?' said Susan, following the poke.
'Where's Mr Gills?'
Rob, who smoothed his first rebellious glance at Miss Nipper when he
saw Florence following, put his knuckles to his hair, in honour of the
latter, and said to the former, that Mr Gills was out.'
'Fetch him home,' said Miss Nipper, with authority, 'and say that my
young lady's here.'
'I don't know where he's gone,' said Rob.
'Is that your penitence?' cried Susan, with stinging sharpness.
'Why how can I go and fetch him when I don't know where to go?'
whimpered the baited Rob. 'How can you be so unreasonable?'
'Did Mr Gills say when he should be home?' asked Florence.
'Yes, Miss,' replied Rob, with another application of his knuckles to
his hair. 'He said he should be home early in the afternoon; in about a
couple of hours from now, Miss.'
'Is he very anxious about his nephew?' inquired Susan.
'Yes, Miss,' returned Rob, preferring to address himself to Florence and
slighting Nipper; 'I should say he was, very much so. He ain't indoors,
Miss, not a quarter of an hour together. He can't settle in one place
five minutes. He goes about, like a--just like a stray,' said Rob,
stooping to get a glimpse of the pigeons through the window, and
checking himself, with his fingers half-way to his mouth, on the verge
of another whistle.
'Do you know a friend of Mr Gills, called Captain Cuttle?' inquired
Florence, after a moment's reflection.
'Him with a hook, Miss?' rejoined Rob, with an illustrative twist of his
left hand. Yes, Miss. He was here the day before yesterday.'
'Has he not been here since?' asked Susan.
'No, Miss,' returned Rob, still addressing his reply to Florence.
'Perhaps Walter's Uncle has gone there, Susan,' observed Florence,
turning to her.
'To Captain Cuttle's, Miss?' interposed Rob; 'no, he's not gone there,
Miss. Because he left particular word that if Captain Cuttle called, I
should tell him how surprised he was, not to have seen him yesterday,
and should make him stop till he came back.'
'Do you know where Captain Cuttle lives?' asked Florence.
Rob replied in the affirmative, and turning to a greasy parchment book
on the shop desk, read the address aloud.
Florence again turned to her maid and took counsel with her in a low
voice, while Rob the round-eyed, mindful of his patron's secret charge,
looked on and listened. Florence proposed that they could go to Captain
Cuttle's house; hear from his own lips, what he thought of the absence
of any tidings of the Son and Heir; and bring him, if they could, to
comfort Uncle Sol. Susan at first objected slightly, on the score of
distance; but a hackney-coach being mentioned by her mistress, withdrew
that opposition, and gave in her assent. There were some minutes of
discussion between them before they came to this conclusion, during
which the staring Rob paid close attention to both speakers, and
inclined his ear to each by turns, as if he were appointed arbitrator of
the argument.
In time, Rob was despatched for a coach, the visitors keeping shop
meanwhile; and when he brought it, they got into it, leaving word for
Uncle Sol that they would be sure to call again, on their way back. Rob
having stared after the coach until it was as invisible as the
pigeons had now become, sat down behind the desk with a most assiduous
demeanour; and in order that he might forget nothing of what had
transpired, made notes of it on various small scraps of paper, with
a vast expenditure of ink. There was no danger of these documents
betraying anything, if accidentally lost; for long before a word was
dry, it became as profound a mystery to Rob, as if he had had no part
whatever in its production.
While he was yet busy with these labours, the hackney-coach, after
encountering unheard-of difficulties from swivel-bridges, soft roads,
impassable canals, caravans of casks, settlements of scarlet-beans and
little wash-houses, and many such obstacles abounding in that country,
stopped at the corner of Brig Place. Alighting here, Florence and Susan
Nipper walked down the street, and sought out the abode of Captain
Cuttle.
It happened by evil chance to be one of Mrs MacStinger's great cleaning
days. On these occasions, Mrs MacStinger was knocked up by the policeman
at a quarter before three in the morning, and rarely such before twelve
o'clock next night. The chief object of this institution appeared to be,
that Mrs MacStinger should move all the furniture into the back garden
at early dawn, walk about the house in pattens all day, and move the
furniture back again after dark. These ceremonies greatly fluttered
those doves the young MacStingers, who were not only unable at such
times to find any resting-place for the soles of their feet, but
generally came in for a good deal of pecking from the maternal bird
during the progress of the solemnities.
At the moment when Florence and Susan Nipper presented themselves at Mrs
MacStinger's door, that worthy but redoubtable female was in the act of
conveying Alexander MacStinger, aged two years and three months, along
the passage, for forcible deposition in a sitting posture on the street
pavement: Alexander being black in the face with holding his breath
after punishment, and a cool paving-stone being usually found to act as
a powerful restorative in such cases.
The feelings of Mrs MacStinger, as a woman and a mother, were outraged
by the look of pity for Alexander which she observed on Florence's face.
Therefore, Mrs MacStinger asserting those finest emotions of our nature,
in preference to weakly gratifying her curiosity, shook and buffeted
Alexander both before and during the application of the paving-stone,
and took no further notice of the strangers.
'I beg your pardon, Ma'am,' said Florence, when the child had found his
breath again, and was using it. 'Is this Captain Cuttle's house?'
'No,' said Mrs MacStinger.
'Not Number Nine?' asked Florence, hesitating.
'Who said it wasn't Number Nine?' said Mrs MacStinger.
Susan Nipper instantly struck in, and begged to inquire what Mrs
MacStinger meant by that, and if she knew whom she was talking to.
Mrs MacStinger in retort, looked at her all over. 'What do you want with
Captain Cuttle, I should wish to know?' said Mrs MacStinger.
'Should you? Then I'm sorry that you won't be satisfied,' returned Miss
Nipper.
'Hush, Susan! If you please!' said Florence. 'Perhaps you can have the
goodness to tell us where Captain Cuttle lives, Ma'am as he don't live
here.'
'Who says he don't live here?' retorted the implacable MacStinger. 'I
said it wasn't Cap'en Cuttle's house--and it ain't his house--and forbid
it, that it ever should be his house--for Cap'en Cuttle don't know how
to keep a house--and don't deserve to have a house--it's my house--and
when I let the upper floor to Cap'en Cuttle, oh I do a thankless thing,
and cast pearls before swine!'
Mrs MacStinger pitched her voice for the upper windows in offering these
remarks, and cracked off each clause sharply by itself as if from
a rifle possessing an infinity of barrels. After the last shot, the
Captain's voice was heard to say, in feeble remonstrance from his own
room, 'Steady below!'
'Since you want Cap'en Cuttle, there he is!' said Mrs MacStinger, with
an angry motion of her hand. On Florence making bold to enter, without
any more parley, and on Susan following, Mrs MacStinger recommenced her
pedestrian exercise in pattens, and Alexander MacStinger (still on
the paving-stone), who had stopped in his crying to attend to the
conversation, began to wail again, entertaining himself during that
dismal performance, which was quite mechanical, with a general survey of
the prospect, terminating in the hackney-coach.
The Captain in his own apartment was sitting with his hands in his
pockets and his legs drawn up under his chair, on a very small desolate
island, lying about midway in an ocean of soap and water. The Captain's
windows had been cleaned, the walls had been cleaned, the stove had been
cleaned, and everything the stove excepted, was wet, and shining with
soft soap and sand: the smell of which dry-saltery impregnated the
air. In the midst of the dreary scene, the Captain, cast away upon his
island, looked round on the waste of waters with a rueful countenance,
and seemed waiting for some friendly bark to come that way, and take him
off.
But when the Captain, directing his forlorn visage towards the door, saw
Florence appear with her maid, no words can describe his astonishment.
Mrs MacStinger's eloquence having rendered all other sounds but
imperfectly distinguishable, he had looked for no rarer visitor than the
potboy or the milkman; wherefore, when Florence appeared, and coming to
the confines of the island, put her hand in his, the Captain stood up,
aghast, as if he supposed her, for the moment, to be some young member
of the Flying Dutchman's family.
Instantly recovering his self-possession, however, the Captain's first
care was to place her on dry land, which he happily accomplished, with
one motion of his arm. Issuing forth, then, upon the main, Captain
Cuttle took Miss Nipper round the waist, and bore her to the island
also. Captain Cuttle, then, with great respect and admiration, raised
the hand of Florence to his lips, and standing off a little (for the
island was not large enough for three), beamed on her from the soap and
water like a new description of Triton.
'You are amazed to see us, I am sure,' said Florence, with a smile.
The inexpressibly gratified Captain kissed his hook in reply, and
growled, as if a choice and delicate compliment were included in the
words, 'Stand by! Stand by!'
'But I couldn't rest,' said Florence, 'without coming to ask you what
you think about dear Walter--who is my brother now--and whether there is
anything to fear, and whether you will not go and console his poor Uncle
every day, until we have some intelligence of him?'
At these words Captain Cuttle, as by an involuntary gesture, clapped
his hand to his head, on which the hard glazed hat was not, and looked
discomfited.
'Have you any fears for Walter's safety?' inquired Florence, from whose
face the Captain (so enraptured he was with it) could not take his eyes:
while she, in her turn, looked earnestly at him, to be assured of the
sincerity of his reply.
'No, Heart's-delight,' said Captain Cuttle, 'I am not afeard. Wal'r is a
lad as'll go through a deal o' hard weather. Wal'r is a lad as'll bring
as much success to that 'ere brig as a lad is capable on. Wal'r,' said
the Captain, his eyes glistening with the praise of his young friend,
and his hook raised to announce a beautiful quotation, 'is what you may
call a out'ard and visible sign of an in'ard and spirited grasp, and
when found make a note of.'
Florence, who did not quite understand this, though the Captain
evidently thought it full of meaning, and highly satisfactory, mildly
looked to him for something more.
'I am not afeard, my Heart's-delight,' resumed the Captain, 'There's
been most uncommon bad weather in them latitudes, there's no denyin',
and they have drove and drove and been beat off, may be t'other side
the world. But the ship's a good ship, and the lad's a good lad; and it
ain't easy, thank the Lord,' the Captain made a little bow, 'to break
up hearts of oak, whether they're in brigs or buzzums. Here we have 'em
both ways, which is bringing it up with a round turn, and so I ain't a
bit afeard as yet.'
'As yet?' repeated Florence.
'Not a bit,' returned the Captain, kissing his iron hand; 'and afore
I begin to be, my Hearts-delight, Wal'r will have wrote home from
the island, or from some port or another, and made all taut and
ship-shape.' And with regard to old Sol Gills, here the Captain became
solemn, 'who I'll stand by, and not desert until death do us part,
and when the stormy winds do blow, do blow, do blow--overhaul the
Catechism,' said the Captain parenthetically, 'and there you'll find
them expressions--if it would console Sol Gills to have the opinion of a
seafaring man as has got a mind equal to any undertaking that he puts
it alongside of, and as was all but smashed in his 'prenticeship, and of
which the name is Bunsby, that 'ere man shall give him such an opinion
in his own parlour as'll stun him. Ah!' said Captain Cuttle, vauntingly,
'as much as if he'd gone and knocked his head again a door!'
'Let us take this gentleman to see him, and let us hear what he says,'
cried Florence. 'Will you go with us now? We have a coach here.'
Again the Captain clapped his hand to his head, on which the hard
glazed hat was not, and looked discomfited. But at this instant a most
remarkable phenomenon occurred. The door opening, without any note of
preparation, and apparently of itself, the hard glazed hat in question
skimmed into the room like a bird, and alighted heavily at the Captain's
feet. The door then shut as violently as it had opened, and nothing
ensued in explanation of the prodigy.
Captain Cuttle picked up his hat, and having turned it over with a look
of interest and welcome, began to polish it on his sleeve. While doing
so, the Captain eyed his visitors intently, and said in a low voice,
'You see I should have bore down on Sol Gills yesterday, and this
morning, but she--she took it away and kept it. That's the long and short
of the subject.'
'Who did, for goodness sake?' asked Susan Nipper.
'The lady of the house, my dear,' returned the Captain, in a gruff
whisper, and making signals of secrecy. 'We had some words about the
swabbing of these here planks, and she--In short,' said the Captain,
eyeing the door, and relieving himself with a long breath, 'she stopped
my liberty.'
'Oh! I wish she had me to deal with!' said Susan, reddening with the
energy of the wish. 'I'd stop her!'
'Would you, do you, my dear?' rejoined the Captain, shaking his head
doubtfully, but regarding the desperate courage of the fair aspirant
with obvious admiration. 'I don't know. It's difficult navigation. She's
very hard to carry on with, my dear. You never can tell how she'll head,
you see. She's full one minute, and round upon you next. And when she in
a tartar,' said the Captain, with the perspiration breaking out upon
his forehead. There was nothing but a whistle emphatic enough for the
conclusion of the sentence, so the Captain whistled tremulously. After
which he again shook his head, and recurring to his admiration of Miss
Nipper's devoted bravery, timidly repeated, 'Would you, do you think, my
dear?'
Susan only replied with a bridling smile, but that was so very full of
defiance, that there is no knowing how long Captain Cuttle might have
stood entranced in its contemplation, if Florence in her anxiety had not
again proposed their immediately resorting to the oracular Bunsby. Thus
reminded of his duty, Captain Cuttle Put on the glazed hat firmly, took
up another knobby stick, with which he had supplied the place of that
one given to Walter, and offering his arm to Florence, prepared to cut
his way through the enemy.
It turned out, however, that Mrs MacStinger had already changed her
course, and that she headed, as the Captain had remarked she often did,
in quite a new direction. For when they got downstairs, they found that
exemplary woman beating the mats on the doorsteps, with Alexander,
still upon the paving-stone, dimly looming through a fog of dust; and
so absorbed was Mrs MacStinger in her household occupation, that when
Captain Cuttle and his visitors passed, she beat the harder, and neither
by word nor gesture showed any consciousness of their vicinity. The
Captain was so well pleased with this easy escape--although the effect
of the door-mats on him was like a copious administration of snuff, and
made him sneeze until the tears ran down his face--that he could hardly
believe his good fortune; but more than once, between the door and the
hackney-coach, looked over his shoulder, with an obvious apprehension of
Mrs MacStinger's giving chase yet.
However, they got to the corner of Brig Place without any molestation
from that terrible fire-ship; and the Captain mounting the
coach-box--for his gallantry would not allow him to ride inside with the
ladies, though besought to do so--piloted the driver on his course for
Captain Bunsby's vessel, which was called the Cautious Clara, and was
lying hard by Ratcliffe.
Arrived at the wharf off which this great commander's ship was jammed
in among some five hundred companions, whose tangled rigging looked
like monstrous cobwebs half swept down, Captain Cuttle appeared at the
coach-window, and invited Florence and Miss Nipper to accompany him
on board; observing that Bunsby was to the last degree soft-hearted
in respect of ladies, and that nothing would so much tend to bring his
expansive intellect into a state of harmony as their presentation to the
Cautious Clara.
Florence readily consented; and the Captain, taking her little hand
in his prodigious palm, led her, with a mixed expression of patronage,
paternity, pride, and ceremony, that was pleasant to see, over several
very dirty decks, until, coming to the Clara, they found that cautious
craft (which lay outside the tier) with her gangway removed, and
half-a-dozen feet of river interposed between herself and her nearest
neighbour. It appeared, from Captain Cuttle's explanation, that the
great Bunsby, like himself, was cruelly treated by his landlady, and
that when her usage of him for the time being was so hard that he could
bear it no longer, he set this gulf between them as a last resource.
'Clara a-hoy!' cried the Captain, putting a hand to each side of his
mouth.
'A-hoy!' cried a boy, like the Captain's echo, tumbling up from below.
'Bunsby aboard?' cried the Captain, hailing the boy in a stentorian
voice, as if he were half-a-mile off instead of two yards.
'Ay, ay!' cried the boy, in the same tone.
The boy then shoved out a plank to Captain Cuttle, who adjusted it
carefully, and led Florence across: returning presently for Miss Nipper.
So they stood upon the deck of the Cautious Clara, in whose standing
rigging, divers fluttering articles of dress were curing, in company
with a few tongues and some mackerel.
Immediately there appeared, coming slowly up above the bulk-head of the
cabin, another bulk-head--human, and very large--with one stationary eye
in the mahogany face, and one revolving one, on the principle of some
lighthouses. This head was decorated with shaggy hair, like oakum,
which had no governing inclination towards the north, east, west, or
south, but inclined to all four quarters of the compass, and to every
point upon it. The head was followed by a perfect desert of chin, and by
a shirt-collar and neckerchief, and by a dreadnought pilot-coat, and by
a pair of dreadnought pilot-trousers, whereof the waistband was so very
broad and high, that it became a succedaneum for a waistcoat: being
ornamented near the wearer's breastbone with some massive wooden
buttons, like backgammon men. As the lower portions of these pantaloons
became revealed, Bunsby stood confessed; his hands in their pockets,
which were of vast size; and his gaze directed, not to Captain Cuttle or
the ladies, but the mast-head.
The profound appearance of this philosopher, who was bulky and strong,
and on whose extremely red face an expression of taciturnity sat
enthroned, not inconsistent with his character, in which that quality
was proudly conspicuous, almost daunted Captain Cuttle, though on
familiar terms with him. Whispering to Florence that Bunsby had never
in his life expressed surprise, and was considered not to know what it
meant, the Captain watched him as he eyed his mast-head, and afterwards
swept the horizon; and when the revolving eye seemed to be coming round
in his direction, said:
'Bunsby, my lad, how fares it?'
A deep, gruff, husky utterance, which seemed to have no connexion with
Bunsby, and certainly had not the least effect upon his face, replied,
'Ay, ay, shipmet, how goes it?' At the same time Bunsby's right hand and
arm, emerging from a pocket, shook the Captain's, and went back again.
'Bunsby,' said the Captain, striking home at once, 'here you are; a man
of mind, and a man as can give an opinion. Here's a young lady as wants
to take that opinion, in regard of my friend Wal'r; likewise my t'other
friend, Sol Gills, which is a character for you to come within hail of,
being a man of science, which is the mother of invention, and knows no
law. Bunsby, will you wear, to oblige me, and come along with us?'
The great commander, who seemed by expression of his visage to be always
on the look-out for something in the extremest distance, and to have no
ocular knowledge of anything within ten miles, made no reply whatever.
'Here is a man,' said the Captain, addressing himself to his fair
auditors, and indicating the commander with his outstretched hook, 'that
has fell down, more than any man alive; that has had more accidents
happen to his own self than the Seamen's Hospital to all hands; that
took as many spars and bars and bolts about the outside of his head
when he was young, as you'd want a order for on Chatham-yard to build
a pleasure yacht with; and yet that his opinions in that way, it's my
belief, for there ain't nothing like 'em afloat or ashore.'
The stolid commander appeared by a very slight vibration in his elbows,
to express some satisfaction in this encomium; but if his face had
been as distant as his gaze was, it could hardly have enlightened
the beholders less in reference to anything that was passing in his
thoughts.
'Shipmet,' said Bunsby, all of a sudden, and stooping down to look out
under some interposing spar, 'what'll the ladies drink?'
Captain Cuttle, whose delicacy was shocked by such an inquiry in
connection with Florence, drew the sage aside, and seeming to explain in
his ear, accompanied him below; where, that he might not take offence,
the Captain drank a dram himself, which Florence and Susan, glancing
down the open skylight, saw the sage, with difficulty finding room for
himself between his berth and a very little brass fireplace, serve out
for self and friend. They soon reappeared on deck, and Captain Cuttle,
triumphing in the success of his enterprise, conducted Florence back to
the coach, while Bunsby followed, escorting Miss Nipper, whom he
hugged upon the way (much to that young lady's indignation) with his
pilot-coated arm, like a blue bear.
The Captain put his oracle inside, and gloried so much in having secured
him, and having got that mind into a hackney-coach, that he could not
refrain from often peeping in at Florence through the little window
behind the driver, and testifying his delight in smiles, and also in
taps upon his forehead, to hint to her that the brain of Bunsby was
hard at it. In the meantime, Bunsby, still hugging Miss Nipper (for his
friend, the Captain, had not exaggerated the softness of his heart),
uniformly preserved his gravity of deportment, and showed no other
consciousness of her or anything.
Uncle Sol, who had come home, received them at the door, and ushered
them immediately into the little back parlour: strangely altered by the
absence of Walter. On the table, and about the room, were the charts
and maps on which the heavy-hearted Instrument-maker had again and again
tracked the missing vessel across the sea, and on which, with a pair of
compasses that he still had in his hand, he had been measuring, a minute
before, how far she must have driven, to have driven here or there:
and trying to demonstrate that a long time must elapse before hope was
exhausted.
'Whether she can have run,' said Uncle Sol, looking wistfully over the
chart; 'but no, that's almost impossible or whether she can have been
forced by stress of weather,--but that's not reasonably likely. Or
whether there is any hope she so far changed her course as--but even I
can hardly hope that!' With such broken suggestions, poor old Uncle Sol
roamed over the great sheet before him, and could not find a speck of
hopeful probability in it large enough to set one small point of the
compasses upon.
Florence saw immediately--it would have been difficult to help
seeing--that there was a singular, indescribable change in the old
man, and that while his manner was far more restless and unsettled
than usual, there was yet a curious, contradictory decision in it, that
perplexed her very much. She fancied once that he spoke wildly, and at
random; for on her saying she regretted not to have seen him when she
had been there before that morning, he at first replied that he had
been to see her, and directly afterwards seemed to wish to recall that
answer.
'You have been to see me?' said Florence. 'To-day?'
'Yes, my dear young lady,' returned Uncle Sol, looking at her and away
from her in a confused manner. 'I wished to see you with my own eyes,
and to hear you with my own ears, once more before--' There he stopped.
'Before when? Before what?' said Florence, putting her hand upon his
arm.
'Did I say "before?"' replied old Sol. 'If I did, I must have meant
before we should have news of my dear boy.'
'You are not well,' said Florence, tenderly. 'You have been so very
anxious I am sure you are not well.'
'I am as well,' returned the old man, shutting up his right hand, and
holding it out to show her: 'as well and firm as any man at my time of
life can hope to be. See! It's steady. Is its master not as capable of
resolution and fortitude as many a younger man? I think so. We shall
see.'
There was that in his manner more than in his words, though they
remained with her too, which impressed Florence so much, that she would
have confided her uneasiness to Captain Cuttle at that moment, if
the Captain had not seized that moment for expounding the state
of circumstance, on which the opinion of the sagacious Bunsby was
requested, and entreating that profound authority to deliver the same.
Bunsby, whose eye continued to be addressed to somewhere about the
half-way house between London and Gravesend, two or three times put out
his rough right arm, as seeking to wind it for inspiration round
the fair form of Miss Nipper; but that young female having withdrawn
herself, in displeasure, to the opposite side of the table, the soft
heart of the Commander of the Cautious Clara met with no response to its
impulses. After sundry failures in this wise, the Commander, addressing
himself to nobody, thus spake; or rather the voice within him said
of its own accord, and quite independent of himself, as if he were
possessed by a gruff spirit:
'My name's Jack Bunsby!'
'He was christened John,' cried the delighted Captain Cuttle. 'Hear
him!'
'And what I says,' pursued the voice, after some deliberation, 'I stands
to.'
The Captain, with Florence on his arm, nodded at the auditory, and
seemed to say, 'Now he's coming out. This is what I meant when I brought
him.'
'Whereby,' proceeded the voice, 'why not? If so, what odds? Can any man
say otherwise? No. Awast then!'
When it had pursued its train of argument to this point, the voice
stopped, and rested. It then proceeded very slowly, thus:
'Do I believe that this here Son and Heir's gone down, my lads? Mayhap.
Do I say so? Which? If a skipper stands out by Sen' George's Channel,
making for the Downs, what's right ahead of him? The Goodwins. He
isn't forced to run upon the Goodwins, but he may. The bearings of this
observation lays in the application on it. That ain't no part of my
duty. Awast then, keep a bright look-out for'ard, and good luck to you!'
The voice here went out of the back parlour and into the street, taking
the Commander of the Cautious Clara with it, and accompanying him on
board again with all convenient expedition, where he immediately turned
in, and refreshed his mind with a nap.
The students of the sage's precepts, left to their own application
of his wisdom--upon a principle which was the main leg of the Bunsby
tripod, as it is perchance of some other oracular stools--looked upon
one another in a little uncertainty; while Rob the Grinder, who had
taken the innocent freedom of peering in, and listening, through the
skylight in the roof, came softly down from the leads, in a state of
very dense confusion. Captain Cuttle, however, whose admiration of
Bunsby was, if possible, enhanced by the splendid manner in which he
had justified his reputation and come through this solemn reference,
proceeded to explain that Bunsby meant nothing but confidence; that
Bunsby had no misgivings; and that such an opinion as that man had
given, coming from such a mind as his, was Hope's own anchor, with good
roads to cast it in. Florence endeavoured to believe that the Captain
was right; but the Nipper, with her arms tight folded, shook her head
in resolute denial, and had no more trust in Bunsby than in Mr Perch
himself.
The philosopher seemed to have left Uncle Sol pretty much where he had
found him, for he still went roaming about the watery world, compasses
in hand, and discovering no rest for them. It was in pursuance of a
whisper in his ear from Florence, while the old man was absorbed in this
pursuit, that Captain Cuttle laid his heavy hand upon his shoulder.
'What cheer, Sol Gills?' cried the Captain, heartily.
'But so-so, Ned,' returned the Instrument-maker. 'I have been
remembering, all this afternoon, that on the very day when my boy
entered Dombey's House, and came home late to dinner, sitting just there
where you stand, we talked of storm and shipwreck, and I could hardly
turn him from the subject.'
But meeting the eyes of Florence, which were fixed with earnest scrutiny
upon his face, the old man stopped and smiled.
'Stand by, old friend!' cried the Captain. 'Look alive! I tell you what,
Sol Gills; arter I've convoyed Heart's-delight safe home,' here the
Captain kissed his hook to Florence, 'I'll come back and take you in tow
for the rest of this blessed day. You'll come and eat your dinner along
with me, Sol, somewheres or another.'
'Not to-day, Ned!' said the old man quickly, and appearing to be
unaccountably startled by the proposition. 'Not to-day. I couldn't do
it!'
'Why not?' returned the Captain, gazing at him in astonishment.
'I--I have so much to do. I--I mean to think of, and arrange. I couldn't
do it, Ned, indeed. I must go out again, and be alone, and turn my mind
to many things to-day.'
The Captain looked at the Instrument-maker, and looked at Florence, and
again at the Instrument-maker. 'To-morrow, then,' he suggested, at last.
'Yes, yes. To-morrow,' said the old man. 'Think of me to-morrow. Say
to-morrow.'
'I shall come here early, mind, Sol Gills,' stipulated the Captain.
'Yes, yes. The first thing tomorrow morning,' said old Sol; 'and now
good-bye, Ned Cuttle, and God bless you!'
Squeezing both the Captain's hands, with uncommon fervour, as he said
it, the old man turned to Florence, folded hers in his own, and put
them to his lips; then hurried her out to the coach with very singular
precipitation. Altogether, he made such an effect on Captain Cuttle
that the Captain lingered behind, and instructed Rob to be particularly
gentle and attentive to his master until the morning: which injunction
he strengthened with the payment of one shilling down, and the promise
of another sixpence before noon next day. This kind office performed,
Captain Cuttle, who considered himself the natural and lawful body-guard
of Florence, mounted the box with a mighty sense of his trust, and
escorted her home. At parting, he assured her that he would stand by Sol
Gills, close and true; and once again inquired of Susan Nipper, unable
to forget her gallant words in reference to Mrs MacStinger, 'Would you,
do you think my dear, though?'
When the desolate house had closed upon the two, the Captain's thoughts
reverted to the old Instrument-maker, and he felt uncomfortable.
Therefore, instead of going home, he walked up and down the street
several times, and, eking out his leisure until evening, dined late at a
certain angular little tavern in the City, with a public parlour like
a wedge, to which glazed hats much resorted. The Captain's principal
intention was to pass Sol Gills's, after dark, and look in through the
window: which he did, The parlour door stood open, and he could see his
old friend writing busily and steadily at the table within, while the
little Midshipman, already sheltered from the night dews, watched
him from the counter; under which Rob the Grinder made his own bed,
preparatory to shutting the shop. Reassured by the tranquillity that
reigned within the precincts of the wooden mariner, the Captain headed
for Brig Place, resolving to weigh anchor betimes in the morning. | Florence continues to lead a lonely life in the Dombey house, with only Susan and Diogenes for company. She clings to the idea that she will someday be able to earn her father's love. She is finally persuaded to go and visit the Skettles, but before she does so, she learns that there has been a delay and absence of news about Walter's ship. She decides to go and see Sol Gills, feeling anxious about Walter. When she arrives at the shop, she meets Rob Toodle. He explains that Sol is not at home, and is indeed very anxious about Walter. Florence and Susan decide to go and see Captain Cuttle, in case he can offer any helpful news about the ship that they can convey to Uncle Sol. When they arrive, Captain Cuttle reassures them that he does not think Walter will be in any danger. He also says that they could get a second opinion from a seafarer named Bunsby who might be able to offer further reassurance. Florence, Susan, and Cuttle go to meet Bunsby and then they all go back to see Sol. Sol is clearly agitated and anxious, even though Bunsby is confident that nothing bad has happened to Walter's ship. Everyone, including Captain Cuttle, leaves the house feeling worried about Sol Gills |